Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“It’s hard to love someone without restraint. To give yourself over to the swell and pull of it without fear of what might happen. I think it’s only natural to hold a part of yourself back and protect what you can.”
— B.K. Borison, Lovelight Farms

Chapter Text

Mark leans back against the boards and glass, closing his eyes and forcing out a sharp breath before pulling in a slow, steady one. The rink hums around him, voices, whistles, the scratch of skates on ice, but he tries to clear his head. His flank is on fire, a splotch of yellow and purple spreading across the side of his ribs. Just a couple of bruised ribs. Nothing he has not played through before.

He is what people call an enforcer, a man whose job is to protect the smaller, goal-scoring types. That has always been his role on the ice, a protector and a fighter. His knuckles made him a millionaire, though he would never brag about it. Enforcers are a dying breed, the league leaning away from the risk and chaos. At thirty-five, Mark is probably one of the last. He might brag about it after a drink or two.

Getting old, though, is relentless. He grumbles at his sore body, leaning there and breathing through the sharp pain that shoots up his torso with every inhale. He can feel the TV timeout drawing to an end. Opening his eyes, he searches for the faceoff circle. On the Jumbotron, the fans are playing some game. The scoreboard reads 4-0. He grimaces and looks away. Another rout. If they keep this up, their playoff hopes will go up in smoke before Thanksgiving. Nights like this are the worst. Too much time to think. Too much time for muscles to stiffen. Too much time to watch the little idiot he spends every game protecting.

The idiot in question is already watching him, standing beside the Vancouver winger who looks thoroughly annoyed. Logan is twirling his stick as if auditioning for a skills competition. The cameras love him. The fans love him. That signature grin makes Mark’s jaw tighten, irritation mixing with something he refuses to name.

When Mark meets men like him, he allows himself exactly five seconds to look. Five seconds to rake his eyes from the top of their hair, usually blonde, down to their feet. Once is acceptable, a man merely sizing up another man. Twice, a coincidence. Three times, and he becomes suspicious. After that, he looks away, swallows disappointment, and compartmentalizes. It is a rule he has lived by since before Logan, before Carolina, since his first locker room. Logan, infuriating brat that he is, has tested that rule constantly over the last two months.

In Carolina, while teams up north retreated to fall’s cool embrace, Mark and his teammates were still baking under a southern summer. The first time he met Logan the first day of training camp, it was what his father would have called a scorcher. Mark stepped out of his truck to greet his linemate Kris, whose obnoxious neon-blue sports car had pulled up beside him. That is when he saw him, crawling out of the captain’s silver minivan, hauling a giant bag and every stick he had brought from Minnesota. The kid struggled, dropping everything before snapping his head up toward Mark and Kris.

Mark started his mental clock.

5…Blonde hair jammed under a Twins hat.
4…High cheekbones, a perfect straight nose, dark sunglasses hiding sharp eyes.
3…Broad, freckled shoulders exposed to the Carolina sun in a black Nike tank.
2…A trim, lean waist. He almost wasted his last second there.
1…Hockey-player thighs. He could have predicted that, maybe should have wasted the extra second on the waist.

Sunglasses on, he stole one extra second to glance back at his waist.

Then Logan opened his mouth and ruined it.

“Hey grandpas, can you give me a little hand, or are you just going to watch me struggle?” He glanced at the sky and muttered, “Fuck, it’s hot as hell.” Mark’s scowl appeared before it reached his mouth. Kris stifled a laugh with a cough.

“Sure, kid. Come on.” Kris reached for the hockey bag, then Logan’s.

“Mark, take the kid’s sticks,” Kris called over his shoulder as he walked down the loading dock into the arena.

Mark’s eyebrow twitched. He turned to Logan Hayes, the kid they’d traded not one but two of Mark’s long time friends for.

“Carry your own shit,” he huffed before following Kris.

And just like that, they were off on the wrong foot.

Mark shakes himself back to the present. The referee’s whistle slices through the rink, sharp enough to make his teeth clench. Logan steps toward the faceoff circle, grinning at him as if the grin alone could undo every scowl Mark has ever carried. It is infuriating. He clenches his jaw, forcing his hands to relax around the stick. He cannot let the kid see him flinch, cannot let the kid see that he notices.

Mark circles toward the faceoff dot, aware of the opposing center sizing him up. The puck drops, and he reacts instantly, legs burning, ribs screaming, muscles remembering exactly what to do. Mark skates in perfect sync with him, reading the ice, directing traffic, keeping the lane clear. This is the one place the two of them manage to get along.

A Vancouver winger sneaks in, aiming for Logan. Mark’s shoulder drops before his brain catches up, colliding hard, shoving the man off balance. Logan keeps moving, weaving between defenders, puck on his stick, oblivious to the collision Mark just took. The whistle blows and barely covers the loud curse that falls from Logan’s lips as he shoots the puck into the netting. Mark leans on his stick, chest heaving, feeling the sting in his ribs spike with every breath.

Nights like this, games they shouldn’t be losing, against teams that are fast and ruthless, used to be exactly what he lived for. Tonight, the A on his chest and his weary ribs weigh heavy on him.

The puck drops again. Mark squares off, bracing his legs, counting the seconds before he has to react, before he has to fight for possession before passing it to his left. Logan darts into the zone, teasing the defense, and Mark locks onto him, not just as a teammate to protect, but as the linchpin of every play he is about to make.
And he knows, by the end of this shift, by the end of this game, he might be bruised, battered, and bleeding. But he’ll have kept the kid alive out there, and maybe, just maybe, that’s enough. That thought keeps him going up until the last two minutes when, fueled by the exuberance of going up 5-0 and needled by Logan, the Vancouver winger finally challenges Mark to a fight. By the time Mark crawls his way out of the locker room and onto the bus to the hotel, he is stiff and nursing a busted lip. He has barely sunk to his seat like an old man when a cool water bottle is pressed into his chest.
Logan says nothing as he does it, just keeps walking to his seat with one of the younger players, doesn’t even glance Mark’s way. Mark hates his pity and makes a point to stop wincing the rest of the ride.

Chapter Text

There’s a throbbing in Logan’s left temple and his mouth is like sandpaper as he wakes tangled in scratchy sheets, a consistent reminder that he needs to find his own place, get out of his captain’s basement, and stop trying to drink with Kris. The former is not something he can do without a contract extension, he has to remind himself, as he stretches his arms out, rolling his shoulders. The latter, well, he’s only so strong when his linemate sets that boyish, excited grin on him and begs him to stay for another round.

He can already hear the pitter-patter of either Tyla or Alexa, his captain's twin toddlers, across the floor over his head. A louder set of footsteps joins them, and Logan lazily watches the steps at the corner room as they draw nearer. When Oskar, or Cap, eventually comes into view, he’s looking more awake than Logan has maybe ever felt in his life.

“Are you getting up? Kelsey,” Oskar’s very beautiful and very patient wife, “made breakfast and we’ve gotta head out soon.” This just makes Logan cover his face with a pillow and groan loudly.

“Do I have to, Cap?”

He knows he’s being a brat; he just hates rolling out of bed. Oskar tugs the pillow away from his face and sets a stern look down at him, but Logan can see the smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.

“Yes, you little asshole,” his mouth twitches again, “you know that millions of people have to get up early every single day and work real jobs, right?” His voice is stern, but Logan can hear the humor through it.

Oskar has been very good to him since he was traded over the summer, which Logan very much needed. He had thought he’d spend his career in Minnesota, keep being the hometown kid. He’d grown up there, he’d gone to the University of Minnesota, he’d been drafted by the Minnesota Loons. He’d signed an extension with them and didn’t worry too much about not having a no-move clause. And then he woke up one day to a call from his agent and the news that they’d traded him to Carolina of all places. He can still see the flash of his own face on every hockey beat reporter’s social media page when he got off the phone, the summer free agency trade for two aging players for a promising young star. He had saved the Athletic article that called it the “fleecing of a century,” even if it made him feel every bit a mix of hurt and pride.

Even now, he eyes his new red-and-black gear bag with a Carolina Copperheads tee hanging out of it and doesn’t quite believe it. He isn’t really sure this place, with its sweltering summers and sprawling suburbia, will ever feel like home to him. And with his contract expiring at the end of the season, he’s not quite sure it’ll need to.

By the time he and Oskar are parking Oskar’s soccer-mom car at the airport for the first long west-coast road trip of the season and shuffling toward the team plane, Logan’s all but decided he’d rather crawl back into that basement and sleep until the season is over. He slouches behind Oskar on purpose, dragging his feet just enough to make the captain look over his shoulder with that dry, fatherly expression.

“You’re twenty-four, not fourteen,” Oskar says, suitcase rolling smoothly beside him with the ease of a man who’s been walking this path for a decade. “Pick up your feet.”

Logan grins toothily. “But I am fourteen. Mentally. That’s why they make you parent me, Cap.”

Oskar doesn’t even dignify it with a response, which makes Logan maintain his grin.

Inside the plane, Logan drops into a seat by the window, gear bag dumped in the aisle until a trainer tells him to move it. The bag still looks wrong—the red familiar, but the black a color he’s never worn in his career. He’s been all baby blues, maroon, gold, and forest green. The Copperheads logo stitched across the side, a swirling snake coiled and ready to strike, stares back at him. He keeps staring at it until Oskar sits down across the aisle and opens his iPad like a man about to read the news instead of three hours of neutral-zone breakdowns.

Logan cracks his Gatorade from the snack stash around his seat and kicks his feet up against the seat in front of him, earning a playful glare from one of the defensemen, Vlasky, in the row ahead. He flashes his most angelic smile in return.

“It’s too hot here,” he announces suddenly, loud enough for Oskar to hear over the boarding noise.

Oskar doesn’t look up. “We pay inside. On ice, Logan.”

“Yeah, everything else isn’t inside.” Logan groans, rolling his head back against the window like he’s dying. “I thought my lungs were gonna melt last week when the coach had us running outside. In September? In ninety degrees? Cruel and unusual punishment.”

That gets Oskar’s mouth twitching, which Logan counts as a win.

He takes a long drink of Gatorade, satisfied with himself, and lets the hum of the engines sink into his skull. He doesn’t say the rest, that he still doesn’t know his way around Raleigh, that he misses being a hometown kid, that sometimes he looks down at himself and half-expects to see green and gold instead of red and black. He’s not going to say any of that out loud. He’s good at smiling through it, at being the guy who makes people laugh, at being good at what he does.

That’s the version of Logan Hayes everybody wants.

Hours later, by the time Logan has gotten bored with distracting Cap and his eyelids are starting to sink shut, the hum of the engines low and steady in his skull, the seatbelt light flicks back on. The pilot announces their descent into Vancouver, and Logan sighs. He’d just about convinced himself he could really sleep through the whole season.

That’s when a heavy hand slaps the back of his seat in front of him.

“Wake up, Little Hayes,” comes the thick accent and the too-loud voice of Vlasky. “We land soon. You look like corpse.”

Vlasky was only a couple years older and had been the first person he wasn’t living with or playing on a line with who seemed to actually like him.

Logan drags one eye open, glaring sideways at him. “Thanks, man.”

Vlasky just grins, leaning over the seat like an overgrown kid. His dark hair sticks up on one side, his Copperheads hoodie is crooked, and there’s a grin missing a front tooth tugging at his wide mouth that says he lives for bugging Logan. “You complain whole flight. Too hot, too tired, too much running. You are twenty-four, not forty-four. Even Mark does not complain so much.”

At the mention of Mark, who is actually only thirty-five, Logan groans and tips his head back against the window. “Don’t compare me to that guy. He probably enjoys being miserable.”

He doesn’t have to picture him, he can see him five rows up, shoulders so broad they drift into the aisle, head tipped back against the rest with his arms crossed over his chest. A bruise is already blooming along his jaw from the last game, dark against pale skin that never seems to heal all the way before the next hit. His hair is cropped short at the sides, darker than it looks under the rink lights, with small flecks of gray, and it curls just enough over that when it sticks to his forehead during a game it makes Logan’s stomach twist in a way he refuses to acknowledge when he catches a glimpse.

Mark looks like he was carved out of concrete and then left outside for the weather to finish the job. There’s something immovable about him, a presence that fills the row and the rink and every space he walks into. Logan had noticed it the very first day, when he climbed out of Oskar’s minivan at camp and found Mark glaring at him like he’d already decided he was too loud, too cocky, too much.

Which, fair. He is.

But that didn’t stop Logan from noticing the way his forearms flexed when he gripped his stick, or the scar at the corner of his mouth that tugged every time he frowned. Didn’t stop him from thinking this guy could break me in half without breaking a sweat. Didn’t stop the traitorous part of him from cataloguing all of it in silence, the same way he’s been doing since he was sixteen and smart enough to know he couldn’t ever say anything. Not here. Not in this league. Maybe in another lifetime where he cares to be the first.

“Don’t worry,” Vlasky says, dropping back into his seat as the plane bumps into descent. “He just looks like bear. Inside, maybe he is teddy.”

Logan snorts, trying to shove the thoughts back down where they belong. “Yeah. A teddy that punches people for a living.”

The wheels hit the tarmac with a bump, and Logan’s stomach rolls as the engines roar. He hates this part, hates the waiting, the shuffling, the cramped march off the plane. By the time they’ve hauled their gear and shuffled through to the bus, he’s already restless.

Game day in Vancouver is no easier. The Whales’ arena is cold and buzzing, fans packed in early, already loud. Logan thrives on that noise, he always has, but this feels different. In Minnesota, he’d been the golden boy, the future of the franchise, the face on every promo banner. Here, he’s just the new guy with too much hype and not enough points yet.

The first period feels like skating uphill. Vancouver’s forecheck is relentless, their speed a knife through Carolina’s slower, grinding style. Logan watches from the bench after a change as Mark lowers a shoulder into a guy and sends him sprawling. The crowd boos, and Logan smirks, tapping his stick against the boards. Say what you want about Mark, he’s still a wall no one likes to run into.

When Logan finally hops over the boards for his second shift, he’s jittery, the way he always is until he touches the puck. He darts down the wing, tries to make something happen, but every lane closes fast. Pass, cycle, reset. Nothing. By the end of the shift, his chest heaves and the Whales have cleared the puck easily.

Vlasky leans into him when they hit the bench again. “You play like nervous child,” he says, smirking.

“Shut up,” Logan mutters, gulping water, but he grins anyway.

The game unravels quickly. One goal against, then another, both off bad turnovers. Mark gets caught in a scrum in front of the net, jaw tightening as the Whales crash the crease. Coach sighs heavily and lets Cap handle first intermission. Logan tries to spark something in the second, flying through neutral ice and taking on two defenders, but his shot clangs off the post. Close. Too close. He can feel the eyes on him when he circles back to the bench, teammates, coaches, Mark’s heavy stare.

By the third, it’s 4–0, the fans chanting, the game out of reach. Logan can feel frustration burning at his edges. He chirps an opponent too long after a whistle, earning a shove, and Mark is instantly there, sliding between them, glaring hard enough that the Vancouver player backs off without another word.

When the inevitable fight comes on their final shift, Logan gets slashed by the same opponent he was ribbing and that’s all it takes. Logan winces as fists fly, as Mark takes hit after hit before finally dragging the guy down. The refs haul them apart and Logan dutifully taps his stick on the ice, but his stomach churns.

Later, when climbing on the bus, he notices the way Mark winces and curls into himself as he sinks into his seat ahead of him, and without thinking, the water bottle he’d been clutching is pressed into Mark’s chest as he passes by. It had just been on instinct, a tiny apology in motion, though he knows Mark won’t acknowledge it.

He sinks into his seat next to Vlasky at the back of the bus and leans against the window, letting the low rumble of the bus and Vlasky’s familiar chatter slowly pull him out of his guilt and tension, giving him a moment to breathe.

Somewhere in his dreams at the hotel that night, the image of Mark’s knuckles, raw and split, won’t leave him alone. Neither will the way he’d sunk down into the bus seat, curling in on himself like the fight had left him smaller than he was. And as he finally pulls himself awake in the morning somewhere between wakefulness and dreams, Mark’s presence lingers, stubborn and unshakable, even across the empty hotel room. He decides it’s just because he feels guilty.

Chapter Text

Mark was just a few weeks shy of 21 when he had gotten called up from the AHL for the last time for the playoffs and never got sent back down. He’s had 14 wonderful, intoxicating Octobers in the NHL. The newness, a season laid out bare and full of opportunity. One more chance to try again for the Cup. It’s almost what keeps him coming back for more, signing extensions, punishing his body. And he can assuredly say this is the worst start he’s ever experienced. They’d won opening night at home, which salved any pain he may have felt that night, and they then proceeded to drop the next two of the homestand. They’d gone on the road after that, the early west coast crawl to play teams they’d only travel to once this season and who would travel to them only once in return.
After the embarrassing 4-0 loss in Vancouver extended their losing streak to three, he had naively hoped Seattle would have more to show for it. The 3-2 score at the end of 60 minutes and the screaming crowd of light blue and black had silenced that. Now, as Mark stands by with Oskar and Johan, their other alternate captain, he watches his teammates exit the ice. He can’t help but observe the dejected look on their faces as they leave ahead of him. They’d been so close this time. Logan had almost tied the game in the third, a shaky Seattle rookie had sent the puck right onto his tape and he had a clear breakaway. It bounced off the left post, and by the time they had regained possession, the final horn was sounding. Mark watches as Logan brings up the rear, and he follows behind him. He can feel Johan and Oskar behind him, as they always are when leaving the ice. Mark doesn’t really notice, his brain still swirling with the image of Logan’s usually sharp denim-blue eyes unfocused and haunted. Without thinking, he reaches a gloved hand to squeeze Logan’s shoulder in a way he hopes communicates it’s not your fault or a game shouldn’t come down to one shot or even just I’m sorry. Logan doesn’t react and just heads to his stall across the room as they spill in.
They leave Seattle on a low-slung dawn, the city sliding away pale and gray behind the runway. Logan’s laugh and Vlasky’s loud voice crackle like static from the back rows, Olivier “Ollie” Gauthier, one half of their goalie tandem, is already running through some dumb inside joke that sends both of them into a fit. Vlasky has been stuck to Logan since training camp, and the two of them seem to orbit each other at every team dinner, event, or bus ride. Not that Mark has noticed who the kid hangs out with.
Kris sits next to Mark, much quieter, nose in a worn copy of War and Peace he’s been carrying around for the last five years he and Mark had played in Carolina together. Mark likes Kris. He always has. Kris is the sort of linemate who will take a hard shift without complaining and likes to sit at the table in bars after wins with Mark and people-watch, and that means something in their world.
Johan Ekström, the other alternate captain, is in the seat ahead of Mark. Johan is quiet in a different way than Mark; less closed-off, more just patient. He’s got the long, pale hands of someone who was born to play piano and instead picked up a hockey stick; there’s a faint scar across his knuckle where he had once traded punches with some now-retired Florida defenseman. Johan’s been with Mark longer than most of these guys and carries himself with the quiet maturity of a man much older than his actual 32 years. While Mark’s leadership style is often grunts and leading by example, Johan is the one who speaks to rally a room. He’s sitting alone now, and the empty seat next to him twinges at Mark’s heart just a little bit. Another man sat there before, for eight long seasons: Mark’s best friend Carter Thomas.
The trade that brought Logan here had taken Carter to Minnesota. It had taken one of their rentals too, who Mark hadn’t gotten a chance to know that well, but Mark was Carter’s son’s godfather, so it was a little closer to home.
Mark palms his phone and his thumbs hover before he opens the thread and stares. Carter. The number still sits like a raw thing in his contacts. Their last message stares up at him, just a short one of Mark making sure he was settling into his new team. Fuck, had it really been three weeks since they talked? They’d not gone that long without talking in eight years. Finally, he types:
Mark: Nice win over Nashville last night.
Minnesota had put away the game easily from the looks of the 3-0 score when Mark had checked. He feels his spirit lift a bit when the three bubbles appear in the chat next to Carter’s name.
Carter: Thanks man, sorry about that kid’s shot last night
Carter: How’s he? getting you in trouble yet or have you adopted him yet?
Mark stares at it, thumb hovering. He types something short.
Mark: He talks. He’s loud.
Carter: Pfft yeah, from the stories they tell here, I believe it.
Carter: I miss you, buddy
Mark: You too
Carter: awh, are you finally getting soft on me??
Mark: fuck you
Carter’s message is a small life raft. Mark chuckles against his will and shoves the phone back down.
The trip down the coast is thin with routine. Bus, hotel, ice, sleep as best you can. In San Jose the crowd is a rough wool of teal and noise. Logan moves like someone lit a fuse under him, and the way he mouths off at the other team is almost more than what Mark has gotten accustomed to. Mark watches him because he always does. You don’t ignore the kid who courts trouble; you keep an eye on him the same way you check the exits in a packed room.
Midway through the second, a rookie on the Stingrays takes Logan’s chirp as an invitation. Mark watches as breaths sharpens, shoulders widen, the space between men compresses.
Mark doesn’t drop the gloves with the little rookies. He doesn’t need to. He moves in the way he’s always moved. He steps between Logan and the kid and plants himself like a goddamn cliff. No theatrics, no fist to fist. A shoulder to the sternum, a forearm to the chest, the smallest amount of pressure to translate a simple instruction: this ends here.
The rookie looks Mark over — hairline scar at the corner of his mouth, the hard glint in his eyes — and then he steps back. As they skate away, Logan tosses Mark a look, half-smirk, half-grin, like the whole thing was a big joke and Mark nailed the punchline. Mark feels the old irritation flare; it always does.
After the game, the echo in the locker room is flat. Four-nothing, another night where the scoreboard autopsies their effort. Johan is there, methodical with his stretches, the lines on his face slow in a way that implies thought. Mark drops into his stall in just his gear and lets a pack of ice settle over his side.
“You should have punched him.” Vlasky says it from the other end like he’s part commentator, part player. He’s grinning.
“No point,” Johan says instead, without looking up. “Sometimes you put the fence up and that’s enough.” His accent slips into something softer, like a song half-remembered. He moves his long hands with the ease of the person who’s been captain-in-waiting for years. “Not worth it.”
Mark watches him. He likes that Johan says the obvious in a way that doesn’t make it sound small. Johan knows how to use his words in a way Mark probably never will figure out.
In the hotel that night, Mark texts Carter back when the room is dark and the television is the only light. They trade gifs and bullshit like the old men they are now.
Carter: You ever going to tell me what you think of babyface?
Mark: Loud. Annoying. Good hands I guess.
Carter: These Minnesota guys are all a little loud too.
Carter: I will be okay here though, I think. They’re not bad.
They roll into Anaheim on a bright afternoon, the kind of heat that presses against them feels rejuvenating. Feels like Carolina. The Condors’ crowd is loud but it’s different from traditional hockey towns. There’s less teeth, more excitement.
From the first puck drop, something is different. Their legs move lighter, cleaner, like the ice has finally given way beneath weeks of sludge. Vlasky scores halfway through the first, crashing the crease in that reckless way he always does, and Logan is the first one to tackle him in the pile.
Mark skates off after tapping Vlasky on the top of his helmet, lungs burning, but it feels good. It feels like the kind of burn that means something. He sits next to Kris on the bench, and Kris mutters around his mouthguard, “We needed that.” Mark grunts in reply, but he can’t stop a small smile from forming on his lips. Oskar rifles one in from the point in the second, and the bench surges, their sticks rattling the boards so hard it vibrates through Mark’s bones.
By the third, Anaheim presses, desperate, pulling their goalie with two minutes left. The Condors’ net sits empty, yawning across the ice. Mark digs in, takes the defensive-zone draw, wins it clean. The puck spits back to Johan, who fires it up the boards. Logan is there waiting.
Logan doesn’t hesitate. He’s all legs and speed, streaking past two orange jerseys, and Mark follows him, trailing behind. Logan takes the shot and Mark feels the distinct ting of puck on metal more than he hears it. It bounces right to him and he quickly taps it into the empty net. His teammates thump him on the back and he turns to do the obligatory drive-by glove bumps with the bench when he sees Logan standing and staring at the post like he’d never seen it before. Mark turns away and decidedly does not worry about that look in his eyes again. Mostly.
The game ends 3-1, finally, mercifully, a win. Mark’s chest feels looser than it has in weeks. Back in the locker room, it’s loud, sticks banging, towels whipping, Vlasky trying to spray Logan with a water bottle while Logan dodges and so obviously fakes a grin. Mark wonders if he might be the only one to notice that. Johan claps Mark on the shoulder with that quiet smile of his.
Mark sinks onto the bench, gear half-off, and for the first time this season, his shoulder and ribs aren’t twinging.
The bus ride back to the hotel is louder than it has been in weeks. Not playoff-run loud, not champagne-and-trophies loud, but the kind of noise that comes when a team finally shakes something heavy off its back. Even the rookies seem lighter, laughing in packs, tapping each other’s shoulders like they’ve forgotten the losing streak that’s been choking them.
By the time they reach the hotel, there’s still an hour before curfew. The lobby bar glows low and amber, the kind of place businessmen usually nurse scotch, but tonight it gets swallowed by hockey players, and the bartender doesn’t seem fazed.
Mark doesn’t mean to join. He thinks he’ll head straight upstairs, ice, stretch, bed, but somehow he ends up trailing Johan and Kris into the bar. Logan and Vlasky are already at a high-top with a few of the younger guys and their goalie tandem, Vlasky practically doubled over laughing at something Logan says. It looks right from across the room. Too right. When Mark gets closer, he sees it: Logan’s grin is just a little sharp at the edges, his eyes not catching the light the way they usually do.
Mark orders a beer, something light, and leans against the bar. Johan stands beside him, whiskey glass balanced in his long fingers, and Kris sets down a seltzer with a sheepish shrug. “Still counts,” Kris mutters, and Mark grunts in approval.
The room grows louder as the minutes slip by. Vlasky reenacts his goal with theatrical motions, nearly knocking over a beer. Johan deadpans something that makes half the guys wheeze with laughter. Logan keeps pace with all of it, throwing in jabs, cutting in with his usual quick tongue, but every time the noise dips, Mark catches it: the crack in his smile, the flick of his gaze down at his glass like he wishes it were something stronger.
Mark doesn’t call him on it. Doesn’t even think that would help. Instead, he raises his bottle when Johan nudges him and says, dry as ever, “To not sucking completely.”
They clink glasses. The noise swells again, the rookies practically howling, and Mark lets himself smirk into his beer. But his eyes flick back to Logan anyway. The kid laughs too loud, like he’s trying to fill up a room that’s already full, and Mark feels that same irritation-tinged concern prickle in his ribs.
When Oskar finally calls time and starts herding them toward the elevators, nobody complains. Chairs scrape, glasses clink, laughter trails off as they file out. Mark hangs back a second, watching Logan sling an arm around Vlasky’s shoulders as they walk. The grin is still plastered on his face.
But his eyes look exactly the same as they did on the ice after his shot rang off the post.
The flight home feels longer than the flight out, even though it’s the same distance. Maybe it’s because their bodies are heavier now, worn down by the week of bad games and later nights. Maybe it’s because they finally stole a win and no one quite knows how to hold onto it.
Mark sits quietly with his feet in the aisle, headphones in but nothing playing. Kris dozes against the window, book sliding in his lap, Johan’s quietly snoring. When the wheels finally touch Carolina tarmac a little past midnight, the cabin exhales all at once.
Mark drives himself home. The streets are empty, traffic lights hanging useless in the dark. His shoulder hums in that low, nagging way it always does after a trip, too many flights, too many hits, not enough real sleep. He pulls into his driveway, kills the engine, and sits there for a moment, listening to the cooling tick of the car.
Inside, the house smells faintly of the cleaner his housekeeper uses and the faint pine of whatever candle his sister dropped off last Christmas. He drops his gear bag by the door and doesn’t bother unpacking. The silence is a punch compared to the constant noise of the road, no teammates, no rookies laughing, no Logan and Vlasky taking up the entire room.
Mark pads into the kitchen, pours himself a glass of water from the pitcher in the fridge, and leans against the counter while the refrigerator hums. His phone buzzes once, Carter, a photo of his kid passed out in full Minnesota jersey on the couch. Future captain, the caption reads. Mark smirks and thumbs a quick reply: He’s a Carolina fan.
He stares at the message thread longer than he means to. Thinks about the empty seat beside Johan. Thinks about how much quieter his big, empty house is than the fancy uptown apartment he used to share with his teammates before they’d all settled down.
The water goes warm in his hand.
Mark finally drags himself upstairs, strips down to his boxers, and eases onto his mattress. His body aches, but it’s the familiar ache, the one that reminds him he’s still in it, still part of this. Fourteen Octobers, and counting.
He closes his eyes and tells himself he won’t think about the quiet loneliness without Carter. He won’t think about Logan’s fake grin at the bar. He won’t think about the way the kid stared at that post like it had betrayed him. He won’t think about how, for one second, he’d wanted to tell him everything would be okay.
Mark Callahan has never been good at lying to himself.
Sleep takes him anyway.

Chapter Text

It’s an old routine Logan knows as well as breathing. This surviving until he can make it back to his room and relive his mistake until his brain gets its fill of the shame. He’s been doing it on nights, or weeks, like this since the first time he realized that hockey wasn’t just a game for him. He’s laughing in all the right spots. He's teasing Ollie and Mitch, their goalies, with practiced ease. He’s punching Vlasky on the shoulder after he makes a stupid joke. He’s playing his part.

He can feel Mark’s gaze on him from where he and some of the Swedes lean against the bar. He isn’t really staring at Logan, but he’s keeping an eye on him from the corner of his eye. He looks almost bored as Johan and Kris chatter over him. But Logan knows better. He can feel the weight of being watched, picked apart, seen. He can feel the pity he’d seen flash for a split second in those dark eyes. He wishes Mark would look the fuck away.

Logan has had plenty of bad games before. He’d had plenty of bad nights: bringing home only bronze at World Juniors, a particularly disastrous one when he scored an own goal in college, and when he was nineteen and playing his first NHL games fresh off signing his Entry-Level Contract and realizing how much bigger and faster these guys were. He has always been so good at hiding how worked up it made him. But something about this trade and the contract extension dangling in front of him like a carrot was making this particularly bad. And, well, Logan wasn’t sure he’d ever missed two wide-open chances in a single week before.

But later, when Oskar finally starts to herd the group to the elevators, it feels like cool relief. When the hotel door shuts behind him, it all falls off. His shoulders sag. His mouth aches from holding a smile.

Logan doesn’t turn on the light. He just strips down to his boxers and lies on the soft hotel mattress, staring at the ceiling until every missed chance replays in hi-def. He tells himself it’s fine, it’s normal; this is what it means to care, to want it. The pressure is what makes him sharp. It’s what he owes them. Owes the team, the coaches, the fans. He can handle it. He’s supposed to.

He’s been good for a long time, so good that people expect it. That’s the weight he carries every shift, every game, every play. He’s not just playing hockey. He’s living up to every headline, every trade hype, every promise he ever made to himself or anyone who ever believed in him. He’s aware of the eyes following him, the whispers about the “future of the franchise,” the hope of a contract extension that could define the next chapter of his life.

And sometimes in the quiet of hotel rooms in some city he’s only ever visited to play hockey, it terrifies him a little bit. He lets the fear consume him for a few minutes, then forces it to fuck off back to whatever back part of his mind it lives in. Tomorrow will be better.

–

Days off at Oskar’s feel like a holiday. The kind with Mitch manning the grill and Johan pushing Kris into the pool. Guys drift in and out all afternoon, and the kitchen counter disappears under beer bottles. Someone has a football game on the TV in the living room, volume low under the constant rise and fall of voices. Logan slides easily into the noise. He leans against the counter with Vlasky, laughing too loud at a joke that wasn’t that funny, and Oskar’s kids run through the living room squealing while Kelsey shoos them upstairs. The place feels lived-in, warm, a kind of home Logan can borrow but never claim.

It wasn’t officially a party, just an open invitation Oskar had tossed out to the boys after their game yesterday. But nearly the whole roster is somewhere around Oskar's property anyway. Logan has to appreciate the culture here. He’s been on a lot of talented teams, but he’s not sure he’s ever been on a team who chooses to spend their off day together after being on the road for a week.

They’d played a matinee game yesterday against Florida, the day after returning from the West Coast, and were kicking off a more extended homestand, which Logan found himself grateful for. The game was a punishing back-and-forth, and Logan didn’t have many shooting chances to worry himself sick over. The game had gone to a shootout, and while Logan was third in that lineup, Johan had already put it away before it was his turn. So Logan felt good. The heavy weight that had consumed him was gone, or at least hidden, and he felt like he could breathe again.

The afternoon bleeds into evening, voices lowering, the easy buzz of beer and too much sun leaving the group loose-limbed. By the time some guys start to leave, some of them drift back to Oskar’s living room; shoes kicked off and plates abandoned on the counter, the mood has that lazy, goofy edge to it. Logan feels out of place. The guys that are remaining are the close friends of Oskar: Johan, Kris, and Mark. Logan is just here because he lives here, and going to hide in the basement might be awkward.

At that moment, he spots Vlasky and Mitch shuffling in from their post on the deck, and his spirit warms for a moment as they head towards him. Maybe he did have some friends here after all.

Logan sprawls in an armchair, socked feet on the coffee table, nursing a drink. Vlasky drops himself onto the couch with a groan, holding a beer like it weighs twenty pounds.

“A little dramatic there, Vlask,” Logan teases.

He squints at Logan.

“Hayes, you chirp too much. Like…my babushka. Always talk, talk, talk.” Vlasky grins slyly for a second, face splitting with it. “Babushka scarier though.”

The room cracks up.

Logan smirks. “Tell your babushka to lace ‘em up then, maybe she can hold possession better than you.”

“Better than you this week,” Kris mutters into his bottle, which sets the guys off again.

Logan whips a pretzel at him as he feels a momentary clench in his stomach before laughing. Across the room, Mark snorts into his beer. Just a breath of sound, but Logan hears it, cutting through the din sharp as a blade.

He turns, eyebrows up. “What, you got something to add, old man?”

Mark doesn’t answer, just levels him with that flat stare of his, like he’s already said enough without opening his mouth.

That’s when Mitch pounces, grinning like he’s been waiting for the opening: “You two sound like an old married couple. Hayes bitching, Callahan scowling. What’s it been, fifteen years?”

A roar goes up around the room. Oskar, grinning, adds fuel: “Well, I think maybe we say seven years, little Logan wasn’t legal fifteen years ago.”

Logan forces a smirk, feels the heat curl up his neck. He goes for the easy cover. “If I was married to Callahan, I’d at least make him shave once in a while. I’ve never seen a playoff beard in November.”

Mark leans back into the couch, slow as ever, and fixes Logan with that flat, even stare that somehow manages to cut through the room. He doesn’t say anything at first, just tilts his head slightly, tracking the banter like he’s weighing it all. Then finally, in that low, deliberate voice that always carries more weight than it should, he says, “Vlaskeleski is right, you talk too much.” But there's a subtle curl to his mouth, the side with the scar. The guys laugh and conversation carries on around him but Logan keeps watching the other man.

Mark lifts his bottle and takes a long, measured sip. Logan notices the way his jaw moves under the dark beard, the slight twist of a scar that cuts across his cheek. His brow is heavy, shadowing those dark eyes that never quite relax, always observing. And the longer Logan looks, the more details settle into focus: the sweep of strong shoulders under his t-shirt, the subtle movement of muscles in his neck when he swallows.

Logan tells himself it’s nothing. It’s just the lighting, the beer, the easy atmosphere. But somehow, his gaze keeps finding Mark even after the conversation moves on, lingering longer than it should. Lingering dangerously long.

Logan finds his own breath catching when he notices how the sleeve of Mark’s shirt slides up slightly as he adjusts, showing the faint veins on his forearm. It’s ridiculous, he thinks, to be noticing these things now, in the middle of a room full of their teammates, but his head feels fuzzy and he’s had such a terrible week that who is he to deny himself just a couple glances.

Logan shifts in his chair, leaning down to pick his beer off the coffee table just to give himself a reason to look away, but he doesn’t. Instead, he catches the curve of Mark’s mouth as he smirks at something Kris muttered, the way his eyes narrow almost imperceptibly.

It’s not a sudden, jarring realization. It’s slow. Subtle. Like a tide rising underfoot that he hasn’t noticed until he’s knee-deep. And now, here, with the room buzzing, the easy laughter, the warmth of the sun fading into a soft evening glow, he notices.

Mark is… striking. Not in a flashy, magazine-cover way. Not in the way players get shouted about for endorsements or girls making posters for. He’s rough. Logan feels a small, uncomfortable flutter in his chest and tries to dismiss it with another sip of his drink that goes down like sawdust, another joke thrown carelessly into the room.

But it’s there. He notices the slope of Mark’s nose, the line of his jaw, the way his dark jeans stretch over his thighs.

Logan takes a slow breath, telling himself again that it’s nothing, that he’s imagining it. He’s just tired from the game, the travel, the week. Because Logan’s number one rule—one he’s never broken—is not to look at teammates like this. Not to feel the pull of something distracting, something dangerous, something that could ruin him. Especially not at a guy like Mark. Especially not to someone who already dislikes him. Especially not when his own life is already tangled in pressure and expectations to be the cure to a middling franchise.

Then, finally, Mark’s gaze meets his. And it’s deliberate. Not accusatory, not teasing, just… noticing. He looks right through Logan.

Logan feels his stomach knot and, without thinking, he rises from the chair, muttering a quick excuse about needing to get some air, needing to go to bed, or something. His heart is hammering, throat dry, mind spinning in a loop of get out, don’t look, don’t embarrass yourself.

Downstairs, he leans against the bathroom sink, gripping the edge until his knuckles whiten. He stares into the mirror. The same kid looks back—the same blonde curls, the same boyish face, the same blue eyes. But now, beneath the familiar reflection, something unsteady thrums in his chest, and he hates that he can’t make it stop. This is just your anxious mind trying to find something to blame the anxiety on, he tries to remind himself, this is just you being weird.

The quiet shuffle of footsteps behind him barely registers at first with his heart pounding in his ears. When a voice speaks, Logan jumps, heart stuttering, and snaps his head around, startled.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” Mark says, calm and measured, almost too casual, but there’s a weight in it, a consideration. “I… meant to check in. About the games. Those shots.”

Logan immediately feels defensive. “I’m fine,” he blurts, too quickly, too sharply. His voice echoes off the tile walls, betraying the anxiety he’s trying to mask.

Mark doesn’t push further. He just watches for a moment, the faintest tilt of his head, an unspoken acknowledgment that he’s not going to let this pass, but he’s not going to force it either. Logan swallows hard, heart still thudding. Mark finally nods, watches him for another second, and heads back up to their teammates.

Logan stares at the ceiling of Oskar's basement for a very, very long time.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Logan tells himself it was nothing. That weird jolt in his chest, the way his breath hitched when Mark’s eyes caught his, the sudden tightness that made his stomach flip, it was nothing. Just nerves. Just a bad week catching up to him. Just his brain, desperate for a target, latching onto something, anything, to pin the pressure on. That’s all. He murmurs it to himself in his mind again as Cap’s car hums through the half-empty streets of Raleigh on the way to practice, the headlights catching the edges of peeling posters on lamp posts and the occasional early commuter. He keeps his gaze low, tracing the cracks in the asphalt as if by studying them he can keep his heartbeat from spiking, as if by memorizing every shadow he can convince himself that the rest of it—the pull in his chest, the way his mind won’t let him look away—is just a trick.
He repeats it again that night, toothbrush in hand, staring at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror like he’s daring it to call him a liar. He studies the line of his jaw, the slight tension in his shoulders, willing them to prove that he’s fine, that he’s untangled, that he can keep swallowing the little sparks of panic until they vanish. He’s good at that, at keeping things tucked away neatly enough that even he forgets they’re there. At least, that’s what he tells himself.
By Monday morning, he’s decided it’s over. The feeling has faded, dissipated like smoke, and he convinces himself it won’t return. He won’t think about it again. He won’t notice the sharp cut of Mark’s jawline, the way his joggers cling over his thighs when he moves. He won’t notice the weight of Mark’s stare.
Dallas, Texas of all places, is what breaks his resolve.
It starts the way that it always does.
Logan’s mouth runs ahead of him, sharp and cocky, skating just close enough to the Outlaws’ bench during a whistle to let a chirp fly about how often Dallas’s pucks were finding the netting and not the goal. He’s grinning when he says it, skating back toward the faceoff dot like nothing can touch him.
After the faceoff, he doesn’t even see the Dallas winger break from the line. Doesn’t see the way the guy sets his shoulders like a freight train barreling down. All Logan catches is the blur of green in the corner of his eye, and then the thud—except it doesn’t land on him.
It lands on Mark while he’s locked in a puck battle in the corner.
Mark’s back takes the hit right into the numbers, and he goes forward into the glass. It’s the kind of check that rattles the glass and makes the boards shiver. Logan whirls too late, stick still dangling one-handed, mouth halfway open where he’d been about to call for the puck when Mark had gotten it freed, when he watches Mark absorb the hit he’s sure was meant for him. The crack echoes in Logan’s ribs like they’re the ones that took it.
Mark bounces off the boards, and Logan expects him to go down, but of course he doesn’t. He skates forward like nothing happened, out of the scrum of green and red that’s become a whirling mass of players tugging and pulling on each other. Logan feels a young Dallas left wing latch onto his arm—a silly, almost ceremonial part of the scrum, the kind of ritual that says, tussle a little, but if you’re too small, just hang on to another guy and watch. Dallas takes a penalty. The ref’s arm shoots up, the whistle pierces the air, and Logan is left staring at Mark’s back as he drags himself into position for the power-play draw. There’s a knot tangling itself in his chest.
The crowd roars and groans with the announcement. Logan can’t hear it. All he can hear is the sound of Mark’s body hitting the glass. Logan doesn’t get another shot on target all night.
In the locker room, Mark peels off his pads slowly, methodical. He doesn’t groan, doesn’t ask for help, but Logan watches out of the corner of his eye—the shallow breaths, the wince when he reaches too far to untie his skates, the way he braces his hand against his ribs before dropping it fast like no one’s supposed to notice. The soft hand of a trainer on Mark’s shoulder as he slips out of the room with him.
Logan looks away immediately as guilt burns the base of his throat. He swallows it. Like he always does. Time moves forward regardless.
Halloween in Raleigh doesn’t feel like Halloween at all. It’s sixty degrees, the leaves barely making the effort to change, and Logan is still sweating through his hoodie when he shows up at Oskar’s house after practice with a plastic pumpkin pail full of candy he grabbed last-minute from the grocery store.
Oskar’s kids are already bouncing off the walls. Kelsey in a black Morticia Addams wig, looking exhausted but amused, thanks Logan for the candy while trying to wrangle Tyla (dressed as Pugsley) into her shoes, as Oskar braids Alexa’s hair.
The rest of their small combined friend group arrives over the next half hour. Johan shows up in a crisp black cape and fangs that look custom-made; Vlasky is wearing a cowboy hat three sizes too big and calls himself “Sheriff” the whole night. Kris has committed to a full Superman costume that Logan is pretty sure he had tailored to fit him like that.
Logan shows up in a cheap devil’s horns headband and a red t-shirt. He insists it counts.
By the time dusk falls, they’ve divided into two groups—Oskar and Kelsey leading the twins and a pack of neighborhood kids door-to-door, and the guys sprawled across the porch with bowls of candy and beers. Logan makes a game out of guessing costumes wrong on purpose. He calls a princess a “wizard,” a pirate a “ballerina,” and convinces one poor six-year-old that his dinosaur suit is actually a “big lizard from Godzilla movies.”
The kid bursts into tears. Logan immediately caves and hands over three extra candy bars. “Best dinosaur I’ve ever seen, buddy. Seriously. Hall of Fame dinosaur.”
The guys howl with laughter.
He doesn’t expect Mark to show up, but he does—late, still in practice clothes, holding a grocery bag full of those big, individually wrapped king-size bars. He drops them into the candy bowl without fanfare and takes a seat on the porch steps, cracking open a beer. No costume, of course. Just Mark, looking like himself, broad shoulders filling up the space like he belongs there more than any of them.
But later, when the kids parade back with pumpkin shaped buckets full of loot and Oskar’s porch hums with chatter, Logan catches sight of Tyla climbing straight into Mark’s lap without hesitation, holding out a sticky candy bar for him to open. Mark does it wordlessly, smile tugging faintly at the scar on his mouth when he bends down.
Logan swallows something sharp and looks away, cracking another dumb joke at Vlasky’s cowboy hat.
The season presses on in that relentless, grinding way the 82 games always do, each night a battle, each city a blur of arenas, hotel rooms, and fluorescent-lit hallways. November rushes along at full tilt. In Detroit, Logan finds a rare moment of clarity. He nets a power-play goal, his first in weeks. Top corner, clean as anything. The kind of shot that feels like exhaling. He throws his arms wide, grin breaking loose, and for a second he feels like himself again. Like the guy Minnesota had sold to Carolina as the “future of the franchise.”
But when he gets back to the bench, glove raised for the flyby, it’s Mark who thumps his hand the hardest. Logan feels the sting all the way up his arm.
In Pittsburgh, it’s the opposite. He chirps a defenseman as he leans into the crease for too long, too loud. The guy takes the bait, cross-checking Logan quickly in the ribs. Before Logan can finish wincing away from it and laugh it off, Mark’s already stepping in, gloves dropping, fists flying. Logan watches the blood bead at the corner of Mark’s mouth and trail into his dark beard and hates himself for the twist in his gut, half guilt, half something else.
Back home in Carolina, after another punishing game, Logan catches Mark in the corner of the room with his jersey peeled off, ribs wrapped tight in white tape. He freezes for half a heartbeat too long, caught by the sight. He notices the dark hair spilling across Mark’s chest as it rises in contrast against his pale skin, brushing the edge of the tape and disappearing beneath his shoulder pads. Logan’s eyes linger a fraction too long, just enough for the heat to crawl up his neck, and he swears he can feel the pulse in his own ribs echoing.
When Mark’s dark eyes flick up, catching his, Logan’s stomach knots. The sharp intensity there makes him jerk back almost instinctively, heart hammering, because he needs to get a fucking grip before he gives the game away. Before he throws away years of sweat, sacrifice, and the reputation he’s worked so hard for. Hockey had always been his armor, his reason for choosing a life of focus and discipline over something as messy and terrifying as desire. Choosing the game had been easier, safer, cleaner than choosing himself. He’d already made that choice for himself long ago.
Logan had learned early on that making it in hockey demanded perfection, and perfection meant hiding anything that could be perceived as weakness. He had watched teammates get mocked, dismissed, or pushed aside for the smallest hint that they didn’t fit the mold. So he learned to swallow, to deflect, to push every thought and feeling deep down where no one could see them. He became the guy everyone expected.
And yet, here he is, his armor being brought to its knees by a guy he doesn’t even like. And maybe it’s not Mark, really, it’s just what he represents. What every beautiful man Logan has never been able to have has represented. Every glance at Mark feels like a dangerous rebellion, a spark against the life he’s carefully constructed. It’s terrifying, and it’s everything he’s denied himself. He refuses to let the spark catch and burn him too. He forces himself to turn away, pretending the conversation Mitch and Vlasky are having is more interesting, pretending the way Mark’s shoulders flex and the line of his jaw could unravel him if he allowed himself to look again doesn’t matter.
But it does. God, it does. And that’s the cruelest part. Hockey gave him safety, fame, purpose—but it didn’t give him freedom.
Life off the ice doesn’t slow down either.
Logan keeps meaning to look at apartments. He’s twenty-four, a professional athlete, and still crashing in his captain’s basement like some stray dog Oskar took pity on. Cap’s kids are cute, but they wake him up at ungodly hours, stomping across the ceiling, and every time he hears their little feet he feels like an intruder. Like he doesn’t belong in the domestic picture Oskar and Kelsey have painted so easily.
Sometimes he pulls up listings on his phone late at night, downtown condos, townhouses near the practice facility, but he never calls. Not when his contract hangs in the air, dangling in front of him. What if he signs a lease just to get shipped off again in a couple months? He can’t take another uprooting. Minnesota still stings too much. And the way he’s playing, what the beat writers are saying about him, doesn’t bode well for building a home.
So he stays. Packs his bag for road trips. Pretends the basement feels like home. Some nights he FaceTimes his sister back in Minnesota, letting his nieces yell at him through the screen until his heart aches. They ask when he’s coming home. He lies and says, “soon.”
On off-days, he clings to Vlasky like a lifeline. They grab bad coffee, hit golf ranges, drink at bars where half the patrons know his name, and talk nonsense loud enough to drown out the quiet in his own head. Vlasky makes him go to all his favorite places in Raleigh, including, to Logan’s surprise, the art museum near the arena with the winding walking trail full of sculptures. Logan complains, pretends to hate it, grumbles about the crowds and how it’s the end of November and the sunny day is still warm, but the quiet of the place seeps into him, eases the ache, and he doesn’t want to admit he’s grateful. He doesn’t think about how much he’ll miss Vlasky when he’s shipped out of here.
It’s Thursday night after a game, and Logan finds himself at a bar with Vlasky, still in their suits, the din of conversation and clinking glasses like a constant drumbeat in his skull. Vlasky is bouncing from story to story, animated, loud, drawing laughter from everyone around them. Logan nods along, half-listening, half-scanning the room, letting the buzz of alcohol and the crowd blur around him. That’s when he sees her, a redhead with sharp green eyes and a smile that’s resting on him. Beautiful, dangerous in a way that’s easy to throw himself into, easy to mistake for something that can fill the emptiness inside.
Logan hesitates for a heartbeat before he smirks at her as she stirs her drink and doesn’t look away, but every instinct in his body is at odds with that. He approaches her slowly, mind racing. This is safe. This is acceptable. Maybe this time it’ll feel right, he tells himself, almost desperately. Every step toward her feels like stepping onto thin ice, but he follows anyway, compelled by the desire to fill the gnawing emptiness he’s carried all November. She smiles warmly, introduces herself as Miley, says something with a wink, and it hits him how little it matters what she’s actually saying; he’s already caught in the heat of the fantasy, the tactile pull of human contact, a substitute for everything he’s denied himself.
Later in the night when she leans close, voice teasing, lips brushing his ear as she laughs, and Logan lets himself follow her almost blindly. Her apartment is warm, dimly lit, smelling faintly of vanilla and expensive shampoo. And for a moment, he allows himself to forget. He allows himself to imagine just being wanted, just being normal, just being seen, even if it’s only in the shallow, fleeting way he knows deep down won’t satisfy the ache.
He kisses her, mouth insistent, almost desperate, and her hands are everywhere, pulling him close, tugging at his shirt, tracing the line of his neck, and Logan lets himself be carried, trying to let his mind dissolve in the friction of skin against skin. He leans into the performance, into the motions that feel rehearsed, the choreography he knows by heart even if the steps never quite fit. His hands map her body because that’s what they’re supposed to do, sliding down the soft curve of her hips, squeezing like it might spark something real. He notices the way her hair falls across her shoulder, spilling into his palm when he sweeps it back, and he clings to that detail because it’s something tactile, something to hold onto in the rush.
But beneath it all, the wrongness hums steady. The harder he tries to lose himself in the heat of her skin, the sweet-slick drag of her lips, the more he feels the hollowness yawning inside. He wants this to be enough. He wants it to drown out everything else. But every breath he takes only seems to sharpen the edges of what he can’t escape.
And then she sinks down to her knees, hands teasing across his chest as she slides down his body, and Logan closes his eyes as he tilts his head back against the wall, bracing for release, for distraction, for anything that can keep his mind from turning inward.
Except it doesn’t stay on her. The image in his head always flickers in moments like these, settling on imagining whatever beautiful man his mind can conjure, a safe anonymous fantasy.
And tonight, without warning, it shifts just as her lips wrap around him. Mark. Dark eyes, the curve of his shoulders, the fine dark hair spilling over his chest, the veins up his strong forearms. Logan bites back a gasp, fingers tangling in Miley’s hair, trying to force himself to stay present, trying to push the image away, but it’s there, consuming, impossible to dislodge. And when he comes, it’s with Mark in his mind, looking up at him with dark eyes and swollen lips, and the guilt hits like ice in his chest.
Logan shakes his head slightly, forcing himself to push the image of Mark out of his mind. He focuses on her instead, the way his hand is curled in her auburn hair, the heat of her skin under his palms. Almost without thinking, he lifts her onto the couch behind them, letting her legs wrap around his waist as he lays her down. The scent of her shampoo and vanilla filling his senses, grounding him in the tangible. She smiles up at him in that sly and shy way that he’s sure drives most guys insane.
He returns the favor, letting himself get caught up in the rhythm of it, in the warmth against his lips and sound of her breath against the silence of the room. When it’s over, Logan dresses quickly, running a hand through his hair as he takes a quiet breath. He murmurs a soft, almost reflexive “thanks,” not because he means it entirely, but because he feels he owes her something for the kindness of letting him escape himself for a little while and the shameful feeling that he’s used her. She smiles up at him, presses a soft kiss goodbye on his lips, and closes the door, none the wiser.
Outside, the night air hits him like a slap, and as he waits for his Uber, he lets himself feel the emptiness again, the gnawing ache that the encounter couldn’t touch. The redhead’s warmth lingers in memory, but it doesn’t fill the parts of him that ache for something he can’t have, someone he isn’t allowed to want.
The season grinds forward. Bad games pile up like unread voicemails, but not every day is a loss. A few wins sneak in, moments when everything clicks; Logan finds his footing, his passes sharp, his timing cleaner, the game feeling almost effortless for a stretch. But every time Logan chirps too hard or dangles too long, Mark’s there, taking the punishment. Logan tells himself it’s just hockey, just the job. But the knot in his chest grows tighter.
Then, one chilly morning practice in Raleigh, Logan sees it clearer than ever. Mark takes a collision on the boards when he battles Thomas, one of the third-line guys, for the puck. He straightens too slowly, one hand pressed to his shoulder. Just a second too long. Just enough for Logan to notice.
He skates on like it’s nothing. Like it didn’t happen.
Logan almost doesn’t notice how the time has flown until he wakes up to a text from his sister; it sinks in that he’s missing family Thanksgiving for the first time in his life. The Copperheads had a matinee yesterday and have an evening game tomorrow, no time to traverse his way back to Minnesota.
The house hums with warmth from the moment Logan steps upstairs.
Kelsey has gone all out, the table already dressed in warm tones, candles flickering in the corners. The Copperheads might be a hockey team, but today they look like something closer to a family, drifting between the kitchen and the living room, beer bottles in hand, voices carrying down the hall.
Logan plays his part as soon as he steps through the door. He cracks a joke at Johan’s scarf—too dramatic, very European. He steals a roll off the counter before dinner’s even served, dodging a swat from Kelsey, and feels a pang in his chest at the absurd fact that the rolls were not burnt. His mom, almost every year, would sit the rolls in the oven to warm and would almost always get distracted and burn them. It was almost a tradition at this point, and something about an unburned roll almost unravels him in this moment.
He lets Oskar’s kids tug at his arm until he’s on the floor playing goalie while they shoot foam pucks past him into the couch cushions.
Dinner sprawls into controlled chaos. The turkey is golden and perfect, potatoes piled high, the guys laughing in their nice button-ups and easy smiles. Plates clatter, forks scrape, Vlasky argues loudly with Mitch about something that doesn’t matter.
Logan laughs until his throat aches. He teases Ollie, needles Johan until Kris groans, lets himself be exactly what everyone expects him to be.
But every time the noise dips, every time the laughter fades just enough, his eyes betray him.
They find Mark.
He’s across the table, posture straight but shoulders heavy, eating slow but keeping an eye on the room. He doesn’t add much to the chatter—just a dry remark here, a quiet chuckle there—but Logan notices the way Oskar leans into him, how the kids shyly climb onto his lap when their own plates are finished, how Kelsey pats his arm when she walks by, like he’s been here a hundred times before.
It’s different, the way Mark fits. Quieter. Steadier. Like he belongs in this house with his best friends. Like he’s built himself a home.
And Logan feels that stupid pull again, the knot in his chest tightening every time Mark lifts his glass or lets the scar at the corner of his mouth twist into something that almost looks like a smile.
At one point, the kids beg for a game of hide-and-seek, darting between legs until the living room erupts in chaos. Logan joins in, because of course he does, letting himself be tackled into the couch, laughing until his stomach hurts. But when he looks up, grinning, breathless, Mark is there in the doorway, watching him, leaning against the frame with a beer in hand, watching the room like he’s both part of it and apart from it.
Their eyes catch for the barest second.
Logan’s stomach lurches. He looks away fast, ruffling one of the kids’ hair until they squeal and run off.
Later, dessert makes its way out, pies and cookies and something Kelsey swears is a family recipe. Plates clink, coffee brews, and someone starts retelling an old road trip story that has half the room howling. Logan laughs too, loud enough to echo, but he feels like he’s floating above it all, watching himself perform while the knot inside him coils tighter.
When the night winds down and people start bundling into coats, when laughter spills out into the cool November air, Logan finds himself sitting on the back deck of the house, bundled in one of Vlasky’s team hoodies he had left by the door. The air out on the deck is crisp, carrying the faint smell of fallen leaves and wood smoke from a neighbor’s fire. Logan pulls the hoodie tighter around himself, the warmth of it a thin barrier against the night and the swirl of thoughts inside his head. He stares out at the quiet stretch of backyard beyond the deck rail, thinking about his family—his mom, who told him he was where he needed to be and that she was proud when he had called her this morning; his dad, who didn’t talk much but would be doing the dishes right now because he never let his mom do a task he could do himself for her; his sister and her husband, who are probably wrangling three sleepy little girls into the backseat; his easy friendship with guys he hadn’t really spoken to in weeks now that the season had picked up. Logan thought of home. Hockey had taken that from him too.
And then there’s Mark. Mark, who wasn’t from here either, but somehow made this city his own. Who came from Nova Scotia, and yet somehow found a family here among the Copperheads, who learned how to carve out a space in a city and country that wasn’t his, and made it feel like it was. Logan hears the door open behind him, hears the soft crunch of sneakers on the deck, and realizes Mark has joined him without a word. For the first time, there’s no sniping, no edge, just a quiet presence that doesn’t demand anything.
“You okay?” Mark asks, leaning against the railing beside him, his tone cautious, the question soft but direct.
“Yeah,” Logan says, tucking his hands into the sleeves. “Just… thinking about home.”
Mark’s eyes flick down for a brief second to the number stitched on Logan’s shoulder, lingering just long enough for Logan to notice. There’s a flash of something in Mark’s gaze as he eyes Vlasky’s number 12 instead of Logan’s number 7, but it flits quickly away.
“Yeah,” Mark says after a moment, staring out into the dark. “I didn’t really have this back home. Not like… this.” He gestures vaguely toward the house behind them, the laughter and clatter still audible inside. “Family like this, I mean.”
Logan glances at him, sees the quiet pride and ease in the way Mark shifts, the way his shoulders relax just enough. And Logan feels a little adrift at the sensation of Mark sharing something so personal that he just nods.
They sit like that for a while, shoulders nearly touching, neither of them moving to fill the silence. The night is quiet except for the faint hum of life inside the house and the wind brushing the trees beyond the deck. Logan lets himself exhale a little, the knot loosening just enough for him to notice.
Finally, he shifts, glancing at the shoulder Mark had grabbed at practice. “Your shoulder—?” His voice is careful, tentative, especially as Mark’s gaze snaps to him. “Is it bothering you?”
Mark tenses just slightly, a flicker of discomfort crossing his face, and glances at Logan like he wants to roll his eyes but can’t quite. “It’s fine,” he says quickly, almost too quickly, and looks away, focusing on the night instead of Logan. There’s still a trace of annoyance in the way he shifts, like Logan’s concern is unnecessary, but it softens too, softened by the quiet. Mark opens his mouth as if to say something else but shakes his head like he thought better of it. His large hand settles on Logan’s shoulder with a squeeze, and he turns to leave.
Logan watches him as he feels the burn on Mark's hand long after it’s removed. Mark pauses with the door half open and looks like he’s chewing on his words for a moment before he speaks. His heavy dark eyes burn with something Logan can’t name before he speaks, and Logan feels it in his core.
But all Mark says is, “Try and get some sleep, game tomorrow.”
And then he’s gone.

Chapter Text

Mark’s shoulder is starting to go.
He knows the signs: the dull burn that hums through his collarbone after a hit, the way his stick feels heavier in his right hand. It’s the same pain that’s whispered to him for years, patient and familiar, but now it’s louder. It lingers. Mark’s shoulder hurts worse than it did yesterday.

He knows because he times how long it takes to pull his t-shirt on that morning: seven seconds longer than the day before. The pain burns along his collarbone, radiating down his bicep like a fuse that never burns out. He tells the trainer it’s fine, says he slept funny, but they both know it isn’t true.

Every year his body asks the same question: how much longer can you do this?
And every year, until now, he’s had an easy answer. As long as it takes. But this year, there’s Logan Hayes.
And somehow, that makes the question harder.

October fades into November, and the games blur together: flights, ice, bruises. Logan’s mouth never stops. He chirps at everyone: opponents, refs, anyone within earshot. He’s good. God, he’s good. But reckless. Fast, explosive, reckless in a way that makes people either love him or want to flatten him. He plays like he’s invincible, and every time he does, Mark finds himself stepping in. Again. And again.

But the kid makes it hard. He doesn’t seem to care. When Mark takes a hit meant for him, Logan just grins that same sharp grin, taps his stick, and goes for the next play like nothing happened. And that’s what pisses him off, not the pain, not the bruises, but the sheer indifference.

It shouldn’t bother him this much. It’s just part of the job, the same job he’s done for years, for stars worse than Logan. But something about the way Logan laughs, all bright and thoughtless, when Mark’s still trying to catch his breath, twists something in his chest. He wants to shake him sometimes. To grab him by the collar and just ask him what the fuck his problem is.

But then, sometimes, between shifts, between plays, he catches it.

The cracks.

The way Logan goes quiet when he thinks no one’s watching, how he stares at the ice a little too long after a missed shot. The half second where the grin drops and something tired, almost scared, flickers across his face before he shoves it down again. How he rubs his chest right before power plays, the quick texts he fires off between flights that leave him smiling one minute and hollow the next. The kid’s too good at pretending everything’s fine.

Mark gets it.

He’s been pretending for most of his career.

Mark doesn’t know what to do with that. Doesn’t know how to hold the two versions of him in his mind: the loud, laughing kid who drives him crazy, and the one who looks, sometimes, like he’s about to crack right through the middle.

He starts noticing everything: the way Logan fidgets in video meetings when the coaches point out mistakes from the night before, the way he talks too much at team dinners, the way he looks at Oskar’s kids like he doesn’t know how to exist in a room that happy.

Mark keeps telling himself he’s just being observant. That’s what leaders do. They pay attention.

But then comes Thanksgiving.

The team has the day off, a brief pause in the grind, and Mark wakes to a silence that feels heavier than rest. The house is cold, the kind of cold that seeps in through the windows and settles in the bones of the place. He moves through it slowly, shoulder stiff, coffee brewing too bitter.

Holidays are always painful for Mark, so he spends the day in a quiet house, feeling raw and frayed around the edges. His mom’s been gone almost ten years now, cancer slow and cruel. He’d been twenty-five and halfway through a road trip when the call came. She’d told him not to come home, said she didn’t want him to see her that way, but he did anyway, catching a red-eye and sitting beside her hospital bed for two days until the machines went still. Sometimes he still sees her hands in his—small, steady, nails painted baby pink—and he wishes he could forget that room, the antiseptic air, the way her breath came thin and fragile at the end. While he didn’t grow up experiencing American Thanksgiving, big dinners with family used to be her favorite part of any holiday. His dad checked out long before his mom had passed. Not dead, just… gone. A ghost in the same house. A man who worked too much, drank too much, and then went for real when his mom’s diagnosis came.

Carter, Kris, Johan, and Oskar have been the closest thing Mark has felt to a family in the decade since his mom left. But now Carter was out of the picture, traded and gone, leaving a space no one filled. As he waits for the day to pass, he almost wishes there were practice. At least then the ache in his chest would have a purpose.

The team dinner at Oskar’s house is loud, warm, and too bright. Mark’s shoulder is throbbing, wrapped tight under his dress shirt. He sits near the end of the table, watching the chaos unfold, Oskar laughing, Vlasky spilling wine, the kids running between chairs, and tries not to feel the hollow ache of missing his mom.

And Logan, Jesus Logan, is everywhere. He’s making jokes and slotting in like he’s always been a part of this. Everyone laughs, and he plays the part perfectly, but Mark sees through it. Sees the flicker in his smile, the way his shoulders slump when he thinks no one’s looking. Mark’s spent two months pretending not to watch him, but tonight he doesn’t bother pretending.

There’s something about the light that makes the kid look different. Softer, maybe. Freckles standing out against flushed cheeks, hair curling at the edge of his neck from the heat of the kitchen. When he laughs, his whole face folds into it. Mark looks away.

He doesn’t trust himself to compartmentalize that when he’s feeling so flayed by his emotions at the moment.

Later, the kids start a game of hide-and-seek, squealing through the living room. Logan gets tackled onto the couch after he’s found in his very obvious hiding place behind a thin standing lamp, laughing so hard he can barely breathe, arms full of the twins pretending to “take him prisoner.”

Mark stands in the doorway, beer in hand, watching the scene like it’s something fragile he shouldn’t touch. His shoulder throbs, but for once he doesn’t feel it. Logan’s cheeks are pink, lips parted in laughter, eyes bright, blonde hair falling in his face as he lets the kids “defeat” him, collapsing in exaggerated surrender. It’s stupid, but something in Mark’s chest twists. The genuine smile of delight transforms his face into something warm and unguarded. For a second, Mark forgets to breathe.

Then Logan looks up, catches him watching, and the spell snaps. Mark turns, clears his throat, mutters something to Johan about grabbing another beer. He doesn’t look back again.
-
Mark doesn’t know why he steps outside.

He’s halfway through another beer when the sound of laughter from inside feels too big to sit in. The noise presses on the edges of something he doesn’t have words for. So he pushes open the sliding door and steps onto the deck.

The air hits cool against his face. It smells faintly of pine and wood smoke.

Logan’s already out there, leaned against the railing, his breath fogging in the cold. For once he’s quiet. Just stillness. Mark hesitates for a second before joining him. His shoulder throbs when he leans forward, arms resting against the railing.

He doesn’t say anything right away. The silence feels too easy to leave alone, too steady to ruin.

“You okay?” he hears himself ask. The words come out softer than he means them to.

Logan doesn’t look over. “Yeah,” he says, voice low. “Just… thinking about home.”

Home.

The word lands somewhere deep in Mark’s chest.

He glances sideways at him, the dim porch light catching the edge of Logan’s jaw, the soft pull of his mouth. His eyes linger on the number 12 on his shoulder. Vlasky’s number. The hoodie’s gray, soft, worn at the seams. Too big for Logan by a size and a half. It doesn’t mean anything.

It’s just fabric. Just a sweatshirt Vlasky probably left on a bus months ago.

But something about it makes Mark’s jaw tighten, the irrational kind of jealousy that hits without warning, stupid, baseless, humiliating. He looks away fast, ashamed of himself for even noticing. Something tightens in his throat before he manages to look out toward the yard. The dark stretches wide, trees whispering in the distance.

“Yeah,” he says finally, voice rougher now. “I didn’t really have this back home. Not like… this.” He gestures toward the house behind them, where laughter still spills through the walls. “Family, I mean.”

He can feel Logan’s gaze on him, but he keeps his eyes fixed on the horizon. It’s easier to talk to the dark than to someone looking back.

It’s the truth, though, more truth than he’s said out loud in months. Back in Nova Scotia, things were simple and quiet until they weren’t. His mother’s death, his father’s silence, his solitude. Hockey had filled the gaps. The team became his family, the rink his home.

He shifts, rolling his bad shoulder without thinking. The motion sparks a flash of pain that makes his breath catch. He vaguely hears Logan’s concern when he asks about his shoulder.

Mark’s head snaps toward him, reflexive. The concern in his voice does something strange to him, hits somewhere tender he’s not ready to look at.

“It’s fine,” he says, too quickly. The words come out clipped, defensive. He forces a shrug, trying to make it sound like it’s nothing.

Logan doesn’t look convinced, but he lets it go. The silence that follows isn’t sharp, though, it softens. Mark stares out into the dark yard, the lights from the house painting faint gold lines across the railing. He thinks about how easily Logan fits here, about how he laughs with everyone, and yet how he can be in a room full of noise and still manage to look lonely.

Mark’s never known how to reach people like that. He’s built a life out of keeping distance, from everyone, from himself. It’s easier to be steady than to be seen.

He opens his mouth to say something, though he doesn’t know what. Instead, he closes it again, shaking his head.

He’s not good at this. Never has been.

So he does the one thing that feels safe: he reaches out, rests a hand on Logan’s shoulder, the fabric soft under his palm. A quick squeeze, meant to be nothing, but it lingers just a second too long. Long enough for him to feel the warmth of him even through the hoodie.

He clears his throat and steps back. “Try and get some sleep,” he says, voice low. “Game tomorrow.”

When Logan turns to look at him, there’s something in his expression: a flicker of surprise, of understanding, maybe something else. Mark doesn’t wait to figure it out.

He steps inside, closing the door behind him. But the quiet on the other side feels different now. He can still feel the heat of that brief touch burning against his palm, and it stays with him the whole drive home, a phantom ache, stubborn as the one in his shoulder.

That night, when he finally gets home, the house feels too big. He showers, tapes his shoulder again, tells himself it’s nothing. He doesn’t turn the TV on. He just lies down, stares at the ceiling, and waits for sleep.

It doesn’t come easily. When it does, it’s not the dream he expects.

He’s in the locker room, half-dressed. Logan’s there, laughing, head tilted back, blue eyes bright. Mark tells him to cut it out, to focus. But Logan only laughs harder, head tilted back, the line of his throat catching in the half-light. Mark means to scold him again, but then Logan’s hand is on his arm, warm and light, and the words die in his throat. His laugh changes, low, close. The air between them goes sharp, electric.

Mark can feel the heat of his skin, and it buzzes under Logan’s hand. He doesn’t know who moves first, only that Logan’s mouth is on his, and his own body betrays him—every nerve firing, every instinct he’s ever buried breaking free all at once. Mark doesn’t think. He doesn’t have time to. His body moves before his mind catches up, heat flaring through every nerve, muscle memory rewriting itself in real time. Logan tastes like salt and adrenaline, his laugh caught somewhere between their mouths. It’s not innocent; it's hungry. Mark feels it all the way to his core, the kind of hunger that borders on pain. His hand finds the back of Logan’s neck, fingers digging in, pulling him closer, closer still. Mark can’t tell where the ache in his shoulder ends and the ache under his ribs begins.

And then everything tilts.

It’s not the locker room anymore. The light is softer now, honey-gold and hazy. Logan’s beneath him, sprawled across sheets Mark doesn’t recognize. His cheeks are flushed, lips swollen, hair sticking damply to his forehead. He looks up at Mark with that same smile: open, unguarded, easy in a way that cuts right through him.

“Hey,” Logan whispers, voice lazy, teasing, like this is the most natural thing in the world.

Mark’s breath catches. His hands hover uselessly, afraid to touch, afraid not to. Logan shifts slightly, the movement small but devastating, and Mark feels the warmth of him, the weight, the quiet trust in the way Logan looks at him. He wants to eat him alive.

He wakes with a start, heart pounding, sweat cooling on his chest. His shoulder screams when he shifts, but it’s nothing compared to the ache lower down.

“Oh, fuck,” he mutters, dragging a hand over his face. He lies there in the dark, trying to convince himself that whatever the fuck that was was just a product of an emotionally charged day.

By the weekend, they’ve got a home game, one of those perfect nights where everything finally clicks. The passes are clean, the crowd is wild, and they pull off a massive win against Florida, a division rival. The kind that should feel easy.

It doesn’t. Logan’s buzzing on adrenaline, laughing, high-fiving everyone. He looks golden under the locker room lights, cheeks flushed, hair sticking to his forehead. Mark catches himself watching again, too long, too often, and it makes him want to crawl out of his own skin.

He forces himself through the motions to shower, change, get through the interviews, but his mind won’t quiet down. The dream keeps replaying in flashes, the heat, the hands, the mouth. The sound of Logan’s laugh.

He needs a drink.

The whole team ends up at the same bar they always do after big wins, dim lights, sticky floors, country music low in the background. Mark sits at the end of the table with Johan and Kris, nursing a beer and trying not to think about how his shoulder feels like it’s full of fire.

Across the room, Logan’s surrounded by people: Vlasky, a couple of rookies, and a group of locals who look thrilled to be within arm’s reach of professional athletes. He’s grinning, eyes glassy with beer and victory. Mark keeps pretending he isn’t watching. But every time Logan throws his head back to laugh, something in Mark’s stomach tightens.

Then he sees her. A girl in a white sweater, long dark hair, red lipstick. She leans toward Logan with that practiced tilt of the chin that’s all confidence and invitation. Mark knows the look; he’s seen it a hundred times. The difference is the way Logan reacts: the flicker of hesitation that crosses his face before he hides it under a grin. Mark looks away. He doesn’t need to see this.

As the night drags on, he keeps catching glimpses. Logan buying her a drink, his hand brushing hers, her arm resting lightly on his chest while she laughs, leaning just a little too close. Mark’s chest tightens, a cold, jealous knot he can’t shake. He tells himself it’s silly, that acting on any of those desires he harbors toward any man is strictly off-limits. Logan is straight, and Mark needs to remember his five-second rule. He should feel relieved, maybe, that the universe planted this moment in his life to squash any emotion his reckless brain and dick might have been stuck on. Instead, there’s just this ache: a longing tangled up with irritation, and a heat that rises unbidden every time Logan’s gaze flicks across the room, bright and careless, landing on someone else. Mark swallows hard, shifts his weight, and forces a laugh at a joke he doesn’t hear. The night continues, but nothing tastes right.

But then movement catches his eye again. Across the crowded bar, the light catching in strands of damp hair, Logan leans in, lips hovering inches from the girl’s. It’s slow, deliberate, the practiced charm of a young man who knows he’s going home with the girl in front of him. Mark’s stomach twists, a low, coiling heat he can’t swallow.

And just before the distance closes, just before everything that seems inevitable happens, Logan’s gaze lifts.

Their eyes meet.

Mark freezes. He knows. He knows Logan caught him watching. The corner of Logan’s mouth twitches, just the slightest flicker, a spark of recognition in his eyes that Mark can’t read. He feels the flush crawling up his neck, the sudden heat in his ears, and wants to disappear with the shame of it.

For one heartbeat, one thin, trembling heartbeat, the entire bar seems to pause. The music fades into a muted hum, the clatter of glasses and the murmur of conversation blurring into static. Even the glow of the overhead lights softens, sharpening the raw, impossible clarity of that moment. Mark can feel the weight of it in his chest, the pulse of his own heartbeat echoing in his ears.
Logan’s expression falters. His mouth parts slightly, almost imperceptibly, and Mark swears he can feel that split-second hesitation through his bones, like a live wire jolting him awake.
Then, as quickly as it comes, it’s gone. Logan blinks, a flicker of composure snapping into place. He forces the easy, bright grin that disarms everyone, that says nothing is wrong, that the world is exactly as it should be. And then he kisses her.
It’s nothing. Just a kiss.
But to Mark, it lands like a fist to the ribs. The warmth of it lingers in the hollow where his chest clenches, a burn that spreads and settles with an uncomfortable insistence. He looks down at his beer, jaw tight, the weight of something unnamed pressing hard behind his sternum.
He tells himself it doesn’t matter. That Logan can do whatever he wants. That his reaction is absurd, childish even. He repeats it like a mantra: it’s nothing, it’s nothing, it’s nothing.
The cold glass is slick in his hands, but it doesn’t anchor him; he can feel the words pressing behind his teeth, heavy and sharp, the kind that don’t belong anywhere outside his own head. He feels the weight of wanting something he can’t have. The weight of his aching shoulder and what it means for him. He forces the thoughts down, buries them, as if sheer will could keep them from rising. He finishes his drink in one long swallow, ignoring the bitter edge, and stands.
He’s halfway out of his seat when Logan appears again, reaching for his jacket on the back of the chair, the girl lingering near the bar. Logan freezes for a fraction of a second when he sees Mark, and something shifts in his posture. Not surprise, but hesitation.
“You heading out?” Logan asks, tone light, too casual, but the ease doesn’t reach his eyes.
Mark studies him for a long second. The lingering flush on his cheeks, the twitch at the corner of his jaw, the slight tension in his shoulders, all of it laid bare if you look close enough. He swallows again, throat burning.
“Yeah,” Mark says quietly, deliberately neutral. “You?”
Logan shrugs, one easy shoulder lifting. “Maybe. We’re—”
Mark cuts him off, voice low enough that no one else could catch it, even if they tried. “Is that what you really want?”
The words hang between them, solid and bruising, heavier than the air itself. Logan freezes. His mouth opens, then closes again, caught off guard by the weight of the question. “What?” he finally says, soft, defensive, uncertain.
Mark doesn’t repeat it. Doesn’t wait for an answer. He holds Logan’s gaze instead, then brushes past him toward the door, deliberately ignoring the subtle flicker of confusion in Logan’s expression, the hint of something unspoken that trembles at the edges of his easy grin.
Outside, the night air hits him like a shock. Sharp, cold, clearing the haze of alcohol and chatter from his mind. His shoulder screams when he pulls the door closed behind him, but it’s not the pain that tightens his chest. It’s the hollow ache inside, the gnawing, insistent pull of something he’s not supposed to feel.
He sits in his dark living room for a long time when he gets home. The silence is almost unbearable, but it’s the only space where he can let his thoughts surface without interruption. He tries to sort through the tangle of his emotions, the reckless words that slipped out without permission, and the stubborn ache lodged somewhere beneath his ribs. His hands shake, restless, betraying the composure he’s spent a lifetime honing.
When he was younger, he told himself hockey would be enough. The noise, the sweat, the wins, those things filled the space where something else wanted to live. He got good at compartmentalizing: lace up, hit, win, repeat. He built a life where there wasn’t room for anything else.
And the rest? The parts that didn’t fit the mold? Those got pushed down until they didn’t make a sound.
He learned early that you could want things quietly, as long as no one ever saw it. So he made peace with solitude. A few brief flings, here and there, nameless faces during off-seasons in cities who don’t care about hockey. A bar once in Montreal with a closeted actor. A Russian skier he’d spent his two Olympics with. It was always the same bargain: no traces, no risk.
Then the season would start again, and he’d go back to being Mark Callahan, the dependable one, the leader, the enforcer, the guy who never slipped.
He was good at it. So good that even he started to believe it.
Now, sitting in the dark in his living room, he wonders when “good enough” stopped feeling like enough at all.
Maybe it’s age. Thirty-five and counting, body starting to betray him, the future smaller than it used to be. Or maybe it’s Logan with the too-big smile and the careless mouth.
Mark presses his fingers to the ache in his shoulder and stares at the framed Team Canada jersey on the wall and tries to remember a time when he didn’t hurt.
He’s spent his whole career mastering control, keeping every feeling under the surface, every bruise hidden beneath the pads. But control doesn’t feel steady anymore. Not when Logan’s around.
He doesn’t know what to do with that. Doesn’t know how to want anything without breaking the rules he built his life on. For once in his life, Mark Callahan doesn’t know how to protect himself.

Chapter Text

Logan’s still replaying the words in his head when the silence around him gives way to the noise of the bar.
Is that what you really want?
Just seven of them. Small, harmless, until Mark said them like that — low and steady, like he already knew the answer. Logan could feel the words swirling around his mind like oil in water, not quite making sense.
He can’t even remember what he said back. Something stupid, something defensive. He knows he smiled, too wide and too fast, because that’s what he always does when something cuts too close. And then Mark had looked at him with that same unreadable expression, not angry, not disgusted, just seeing him, and Logan had wanted to vanish.
He’d left right after, muttering something about an early skate.
He hadn’t slept.
The next morning, practice was a blur. Mark didn’t say a word to him. Didn’t even glance his way when they ran line rushes. Every drill, every stride, every shift felt wrong. The ice was too bright, the rink too cold, the distance between them too loud.
The silence after the bar stretches further than it should.
One night turns into two, then a week, and Mark doesn’t say a single word to him outside of drills. Not at practice, not in the locker room, not on the bench. He doesn’t even look his way unless he has to. That’s what unsettles Logan the most. He had grown so used to the weight of Mark’s gaze since the summer that he feels almost weightless, like his skates might detach from the ice at any moment.
Logan tries not to notice, but he does. He notices everything. The way Mark’s voice sharpens when he runs systems, the way he talks to Oskar and Johan like nothing’s changed, the way his eyes skim right past Logan when he’s giving feedback.
He tells himself it’s fine. He can live with it.
Except he can’t.
Because that question—Is that what you really want?—keeps replaying in his head, over and over until the words start to lose their shape. He’s tried to twist them into something harmless, like maybe Mark was just calling him out on the hookup, or the dumb impulsive way he talks sometimes. But the truth sits there, heavy, every time Mark walks into a room.
Mark knows.
Or if he doesn’t, he’s close.
And that’s almost worse.
Logan’s been careful for years, painfully careful. Every joke, every smirk, every ridiculous, offhand comment is part of the act. He’s built a version of himself that’s bright enough to blind people, so they never notice what’s underneath. It’s worked for so long that he’s started to believe it himself. But all it took was one night, one look, and Mark had seen right through him. A man that barely knows him but maybe knows him more than most have in years.
And Logan, idiot that he is, had panicked.
Now every shift feels off. Every play feels wrong. He’s a half-second late to passes, missing reads he could make blindfolded. The coaches don’t say anything, but he feels it in the air.
The only thing that can hold Logan together as November wanes and December crawls on is focusing on the road trip that’s been haunting him since the schedule was released. It’s not a particularly bad trip, just 5 games spread comfortably over a week and a half. But they’re leaving for Minnesota first. His old team. His old city. The one place he can’t decide if he's been trying to not forget or been trying not to think about since the trade.
-
The rink in St. Paul smells the same as it always did — that clean mix of cold air, sweat, and sharpened steel. It’s the kind of smell that lives somewhere in his bones, the one that meant home for so long he can still taste it in his throat.
Logan drags a hand through his hair and breathes in deep as he steps off the team bus, half expecting the security guards to wave him through like they used to. Old habit. Instead, a new guy just scans his pass, barely looking at him, and it hits him all over again that he’s not one of them anymore. He’s wearing red and black now. The enemy.
The Copperheads file through the tunnel like they’ve done it a hundred times, but for Logan it’s like walking through a memory. Every turn, every faded poster still clinging to the concrete walls feels like it’s whispering to him. He glances at a mural on the wall of one of his old teammates standing proudly, awash in green and red. The lump in Logan’s throat constricts even tighter because he knows the mural is new.
He knows because it used to be a picture of him.
“Don’t get sentimental on me, Hayes,” Vlasky mutters behind him, slapping his shoulder. “We will beat them, and you rub it in.”
Logan grins, or tries to. “I’m not sentimental. I’m just—” He gestures vaguely. “—nostalgic.”
Vlasky laughs like it’s the same thing. Maybe it is.
The first thing he notices when they step into the visiting locker room is that it’s colder than he remembers the home one being. Cramped, too, the ceilings lower, the walls too close. It smells like detergent and something faintly metallic. He takes his usual seat near the middle and sets his bag down, pretending his pulse isn’t spiking.
It’s just another away game, he tries to reason with himself. But he knows better. He knows that this is the city that raised him. He knows that he played his youth championship on this ice. He knows that somewhere in the crowd is his mother, dutifully in red and black, and his father in his green and gold because sometimes blood doesn’t outweigh hometown pride.
Vlasky is watching him as he pulls on his gear with his persistent smirk on his lips but something like concern dancing in his eyes. Logan looks back at him and does his best to not let his mask slip. Guys get traded all of the time, no need to get so emotional about it.
Then Mark walks by, and it’s like the air shifts a little. Logan barely needs to turn his head to notice him.
He’s got that usual look, calm, steady, unreadable, but there’s a looseness in his shoulders that Logan hasn’t seen since Thanksgiving. Since before those words — Is that what you really want? — started echoing in Logan’s head every night. Logan can feel Vlasky watching him but it doesn’t matter, the fascination of this ease on Mark’s usually wound tight body captures him. It takes Logan a moment to figure it out, why Mark came from the hall looking like a man who had a weight lifted from his broad shoulders.
Carter Rivers, his brain supplies. One of the men Carolina had traded for him. He had known that he and Mark were friends, and had heard that the empty seat next to Johan on the plane had once belonged to him. Logan didn’t realize the effect he had on Mark. It twists uncomfortably in his stomach with the emotions of being in Minnesota.
He pulls his gaze to Vlasky with some effort, unsure he wants to see his expression now that he’s been caught studying Mark.
But Vlasky’s smirk fades into a kind smile, dimples softening his expression until he looks almost boyish.
“Hazy,” he says, voice low and heavy with that round Russian cadence. “You look like man going to funeral, not hockey game.”
Logan huffs, looking away, pulling on his pads. “I’m fine.”
Vlasky raises an eyebrow. “Fine? You sit there litso, kak u oslika.”
“I don’t know what that means.” Logan deadpans.
“Means you look sad,” Vlasky says, lips twitching. “And pale. You sleep during pregame nap?”
“Yes.”
“Liar.”
“I’m fine,” Logan repeats, sharper this time.
Vlasky just shrugs, leaning back against the stall. “Okay, fine. You fine. You sweat through shirt before puck drop, but yes, you fine.”
Logan laughs despite himself, head dropping forward. “You’re an asshole.”
“Yes,” Vlasky says cheerfully. “But I am correct asshole.”
There’s an easy rhythm between them that startles Logan
Vlasky nudges his shoulder. “You nervous for parents?”
Logan blinks. “What?”
“You said mama come to game, da? And papa too.”
Logan nods, relief flooding his system at the excuse. “Yeah.”
Vlasky grins, toothy. “So what is problem? You score goal, you make both happy. Mama cheer for you, papa pretend he not.” Logan had told him about his father’s refusal to don a jersey with anything but the Loons logo on it. At least it had his name on the back, but Logan supposed Hayes was his dad’s name too.
“It’s not that simple.”
“Always that simple,” Vlasky says. “Parents love. That is all. Even when they dumb.”
Logan snorts. “That’s one way to put it.”
Vlasky’s expression softens. “You know… first time I play in Moscow in KHL after draft, I was same. Stomach twist. Thought I would puke in helmet. You think I puke?”
“Yes.”
“I did,” Vlasky says, laughing. “But only little.”
Logan can’t help it, he laughs too, the tension breaking for the first time since they landed.
Vlasky shrugs, still smiling. “You feel too much. Always like this. Good heart, stupid brain. You think too much about what people think of you.”
“That’s rich coming from you.”
“Da. I am rich in wisdom,” Vlasky says, tapping his temple. “Listen. Minnesota, Carolina, it is all same ice. You play. You score. You hit hard. Crowd cheer, crowd boo, who cares? You are still you.”
Logan looks at him, really looks, the crooked grin, the big green eyes watching him, the quiet sincerity under all of it. It hits deeper than he expects.
“Thanks, V,” he says softly.
Vlasky waves it off. “Bah. Don’t thank. Just play good, yes? You get too in head, look up. I tell you joke. Or maybe fall on ice. You laugh, feel better.”
“Appreciate the strategy.”
“Strategy always work,” Vlasky says, dead serious. “Also maybe score goal for me, yes? I bet Oskar ten dollars you do.”
Logan grins. “That’s it? Ten?”
“Ten enough. I am poor Russian boy. ELC”
“Then I’ll make it count.”
Vlasky bumps his shoulder again. “Good. Let’s go. Warmup soon. You play like old team miss you.”
“Do they?”
Vlasky shrugs. “Maybe. But we don’t. We have you here.”
The words land heavier than they sound, quiet, honest, grounding.
Logan nods once, throat tight. “Let’s go make them regret it.”
Vlasky grins wide, already standing. “That’s spirit, Hazy. Now come. We skate. We win. You sweat less.”
Logan laughs, feeling looser, grabbing his helmet.
Vlasky laughs too, the sound echoing through the narrow locker room.
And as they walk toward the tunnel together, the noise of the crowd swelling beyond the doors, Logan realizes he’s still nervous, but it feels lighter now. Manageable.
Because maybe Vlasky’s right. Maybe it really is the same ice. Maybe that can ground his swirling mind.
The moment his name appears on the jumbotron displaying the lineup, the arena erupts. A roar swells from the stands, some fans chanting, some whistling, some just screaming his name. Logan freezes for a fraction of a second, the sound washing over him, dizzying and strange. The fans who had loved him his whole life. The fans who felt they did not get the return on the trade they deserved for him. When he lifts his glove in acknowledgement he doesn’t dare look at the screen he is sure is displaying shiny eyes.
The game itself burns. Fast, physical, the kind of hockey that leaves no room to think. Every shift is a blur of hits and motion, blades carving grooves into the ice like the rhythm of a heartbeat. The boards thrum under the impact of bodies, the puck snapping off sticks in sharp, percussive clicks. Logan can feel it in his bones, the motion, the speed, the primal push of the game, and it pulls him into a zone where nothing exists except the next play.
Midway through the first period, he finds himself in the right place at the right time. Oskar is driving toward the net, weaving through defenders, and Logan sees the lane open. The pass is almost instinctual, a flick of his wrist, and Oskar buries it with a quick shot that snaps the goalie’s glove side. The crowd erupts in groans or at least makes a small noise that’s somewhere between cheer and uncertain whoop, not sure whether to celebrate or boo the returning star. Logan feels it anyway, a jolt of pride and adrenaline surging through him, the kind that makes his muscles hum.
By the end of the first, Logan gets his own chance. A fast break opens up after a chaotic scramble in the neutral zone. He carries the puck across the blue line, a defender in his hip, another sliding to cut him off. Time slows in that fraction of a second; he sees the crease, the goalie leaning, overcommitting just enough. He shoots. The puck sails, sharp and clean, ricocheting off the post and into the net. The roar of the crowd hits him like a wave, loud and pure, vibrating through his chest and down to his skates. He pumps his fist, a grin splitting his face, but inside it’s more than that, it's the sensation of Johan and Mark crushing him against the boards in the standard goal celebration that grounds him in this moment. The taller men flood his vision with white and red away jerseys and his heart stills.
The second period brings a pause in the chaos, not a real pause, just another fleeting moment of clarity. The arena lights dim slightly as the jumbotron flickers to a photo of him being drafted by the Loons at 18, young and full of hope: WELCOME BACK, LOGAN. The letters flash across the screen, bright against the darkened stands. The crowd explodes in unison, cheering, chanting, some waving signs. Heat rises under Logan’s skin, his throat tight, his chest full. He’s not used to this, attention, welcome, acknowledgment. It’s not about ego; it’s about being seen by the fans of the first team to ever give him away. He glances toward Mark reflexively as he raises his glove to acknowledge the crowd and finds Mark studying him, expression guarded.
The third period is a war of attrition. Every shift leaves him gasping, muscles screaming with exertion, sticks clashing, bodies colliding. Hits come hard and fast; the puck jumps unpredictably from stick to stick. Logan feels it all, the bruises forming under his jersey, the sting in his forearms, the searing in his legs. But it’s the good kind of hurt, the kind that reminds him he’s alive, that reminds him what it feels like to push and bleed and just play fucking hockey without worrying about the man with the dark stare somewhere to his right.
The game culminates in a tense final minute. They’re tied when Oskar fires a shot from the point. Mark tips it slightly, redirecting it with precision, and the puck slides past the goalie. Logan’s heart hammers as the buzzer sounds; he’s on the ice, bent over his stick, lungs burning, grin stretching across his face despite himself. Exhaustion and triumph war inside him.
And he realizes in this moment a couple of things.
The first is that he just had a two point winning night on what he used to consider home ice.
The second is that Oskar is hugging him and lifting him almost off the ice.
And the last is that Mark is watching him from across the ice, the side of his mouth with the scar twitching up slightly.
Logan exhales, a long, trembling release, letting it all wash over him.
Later the locker room adrenaline is still thrumming in his veins when Logan steps out into the corridor. The noise of his team fades behind the heavy doors as they close behind him, replaced by the dull hum of fluorescent lights and the faint smell of sweat and equipment. His parents are waiting at the far end, small smiles plastered on their faces, a mix of pride and relief in their eyes.
“Logan!” his mom says, voice bright but a little unsteady. She moves forward, arms out, and he finds himself wrapped up in her hug. It’s tight, grounding, and he can feel the tremor in her hands as she holds him.
“You were incredible,” she whispers, just for him.
His dad claps him on the shoulder, grinning in that quiet, steady way he always does. “Two points, huh? That’s what I like to see.”
Logan swallows, the lump in his throat making his words catch. “Thanks,” he manages, voice low. “Thanks for… everything.”
He lets them hold him for a moment longer, relishing the feeling of being seen without pretending, without jokes, without bravado. For the first time in a long while, it feels like he can just be, not the Logan the world expects, not the one hiding in flashes of humor and distraction, just him.
But even as he laughs at one of his dad’s dry quips, he catches a movement out of the corner of his eye. Mark is slipping away down the corridor, a small nod toward Carter Rivers who appears and falls into step beside him. The sight tugs at him unexpectedly, Mark’s not looking at him as per the new usual, but he looks lighter than Logan has ever seen him, smile twitching at the corner of his mouth as the two men disappear around a corner.
His mom follows his gaze with a fragile smile.
“Have they been treating you well?” She asks, tentative
“What?” Logan snaps his gaze back to her and she looks slightly startled.
“I said… have they been treating you well?” she repeats, softer this time, like she’s testing the waters. There’s something in the tilt of her head, the careful lift of her eyebrows, that makes his chest tighten. She isn’t talking about the team, the ice, the coaches—he knows she isn’t.
He swallows, fumbling for a laugh that comes out uneven, like he’s trying to deflect, trying to anchor himself in something ordinary. “Yeah. They’re fine,” he says, voice light, too light. “Team’s… good. Really good.”
His mom doesn’t look convinced. Her eyes linger on him, searching, patient but insistent, and Logan feels it, the quiet pressure of her knowing him too well, the way she can see past the words. He shifts his weight, feeling the lingering warmth from hugging her, wishing for some kind of distraction, some safe ground.
“And… you’re happy?” she presses gently, tilting her head again, the question hanging between them.

Logan freezes for a heartbeat, the words caught somewhere between truth and instinct. Happy. The word tastes foreign. He glances down the corridor where Mark and Carter disappeared, the image of Mark’s light, easy smile still tugging at him. Something tightens in his chest, a mix of longing and relief that he can’t quite name.
“I… yeah,” he says finally, “I’m… happy.” Is that true?
His mom smiles then, a fragile, knowing curve of her lips, and he feels a flicker of warmth, of understanding, even without her needing to speak more.
“You played really well tonight,” she adds, softer now, almost as if she’s letting him set the boundaries of what they’re really talking about. “I’m proud of you.”
Logan nods, and for the first time tonight, he allows himself to feel the whole spectrum: the triumph on the ice, the relief of standing on his own, the quiet ache of watching Mark walk away, and the steady, grounding comfort of home.
He doesn’t need to answer the unspoken questions. She already knows him, and that’s enough.
Dinner is quiet but warm, the kind of meal that feels carefully ordinary, almost domestic, after the chaos of the game. Logan’s mom has insisted on a corner table, a little secluded from the restaurant’s noise, and the candlelight flickers across the polished wood, casting soft shadows over familiar faces. His dad keeps the conversation light, telling dry little anecdotes from Logan’s childhood that make him roll his eyes but can’t help smiling at anyway.
Logan eats more slowly than usual, savoring the sense of calm. The adrenaline has finally started to ebb, leaving behind a hollow in his chest that’s half exhaustion, half relief. His mom keeps glancing at him, asking small, gentle questions, how his ankle he’d hurt almost a year ago now feels, whether he’s staying hydrated, if he’s sleeping enough, but Logan catches the undercurrent in every inquiry, the quiet concern that lingers just beneath the surface. He answers carefully, laughing lightly at his dad’s jokes, letting the conversation drift like a gentle current.
And still, his thoughts drift to Mark. To the image of him earlier in the corridor, smiling easily, free in a way Logan hasn’t seen in weeks, maybe ever really. He wonders where he is now, whether he’s eaten, whether he’s thinking about the same play or the same goal or the same… Logan shakes his head subtly and focuses on the food in front of him, but the pull is constant.
Later, back at the hotel, the lobby is softly lit, quiet except for the low hum of the elevator and the faint hum of chatter from the front desk. Logan wanders towards the elevator slowly wanting for a moment of calm before collapsing into bed.
And then Mark appears. Warm, slightly flushed, leaning casually against the wall next to him. He’s smiling, that easy, crooked smile that makes Logan’s chest tighten without warning. His eyes meet Logan’s, and there’s a brief, almost conspiratorial pause before Mark lets himself grin wider in a smile Logan isn’t familiar with.
“Hey,” Mark says, voice low, a little slurred but still steady. “Congrats tonight. You were… something else out there.”
Logan’s heart picks up, and he finds himself smiling before he even thinks about it. “Thanks,” he manages, voice rough from shouting and skating and whatever adrenaline is still stuck in his throat. “You’re… around late.”
Mark shrugs, the movement casual. “Figured I’d celebrate a little. Mostly just hung out with Carter” His grin is clouded in alcohol but there’s warmth behind it, a softness that Logan hasn’t quite allowed himself to process.
For a long beat, they just stand there looking at each other, the lobby quiet except for the faint click of the elevator doors. Logan wants to say something, anything, but the words feel heavy. Instead, he lets the silence stretch, letting the warmth of Mark’s presence settle around him. He tries to not think about how Mark finally acknowledging his existence again has grounded him in a way nothing else tonight has.
When they get to their floor, they arrive at Logan’s door first but Mark doesn’t linger, heading toward his own. The words surprise him by popping into his head again, ‘is this what you really want?’
Before he can stop himself he’s softly calling Mark’s name down the hall. Logan watches with a hand on his own door as Mark turns to him with an expression he can’t read in the hallway light.
“It’s good to see you smile.” He doesn’t stop to see Mark’s reaction but just presses into his room and collapses back against the door.

Chapter Text

Mark wakes to pale winter light bleeding through hotel curtains, his head pounding with the familiar ache of too many beers and not enough water. The room is silent except for the hum of the heater, and for a disorienting moment, he expects to hear Carter's snoring from the other bed.
But Carter's gone. Back to across the city, back to his new team, back to a life that doesn't include Mark anymore.
Mark shifts, and his shoulder screams in protest. Right. That.
The memory of last night filters back in fragments. The win. The adrenaline still crackling in his veins during the post-game. Carter waiting in the tunnel with that easy grin, pulling him into a hug that felt like coming home. Dinner at some steakhouse Carter knew, too much whiskey, laughter that came easier than it had in months.
And Logan. Logan in the hallway, flushed from his own family dinner, saying—
It's good to see you smile.
Mark closes his eyes against the headache and the memory. He'd been drunk enough that the words had hit him square in the chest before his defenses could kick in. Drunk enough that he'd almost said something back, something stupid and revealing that would've ruined everything.
He didn't, though. He'd just nodded, throat tight, and retreated to his room like a coward.
Mark drags himself upright, padding to the bathroom. The mirror shows him exactly what he expects: bruises blooming purple along his collarbone, the perpetual shadow under his eyes, gray creeping into his stubble faster than it should. Thirty-five years of taking hits etched into every line.
He splashes cold water on his face and tries not to think about the way Logan had looked at him in that hallway. Hopeful. Uncertain. Like Mark's smile mattered.
It can't matter. Mark won't let it.
The last three weeks have been a masterclass in self-control. After the bar, after that moment when their eyes met and Mark saw everything he shouldn't have seen—Logan's hesitation, the flicker of something real beneath the performance—he'd made a choice. The only choice that made sense.
Distance.
He'd stopped watching Logan during practice. Stopped lingering in the locker room when Logan was still getting dressed. Stopped letting his gaze track him across the ice, cataloging every movement, every expression, every laugh that cut through him like a blade.
It had been necessary. Self-preservation in its purest form.
Because the alternative, acknowledging what he felt, what he wanted, would destroy them both.
Mark knows the rules. He's lived by them his entire career. You don't look too long. You don't let yourself want. You certainly don't act on it, not with a teammate, not in this league where one wrong move could end everything you've built.
He'd learned that lesson young, watching other players get traded or cut for less. Watching the way guys got quiet when certain topics came up, the jokes that cut too close, the careful distance everyone maintained. The NHL was a brotherhood, sure, but only if you fit the mold.
Mark had fit it. He'd made himself fit it.
And Logan—Christ, Logan was twenty-four, his whole career ahead of him, fighting for a contract extension that could define his future. The last thing he needed was Mark's weakness, dragging him down.
So Mark had pulled away.
It should've been easier. Should've felt like relief.
Instead, it felt like slowly suffocating.
His phone buzzes while he's getting dressed. Carter.
Carter: Made it back. Kid asked why Uncle Mark wasn't at breakfast
Mark: Tell him I'll FaceTime later
Carter: You doing okay?
Mark: Fine
Carter: That's not what I asked
Mark stares at the message, thumb hovering. Last night comes back in flashes—the corner booth at the steakhouse, Carter's knowing eyes across the table, the conversation that had danced around truth without ever quite landing on it.
"So," Carter had said, swirling his whiskey somewhere between the second and third drink. "Hayes."
Mark's jaw had tightened reflexively. "What about him?"
"You tell me."
"Nothing to tell. He's loud. Reckless."
Carter had hummed, unconvinced. "Johan said you've been... quiet lately. More than usual."
"Johan talks too much."
"Johan's worried about you." Carter's expression had softened. "I'm worried about you."
Mark had looked away, tracking the movement of the waitress across the restaurant, the couple laughing in the corner booth, anywhere but Carter's knowing eyes. "I'm fine."
"Bullshit."
"Carter–"
"Mark." Carter had leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice dropping to something gentler. "I've known you for eight years. I know when you're carrying something heavy. And I know–" He'd paused, choosing his words carefully. "I know how hard it is. Keeping parts of yourself locked away. Pretending you don't feel things you feel."
The acknowledgement had hung between them, unspoken truths given voice in the safety of a dimly lit steakhouse that didn't care about either of them. Carter had never said it outright, but Mark knew. Had known for years, probably, the same way Mark had known about Carter. A mutual understanding, a shared burden neither of them could ever fully name. The selfish tired part of Mark that held on to resentment rallied at this moment at the unfairness of it all.
Mark had swallowed hard. "It's nothing."
"If it's nothing, then why do you look like you're having a war with yourself?"
Because he was. Because every time Logan laughed, every time he flashed that reckless grin, every time he took a was driven into the boards, it felt like something vital was being stripped away piece by piece.
But he couldn't say that. Not even to Carter, who'd understand better than anyone.
"I'm just tired," Mark had said finally. "The shoulder's getting worse. It's been a long season."
Carter had studied him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Okay. But Mark? Whatever you're dealing with, you don't have to do it alone. You know that, right?"
Mark hadn't answered. Just lifted his glass in a silent acknowledgment that was as close to honesty as he could manage.
Now, staring at Carter's text in the cold morning light, Mark types out a response.
Mark: I'm good. Focus on your team
Carter: You're a terrible liar
Carter: But I'll let it go. For now
Carter: Take care of yourself. And Hayes
Mark sets the phone down without responding to that last part. Carter's not subtle, never has been. It's one of the things Mark values most about him—the way he cuts through bullshit with surgical precision. But right now, it's more than Mark can handle.
He finishes packing his bag for Detroit, moving slowly to accommodate his shoulder. The team bus leaves for the airport in an hour. Another city, another game, another day of his body reminding him it's breaking down faster than he can hold it together.
The hotel lobby is busy with checkout chaos when Mark arrives. Half the team is already milling around with coffee and road trip exhaustion written across their faces. Oskar's wrangling his suitcase and talking on the phone—probably Kelsey, probably about the twins. Johan's reading something on his tablet, leather bag slung over one shoulder, looking more put-together than anyone has a right to at seven in the morning.
Mark pours himself coffee from the continental breakfast—black, of course—and turns to find Logan standing behind him.
"Morning," Logan says, voice careful.
"Morning."
They stand there awkwardly, the coffee maker hissing behind them. Logan's hair is still damp from a shower, curling slightly at the nape of his neck in a way that catches the lobby's fluorescent light. The blonde looks darker when it's wet, almost honey-colored, and Mark has to actively stop himself from cataloging the exact way those curls fall against Logan's skin. He's wearing joggers, gray, well-worn, sitting low on his hips, and a Copperheads hoodie that's slightly too big, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows exposing his forearms. There's something disarming about seeing him like this, soft and rumpled from sleep, looking younger than his twenty-four years without the armor of his game-day persona. The hoodie makes his shoulders look broader somehow, or maybe that's just Mark's sleep-deprived brain playing tricks on him. There's still a faint purple bruise blooming along his jaw from last night's game, a dark shadow from a high stick, and Mark's fingers itch with the completely inappropriate urge to trace the edge of it, to check if it hurts.
He forces his gaze back to his coffee, counts to five the way he's always done, and reminds himself that looking too long is dangerous. That noticing the freckles scattered across Logan's collarbone where the hoodie hangs loose is exactly the kind of thing that will give him away.
"How's the head?" Mark asks, nodding toward the bruise, keeping his voice carefully neutral.
Logan touches his jaw reflexively. "Fine. Barely feel it."
"That's not what I asked."
Logan huffs something that might be a laugh. "Yeah, well. I'm fine."
The silence stretches between them, weighted with everything neither of them is saying. Instead, Mark says, "We should grab a seat on the bus. Flight's at nine."
"Yeah. Okay."
They walk to the bus together but don't sit near each other. Logan heads to the back with Vlasky, their voices carrying in low, easy conversation. Mark takes his usual seat next to Kris, who's already half-asleep against the window, book abandoned in his lap.
Mark pulls out his phone and stares at Carter's last message.
Take care of yourself. And Hayes.
He doesn't know how to do both. Doesn't know if it's even possible. Because taking care of himself means staying away, maintaining distance, protecting what's left of his career and his sanity. But taking care of Logan, that requires something else entirely. Something Mark's not sure he has left to give.
The bus rumbles to life and pulls away from the hotel. Mark watches Minnesota disappear through the window—flat landscapes, gray sky, the city that is not his home but holds pieces of his life anyway. Carter's somewhere out there now, building a new life with a new team, and Mark's heading to Detroit with a shoulder that's falling apart.
His phone buzzes. The head trainer, Wyatt.
Wyatt: Need you to see the team doc when we land. Quick eval before practice tomorrow
Mark's jaw tightens. He'd been hoping to avoid this conversation for at least another day or two.
Mark: It's fine
Wyatt: That's not what it looked like yesterday. Doc's orders
Wyatt: Twenty minutes, max. Just humor us
Mark doesn't respond, just shoves the phone back in his pocket and closes his eyes. He can feel the injury radiating through his shoulder, down his arm, a constant burn that no amount of ice or painkillers quite touches. He's played through worse. He's pretty sure he has, anyway.
But there's a difference between playing through pain and playing through damage, and Mark's starting to suspect he's crossed that line weeks ago.
-
The flight to Detroit is short and uneventful. Mark keeps his headphones in, some generic playlist drowning out the cabin noise, and tries not to notice the way Logan's laugh carries from three rows back. Vlasky's telling some story, probably, gesturing wildly enough that Mark can see it in his peripheral vision even with his eyes facing forward.
When they land, the team filters through the airport in their usual road trip formation, Oskar leading, equipment managers bringing up the rear, everyone else clustered in familiar groups. Mark hangs back with Johan and Kris, the three of them moving at the steady pace of veterans who've done this too many times to rush.
"You seeing the doc today?" Johan asks quietly as they wait for their luggage.
"How'd you know about that?"
"I'm alternate captain. I know everything." Johan's mouth quirks slightly. "Also, Wyatt told me."
"Of course he did."
"How bad is it really?"
Mark's first instinct is to deflect, to say it's nothing, to maintain the same story he's been selling for weeks. But this is Johan, who's been beside him for almost as long as Carter was, who understands the weight of leadership and the cost of holding things together.
"Bad enough," Mark admits quietly.
Johan nods, doesn't push. Just claps him once on the good shoulder and says, "Let me know if you need anything."
Mark watches him walk away, tall and steady and somehow always knowing exactly what to say without saying too much. It's a gift Mark's never had.
The hotel in Detroit is nicer than most, updated, modern, the kind of place that makes road trips feel slightly less exhausting. Mark gets his key from a staff member, hauls his bag upstairs, and has exactly fifteen minutes before he's supposed to meet the team doctor in a conference room the staff has co-opted into a team space for the day.
The evaluation is quick and thorough and uncomfortable. The doctor pokes and prods, has Mark lift his arm in ways that make his vision white out at the edges, asks questions Mark answers through gritted teeth.
"You've been playing on this how long?"
"A while."
"Define 'a while.'"
Mark doesn't answer.
The doctor sighs, the sound heavy with years of dealing with stubborn athletes. "Mark, I can't force you to do anything. But I'm strongly recommending an MRI. Today, if possible. Tomorrow at the latest."
"I'm fine to play tomorrow night."
"Are you?" The doctor levels him with a look that's seen through better lies than this. "Because from what I'm seeing, you're one bad hit away from a complete separation. Maybe worse."
The words settle into Mark's chest like stones. He's heard variations of this speech before, the warnings, the concern, the medical facts that always sound dire until you're back on the ice and everything else falls away.
"I'll think about it," Mark says finally.
"Don't think too long. I've already talked to Coach Massey. He wants you checked out before tomorrow's game."
Mark's jaw tightens but he nods. There's no point arguing when their head coach is already involved. "Fine. Set it up."
"This afternoon. Three o'clock. I'll have the address sent to your phone."
Mark makes it back to his room before the full weight of it settles over him. He sits on the edge of the bed, shoulder throbbing, and stares at nothing. He’s had this injury before, early in his career. Four to six weeks, probably. Maybe more. The season grinding on without him.
His phone buzzes. Logan.
Logan: Vlasky said you're seeing the doc?
Mark stares at the message, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Logan has never texted him before outside of the team group chat. He doesn't know what to say. Doesn't know how to navigate this careful distance they've been maintaining while also accepting Logan's concern.
Mark: Yeah. Standard checkup
Logan: Is it the shoulder?
Of course Logan noticed. Of course he's been watching closely enough to see what Mark's been trying to hide.
Mark: It's fine
Logan: That's not an answer
Mark: It's the only one I've got
There's a pause. Mark can see the typing indicator appear and disappear several times, like Logan's writing and deleting responses, trying to figure out what to say.
Logan: Let me know if you need anything?
And that's what breaks something in Mark's chest. That small offer, casual but genuine. Like Logan actually cares about the answer. Like it matters to him whether Mark's okay.
Mark: I will
He sets the phone down and presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. This is exactly what he'd been trying to avoid. This pull, this connection, this dangerous blurring of lines that can only end badly for both of them.
But Logan had asked. And Mark had answered.
And somehow, that feels like crossing a line he can't uncross.

Chapter Text

Logan wakes in Detroit with Mark's text still glowing on his phone screen from the night before.
I will.
Two words that probably mean nothing. Two words Logan's read approximately forty times since last night, trying to decode some hidden meaning that isn't there. He tosses his phone on the nightstand and drags himself out of bed, jaw still tender where that high stick caught him.
The bruise has darkened overnight, a bloom of purple-black that makes him look more dangerous than he feels. He prods at it gingerly in the bathroom mirror, wincing. It's superficial, every hockey player has had worse, but something about seeing it makes his stomach clench. Makes him think about Mark in the hotel morning, the way his eyes had tracked to the bruise, the way his fingers had twitched like he wanted to reach out.
Logan forces himself to look away from his reflection. He's being ridiculous. Mark was just being a teammate. A leader. Nothing more.
Except.
Except for that question at the bar that still echoes in Logan's head. Is that what you really want? Except for the way Mark had looked at him, seeing through every performance, every carefully constructed wall. Except for three weeks of silence that felt like punishment for something Logan didn't fully understand.
And now Mark's hurt. Really hurt, not just the usual bumps and bruises that come with hockey. Logan had seen it in practice, the way Mark had grabbed at his shoulder, the split second too long before he straightened up. Had felt it in his gut, that sick twist of worry he has no right to feel.
He gets dressed slowly, pulling on joggers and a Copperheads hoodie, and heads down to breakfast. The hotel restaurant is buzzing with teammates in various states of consciousness. Vlasky's already demolished a plate of eggs and is eyeing the bacon like it personally offended him. Oskar's on his phone, probably FaceTiming the twins. Johan and Kris are deep in conversation about something in Swedish that sounds vaguely philosophical.
Mark's nowhere to be seen.
Logan grabs coffee and a bagel he doesn't really want and slides into the seat next to Vlasky.
"You look like corpse again," Vlasky observes cheerfully through a mouthful of bacon.
"Thanks, V. Really needed that this morning."
"Is truth." Vlasky studies him with those sharp green eyes. "You not sleep?"
"Some."
"Hmm." Vlasky doesn't push, just shoves the plate of bacon toward him. "Eat. Need energy. Long day today."
Logan picks at the bacon without much appetite. His mind keeps circling back to Mark.
"You worry too much," Vlasky says, but it's gentle. "Always thinking, thinking. Sometimes you must just... be."
"Profound, V."
"I contain multitudes." Vlasky grins, then his expression shifts to something more serious. "Callahan will be okay. Is tough. Like bear, remember?"
Logan nods, throat tight. He wants to believe it. Wants to believe that Mark will be fine, that he’s not really that hurt, that everything will go back to normal. But he's not sure what normal even is anymore. Not when every interaction with Mark feels loaded with things they can't say.
-
Chicago brings the kind of cold that seeps into your bones. The city sprawls gray and wind-whipped outside the bus windows as they roll toward the arena the Wolves' fortress in the heart of the city. Logan's played here before but something about tonight feels different. Heavier.
Maybe it's because Mark's not in gear. He's on the bus in a suit, arm in a sling, looking simultaneously exhausted and furious about it. Logan can feel the tension radiating off him from three rows away.
They'd gotten the news that morning. Grade two AC separation, some other damage Logan didn't fully understand from the medical jargon. Four to six weeks minimum. The doctor had been clear: no contact, no exceptions. Mark could travel with the team, be around for support and leadership, but he couldn't play.
Logan had watched Mark's face when Coach delivered the news to the full team. Watched the careful blankness slide over his features, the way his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. Watched him nod once and accept it without argument, because what choice did he have?
But Logan had also seen the fury beneath it. The helplessness.
The locker room before the game is subdued. They'd lost in Detroit, a grinding 3-2 defeat where nothing quite clicked. Now they're facing the Wolves, who are fast and mean and sitting comfortably in a playoff spot while Carolina scrambles to stay relevant.
Logan tapes his stick with more force than necessary, jaw tight. He can hear Coach's voice in the other room, talking strategy with the assistants. Can feel the weight of expectation pressing down on all of them.
"You good?" Oskar asks, dropping onto the bench beside him.
"Yeah, Cap. I'm good."
Oskar doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't push. Just claps Logan on the shoulder and moves on to check on the rookies who look like they might puke.
When they take the ice for warmups, Logan can feel eyes on him from somewhere above. He doesn't look up, can't, won't, but he knows Mark's up there in the press box, watching. The weight of that gaze settles between his shoulder blades like a physical thing.
The game starts fast. Too fast. Chicago comes out flying, their forecheck aggressive and relentless. Logan takes a hit in the first minute that rattles his teeth, bounces up chirping because that's what he does, and immediately gets cross-checked for his trouble.
No call. Of course no call.
He can feel the game spiraling already, that familiar sensation of losing control. They're down 1-0 five minutes in, then 2-0 before the period ends. Logan's line can't generate anything. Every possession dies on their sticks, every pass a fraction too slow.
In the locker room between periods, Coach is furious but controlled. Johan speaks up, voice calm and measured, trying to rally them. Logan nods along with everyone else but can't quite make the words stick.
The second period is worse. Logan tries to spark something but Chicago's defense is suffocating. He gets tripped going through the neutral zone and the ref's arm stays down. Gets slashed across the hands and nothing. Gets hooked so obviously that the home crowd even groans, and still nothing.
His frustration builds with every shift, every non-call, every hit he takes. Something feels wrong, off-balance, but he can't quite put his finger on what. The ice feels the same. His legs feel the same. But there's an absence he can't name, a missing piece that makes everything harder than it should be.
Midway through the third, down 3-0 and desperate, Logan does what he always does when he's desperate. He starts running his mouth.
He's chirping the Chicago winger at a faceoff, something about his terrible beard and worse haircut, when the guy shoves him after the puck drops. Logan shoves back, grinning, because this is at least something. At least it's a reaction.
"You talk a lot for someone getting shut out," the winger says.
"You play a lot of defense for someone who can't score," Logan fires back.
It escalates from there. More chirping, more shoving, the kind of thing that happens in every hockey game ever played. Logan's skating toward the bench, still talking, when Chicago's fourth-line winger, a big, mean-looking guy whose name Logan doesn't even know, takes exception.
Logan doesn't see it coming.
The hit catches him high and late, shoulder to jaw, and he goes down hard. The impact rattles through his skull, ears ringing, vision blurring at the edges. He's on his back on the ice, staring up at the rafters, and for a second he can't remember where he is.
The whistle blows. Someone's yelling. Logan rolls onto his side, trying to push himself up, and that's when the confusion hits.
Where is everyone?
He's vaguely aware of Vlasky helping him up, saying something in Russian that might be concern or might be a curse. But no one's squaring up with the guy who just laid him out. No one's getting in his face. No one's making him answer for the late hit.
They're just... skating away. Accepting it. Moving on.
Logan blinks through the fog in his head, trying to understand. This isn't how it works. This isn't how it's supposed to go. When someone takes a run at you, someone answers for it. That's hockey. That's just—
Oh.
The realization cuts through the concussion haze with sharp, cold clarity. That's what Mark does. That's what Mark's been doing, all season, every game. Making people answer for it. Making sure Logan can play his game without constantly looking over his shoulder.
And Mark's not here.
Logan makes it to the bench, vision still swimming, and the trainer immediately pulls him back toward the tunnel. Logan tries to protest but his words come out slurred. Concussion protocol. Of course.
As he's being led away, he can feel it again—that weight from above, pressing down on him. He doesn't look up. Doesn't need to. He knows Mark's watching, knows he saw the whole thing, knows he's probably white-knuckling the railing in the press box right now.
Knows there's nothing either of them can do about it.
The concussion protocol is humiliating. Logan sits in the medical room while the team doctor shines lights in his eyes and asks him questions he should definitely know the answers to. What year is it? Who's the president? Count backward from 100 by sevens.
He passes, barely. Grade one concussion, the doctor says. Could've been worse. He's out for tomorrow's game in Columbus for sure, maybe longer depending on how he feels.
Logan doesn't argue. Just nods and accepts the ice pack for his jaw, which has swollen up impressively in the last twenty minutes.
His head's still fuzzy, thoughts coming slow and disjointed, but one thing is clear: he'd taken Mark for granted. Taken for granted the way Mark would step in, would absorb the punishment, would make sure Logan could be reckless without paying the full price for it.
He'd never even said thank you. Not really. Not in a way that mattered.
By the time he's cleared to rejoin the team, the game's over. They lost 5-1. Logan can hear the grim silence from the locker room even before he walks in.
Everyone's in various states of undress, shoulders slumped, faces drawn. Oskar's talking quietly with Coach Massey in the corner. Johan's already showered, dressed in his suit, looking like he aged five years in sixty minutes. Vlasky catches Logan's eye and winces sympathetically.
"Hazy," he says quietly, standing. "You okay?"
"Yeah. Just a grade one."
"Good. Is good." But Vlasky doesn't look relieved. He looks frustrated. "That hit was dirty. Should have been penalty."
Logan just nods. His head hurts too much to get into it.
And Mark.
Mark's standing just inside the doorway, still in his suit, still with his arm in that sling. Hovering at the edges, watching, his face revealing nothing.
When he sees Logan, something shifts. His jaw tightens. His good hand clenches and unclenches at his side. For a second, Logan thinks Mark might actually cross the room, might break that careful distance they've been maintaining.
But he doesn't. Just watches as Logan heads to his stall and starts peeling off his gear in silence.
The locker room empties slowly. Guys shower and dress and slip away, voices low, no one lingering. Logan's one of the last ones out, moving carefully because his head still feels like it's full of cotton.
Mark's still there.
He's leaning against the wall near the exit, good shoulder pressed to the concrete, watching Logan with an intensity that makes Logan's breath catch. They're the only two left now. Even the equipment guys have cleared out to take the gear to the bus. They’re heading straight to the airport to head to Columbus.
"You should be resting," Mark says finally. His voice is rough, scraped raw.
"I'm fine."
"You're concussed."
"Grade one. Barely counts."
Mark's jaw works. He's still leaning against the wall near the exit, but there's nothing casual about his posture now. Everything about him is coiled tight. "He hit you late. High. Should've been five and a game."
"Refs didn't see it that way."
"The refs are fucking blind." Mark's good hand clenches into a fist at his side. "No one did anything."
Logan shifts his weight, bag strap cutting into his shoulder. "It's not-"
"Someone should've made him answer for it." Mark's not looking at him now, staring at some point past Logan's shoulder, jaw working like he's chewing on words he can't spit out.
Logan takes a step closer without meaning to. "It's not their job."
"It's mine." The words come out hard, flat. A statement of fact that somehow carries the weight of something much bigger. Mark's eyes snap to his, and there's fury there, yes, but something else underneath it. Something raw. "That's my job out there."
"Mark-"
"I had to watch." Mark pushes off the wall, takes a step toward him. Not aggressive, just movement, like he can't stay still anymore. "I had to stand there and watch him lay you out and I couldn't-" He stops, jaw clenching. "I couldn't do a goddamn thing about it."
Logan's throat tightens. There's something in Mark's voice that makes his chest ache, something desperate and furious that he doesn't know how to respond to. "I'm okay," he says, quieter now.
"You're hurt."
"I've been hurt before."
"That's not-" Mark drags his good hand through his hair, frustration bleeding through the cracks in his control. "You don't get it."
"Then explain it to me." Logan takes another step forward, close enough now that he has to tilt his head back slightly to meet Mark's eyes. Close enough to see the exhaustion etched into every line of Mark's face. "Because I don't understand what's happening here."
Mark stares at him, something complicated flickering across his expression. His jaw works. Opens. Closes. Like he's trying to find words that won't come.
"You play like-" Mark stops, starts again. "You play like you've got something to prove every single night. Take hit after hit and just get back up like it doesn't-" He cuts himself off, throat working.
"Like it doesn't what?"
"Like it doesn't matter." Mark's voice drops, goes rough.
The words land like a physical blow. Logan stares at him, breath caught somewhere in his chest, and realizes they've drifted even closer. He doesn't remember moving. Doesn't remember closing the distance until he can see the individual flecks of gold in Mark's dark eyes, can smell the faint scent of his cologne mixing with sweat and frustration.
"I'm fine," Logan says, but it comes out barely above a whisper.
"You're not." Mark's eyes track across his face-the bruise from Detroit, the fresh swelling from tonight, the way Logan's holding himself too carefully. "You're-"
He stops. Goes completely still.
Logan follows his gaze, realizes how close they're standing. Close enough that he can feel the heat radiating off Mark's body. Close enough that if he shifted forward even an inch, they'd be-
Mark's good hand twitches at his side. His throat bobs as he swallows hard.
The air between them feels electric, charged with something Logan doesn't have words for. He can hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, can feel the way his breath has gone shallow. Mark's looking at him like-like-
Footsteps echo in the hallway.
They both jerk back instantly, the spell shattering. Mark takes two full steps away, putting the wall between them again. Logan's bag hits the floor with a thud he barely registers.
An equipment manager pokes his head in. "You guys need anything?"
"No." Mark's voice comes out too rough. He clears his throat. "We're good."
The guy nods and disappears. The sound of his footsteps fades down the hallway.
The silence that follows is deafening.
Logan can't look at Mark. Can't process what just happened, what almost happened, what he thought might-
"I should-" The words come out strangled. He bends to grab his bag, wincing when the movement makes his head throb. "Get to the bus."
"Yeah." Mark's not looking at him either. His jaw is tight, shoulders rigid.
Logan nods. Turns toward the door. Each step feels weighted, like he's walking through water.
"Hayes."
He stops. Doesn't turn around.
"Be more careful out there." Mark's voice is controlled again, carefully neutral. Back to the Mark who keeps everything locked down tight. "Can't afford to lose you for longer than a couple games."
Logan nods once, not trusting his voice, and walks away.
But his hands are shaking when he reaches the bus.
In his hotel room, Logan lies in the dark with an ice pack pressed to his jaw. His head throbs. His body aches. But worse than any of that is the confusion tangling in his chest, the sense that something fundamental has shifted and he doesn't know how to shift it back.
He pulls out his phone and stares at their text thread. His thumbs hover over the keyboard for a long time before he finally types:
Logan: Thank you. For caring.
He doesn't expect a response. It's after midnight, and Mark's probably asleep, nursing his own pain. But three dots appear almost immediately.
Mark: Always.
Logan reads the word over and over until the letters blur. Tries to understand what it means, what any of this means. Why Mark cares so much. Why it feels like more than just a veteran looking out for a younger player.
Why that’s my job sounded less like duty and more like something desperate.
He falls asleep with his phone still clutched in his hand, Mark's voice echoing in his head, and no answers to any of the questions spinning through his concussed brain.

Chapter Text

Mark's control has always been his greatest asset. On the ice, in the locker room, in every aspect of his life-he's built himself on the foundation of restraint. Thirty five years of knowing exactly when to speak and when to stay silent, when to hit and when to hold back, when to feel and when to lock it all away where no one can see it.
That control shatters the moment he watches Logan go down.
From the press box, Mark has a perfect view. Too perfect. He sees the Chicago winger line up the hit, sees Logan skating backward still chirping, completely unaware. Sees the moment of impact-shoulder to jaw, Logan's head snapping back, his body crumpling to the ice like a puppet with cut strings.
Mark's on his feet before he registers moving. His good hand slams against the table, the sound sharp enough that the scout sitting next to him flinches. Pain flares through his injured shoulder from the sudden movement, but he barely feels it. All he can see is Logan, flat on his back, staring up at the rafters with that terrible blank expression that means his bell just got rung.
"Fucking late," Mark growls, the words tearing out of him. "That was fucking late."
The ref's arm stays down. No penalty. Just play on, like Logan didn't just take a headshot that would've been five and a game in any fair universe.
Mark watches Vlasky help Logan up. Watches him wobble on his skates, clearly dazed. Watches the Chicago player skate away without anyone making him answer for it.
And Mark can't do anything about it.
He's trapped up here in the press box, useless, his shoulder screaming and his hands shaking with the need to do something, anything. To get down there and make that guy pay. To step between Logan and every hit that's coming. To protect him the way he's supposed to.
The way he always has.
The game continues but Mark doesn't really see it anymore. His eyes track Logan as he's led to the tunnel, moving too carefully, the trainer's hand on his elbow. The sight of it makes Mark's chest constrict so tightly he can barely breathe.
This is his fault. If he'd been down there, if he'd been able to play, that hit never would've happened. Or if it had, someone would've paid for it immediately. That's how it works. That's the unspoken contract: you touch the star, you answer to the enforcer.
But Mark's not down there. He's up here, injured and useless, watching Logan take punishment he should've been able to prevent.
The fury that rises in him is so intense it borders on panic. His good hand clenches into a fist, knuckles white. He wants to punch something, wants to break something, wants to channel this helpless rage into action the way he always has.
But there's nothing to hit. No one to fight. Just this suffocating feeling of watching something precious get damaged while he stands by and does nothing.
It takes him a long time to sit back down. Even longer to unclench his jaw.
By the time the game ends, a brutal 5-1 loss that barely registers in Mark's consciousness, he's managed to pull most of his composure back into place. The mask is back on, carefully constructed, hiding the mess underneath. He makes his way down to the locker room, arm still in the sling, and plants himself just inside the doorway because if he goes any farther in he might do something stupid.
Like cross the room when Logan walks in. Like ask if he's okay in voice that would say too much.
So he stays at the edges and watches. Watches Logan move too carefully, jaw already swelling. Watches the team filter out in dejected silence until it's just the two of them left.
And then Logan's standing in front of him, bruised and stubborn and trying to pretend he's fine, and Mark's control starts slipping again.
"You should be resting," he hears himself say, voice rougher than he intends.
Logan's defenses go up immediately. "I'm fine."
"You're concussed."
"Grade one. Barely counts."
Something hot flares in Mark's chest. "He hit you late. High. Should've been five and a game."
"Refs didn't see it that way."
"The refs are fucking blind." Mark's good hand clenches into a fist at his side. "No one did anything."
He can hear the edge in his own voice, the fury bleeding through despite his best efforts to contain it. He's supposed to be better than this. Supposed to be able to separate personal feelings from professional concern. But standing here looking at Logan's bruised face, knowing he took that hit alone, Mark can't find that distance.
"Someone should've made him answer for it," he says, and the words come out harder than he means them to.
Logan's speaks again, trying to deflect, trying to smooth it over, but Mark can't let it go.
The admission comes out flat, definitive. "That's my job out there."
And it is. That's what Mark does. That's what he's always done. But somewhere along the way it stopped being just a job and became something he feels in the base of his spine.
"I had to watch." The words rip out of him before he can stop them. "I had to stand there and watch him lay you out and I couldn't-" He stops, jaw clenching hard enough to hurt. "I couldn't do a goddamn thing about it."
Logan's looking at him with those blue eyes, and Mark realizes too late that he's said too much. Revealed too much. The careful distance he's been maintaining is crumbling, and he doesn't know how to rebuild it fast enough.
"I'm okay," Logan says, quieter now, and the gentleness in his voice does something devastating to Mark's composure.
"You're hurt."
"I've been hurt before."
"That's not-" Mark drags his good hand through his hair, frustration bleeding through every crack in his control. "You don't get it."
"Then explain it to me." Logan takes another step closer, and suddenly they're too close. Close enough that Mark can see every detail: the way Logan's holding himself too carefully, the purple blooming along his jaw, the confusion and something else flickering in his eyes. "Because I don't understand what's happening here."
Mark stares at him and the words lodge in his throat.
"You play like-" Mark stops, starts again. "You play like you've got something to prove every single night. Take hit after hit and just get back up like it doesn't-" He cuts himself off, throat working.
"Like it doesn't what?"
"Like it doesn't matter." Mark's voice drops, goes rough. Like it doesn't matter to you. Like you don't know what it does to me.
They've drifted even closer. Mark doesn't remember moving but suddenly he can see the individual flecks of lighter blue in Logan's eyes, can smell his soap mixing with sweat and that indefinable scent that's just Logan. His good hand twitches at his side, wanting to reach out, wanting to touch, wanting things he has no right to want.
Logan's breath catches. His lips part slightly and Mark's eyes drop to them without meaning to, tracking the movement, and suddenly all he can think about is what it would be like to close this last bit of distance, to-
Footsteps echo in the hallway.
They both jerk back like they've been shocked. Mark puts space between them again, his heart hammering so hard he can feel it in his injured shoulder. The equipment manager appears, says something Mark barely registers, then leaves.
The moment's broken. Shattered. Whatever was crackling between them dissipated like smoke.
"I should-" Logan's voice comes out strangled. "Get to the bus."
"Yeah." Mark forces the word out through a throat gone tight.
Logan turns to leave and Mark should let him go, should maintain this distance, should not-
"Hayes."
Logan stops but doesn't turn around.
"Be more careful out there." Mark manages to pull his voice back under control, make it sound professional again. "Can't afford to lose you for longer than a couple games."
It's not what he wants to say. He wants to say don't scare me like that again. He wants to say I can't watch you get hurt. He wants to tell him how helpless he felt.
But he says none of those things. Just watches Logan walk away, and tries to ignore what any of this means.
After a short flight to Columbus back at the hotel, Mark sits on the edge of the bed for a long time, staring at nothing. His shoulder throbs. His head throbs. Everything throbs.
When his phone buzzes with Logan's text–Thank you. For caring–Mark stares at it for a full minute before his thumbs move almost of their own accord.
Mark: Always.
It's too much. Too honest. But he sends it anyway because apparently his control only extends so far, and late at night in a hotel room in Columbus, alone with his thoughts and his aching shoulder and the memory of Logan's bruised face, he's run out of strength to pretend.
He falls asleep eventually, but his dreams are full of ice and impact and the sound of Logan hitting the ground over and over again.
-
Columbus is gray and cold when they arrive at the arena the next evening. The kind of cold that seeps through your jacket and settles in your bones. Mark huddles into his coat as they file off the bus at the, wishing his sling didn't make everything twice as awkward.
Logan's beside him, moving carefully. The swelling on his jaw has gone down slightly but the bruise has darkened to a spectacular purple-black. He's wearing sunglasses despite the overcast sky, concussion sensitivity, probably, and looks like he got about as much sleep as Mark did. Which is to say, none.
"You feeling okay?" Mark asks quietly as they walk toward the arena entrance.
Logan shrugs one shoulder. "Headache. But I've had worse."
"That's not reassuring."
"Wasn't trying to be reassuring." But there's a slight quirk to Logan's mouth, barely visible.
After the pregame talk from Coach Massey and the lineup being read, they're both about to head to the press box to watch the game when Oskar intercepts them.
"Keep each other company," Oskar says, like it's a casual suggestion and not a potential minefield. "Don't let him look at screens too much," he adds to Mark, nodding at Logan. "Concussion protocol."
"I can hear you," Logan mutters.
Oskar just grins and heads back down to the locker room, leaving them alone.
When they get up to the box Mark settles into a seat, trying to find a position that doesn't make his shoulder scream. Logan drops into the one beside him, sunglasses still on, and for a long moment they just sit in silence.
It's strange, being up here together. Away from the team, from the ice, from all the familiar rhythms that usually structure their interactions. Just the two of them in this quiet space, nothing to hide behind.
"This is weird," Logan says finally, echoing Mark's thoughts.
"Yeah."
"I don't like watching from up here."
"Me neither."
Another silence. Mark can hear the distant sounds of the team warming up and the crowd filling the stands slowly. He should probably say something. Make conversation. But small talk has never been his strength, and right now, with Logan sitting close enough that Mark can feel the heat of him, it feels impossible.
"So," Logan says, fidgeting with the strings on his hoodie. "What are you doing for Christmas?"
The question catches Mark off guard. "What?"
"Christmas. It's like, two weeks away." Logan tilts his head, sunglasses reflecting Mark's uncertain expression back at him. "You going home? Visiting family?"
Mark's jaw tightens reflexively. Home. The word sits wrong in his mouth, too complicated to explain. "No," he says finally. "I'll probably just stay in Raleigh."
"Oh." Logan's quiet for a moment. "Really? I know you said you don’t do…family stuff?"
Mark looks out at the ice, watching the team run drills. His throat feels tight. He could brush this off, give some noncommittal answer that closes the door on the conversation. That's what he usually does. But something about sitting here with Logan, both of them benched and hurting in different ways, makes the truth feel less impossible.
"My mom died," Mark says, the words coming out flat. Matter-of-fact. "Ten years ago, almost. Cancer."
Logan goes very still beside him. "Mark-"
"And my dad..." Mark stops, jaw working. This part is harder. "He wasn't really around even before that. After she died, he just... checked out completely. We don't talk."
The silence that follows is different now. Heavier.
"I'm sorry," Logan says quietly. "I didn't- I shouldn't have-"
"It's fine." Mark forces the words out. "You didn't know."
"Still." Logan shifts in his seat, and Mark can feel his gaze even through the sunglasses. "That's... I can't imagine. God."
Mark shrugs his good shoulder, trying to make it casual even though talking about his mother still feels like pressing on a bruise that never quite heals. "It was a long time ago."
"Doesn't mean it doesn't hurt."
The simple acknowledgment does something to Mark's chest. Most people, when he tells them about his mom, either get uncomfortable and change the subject or offer meaningless platitudes. Logan just sits with it. Lets it be sad without trying to fix it.
"So you'll just... stay in Raleigh?" Logan asks after a moment. "That seems kind of lonely."
"I'm used to it." Mark tries for a smile but it doesn't quite work. "Besides, Oskar usually does something. And Kris and Johan. They'll probably drag me to some Swedish Christmas thing."
Logan nods slowly. "That's good, I guess."
They fall quiet again. The team is skating below, running through power play formations. Mark watches them move, familiar patterns he's skated a thousand times, and tries not to think about how many Christmases he's spent alone in empty houses while the rest of the world celebrated with family.
"What about you?" he asks, because deflection is easier than sitting with his own history. "You heading back to Minnesota?"
"Yeah." But Logan doesn't sound excited about it. His jaw tightens, making him wince slightly when the movement pulls at his bruise. "My mom's already texted me like fifteen times about the concussion. Pretty sure she read every article about it online and diagnosed me with CTE."
Despite himself, Mark huffs something that might be a laugh. "Moms worry."
"I know." Logan slumps lower in his seat. "I just... I love her, you know? But sometimes it's a lot. The worrying. The constant checking in. The way she looks at me like I'm one hit away from my brain turning to mush." He pauses. "Which I guess now that I've had like, three concussions, isn't totally unfounded. But still."
"Three?"
"Yeah. This one, one when I was seventeen playing juniors, and another from just falling off the trampoline as a kid." Logan waves a hand dismissively. "They were all grade one. Barely count."
"Logan-"
"I know, I know. Concussions are serious. Add it to the list of things my mom will lecture me about over Christmas dinner." Logan's mouth twists. "Sorry. I shouldn't complain about my mom when you-" He stops abruptly, mortification flooding his expression even behind the sunglasses. "Fuck. I'm an asshole. I'm literally complaining about my mom caring too much when you just told me yours is…I'm sorry. That was incredibly insensitive."
"It's okay," Mark says, and means it. "Your mom loves you. That's good. Even if it's sometimes suffocating."
"It's not just suffocating, it's..." Logan trails off, seeming to struggle with the words. "It's like she sees me as this fragile thing that needs protecting. Which I get, I'm her kid, but I'm also a grown man who plays professional hockey. Sometimes I wish she could just... trust that I know what I'm doing. That I can take care of myself."
Mark thinks about his own mother, the last time he saw her in that hospital bed, too thin and too pale but still trying to smile for him. Telling him to take care of himself. To find happiness. To not let hockey be the only thing in his life.
He'd failed at all of it.
"She probably does trust you," Mark says quietly. "But that doesn't stop the fear. When you care about someone..." He stops, throat tight. "You can't just turn that off. The worry. The need to protect them from everything that could hurt them."
Logan's looking at him now, fully turned in his seat. Mark can't see his eyes behind the sunglasses but he can feel the weight of his attention. "Yeah," Logan says softly. "I guess that makes sense."
They're quiet for a moment, and Mark realizes he's said more in the last ten minutes than he usually says in a week. It should make him uncomfortable, this vulnerability, this exposure. But somehow, sitting here with Logan, it doesn't feel as dangerous as it should.
Maybe because Logan shared too. Maybe because they're both benched and hurting and removed from the usual structures that keep them in their roles. Maybe because Mark is so tired of holding everything in that letting some of it out feels like relief, even if it shouldn't.
"I'm sorry again about your mom," Logan says softly, barely able to be heard over the music pop flooding the arena. "And your dad. That's... that really sucks."
"Yeah." Mark's voice comes out rougher than he intends. "It does."
"For what it's worth," Logan continues, "you seem like you turned out pretty okay. Despite everything."
Mark makes a sound that might be a laugh but comes out more like a scoff. "That's debatable."
"I don't think so." Logan's voice is firm, surprisingly certain. "You're a great teammate. You look out for people. You protect them even when it costs you." He gestures at Mark's sling. "Literally costs you, apparently."
Mark doesn't know what to do with that. With the warmth in Logan's voice, the genuine admiration he can hear beneath the words. It makes something in his chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with his injured shoulder.
"I'm just doing my job," Mark says, but it sounds weak even to his own ears.
Logan makes a noncommittal sound as he looks out across the ice.
Mark wants to argue, to deflect, to rebuild the walls that keep crumbling around Logan. But he can't find the words. Can't find the energy. So he just sits there, letting Logan's assessment settle over him like a blanket, warm and uncomfortable and somehow exactly what he needs to hear even if he doesn't deserve it.
Below them, the team is lining up for the national anthem. The game will start soon. Mark should focus on that, on scouting the other team, on thinking about strategy and matchups and all the things a leader is supposed to think about.
Instead, he finds himself looking at Logan.
Really looking at him, in a way he's been trying not to for months.
The sunglasses hide half his face but Mark can still see the curve of his jaw, the bruise dark against pale skin. Can see the way his blonde hair curls slightly at the ends, catching the overhead lights. The way his lips are slightly chapped from the winter air, the way his throat moves when he swallows. He's beautiful. The thought comes unbidden, undeniable, and Mark can't push it away. Logan's beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with symmetry or conventional attractiveness and everything to do with the particular arrangement of features that make up his face. The scattered freckles across his nose and cheekbones. The arch of his eyebrows. The slight dimple in his chin that only shows when he's thinking hard about something.
It's not just his face, though. It's the the restless energy even when he's trying to sit still, the expressive hands that never stop moving. The way his whole body seems to vibrate with barely contained life force, like he's too much person to fit comfortably in his own skin.
It's the way he looks at the world with those blue eyes, eager and hopeful and trying so hard to hide how much everything matters to him. The way he uses humor as armor but sometimes forgets to keep it up. The glimpses of vulnerability that slip through the cracks, rare and precious and devastating.
Mark's spent months trying not to notice these things. Trying to reduce Logan to just another teammate, just another player to protect, just another young guy who needs guidance. But sitting here now, alone in the press box with nowhere to hide, he can't lie to himself anymore.
Logan's beautiful. And Mark's in so much trouble.
"You're staring," Logan says, voice carefully neutral.
Mark blinks, realizes he's been caught, heat crawling up his neck. "Sorry. I was just…your jaw looks painful."
It’s a weak excuse. Logan reaches up, touches the bruise gingerly.
“Yeah, well. I’ve had worse.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.” Logan’s mouth quirks.
Logan leans back, smiling lazily. “You should see my hip, though. Got a bruise shaped like North Carolina.”
Mark shouldn’t ask. Shouldn’t encourage this. But the words come out anyway:
“Accurate borders and everything?”
“Pretty close. Want to check my geography?”
“Logan-”
“I’m kidding.” But the warmth in his voice says he isn’t, not entirely.
Mark should stop it, should pull back, should reestablish the distance that keeps both of them safe. But he doesn’t. He just sits there, looking at Logan’s bruised face and crooked smile, and lets himself feel this dangerous, impossible warmth for just a moment longer.
Below them, the puck drops. The game begins. Neither of them looks away from each other for a long moment.
Finally, Logan breaks the silence. "We should probably watch the game."
"Probably," Mark agrees.
But neither of them moves. Neither of them looks away. And in the quiet of the press box, with the sounds of hockey echoing up from below, the air just... changes. Not in any way Mark can name, just a flicker of something unspoken, like the space between them has gone too still.
It’s Logan who finally turns back to the ice, slipping his sunglasses off now that the overhead lights have dimmed. Mark watches the side of his face for another heartbeat, unsure why it suddenly feels hard to breathe, then forces himself to focus on the game. Probably just the adrenaline. Or the quiet. Or nothing at all.
But he's acutely aware of Logan beside him for every minute of the next sixty. The way he leans forward during big moments, the soft curses when Columbus scores, the way his knee bounces restlessly when he's anxious. The way he asks Mark questions about plays and positioning, genuine curiosity in his voice, and actually listens to the answers.
The way being near him feels both terrifying and inevitable, like standing on the edge of a cliff and knowing, absolutely knowing, that eventually you're going to fall.
Mark just hopes the landing doesn't destroy them both.

Chapter Text

The plane home from Columbus hums with the kind of quiet exhaustion that follows a win no one expected. They'd pulled it off, 3-2 in overtime, Johan burying the game-winner with a precision that made the whole team erupt. Logan had watched from the press box, sunglasses still on, head throbbing with every cheer that echoed through the arena. But he'd felt it anyway, that surge of vindication, of relief, of we're still in this.
Now, somewhere over Virginia in the predawn dark, Logan sits next to Vlasky, who's already half-asleep against the window. His mouth is open slightly, a soft snore escaping every few breaths. Logan's got the aisle seat, his legs stretched out as much as the cramped space allows, and he's staring at the seat back in front of him without really seeing it.
Mark's three rows up with Kris and Johan. Logan can see the back of his head from here, dark hair, the white sling stark against his gray practice hoodie. He's awake too, talking quietly with Johan about something Logan can't hear. But he can see the way Mark's good hand gestures, the way his shoulders are held tense.
Logan's been trying not to stare. Trying and failing, apparently, because Oskar catches his eye from across the aisle and raises an eyebrow. Logan looks away quickly, heat crawling up his neck.
His phone buzzes in his lap. A text from his mom.
Mom: How's the head? Are you resting? The doctor said rest is important, Logan.
Mom: Your father says hello. He's very proud of you as always.
Mom: Call me when you land. Love you.
Logan's thumb hovers over the keyboard. He should respond. Should ease her worry. But exhaustion weighs on him like a physical thing, and the idea of navigating her anxiety on top of his own feels impossible right now.
He locks his phone without responding and leans his head back against the seat.
The thing is, he gets it he thinks. Because he's been doing the same thing with Mark, watching, cataloguing every wince, every careful movement, every moment where the pain breaks through his careful control.
It's terrifying to watch. Knowing he’s hurting and being unable to fix it. Caring if he caused that pain.
And that's what this is, Logan realizes with a jolt that feels like touching a live wire. He cares about Mark. He cares in the way that makes his chest tight when Mark's in pain and for some inexplicable reason it makes him want to smooth away the furrow between his brows.
But he keeps cataloging anyways. Like the way Mark's jaw looks in profile. The way his hands move when he talks. The exact shade of his eyes in different lighting, darker in the locker room, lighter in sunlight, almost amber in the press box at night.
"You okay?" Vlasky's voice is sleep-rough, barely above a whisper.
Logan startles, realizes he's been gripping his phone hard enough to hurt. "Yeah. Just... thinking."
Vlasky makes a noncommittal sound, eyes still mostly closed. "Always thinking. This is your problem, Hazy."
"What problem?"
"You think too much. Feel too much. Get stuck in here-" Vlasky taps his own temple, "-instead of here." He taps his chest.
"That doesn't make any sense."
"Makes perfect sense. You feel something, then you think about feeling it, then you think about why you feel it, then you think about what feeling it means, and-" Vlasky makes an exploding gesture with his hands. "Too much thinking."
Logan huffs something that might be a laugh. "Easy for you to say."
"Is easy for everyone who is not you." But Vlasky's voice is gentle, lacking its usual teasing edge. "Whatever it is, Hazy... is okay. You are allowed to just be."
Logan's throat tightens. Vlasky doesn't know. Can't know. But somehow, in his half-asleep wisdom, he's said exactly what Logan needed to hear.
"Thanks, V."
"Mmm. Wake me when we land." Vlasky's already drifting off again, head lolling against the window.
Logan sits in the quiet dark, listening to the steady hum of engines and Vlasky's soft snoring, and tries to take the advice. Tries to just feel without analyzing, without spiraling into panic about what it means.
He's attracted to Mark. Has been since that first day at training camp, probably, when Mark told him to carry his own shit and Logan felt something spark in his chest that had nothing to do with anger. He's been trying to ignore it, to explain it away as admiration or respect or some kind of weird hero worship.
But that's not what this is. This is want, pure and simple and terrifying. Want that curls low in his stomach when Mark's voice goes rough. Want that makes his skin feel too tight when they're close. Want that he's been shoving down for so long he'd almost convinced himself it wasn't there.
Almost.
And the question rises unbidden, is that what you want?
Logan closes his eyes and lets himself sit with it. With the want. With the fear. With the small, desperate hope that maybe–maybe–he's not alone in this.
Three rows up, Mark shifts in his seat. Logan can see it in thin slit of vision of his mostly closed eyes, the careful way Mark moves to accommodate his shoulder. And Logan thinks about that moment in the locker room, the fury in Mark's voice when he'd said I had to watch. The way Mark had looked at him like-like-
Like maybe it mattered more than an enforcer wanting to protect a player.
He falls into a restless half-sleep somewhere over the Virginia-North Carolina border, Mark's voice echoing in his head.
-
Raleigh in December is confused about what season it is. One day it's sixty degrees and sunny, the next it's freezing rain and everyone's losing their minds over a dusting of snow. Logan's still adjusting to Southern winters, in Minnesota, you knew where you stood with the cold. It was there, consistent, brutal. Here it's like the weather can't make up its mind.
Much like Logan himself lately.
He's been cleared for light skating but no contact, which means practices are an exercise in frustration. He goes through the motions in his bright red jersey, works on his stick handling, takes shots on Mitch while the rest of the team runs full drills. Watches from the side while they scrimmage, while Oskar takes his spot on the first line with Mark still out and some AHL call-up named Ramsey who's trying way too hard.
"You look like kicked puppy," Vlasky observes, skating over during a water break. His green eyes are bright with amusement and something gentler, concern, maybe.
"I'm fine."
"Ah, yes. Fine. Everyone's favorite lie." Vlasky takes a long drink, watching Logan over the rim of his water bottle. "You know what you need?"
"To get cleared for contact?"
"No. You need to stop thinking so much." Vlasky taps his temple. "Always in here, Hazy."
Logan huffs at him, getting this lecture again from the defensemen.
Vlasky grins, unrepentant. "We go out tonight. Me, you, Mitch. No thinking, just fun."
"We have a game tomorrow."
"Game is at seven. We go out early, come back early. Responsible fun." Vlasky's grin widens. "Is this not American way?"
Despite himself, Logan feels his mouth twitch. "I don't think that's the American way."
"Then we do Russian way. Except no vodka, because Coach will kill me." Vlasky claps him on the shoulder. "Say yes, Hazy. You not even loud today, worry me."
Logan glances across the ice where Mark's talking to one of the assistant coaches, gesturing with his good arm. Even in practice gear with his shoulder wrapped, he looks solid. Unmovable. Safe.
"Yeah, okay," Logan hears himself say. "Early night, though."
"Early night," Vlasky agrees, but his grin suggests his definition of early might be different from Logan's.
They end up at a sports bar downtown that's half-filled with college kids and young professionals. Nothing fancy, just good wings and cold beer and TVs showing games that no one's really paying attention to any of them.
Mitch arrives first, already changed out of his practice gear into jeans and a cream linen polo. He's got the relaxed energy of a backup goalie who knows he's not playing tomorrow, loose and easy in a way the starters never quite manage.
"Hayes!" He pulls Logan into a one-armed hug that's more tackle than greeting.
"Hey Mitchy," Logan huffs in a laugh, sliding into the booth.
Vlasky arrives ten minutes later with his usual chaotic energy, nearly knocking over a waitress in his enthusiasm. "Is party now!" he announces, dropping into the seat across from Logan.
"It's barely eight o'clock," Mitch points out.
"Time is construct." Vlasky waves this away. "We are here, we are together, this is party."
They order wings and beer and fall into the easy rhythm Logan hadn’t realized had developed between them over the season. Mitch tells a story about a prank war in the AHL that involves a goalie mask and a very angry coach. Vlasky adds his own stories from playing in Russia, gesturing wildly enough that people at nearby tables keep looking over.
Logan laughs until his ribs hurt, until his face aches from smiling, until some of the tension that's been living in his shoulders finally starts to ease.
"See?" Vlasky says, triumphant. "Is good to not think."
"Yeah, yeah." Logan steals one of his fries. "You were right. Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late. Head very big now." Vlasky grins. "But seriously, Hazy. You are better when you smile. More you. Last week or so, you are like ghost of Logan Hayes."
Mitch nods, expression more serious. "He's not wrong. You've been kind of... I don't know. Elsewhere."
Logan shifts uncomfortably. "Just dealing with the concussion stuff. And my mom's been on my case."
"Is she coming for Christmas?" Mitch asks.
"I'm flying home. She'd have my head if I didn't."
"That's nice, though," Mitch says. "Family for the holidays. My parents are in Quebec, so I probably won't see them until All-Star break."
"You could come to Russia," Vlasky offers. "Meet my babushka. She feed you until you explode."
"Tempting, but I think I'll pass on exploding."
They fall into comfortable silence. Logan watches Vlasky stack coasters into increasingly precarious card towers, watches Mitch check his phone and grin at something his girlfriend sent, and feels something settle in his chest.
"You know," Vlasky says suddenly, his accent thicker after a couple beers, "when I first come to America, I was very alone. Scared, but would not admit. Everything was strange-language, food, even ice felt different." He pauses, spinning his beer bottle slowly. "But then I find friends. Real friends, like family. And suddenly strange place is not so strange."
Mitch raises his glass. "Deep thoughts from the Russian."
Vlasky nods solemnly, then grins. "Beer makes me wise"
But Logan feels the weight of it, the deliberate way Vlasky's looking at him. Like he's trying to say something without saying it directly. Like he knows Logan's still trying to figure out where he fits.
"Thank you," Logan says quietly. "For this. For noticing I was... yeah."
Vlasky's expression softens in that way it sometimes does, when the jokes fall away and you remember he's actually incredibly perceptive under all the chaos. "Is what friends do, Hazy. We notice. We care. You would do same for us, da?"
"Yeah," Logan says, and means it. "Yeah, I would."
Vlasky reaches across the table, rests his hand on Logan's forearm for a moment, a gesture that would feel strange if it wasn't so genuinely warm. "Good. Then we are family. Carolina family. Not same as Minnesota, maybe, but still good. Still real."
Logan's throat tightens. Thinks about Oskar’s family, about Kris and Johan, thinks about Vlasky.
Thinks about Mark, always watching, always there.
"Yeah," Logan says again. "Still real."
An hour later, Vlasky's moved on to teaching them Russian curse words (some of which Logan definitely already knows from the locker room), when Logan's phone buzzes with a text.
Trevor (Agent): Hey Logan, wanted to give you a heads up. Front office reached out about starting extension talks in the new year. They want to move on this while you're playing well. Any specific asks you want me to bring to the table? No rush, just want to be prepared.
Logan stares at the message, heart suddenly hammering. Extension talks. Real ones. The thing he's been simultaneously hoping for and dreading since the trade.
"You okay?" Mitch asks. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Yeah, just... my agent. About contract stuff."
Vlasky's eyes sharpen. "Extension?"
"Maybe. They want to start talking in January."
"Hazy!" Vlasky reaches across the table to shake his shoulder. "This is good! This means they want to keep you!"
"Or they're just going through the motions before letting me walk in free agency." The anxiety is immediate and all-consuming, drowning out the warmth from moments ago.
"Why you do this?" Vlasky demands. "Why you always think worst?"
"Because I've been traded before, V. I thought Minnesota wanted me too, and then one day I woke up and I was here."
The words come out sharper than he intends. Mitch and Vlasky exchange a look, and Logan immediately feels like an asshole.
"Sorry," he mutters. "I just... I can't get excited yet. Not until there's actually a contract."
"Is okay to be scared," Vlasky says, gentler now. "But is also okay to hope, Hazy. They would not talk extension if they did not want you. And we want you. Team wants you. City wants you." He pauses, something shifting in his expression. "You want to stay, yes?"
Did he? The question should be simple. But Logan thinks about Oskar's house, the twins climbing into his lap during Thanksgiving. Thinks about Vlasky and Mitch and these easy friendships that have formed without him noticing. Thinks about the way Johan corrects his game with endless patience, the way Kris always taps his helmet twice in a celly.
Thinks about Mark. About dark eyes that see too much. That maybe see him, really.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "I want to stay."
Vlasky's grin could light up the whole bar. "Then you will. They would be idiots to let you go, and front office is many things, but they are not idiots." He raises his bottle again. "To staying. And to Hazy not being ghost anymore."
They drink to that, and Logan tries to let himself feel it, the hope, the possibility, the sense of belonging he's been too scared to fully acknowledge.
The next afternoon, Logan's sprawled on Oskar's couch while Kelsey attempts to wrangle the twins into their winter coats to head out the door with Oskar to play ball hockey in the driveway. It's like watching someone try to dress two very determined octopi.
"No!" Tyla announces, squirming away. "Too hot!"
"It's forty degrees outside, baby. You need a coat."
"NO COAT!"
Logan watches in amused silence as Kelsey deploys the kind of negotiation tactics that would make UN peacekeepers jealous. Eventually, through a combination of bribery (chocolate chips), distraction (look at the bird outside!), and sheer determination, she gets both girls bundled up.
"You're a wizard," Logan tells her as she collapses on the couch beside him.
"I'm exhausted is what I am." But she's smiling. "You around for dinner? Making lasagna."
"If you're sure it's not too much trouble-"
"Logan." Kelsey fixes him with a look. "You live here. You're part of this family. Stop asking if dinner is too much trouble."
The words land softly, settling somewhere in Logan's chest. Family. He's been thinking of this as temporary, as something he's borrowing until he figures out his next move.
"Okay," he says. "Then yes. I'd love to stay for dinner."
Kelsey pats his knee, maternal and warm. "Good. You've been too quiet lately. I worry."
"You sound like my mom." He thinks for a second, “and Vlaseleski.”
"Well, your mom sounds smart." Kelsey stands, stretching. “Vlasky not so much.” She giggles
"But seriously, Logan. You know you can talk to us, right? Oskar and me. If something's going on."
Logan's throat tightens. "I know."
"Do you?" She tilts her head. "Because Oskar mentioned you've seemed... I don't know. Somewhere else. Ever since the injury."
Logan could deflect. Could make a joke, flash that easy smile that makes people stop asking questions. But he's tired of deflecting, tired of smiling through things that hurt.
"It's just been a lot," he admits quietly. "The contract stuff. The concussion. Trying to figure out where I fit here."
"You fit here," Kelsey says firmly. "I know it doesn't feel like it yet, but you do. This team, this city, give it time. You'll see."
"What if time runs out?" The question slips out before Logan can stop it. "What if they don't want to extend me, or they do but somewhere else offers more, or I can't play well enough to deserve it-"
"Logan." Kelsey sits back down, taking his hand. "You're spiraling. And I get it, I really do. But you can't live your life in the what-ifs. Trust me, I tried for years before I met Oskar." She squeezes his fingers. "Sometimes you just have to trust that things will work out. That the people around you want you here because you're you, not because of what you can do for them."
Logan blinks hard against the sudden sting in his eyes. "That's... really nice of you to say."
"It's not nice, it's true." Kelsey stands, pulling him up with her. "Now come help me finish dinner."
-
Logan gets cleared for contact on the twenty-third, a full week after Columbus. The team doctor makes him go through every concussion protocol test twice, checking his reaction times, his balance, his cognitive function. By the time he gets the all-clear, Logan's practically vibrating with pent-up energy.
"Easy," Coach Massey warns when Logan bursts into the locker room with the news. "You're cleared, but that doesn't mean you go full tilt right away. Ease back in."
"Ease back in," Logan repeats dutifully, but he's already mentally planning his first shift back, already imagining the feeling of full-contact practice, of being useful again instead of watching from the sidelines.
Mark's there for practice, still in the sling but looking stronger. Less like he's in constant pain, more like he's just frustrated by the limitations. He catches Logan's eye across the room and nods once, something that might be approval in his expression.
Logan tries not to read too much into it. Tries not to think about how much Mark's opinion matters to him, how that single nod makes warmth bloom in his chest.
Practice is glorious. Full-contact, fast-paced, everything Logan's been missing. He throws himself into every drill, maybe pushes a little harder than the coaching staff would prefer, but God it feels good to be back. To be useful. To be himself again.
Vlasky's in rare form, chirping everyone, playing keep-away with tape during a water break. At one point he tears off several small pieces and starts flicking them at Logan from across the bench.
"What are you, twelve?" Logan laughs, batting away another piece that sticks to his shoulder.
"Twelve and half," Vlasky says seriously, then grins. "You have tape everywhere, Hazy. Like Christmas decoration."
Logan looks down and realizes Vlasky's right, there are little bits of white tape stuck to his practice jersey, his pants, even one clinging to his helmet. "You're cleaning this up."
"Nyet. Is artistic statement."
Logan's trying to pick the tape off throughout practice but he keeps finding more.
After, he's toweling off in the locker room when Mark approaches.
"Got a minute?" Mark asks, voice low.
"Yeah, sure."
They end up in the equipment room, surrounded by the smell of tape and leather and the faint chemical tang of the kind of cleaner it takes to dampen hockey smell. It's quieter here, private in a way the locker room never is. Mark closes the door behind them, not all the way, just enough to muffle the noise from outside.
"You looked good out there," Mark says, leaning against a shelf stacked with spare gloves. His good hand rests at his side, the sling making his shoulders uneven in a way that Logan's eye keeps catching on.
"Thanks." Logan sets his water bottle down on a shelf. "Felt good to be back."
"I bet." Mark's quiet for a moment, and Logan can feel the weight of whatever he's trying to say. "You really going home tomorrow? For Christmas?"
"Yeah. Flight's at ten. My mom would kill me if I didn't show up."
Something flickers across Mark's face. "That's good. Family's important."
"What about you? Johan's thing is tomorrow night, right?"
"Christmas Eve, yeah. Apparently it's a whole production. His mom's flying in, there'll be about twenty Swedes singing songs I don't know." Mark's mouth quirks slightly. "Should be interesting."
"Sounds nice, though. Better than being alone."
Mark's expression shifts, goes carefully neutral. "Yeah. It will be."
They fall into silence. Logan's hyper-aware of the small space, of how close they're standing, of the way Mark's looking at him like he's trying to figure something out.
"Listen," Mark says finally. "About Minnesota." He pauses, jaw working. "Just... be careful, okay?"
Logan blinks. "Careful of what?"
"I don't know. It's your hometown. Your old team. Lot of memories there, lot of people with opinions about the trade and on your game" Mark's hand flexes at his side. "Just don't let them get in your head. You're good. You’re good here."
The words land softly, settling warm in Logan's chest. "I won't."
"Good." Mark pushes off the shelf, and Logan thinks he's about to leave, but instead he steps closer. Close enough that Logan can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, can smell the rich masculine scent that comes off him.
"You've still got tape," Mark murmurs quietly, and before Logan can process what's happening, Mark's reaching up with his good hand. His fingers brush against Logan's cheekbone, just below his eye, the touch feather-light and electric.
Logan freezes. Every nerve ending in his body focuses on that single point of contact, on the warmth of Mark's fingers against his skin. He can hear his own heartbeat thundering in his ears, can feel his breath catch in his throat.
Mark's thumb drags slowly across his cheekbone, removing the stubborn piece of tape Vlasky had stuck there. But he doesn't pull away immediately. His hand lingers, fingertips grazing Logan's jaw for one endless, impossible moment.
Their eyes meet.
Logan sees everything in that instant, the careful control in Mark's expression, the tension in his shoulders, the way his pupils expand. And underneath it all, something raw and wanting that mirrors what Logan feels.
Mark's gaze drops to Logan's mouth.
Logan's body reacts before his brain catches up. Heat floods through him, pooling low in his stomach, and suddenly his joggers feel too tight, his skin feels too hot, and he's terrified Mark will notice, terrified he won't-
Mark's hand drops away like he's been burned. He steps back quickly, putting space between them, and his expression shutters closed so fast Logan almost thinks he imagined the whole thing.
"Sorry," Mark says, voice rough. "That was..sorry."
"It's fine," Logan manages, but his voice comes out strangled. He turns slightly, trying to hide the evidence of exactly how not fine he is, reaching for his water bottle with hands that shake.
"I should-" Mark gestures vaguely toward the door. "Let you get out of here. Flight tomorrow."
"Right. Yeah." Logan keeps his back partially turned, willing his body to calm down, willing the flush to leave his face. "Thanks. For the advice. About Minnesota."
Mark pauses at the door, hand on the frame. "Anytime." His voice is softer now, almost tender. "Have a good Christmas, Logan."
"You too."
Mark leaves, and Logan sags against the equipment shelf, pressing his forehead to the cool metal. His cheek still tingles where Mark touched him. His heart's still racing. And his body's made it very, very clear exactly what it thinks about Mark Callahan's hands on him.
"Fuck," Logan breathes into the empty room.
This is bad. This is so, so bad.
Because now he knows. And a terrifying hopeful voice in the back of his mind suggest that maybe Mark knows too.
And Logan has no idea what to do with that knowledge.
Christmas in Minnesota is everything Logan remembered and somehow more. The house smells like cardboard and cinnamon, evergreen and his mom's perfume. His dad's got the football game on in the background—Minnesota versus someone, Logan doesn't catch who—and his sister's kids are screaming about something upstairs.
"Logan!" His mom pulls him into a hug the second he walks through the door, holding on just a beat too long. When she pulls back, her eyes are suspiciously bright. "Let me look at you. How's your head? Are you eating enough? You look thin."
"Mom, I'm fine."
"Concussions are cumulative, Logan. I read an article-"
"I know, Mom. I promise I'm being careful."
She studies his face like she's trying to detect lies, then apparently decides to believe him. "Well. Come in, come in. Your father's been waiting to see you."
His dad's in his usual chair, beer in hand, eyes on the TV. But when Logan walks in, he stands, pulls him into one of those gruff half-hugs that says I love you without words.
"Good to have you home, son."
"Good to be home."
It's not entirely true, Logan realizes. Or rather, it's true in a complicated way. This house will always be home in the sense that it's where he grew up, where his history lives. But it doesn't fit quite right anymore. Like he's outgrown it somehow, or maybe just grown in a different direction.
The next two days are a blur of family traditions. Making puppychow with his mom, the two of them falling into the familiar rhythm. Watching his nieces open presents on Christmas morning, their squeals of delight pure and uncomplicated. Eating too much for dinner, turkey and mashed potatoes and his mom's homemade rolls that actually turn out perfect this year.
It's good. It's family. It's everything he should want.
But late on Christmas Eve, after everyone else has gone to bed, Logan finds himself sitting in the dark living room, staring at the Christmas tree lights as the colors play off his skin. His phone sits heavy in his hand.
He shouldn't call Mark. It's Christmas Eve, nearly midnight, and Mark's probably asleep. Probably doesn't want to hear from him. Probably-
Logan's thumb moves before his brain catches up, scrolling to Mark's contact. Before he can talk himself out of it, he hits call.
It rings three times. Long enough that Logan's about to hang up, about to pretend this never happened, when Mark answers.
"Logan?" His voice is sleep-rough, confused. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah, sorry, I-" Logan stops, suddenly unsure why he called. "I didn't mean to wake you."
"You didn't. I was up." There's rustling on the other end, like Mark's shifting in bed. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. I just..." Logan traces the rim of his water glass with one finger. "I wanted to say Merry Christmas. But it's late. I should let you go."
"No, it's-" Mark's voice softens. "It's fine. Merry Christmas, Logan."
They fall into silence, but it's not uncomfortable. Logan can hear Mark breathing on the other end, steady and even, and it grounds him in a way he didn't know he needed.
"How was Johan's thing?" Logan asks finally.
"Loud. Lots of singing, lots of fish. His mom tried to teach me some Swedish Christmas carol." Mark huffs something that might be a laugh. "Pretty sure I butchered it."
"I'm sure you did fine."
"I really didn't." A pause. "What about you? How's Minnesota?"
"Cold. Snowy. Full of relatives asking invasive questions. The same ones as usually, if I’m seeing anyone, if I’ve rented anywhere yet, how I feel about the trade"
"What did you tell them?"
"That I'm focused on hockey." Logan's quiet for a moment. "Which is true."
"Yeah." Mark's voice drops lower, intimate in the darkness. "It is."
Logan closes his eyes, letting Mark's voice wash over him. He thinks about the equipment room, about Mark's hand on his face, about the heat in his eyes before he pulled away.
"Mark," Logan says softly, not sure what he's asking.
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad you're weren’t alone tiday."
The silence that follows is weighted. Logan can almost hear Mark processing it, can imagine him lying in bed in the dark, phone pressed to his ear, trying to figure out how to respond.
"I'm glad you called," Mark says finally, voice rough with something Logan can't quite name.
Logan's throat tightens. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." Mark's quiet for a long moment. "You should get some sleep. It's late there."
"So should you."
"I will." Mark's voice is softer now, almost tender. "Sleep well, Logan."
"You too, Mark."
Logan sits in the dark for a long time after they hang up, phone still warm in his hand, Mark's voice echoing in his head. I'm glad you called.
He thinks about the way Mark had looked at him in the equipment room. Thinks about the careful distance they maintain and the moments when it collapses without warning. Thinks about the possibility that maybe, maybe, Mark wants this too. Wants him.
The thought terrifies him. But lying here in his childhood home, thousands of miles from Raleigh, Logan lets himself sit with it. Lets himself acknowledge what he's been trying to ignore for months.
He wants Mark Callahan. And wanting Mark means risking everything, his career, his reputation, the life he's built around being exactly what everyone expects him to be.
And he knows that in his bones, but still. He wants him.

Chapter Text

Johan’s house is chaos from the moment Mark walks through the door.
There are people everywhere, Johan’s mom bustling around the kitchen in an apron covered in flour, his sister arguing with her husband in rapid Swedish, a swarm of children Mark can’t keep track of running through the living room. The air smells like cinnamon and cardamom and something savory that makes Mark’s stomach growl despite his anxiety.
“Mark!” Johan appears from somewhere, grinning widely, and pulls him into a hug that’s careful of his shoulder. “You made it. Come, meet everyone. Mom! This is Mark, the one I told you about.”
Johan’s mom emerges from the kitchen, a small woman with steel-gray hair and Johan’s same warm smile. She says something in Swedish that Mark doesn’t understand, then switches to accented English. “Mark. Johan talks about you so much. Like a brother, he says. Come, sit, eat.”
“Thank you for having me,” Mark says as he hands her a mid-range bottle of red, because his mother raised him right.
The next few hours are a blur of introductions and Swedish names Mark immediately forgets. Johan’s extended family is exactly as advertised, loud, warm, overwhelming in the best way. They sing carols Mark doesn’t know, serve dishes he’s never heard of, and pull him into conversations he can barely follow. But it’s good. Distracting. The kind of family chaos that makes Mark’s empty house feel even emptier by comparison but keeps him from thinking too long about it.
He is helping clear plates after dinner, carefully balancing dishes in his good hand, when someone new arrives. Mark hears the commotion from the kitchen—excited Swedish, the sound of Johan’s mom squealing, footsteps rushing to the door.
“That’s my cousin Erik,” Johan says, appearing beside Mark. “He just flew in from Stockholm. Works in finance there, barely makes it out for holidays. Mom’s over the moon.”
They return to the living room, and Mark gets his first look at Johan’s cousin.
Erik is tall, not as tall as Johan but close, with blonde hair swept back from his face and blue eyes that crinkle when he smiles. He wears dark jeans and a cream sweater that clings to trim shoulders, and he moves with the easy confidence of someone who’s comfortable anywhere.
He is objectively beautiful. Mark can acknowledge that the way he’d acknowledge a nice sunset or a well-played game. It’s just a fact.
“Erik!” Johan claps his cousin on the shoulder. “This is Mark, my teammate. Mark, my cousin Erik.”
“Pleasure to meet you.” Erik’s English is perfect, barely accented. His handshake is firm, his smile warm. “Johan speaks very highly of you.”
“Likewise,” Mark says, because what else is there to say?
Erik gets absorbed into the family chaos, hugged and questioned and fed despite his protests that he ate on the plane. But Mark notices the way Erik’s eyes keep tracking back to him, the way he positions himself near Mark when they all settle into the living room for coffee and cookies.
“So,” Erik says, settling onto the couch beside Mark. “You are the famous enforcer, yes? The one who protects Johan on the ice?”
“I protect everyone,” Mark says.
“Modest.” Erik’s smile widens. “Johan says you are one of the best. That players think twice before starting trouble when you are on the ice.”
Mark shrugs his good shoulder. “I do what I can.”
They fall into conversation, easy and surprisingly natural. Erik asks about hockey, intelligent questions that show he actually follows the sport, and tells stories about his work in Stockholm that are self-deprecating enough to be charming. He is funny, Mark realizes. Quick-witted and warm, with the kind of laugh that makes other people want to laugh too.
At one point, Erik leans in closer, voice dropping conspiratorially. “I must confess, I do not get home often. It is nice to have new faces at these gatherings. Family is wonderful, but I have heard all their stories many times.”
“First time for me,” Mark admits.
“Then we are both outsiders.” Erik’s smile is warm, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “Perhaps we should stick together, yes?”
It is flirting. Mark recognizes it immediately, has seen it enough times in his life to know the signs. The way Erik angles his body toward Mark, the sustained eye contact, the subtle innuendos that could be friendly or could be something more.
And Erik is, God, he is attractive. Successful, charming, clearly interested. The kind of guy Mark would have jumped at when he was still taking those careful risks in cities far from home. The kind of guy who’d understand the need for discretion, who’d probably be content with a night or two of easy pleasure before flying back to Stockholm and never mentioning it again.
Mark should be interested. Should feel that familiar spark of attraction, that pull toward something uncomplicated and safe.
Instead, all he can think about is Logan.
Logan’s laugh, too loud and completely genuine. Logan’s restless energy, the way he can’t sit still for more than five minutes. Logan’s freckles scattered across his cheekbones, his hair curling at his neck when he is sweaty from practice, the exact blue of his eyes in different lighting.
Erik’s eyes are blue too, Mark notices. But they are the wrong blue. Too pale, too cool. Not the sharp denim-bright of Logan’s, not flecked with gray.
Logan, who is nothing like Erik. Who is all chaos and recklessness and feelings he wears on his sleeve. Who is a teammate, a liability, anything but uncomplicated.
“Are you alright?” Erik asks, and Mark realizes he’s been silent too long.
“Yeah, sorry. Just thinking about the season. Lot on my mind.”
“Ah.” Erik leans back slightly, smile turning sympathetic. “Johan mentioned your shoulder. That must be difficult, watching from the sidelines.”
“It is what it is.”
They talk for a while longer, but Mark can feel himself withdrawing, building up the careful walls he’s so comfortable building that he doesn’t even need the blueprints anymore. Erik is smart enough to notice, charming enough not to take offense. By the time he excuses himself to talk to his aunt, his smile is still warm but less flirtatious, like he’s accepted some unspoken boundary.
Mark watches him go, noticing the way Erik’s blonde hair catches the light, the confident set of his shoulders. He should want that. Should want someone like Erik, successful, attractive, conveniently living in a different country.
But all he can think is that Erik’s hair is too dark, his build too slight, his laugh not quite right. Everything about him is wrong because he isn’t Logan.
And that’s when Mark knows for certain that he’s completely, utterly fucked.
Johan drops onto the couch beside Mark once Erik is gone, holding two small glasses of something amber. “Aquavit,” he says, handing one to Mark. “Swedish Christmas tradition. You cannot escape.”
Mark takes it, grateful for something to do with his hands. “Your cousin seems nice.”
“Erik? Yes, he is good man. Successful, smart.” Johan takes a sip of his drink, watching Mark over the rim. “Also very handsome, I think. Many people say this.”
Mark’s jaw tightens. “I guess.”
“You guess?” Johan’s eyebrow raises slightly. “Come now, Mark. Even I can see he is attractive. And he seemed... interested. In talking with you.”
“We were just talking.”
“Mm.” Johan is quiet for a moment, and Mark can feel him choosing his words carefully. “You know, I have known you for many years now. And in all that time, I have never seen you with anyone. No dates, no... how do you say... plus ones to events.”
Mark’s grip tightens on his glass. “I’m focused on hockey.”
“So you say. But everyone needs more than hockey, Mark. Even you.” Johan’s voice is gentle, without judgment. “I do not mean to pry. Your life is your life. But... if there is a reason you do not date, if there is something that makes it difficult...” He pauses. “You would not be judged. Not by me. Not by the team.”
Mark stares at his aquavit, the clear liquid catching the lamplight. Johan is offering him an opening, a chance to finally say something out loud. But the words stick in his throat, too dangerous, too revealing.
“There’s nothing,” Mark says finally. “Just never found the right person.”
“No?” Johan’s voice is soft.
Mark’s heart hammers in his chest. Does Johan know? Has he seen something, noticed the way Mark looks at-
“I think,” Johan continues carefully, “that sometimes we tell ourselves we cannot have something because it is safer than admitting we want it. Safer than risking everything for a chance at happiness.”
“Johan”
“I am not asking you to tell me anything,” Johan says quickly. “I am just saying that you deserve happiness, Mark. Whatever that looks like for you. And if you ever need someone to talk to, someone who will not judge...” He trails off meaningfully.
Mark swallows hard. “I appreciate that.”
“Good.” Johan claps him on the shoulder with his free hand. “Now drink. My mother will be offended if you do not finish the aquavit.”
The moment passes, but it leaves Mark shaken. How much does Johan know? How much has he guessed? Mark has been so careful, so controlled, but maybe his walls aren’t as solid as he thought.
The rest of the evening blurs by in a haze of the Swedish language and too much food. Mark smiles in the right places, laughs when expected, plays his part. But all he can think about is Johan’s words, the careful opening he’d offered, the acceptance implied in that simple statement: You would not be judged.
Later, when the party winds down and people bundle into coats and say their goodbyes, Erik catches Mark near the door.
“It was truly nice to meet you,” Erik says, and he sounds like he means it. “Perhaps next time I am in town, we could get coffee? As friends,” he adds, reading something in Mark’s expression. “Johan is always telling me I should expand my social circle beyond bankers.”
“Maybe,” Mark says, because he isn’t cruel enough to shut him down completely. “Travel safe.”
Erik smiles, knowing and gentle, and Mark realizes he’s been let off the hook. That Erik understands the subtext of that maybe.
The drive home is quiet. Mark is exhausted in that bone-deep way that comes from being around people for too long. His shoulder aches, his head aches, and Erik’s blue eyes keep flashing in his mind,wrong blue, wrong shape, all wrong.
Mark pulls into his driveway and sits in the darkness for a long moment before dragging himself inside. The house is cold, silent, exactly as he left it. The Christmas tree he’d half-heartedly put up last week glows in the corner of the living room, more obligation than celebration.
On the mantle sits the candle his sister sent him for Christmas, something she does every year. Some expensive thing from a boutique in Halifax,cedarwood and bergamotxstill in its original packaging. She included a note: For your house. Make it feel like home.
Mark hasn’t burned it. Isn’t sure why. Maybe because lighting it would mean acknowledging this place is supposed to be home, and Mark has never been particularly good at that.
He picks up the candle now, turning it over in his good hand. His sister, Sarah. They text occasionally, brief exchanges that never go beneath the surface. How’s the shoulder? Fine. How’s work? Busy. Neither of them mentions their father, mentions the space where family should be and isn’t.
She sent her usual text earlier that day, before Johan’s party:
Sarah: Merry Christmas, Mark. Wish you were here, but I know the season doesn’t stop for holidays. Take care of yourself.
Sarah: Also, Mom’s birthday is next week. I’m going to put flowers on her grave. Let me know if you want me to add anything from you.
Mark responds simply: Yes, please. Thank you.
Now, standing in his empty living room with the unlit candle in his hand, Mark thinks about his mother. About how she would’ve loved Johan’s party—the chaos, the warmth, the way family fills every corner with noise and life. About how she told him, in those final days in the hospital, to find happiness. To not let hockey be everything. To let himself want more than just the next game, the next season, the next fight.
On impulse, Mark finds matches in the kitchen drawer, lights the wick, watches the flame catch and hold. The scent blooms slowly, cedar and citrus and something woodsy that actually does make the house smell warmer, more lived-in. More like a home instead of just a place to sleep between games.
He carries it to the living room, sets it on the coffee table, and drops onto the couch. The house is still silent, still empty, but somehow the candlelight makes it feel less lonely. Like there is warmth here, even if it’s just him.
His phone buzzes. Another text from Sarah, like she’s sensed him thinking about her.
Sarah: I meant what I said. Take care of yourself. You work too hard, worry too much. Mom wouldn’t want you to be alone all the time.
Sarah: I know we’re not close. I know that’s partly my fault. But you’re my brother. I’m here if you ever need to talk.
Mark’s throat tightens. He types back:
Mark: I’m okay. House smells good now. Finally lit your candle.
Sarah: Really? That’s good, Mark.
He sets the phone down and watches the candle flicker. The scent is stronger now, filling the room with something that almost feels like comfort. He thinks about Sarah picking it out at the shop before packing it up to send across the country to her brother who she barely knows anymore. Thinks about the care in that gesture, the hope that maybe he can make this place feel like home.
But home isn’t a place, Mark realizes. Or it hasn’t been for a long time. Home is his mom’s kitchen before cancer takes her. Home is Carter’s apartment when he gets traded to Carolina at the deadline, staying up late watching film and talking about everything and nothing. Home is the locker room in the early days, when hockey is pure and uncomplicated and all that matters is the next game.
Now? Now Mark doesn’t know what home is anymore.
Mark sits in his too-quiet house, watching the candle burn and thinking about Erik's blue eyes-too pale, too wrong. Thinking about Johan's careful questions and the acceptance they implied. Thinking about his sister in Nova Scotia, trying to bridge a distance that had grown over years of silence.
The candle burns down slowly, wax pooling at the base, and Mark doesn’t move. Just sat there in the darkness, surrounded by the scent of cedarwood and his mother's memory, and lets himself want for just a little while longer.
Tomorrow he'd rebuild his walls. Tomorrow he'd go back to being Mark Callahan, the enforcer, the leader, the guy who had everything under control.
But tonight he’d just let himself feel for.
Just for tonight.
Just for now.
Mark's lying in bed some time later, staring at the ceiling and pretending he's going to sleep, when his phone buzzes on the nightstand.
He reaches for it automatically, expecting a group text from the team or maybe another meme from Vlasky. Instead, Logan's name glows on the screen, and Mark's heart does something complicated in his chest.
It's 11:47 PM. Logan should be asleep. Should be exhausted from travel and family time and all the things that come with going home for Christmas. But he's calling Mark instead, and Mark's thumb hovers over the screen for one moment of indecision before he answers.
"Logan?" His voice comes out rougher than intended, betraying the fact that he hasn't been sleeping at all. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah, sorry, I-" Logan stops, and Mark can hear the uncertainty in his voice. "I didn't mean to wake you."
"You didn't. I was up." Mark shifts in bed, propping himself up against the headboard. The movement sends a dull ache through his shoulder, but he ignores it. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. I just..." Logan trails off, and in the silence Mark can hear distant sounds in his neighborhood, soft Christmas music. "I wanted to say Merry Christmas. But it's late. I should let you go."
Mark's chest tightens. Logan called him at midnight on Christmas Eve just to say Merry Christmas. Like he was thinking about Mark.
"No, it's-" Mark's voice softens before he can stop it. "It's fine. Merry Christmas, Logan."
The silence that follows should be awkward. Should make Mark want to fill it with small talk or find an excuse to hang up. Instead, it settles over him like a blanket, comfortable and warm. He can hear Logan breathing on the other end of the line, steady and real.
"How was Johan's thing?" Logan asks eventually.
Mark lets himself smile, just slightly, in the darkness of his bedroom where no one can see. "Loud. Lots of singing, lots of fish. His mom tried to teach me some Swedish Christmas carol." He huffs something that might be a laugh. "Pretty sure I butchered it."
"I'm sure you did fine."
"I really didn't." Mark closes his eyes, remembering Johan's patient corrections, the warm chaos of his house full of relatives. "What about you? How's Minnesota?"
"Cold. Snowy. Full of relatives asking invasive questions. The same ones as usually, if I’m seeing anyone, if I’ve rented anywhere yet, how I feel about the trade"
Mark's jaw tightens involuntarily. The thought of Logan seeing someone, some nice Minnesota girl, probably, someone blonde and sweet who'd give him the white-picket-fence life everyone expects, makes something twist painfully in his gut.
"What did you tell them?" Mark asks, keeping his voice carefully neutral.
"That I'm focused on hockey." Logan's quiet for a moment. "Which is true."
"Yeah." Mark's voice drops lower without his permission, intimate in a way that's dangerous. "It is."
The silence stretches again, but now it's charged with something Mark can't name. Or won't. Because naming it means acknowledging what happened in the equipment room yesterday, means confronting the way Logan's skin felt under his fingers, the way his breath caught, the way Mark's control had nearly shattered completely.
"Mark," Logan says softly, and the way he says Mark's name has heat pooling in Mark’s stomach.
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad you weren’t alone today."
The words hit Mark square in the chest. He lies there in his dark bedroom, phone pressed to his ear, and tries to figure out how to respond. Because the truth is complicated. The truth is that he's been alone for years, even when surrounded by people. That loneliness is his default state, his comfort zone, the price he pays for keeping everyone at arm's length.
But Logan's voice on the other end of the line makes him feel less alone than he has in a while.
"I'm glad you called," Mark says finally, voice rough with honesty he shouldn't be giving.
He can hear Logan's sharp intake of breath, like the admission caught him off guard. Mark should take it back, should deflect, should rebuild the careful distance. But he's tired. So tired of pretending. So tired of holding everything in.
"Yeah?" Logan's voice is barely above a whisper.
"Yeah." Mark's quiet for a long moment, trying to find words that won't give too much away. "You should get some sleep. It's late there."
"So should you."
"I will." Mark's voice softens despite his best efforts. "Sleep well, Logan."
"You too, Mark."
The line goes dead, but Mark doesn't move. Just lies there holding his phone, Logan's voice still echoing in his head. I’m glad you weren’t alone today.
Like Logan was worried about him. Like it mattered to Logan whether Mark spent Christmas Eve by himself or surrounded by Johan's relatives. Like Logan had been thinking about him enough to call at midnight just to check in.
Mark sets his phone back on the nightstand and presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. This is getting out of control. Has been out of control for weeks, maybe months, but now it's spiraling in a way Mark doesn't know how to contain.
Because he's not supposed to feel like this. Isn't supposed to lie awake at night replaying conversations, cataloguing the exact cadence of Logan's laugh, remembering the way his breath caught in the equipment room. Isn't supposed to care this much about a teammate's happiness.
Isn't supposed to want.
But God, he wants. Wants with an intensity that terrifies him, wants in a way he hasn't let himself want since he was young and stupid and still believed happiness might be possible. Wants Logan's laugh underneath him. wants his restless energy filling up the empty spaces in Mark's too-quiet house, wants to wake up with blonde hair on his pillow and blue eyes looking at him unguarded.
Wants things he has absolutely no right to want.
Mark closes his eyes and tries to sleep. Fails. Spends the next few hours staring at his ceiling and trying not to think about the equipment room, about Logan's sharp inhale when Mark touched his face, about the heat in his eyes before Mark pulled away.
Trying not to think about how badly he wants to touch Logan again.

Chapter Text

Logan lands in Raleigh on the twenty-seventh with his mom's tupperware of leftovers, a new warrior t-shirt from his dad that he'll probably live in, and the memory of Mark's voice in his ear at midnight still swirling around.
The airport is chaotic. There are holiday travelers everywhere, delayed flights, crying babies. Logan navigates it on autopilot, dragging his suitcase behind him and thinking about how Mark had said I'm glad you called. Like Logan calling had been something good instead of pathetic.
He catches an Uber back to Oskar's, lets himself in through the front door, and immediately gets tackled by two squealing four-year-olds who've apparently been watching for his return.
"Logan! Logan! Did you bring us presents?" Tyla demands, hanging off his arm.
"Did you see Santa?" Alexa adds, eyes wide.
"Girls, let him breathe," Kelsey calls from the kitchen, but she's smiling. "Welcome home, Logan."
Home. The word settles differently now. Not Minnesota-home, not childhood-bedroom-home, but something newer. Something he's still figuring out how to hold.
"Thanks," Logan says, disentangling himself from tiny hands long enough to haul his suitcase toward the basement stairs. "I brought you guys some Minnesota snow globes. They're in my bag."
The squealing intensifies. Kelsey mouths thank you at him, and Logan grins before disappearing downstairs.
His room, Oskar's basement guest room, technically, is exactly as he left it. Rumpled sheets, his practice gear in the corner, photos of his family tacked to the wall above the bed. A photo of him and his parents holding each other at the draft, wide grins and shiny eyes. Logan drops his suitcase and collapses onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling.
His phone buzzes. The team group chat is blowing up with everyone's return times, practice schedule for tomorrow, the usual chaos. Logan scrolls through without really reading until one message catches his eye.
Vlasky: Hazy when you back??? miss your ugly face
Logan: Just got in. Your face is uglier though
Vlasky: LIES. I am beautiful
Mitch: Can confirm, Vlasky is aggressively good-looking. It's annoying.
Vlasky: See?? Even goalie knows
Logan: Whatever helps you sleep at night, V
His phone buzzes again, a separate text this time. Mark.
Mark: You make it back okay?
Logan stares at the message, heart doing something complicated. Mark texting him first. Mark asking if he's okay. Mark, who barely texted anyone outside the group chat.
Logan: Yeah, just got to Oskar's. How are you?
Mark: Good. Shoulder feels better with the rest.
Logan: That's good
Logan's thumbs hover over the keyboard. He wants to say more, wants to reference their call, wants to ask what Mark's doing right now and if he’s imagining this feeling.
He deletes the half-formed message and just sends a thumbs up emoji instead. Safe. Meaningless.
Mark doesn't respond, and Logan tells himself that's fine. They're teammates. They just talk about hockey. That's normal.
Except nothing about the way Logan feels is normal.
Practice the next day is brutal in the best way. Coach Massey runs them through conditioning drills that leave everyone gasping, then video review of their last few games that has half the team groaning at their mistakes. They're on the edge of the playoff bubble, clinging to the second wild card spot by a thread, with half of the conference breathing down their necks.
"We've got thirty-nine games left," Coach says, arms crossed, expression stern. "Thirty-nine chances to prove we belong in the postseason. But that means every game matters. Every shift. Every play."
Logan feels the weight of it settle over the room. Playoffs. His first real shot at playoffs since his rookie year, when Minnesota got bounced in the first round. The chance to prove the trade was worth it, that he's worth the extension they're supposedly negotiating.
No pressure.
After video, they hit the ice. Logan's legs are fresh from the break, his head clear for the first time in weeks. He feels good. He’s fast, sharp, like all the scattered pieces of himself have finally clicked back into alignment.
Mark's on the ice too, no sling for the first time since Chicago. He's limited to non-contact drills, skating with the extras and doing stick work, but Logan can see the relief in the set of his shoulders. The way he moves a little lighter, a little less guarded.
Their eyes meet across the ice during a water break. Mark nods once, expression carefully neutral, but there's something in his gaze that makes Logan's stomach flip.
"You are staring again," Vlasky observes, appearing beside Logan and making him jump.
"I wasn't-"
"You were." Vlasky grins, taking a long drink from his bottle. "Is okay. I miss Callahan too. Like..." He gestures vaguely. "Now I will have to protect your dumbass."
Logan snorts despite himself.
Vlasky's eyes are sharp though when Logan turns away from Mark to look at him, watching Logan a little too closely. "You are different since you come back. More... I do not know English word. More settled? Less in your head?"
"Maybe."
"Is good." Vlasky claps him on the shoulder.
They run through power play drills next, and Logan finds his rhythm immediately. He's always been good at this, reading the play, finding the soft spots in coverage, making something out of nothing. But today it feels effortless. Like his body knows what to do before his brain catches up.
"Nice!" Oskar calls after Logan threads a pass through three defenders to find Johan at the point. "That's what we need."
Logan grins, tapping his stick against the ice in acknowledgment. When he glances at the boards, Mark's watching, arms crossed, the hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
Logan's heart stutters.
-
They play Anahiem at home two days later, and Logan gets on the board early. A quick wrister from the slot that finds the top corner, the goalie barely moving. The crowd erupts, and Logan throws his arms up, grin splitting his face as Oskar crashes into him in celebration.
"Finally!" Oskar laughs, knuckling the top of Logan's helmet. "Welcome back, Hayes."
They win 4-2, and Logan adds another assist. It's not his best game ever, but it's solid. Steady. The kind of performance that makes the coaches nod approvingly and the fans chant his name when he's announced as first star. It makes him feel alive and the small twitch upward of his lips that Mark gives him from the doorway of the locker room over the head of the media makes him feel like his heart stops.
The game against Boston comes on New Years Eve, the arena packed and buzzing with energy. Boston's a playoff lock, fast and physical and exactly the kind of test that'll show whether this team is for real.
Logan feels like he’s on fire, finally finding his rhythm after the concussion. He feels good stepping onto the ice for warmups, dialed in and focused in a way that makes everything else fall away.
The first period is a war. Fast, physical, both teams trading chances. Logan takes a hit in the corner that rattles his teeth but bounces up chirping, earning a cross-check that still doesn't draw a call. But this time Vlasky's there immediately, getting in the guy's face, and Logan feels that rush of being protected, of not being alone out there.
Midway through the period, Logan finds himself with the puck on a broken play. The Boston defender commits too early, Logan cuts inside, and suddenly there's nothing between him and the goalie. Time slows. He can see the gap glove-side, can feel the exact moment to release.
The puck rips past the goalie's ear and buries itself in the top corner.
The arena erupts.
Logan throws his arms wide, the roar of the crowd washing over him as his teammates crash into him. Vlasky nearly tackles him into the boards, Oskar's yelling something in Swedish, and over all of it Logan absurdly thinks he can feel Mark’s eyes on him from the pressbox.
They're up 1-0. Logan's flying.
The second period brings more of the same. Boston ties it up on a power play, their top line getting one past Ollie on a quick redirect. But Carolina answers back five minutes later when Johan walks the blue line and fires a shot through traffic. 2-1.
And then, with three minutes left in the period, Logan does it again.
Kris wins a battle in the corner and kicks the puck to Logan at the point. Logan sees the lane, sees the goalie screened, and doesn't hesitate. The shot is hard and low, hitting the post and trickling across the line before the goalie can react.
2-1 becomes 3-1. Logan's second goal of the night.
The celebration is bigger this time, the whole bench on their feet, and when Logan skates past, Vlasky reaches out and grips his jersey for just a second. Logan laughs at his excited green eyes.
The third period is chaos. Boston pulls their goalie with three minutes left, pressing hard, and Carolina's hanging on by their fingernails. Logan's line is out for a defensive zone faceoff, Oskar beside him, every muscle tensed for the draw.
The puck drops. Oskar wins it clean, kicks it back to Johan, who fires it the length of the ice toward the empty net.
It's going wide. Logan can see it, can feel it in his bones. The puck's going to miss by inches and they’ll ice it and-
Logan puts on a burst of speed he didn't know he had left. His legs are screaming, his lungs burning, but he's flying down the ice chasing that puck. He reaches it just before it crosses the line, gets a piece of it with the tip of his stick, and redirects it into the empty net.
Hat trick.
The arena loses its collective mind.
Logan doesn't even make it back to the bench before he's buried under bodies clad in red and black. Hats are raining down from the stands, a shower of them covering the ice, and Logan's laughing so hard he can barely breathe.
When he finally extracts himself from the pile, he looks up towards the pressbox for just a moment and grins.
The moment breaks when Vlasky yanks Logan back into a headlock, but the feeling of elation stays with him through the rest of the game, through the final buzzer, through the three-stars announcement where Logan takes the ice for the first star and the crowd nearly brings the roof down.
In the locker room after, the mood is euphoric. Music blasting, guys singing along terribly, infected with the win and the holiday.
"Three goals!" Vlasky shouts, hanging off Logan's shoulders. "Hat trick! First one in NHL, yes?"
"Yeah," Logan says, grinning so wide his face hurts. "First one."
"We celebrate! We must celebrate hat trick and new year!" Vlasky looks around wildly. "Who is coming to bar? Everyone is coming to bar!"
A chorus of agreement rises up.
Logan catches Mark's eye across the room. Mark's still in his suit and he's watching Logan with an expression that makes heat pool low in Logan's stomach.
"You coming?" Logan mouths.
Mark hesitates for just a second before nodding once.
Logan's heart does something complicated in his chest.
They end up at the same sports bar from before, the one with good wings. It's busier tonight, post-game crowd who had been watching on the TVs combining with locals in sparkly new years outfits and party hats . Their group claims a corner booth and a couple high-tops, spreading out in that easy way many large excited men and their partners can somehow do. Kelsey hugs him before her and Oskar slip away with Johan and his girlfriend Alva to get drinks.
Logan slides into the booth across from Mark without thinking about it. Vlasky squeezes in beside him, already gesturing wildly while telling some story to Mitch. The noise washes over Logan in a comfortable wave, laughter, trash talk, the clink of bottles.
"You played well tonight," Mark says quietly, and Logan's attention snaps to him.
"Thanks." Logan fidgets with his napkin. "Felt good to contribute."
"You always contribute." Mark's voice is matter-of-fact, but there's something warm underneath it. "Even when you're not on the scoresheet."
Logan's throat tightens. He wants to ask what Mark means, wants to push, but Vlasky's suddenly grabbing his arm.
"Hazy! Tell them about the time you scored four goals in world junior game!"
"I don’t think I did that"
"No, I remember dick trick," Vlasky insists, and suddenly everyone's laughing and Logan's being pulled into another story.
But he's hyperaware of Mark across from him. The way Mark nurses his beer slowly, barely drinking. The way he watches the group with that quiet attention, like he's cataloguing everything. The way his eyes keep finding Logan's in the chaos.
The night unfolds in easy increments. Food arrives, wings and fries and things that are definitely not on their nutrition plans but taste incredible after a win. Someone puts money in the jukebox, old country songs that make the locals sing along. Mitch and Ollie get in a heated debate about something Logan can’t follow but he smiles when he notices the way their Mitch’s girlfriend and Ollie’s wife smile fondly at them like it happens all the time.
And Logan just... exists in it. Laughs at Vlasky's increasingly ridiculous gestures. Chirps Mitch about his questionable fopinions. Feels the warmth of belonging settle into his bones.
At some point, Vlasky shrugs off his hoodie and tosses it at Logan who’s wrapped his arms around himself. "You look cold, Hazy."
"I'm not cold."
"Wear anyway. Looks better on you." Vlasky's grin is sharp, teasing in a way that makes Logan roll his eyes.
But he pulls it on anyway because Vlasky's right, the bar's AC is aggressive and Logan's only in a t-shirt he had worn as an undershirt to his suit. The hoodie is soft, worn-in, and smells like Vlasky's cologne. Logan tugs it down over his waist and catches Mark watching, something unreadable flickering across his face before he looks away.
The night continues. More drinks, more stories. At some point, the group's attention shifts to the TV showing highlights from other games. Logan's only half-watching, more focused on the way Mark's forearms look against the dark wood of the table, the way his hands move when he talks, deliberate and strong.
"I'm getting another round," Logan announces, needing air, needing space from the intensity of wanting to reach across the table.
He makes his way to the bar, squeezing between bodies, and orders beers for the table. While he's waiting, someone touches his arm.
"Hey."
Logan turns to find a girl smiling at him, she’s pretty, with dark hair and confident eyes. She's wearing a Copperheads jersey with his number on it.
"Great game tonight," she says, leaning closer to be heard over the noise. "That goal in the first period was incredible."
"Oh. Thanks." Logan's brain feels sluggish, trying to process why she's talking to him.
"I'm Riley." She tilts her head, smile widening. "Can I buy you a drink? Celebrate the win?"
Oh. She's flirting with him.
Logan should care. Should fall into the practiced charm that usually comes almost naturally in moments like this. Should at least be flattered.
Instead, all he can think is that he wants to get back to the table.
"That's really nice of you," Logan says carefully. "But I'm actually here with my team. Just celebrating together, you know?"
Riley's smile falters slightly. "Oh. Right. Of course." She recovers quickly, that confident edge back. "Well, if you change your mind..." She pulls out her phone, clearly expecting him to offer his number.
Logan just gives her an apologetic smile. "Have a good night, Riley. And thanks for coming to the game."
He takes the beers the bartender hands him and threads back through the crowd to their table. Doesn't look back. Doesn't think twice about it.
When he slides back into the booth, Vlasky immediately notices. "Was that girl talking to you?"
"Yeah."
"And? You get number?"
"Nope." Logan distributes beers to the table, deliberately not looking at Mark.
"Why not?" Vlasky sounds genuinely baffled. "She was pretty!"
"Wasn't interested." Logan shrugs, taking a long drink from his bottle.
"Concussion symptom," Vlasky declares, but he's grinning. "I would die for pretty girl in their jersey to buy me a drink. Most men would I think"
"Most men aren't Logan Hayes," Mitch chimes in. "He's got standards. High standards." It earns him a playful swat from his girlfriend.
"Or no standards," one of the rookies adds, laughing.
Logan lets the chirping wash over him and doesn’t give in to the fear thrumming in his veins, responding with well-timed eye rolls and middle fingers. But he can feel Mark watching him, that steady gaze that makes Logan's skin feel too tight.
When he finally risks a glance across the table, Mark's expression is unreadable. But there's something in his eyes, something that might be approval, might be curiosity, might be nothing at all.
Logan looks away before he can decipher it.
The night wears on. Vlasky gets progressively more animated and affectionate the way he does when he drinks, gesturing so wildly he nearly knocks over Mitch's beer. Someone suggests doing shots, which Oskar would definitely not approve of, so they stick to beer. The crowd in the bar thickens as it gets closer to midnight.
At some point, Vlasky's arm ends up slung across Logan's shoulders, warm and heavy. His hand rests on Logan's shoulder, on his own number twelve stitched into the hoodie, and stays there. It's casual, friendly, the kind of touch that means nothing. Just the way Vlasky is.
Except Logan notices the way Vlasky's thumb moves absently against the fabric. Notices the way Vlasky's leaning into his space, smelling like beer. Notices, and files it away as nothing important.
Because his attention is across the table.
Mark's pushed his sleeves up at some point, forearms on display in a way that should be illegal. The bar lights catch the dark hair on his arms, the prominent veins that Logan definitely shouldn't be cataloguing. His jaw is relaxed, just slightly, the hard edges softened by alcohol and the easy atmosphere.
When Mark laughs, really laughs, at something Kris says, his whole face transforms. The scar at the corner of his mouth pulls, his eyes crinkle at the corners, and Logan's chest constricts so hard he almost gasps.
Mark looks... God. Beautiful isn't the right word. Striking, maybe. Devastating. The kind of handsome that's all rough edges and hard-earned lines, nothing soft about it except the brief moments when his guard drops.
Like now, with warm light painting his features gold and his shoulders loose in a way Logan's never seen. His t-shirt pulls across his chest when he leans back, the fabric outlining muscles softened by skin. The kind that are made for a job well done, not for show.
Logan's body reacts before his brain can stop it. Heat pools low in his stomach, his dress pants suddenly too tight, and he has to look away quickly before anyone notices. Before Mark notices.
"You okay?" Vlasky murmurs near his ear, hand squeezing Logan's shoulder through the hoodie.
"Yeah. Just…bathroom."
Logan escapes to the bathroom, locks himself in a stall, and presses his forehead against the cool metal door. His heart's racing, skin flushed, and he's half-hard just from watching Mark laugh in bar lighting.
He's so fucked. So completely, utterly fucked.
By the time he drags himself back to the table, the noise in the bar has thickened, laughter echoing off the walls. More beers have appeared; half the team’s gathered around now, red-faced and loud.
Vlasky spots him first. “There he is!” Logan shakes his head fondly, sliding back into his seat. Vlasky slings an arm across his shoulders again, grinning.
Mark’s still there. Leaning back now, elbows braced on the edge of the table, watching. His expression is unreadable, but his gaze pins Logan in place all the same. Calm, unwavering, too much. Logan looks away first.
The music fades for a moment, and then-
“Ten!” someone shouts.
The noise ripples outward, growing.
“Nine! Eight!”
Half the bar joins in. Laughter, whistles, clinking glasses.
“Seven! Six!”
Mitch’s grin widens; Vlasky bangs on the table in rhythm, nearly knocking over his drink.
“Five! Four!”
“New Year!” someone yells prematurely, and the table bursts into laughter.
“Three!”
Vlasky drags him close, shouting the last numbers in his ear.
“Two! One!”
The room explodes. Cheers, music, the fizz of confetti.
And everywhere, people are kissing.
Couples leaning into each other, laughter muffled against mouths. Friends pressed cheek to cheek.
Vlasky turns to Mitch after he’s done kissing his girlfriend and plants a dramatic kiss on his cheek, then one on Logan’s temple closest to him. Logan laughs, shaking his head, cheeks warm, but when he looks up again, the laughter dies somewhere in his throat. Because Mark’s not laughing.
He’s sitting there, beer in hand, gaze steady across the table. The light catches the edge of his jaw, his mouth slightly curved, not quite a smile. Logan feels it like a pulse beneath his skin.
The noise around them fades into a dull blur, the cheers, the music, the laughter all turning into a low hum under the weight of that look. Then Mark tips his bottle toward him in a small, wordless toast, eyes never leaving his.
Logan raises his glass in return before he even thinks about it.
And just like that, the moment’s gone. Mark looks away, talking to Kris, the noise surges back, and Logan exhales like he’s been holding his breath for an hour. He leans back, lets Vlasky pull him into another half-hug, pretends the heat in his chest is just from the room. But all he can think about as he watches the couples embrace in the new year glow of the bar is how much he wanted to reach across the table.
Logan trips into Oskar’s house with a giggling Oskar and Kelsey who quickly tumble upstairs to their room. He slips downstairs to his room, strips off Vlasky's hoodie and his clothes, and stands under the shower until the water runs cold.
But it doesn't help the heat thrumming off his body.
Because all he can see is Mark in that bar. The way the light caught his forearms. The curve of his mouth when he smiled. The devastating moment when their eyes met and Logan felt it like a physical touch.
Logan's hand moves almost without his permission, wrapping around himself under the spray. His brain supplies images immediately, Mark's hands, large and strong. Mark's mouth, that scar pulling when he speaks. Mark's body, solid and warm and pressing Logan into-
"Fuck," Logan gasps, bracing one hand against the tile.
He thinks about the equipment room. About Mark's fingers on his jaw, feather-light but burning. About the way Mark had looked at him, pupils blown wide, before pulling away like he'd been burned.
Thinks about what would've happened if Mark had closed that last inch of distance. If Logan had been brave or reckless enough to-
His rhythm turns desperate, frustrated. Because he wants this so badly it's terrifying. Wants Mark's hands on him, wants his mouth, wants to know what he tastes like. Wants to push him against a wall and kiss him until neither of them can breathe.
Wants things he can't have because they're teammates, because hockey comes first, because the risk is too great.
The frustration builds until Logan's gasping against the tile, water streaming down his back, Mark's name caught in his throat. When he comes it's sharp and intense and leaves him shaking.
He stands there after, forehead against the cold tile, and tries to catch his breath. Tries not to think about how he just got himself off to thoughts of his teammate. He knows what he’s supposed to tell himself. That it doesn’t mean anything. That everyone gets too close sometimes, that it’s just the stress, the travel, the endless proximity. That Mark’s kindness isn’t something meant for him to want.
Except….
Except a hopeful voice cuts through the noise, soft but insistent in the back of his mind: Straight men don’t look at you like that.
He shuts off the water a little too fast, grabs a towel like it’s something to do with his hands. The mirror’s fogged over, and maybe that’s for the best, he doesn’t want to see his face right now.
By the time he’s dried off and pulled on a t-shirt, the weight in his chest has settled into something dull and heavy. He tosses the towel toward the corner, misses, doesn’t bother to pick it up.His phone sits on the nightstand, the screen dark. Mark’s name glows near the top of his recent messages.
For a second he thinks about opening it. Typing something dumb. Something like You up? or Did you make it home? Something that could be innocent if he needed it to be.
But he doesn’t.
He just stares at the name until his vision blurs, then flips the phone face-down, kills the light, and collapses into bed. The sheets are cool against his skin. The room is too quiet.
And still, in the dark, his pulse refuses to settle.
At practice the next morning, Logan’s exhausted. Moving through drills on muscle memory alone, his brain still foggy from lack of sleep and too much thinking. Luckily, most of the guys are hungover enough that no one notices he’s off. It’s easy to blend in when everyone’s skating half a step slow.
He keeps his distance from Mark, not deliberately, not at first, but the space is there, like his body knows better than to risk it. Logan feels it every time their eyes meet, like the air’s too thin for both of them to breathe.
The days blur together into the new year. Practice, meetings, film. He sleeps too little, scrolls his phone too much, types Mark’s name into a text more than once before deleting it again.
By the time the next game rolls around, he’s strung tight.
The afternoon before they play Ottowa, he finds himself in a conference room at the arena with Trevor on one side and Carolina’s GM and assistant GM on the other. The air smells faintly of coffee and dry-erase marker. They talk numbers and terms and contract structure while Logan tries to focus, tries to look confident and professional instead of like he’s about to throw up.
Four years. $5.2 million per year. Full no-trade clause after year two. He knew this was the deal that Trevor and front office had met on but it still felt jarring to hear out loud after making league minimum entry level for the last couple seasons.
“We believe in you, Logan,” the GM, Thomas, says. “We think you’re a core piece of where this franchise is going. We want you here long-term.”
Logan’s throat is too tight to speak. He just nods, lets Trevor handle the specifics, tries to absorb the fact that they want him. Really want him.
When the meeting ends, there are handshakes and easy smiles, promises to have paperwork ready by the end of the week for Logan to put pen to paper. Logan walks out in a daze, Trevor’s hand on his shoulder, the fluorescent lights suddenly too bright.
He lets himself feel it, the rush, the pride, the certainty that maybe he’s finally earned something solid.

Chapter Text

Mark makes it home from the bar and goes straight to his bedroom, bypassing the kitchen, the living room, everything. He doesn't bother turning on lights. Just strips down to his boxers and collapses onto his bed, staring at the ceiling in the dark.
His mind won't shut off.
Logan at that table tonight, wearing Vlasky's hoodie with the number twelve stretched across his shoulders. Logan turning down that girl at the bar without hesitation. Vlasky's arm slung casually over Logan's shoulders all night, and the sharp twist of jealousy that had torn through Mark's chest every single time he noticed even though he knew it wasn’t like that.
The way their eyes had met at midnight. That wordless toast across the table that felt like a promise, like a question, like something Mark can't let himself examine too closely.
He rolls onto his side, winces when his shoulder protests. The injury's healing, but it still aches in that deep way that reminds him his body's breaking down faster than he can hold it together. Reminds him he's running out of time in more ways than one.
Mark thinks about Erik. Johan's cousin with the perfect smile and the easy charm, the kind of guy Mark would have taken up on that offer once. The kind of uncomplicated attraction that's safe because it's temporary, because it's discrete, because it doesn't threaten everything Mark's built.
But all he'd felt was wrong. Wrong blue eyes, wrong laugh, wrong everything. Because Erik wasn't Logan.
And that's the problem, isn't it? Mark's spent months, years, really, being so careful. Taking what he could get in cities far from home, with men who understood the need for silence. Brief encounters that never went deeper than physical release. Safe. Controlled. Manageable.
Logan Hayes is none of those things.
Logan is reckless and loud and feels everything too intensely. Logan is a teammate, which makes wanting him catastrophically dangerous. Logan is twenty-four and this is the last thing he needs.
Mark knows all of this. Has known it since training camp when Logan climbed out of Oskar's minivan and Mark's five-second rule became a lifeline.
He rolls onto his back again, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. The darkness behind his eyelids does nothing to stop the images, Logan's face when Mark touched his jaw in the equipment room, eyes wide and lips parted. Logan looking at him across the locker room in Chicago, bruised and hurting, like Mark's opinion was the only one that mattered. Logan calling him at midnight on Christmas Eve just to say he was glad Mark wasn't alone.
Logan looking at him tonight across that table with an expression Mark's too afraid to name.
His phone buzzes on the nightstand. Mark reaches for it without thinking.
Sarah: Happy New Year!! How's the shoulder?
Mark stares at the message. His sister, reaching out from Nova Scotia, trying to bridge the distance between them. He should respond. Should tell her happy new year, that the shoulder is healing, that everything's fine.
Instead, he types: Do you think Mom would be disappointed in me?
The question sits there on the screen, too raw, too revealing. Mark almost deletes it. But Sarah's already typing.
Sarah: Disappointed? Mark, no. Why would you even think that?
Mark: I don't know. Just wondering who I'd be if things were different. If I'd made different choices.
Sarah: Mom wanted you to be happy. That's all she ever wanted. She wouldn't care what choices you made as long as they were yours and they made you happy.
The words hit Mark square in the chest. Happy. That word again. He doesn't even know what that means anymore.
Sarah: Are you okay? This doesn't sound like you.
Mark: I'm fine. Just been a long season. Thanks for checking in.
Sarah: I'm always here if you need to talk. About anything. You know that, right?
Mark: I know.
He sets the phone down and stares at the ceiling some more. His mom would've liked Logan, he thinks. Would've appreciated his brightness, his energy, the way he fills up a room. Would've probably given Mark that knowing look she used to get when she saw through his careful deflections.
Would've told him that life's too short to spend it afraid.
Mark closes his eyes and tries to sleep. Fails. His shoulder aches. His chest aches worse. Everything aches in a way that has nothing to do with hockey and everything to do with wanting something he's convinced himself he can't have.
Practice the next morning is brutal in the way that only New Year's Day practice can be. Half the team is visibly hungover, moving through drills with the coordination of newborn deer. Mark goes through his non-contact exercises on autopilot, his shoulder feeling stronger but still not quite right.
Every time his eyes meet Logan’s across the ice, Mark feels it like a shock to his system. Has to look away before anyone notices, before his face gives away something he can't afford to reveal.
Vlasky, of course, notices anyway.
"You are very serious today," he observes during a water break, dropping onto the bench beside Mark. "Even for you. Is the shoulder?"
"It's fine." Mark eyes him warily. They never really talked outside of practice and being mostly friendly teammates but Logan and Mark’s circles had combined at some point in the last season with Logan living in Oskar’s house.
"Mm." Vlasky doesn't sound convinced. "You know, I think maybe you spend too much time in your head, like Hazy. Both of you, always thinking, thinking." He taps his temple.
Mark's jaw tightens. "I'm fine, V."
"Of course. Everyone is fine." Vlasky grins, but there's something sharp in his eyes. "Is why you look at Hayes like you want to fight him or fuck him, I cannot tell which."
Mark's heart stops. Actually stops for a full second before hammering back to life. "What-"
"Is joke!" Vlasky laughs, slapping Mark's good shoulder. "You are too serious. I am teasing." But his eyes linger just a moment too long, and Mark wonders exactly how much of a joke it actually was.
The rest of practice passes in a blur. Mark goes through the motions, listens to the coaches, tries to ignore the way Logan's laugh carries across the ice. Tries not to notice the way Logan's hair curls at his neck when it's damp with sweat, or the line of his throat when he tips his head back to drink water, or the way his practice jersey clings to his shoulders.
By the time they're filing into the locker room, Mark's wound so tight he might snap.
"Hey." Johan appears beside him, voice quiet. "You okay? You seem... tense."
"I'm fine."
Johan studies him for a long moment, those pale eyes seeing too much. "You know you can talk to me, right? About anything."
The words hang between them, weighted with meaning. Mark thinks about Christmas Eve, about Johan's careful questions and the acceptance they implied. About how Johan had said you would not be judged, like he knew something, like he'd been offering Mark an out.
"I know," Mark says finally. "I'm just... it's been a long season."
"And we're only halfway through." Johan's mouth quirks slightly. "But you'll be back on the ice soon. Doctor appointment is tomorrow, yes?"
"Yeah. Hopefully get cleared."
"Good. The team needs you." Johan slaps him on the shoulder as he passes to head to his stall.
Logan's across the room, laughing at something Mitch said. His cheeks are flushed from exertion, hair sticking up in fifteen directions, and Mark has to physically look away before anyone catches him staring.
This is getting out of control. And Mark has no idea how to rein it back in.
The doctor's appointment the next afternoon is thorough to the point of being annoying. Range of motion tests, strength assessments, the team doctor poking and prodding while asking questions Mark's answered a hundred times already.
"How's the pain level?"
"Manageable."
"Any sharp pains when you lift?"
"Not anymore."
"Catching or popping?"
"No."
The doctor makes notes on his tablet, expression thoughtfully neutral in that way medical professionals have perfected. "Well, the good news is you've healed remarkably well. Better than I expected, honestly."
Mark's heart picks up. "So-"
"You're cleared for contact. Full practice starting tomorrow, game-ready by the end of the week." The doctor looks up, expression turning stern. "But Mark, I need you to be smart about this. Your shoulder took significant damage. If you re-injure it, we're talking surgery and potentially season-ending implications." Mark hears the implication of ‘career-ending’ under that ‘season-ending’.
"I understand."
"Do you?" The doctor sets down his tablet. "Because you've got a history of playing through injuries that should've benched you. I need to know you'll actually pull back if something feels wrong."
Mark meets his gaze steadily. "I will."
It's not entirely a lie. Mark knows his body, knows the difference between pain that's just part of the job and pain that means real damage. He's not reckless, despite what the medical staff might think. He's just... dedicated. There's a difference.
"Alright." The doctor doesn't look entirely convinced, but he signs off on the clearance paperwork. "Full contact tomorrow. But if anything feels off"
"I'll let you know."
Mark walks out of the medical room with his clearance form and something that feels relief flooding his chest. He's been off the ice for too long, watching from the press box while his team grinds through games without him. While Logan takes hits that Mark should be answering.
He texts the group chat immediately.
Mark: Cleared for contact. Back in tomorrow.
The responses are instantaneous.
Vlasky: FINALLY. I am tired of protecting Hayes. He talks too much.
Oskar: Great news, Mark. We've missed you out there.
Johan: Welcome back. Team feels more complete with you in the lineup.
Kris: 👍
And then, separately, Logan texts him.
Logan: That's amazing. Really happy for you.
Mark stares at the message for a long moment, thumb hovering over the keyboard. He should respond with something simple, professional. Thanks or See you at practice.
Instead, he types: Thanks. Felt like forever.
Logan's response comes quickly: I bet. Must have been hard watching from up there. I went crazy with just one game.
Mark: Yeah. It was.
He hits send before he can second-guess it, before he can analyze why he's admitting to struggling. Before he can overthink the way his chest tightens when Logan's name appears on his screen.
Logan: Well, I'm glad you're back. Team's better with you on the ice.
Not the team needs you. Not we need you. But the team's better. Careful, neutral, exactly what you'd say to any teammate. Mark feels something twinge in his chest.
Mark: See you tomorrow.
Logan: See you tomorrow.
Mark sets his phone down and leans back against the wall of the empty hallway, closing his eyes. His shoulder aches dully, a reminder that it's not fully healed, might never be fully healed. That he's running on borrowed time, his body sending the warning shots.
But for now, he's cleared. He can play. He can get back to doing what he does best, protecting his teammates, reading the ice, being the wall between Logan and everything that wants to hurt him.
Being near Logan again.
The thought should terrify him. Instead, it feels like relief.
-
Team meeting the next morning brings news that shifts the energy in the room.
Mark's already in his stall, taping his stick with methodical precision, when Coach Massey walks in with Thomas Blake, the GM. The room goes quiet immediately, that particular silence that comes when management appears unannounced.
"Morning, boys." Thomas has that carefully neutral expression executives wear when they're about to make an announcement. "Just wanted to share some good news before practice. We've come to terms on a contract extension with Hazy. Four years!"
The room erupts.
Vlasky's immediately on his feet, whooping loud enough to rattle the lockers. "HAZY! Four years of your ugly face!"
"Congrats, kid!" Oskar's grin is wide and genuine, clapping Logan on the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble.
Johan rises to shake Logan's hand, that quiet smile playing at his lips. "Well deserved."
Mark watches from his stall as the team swarms Logan, everyone celebrating, slapping his back, ruffling his hair. Logan's face is flushed, that bright smile splitting his features, and he looks younger suddenly. Less burdened. Like something heavy has finally lifted off his shoulders.
Their eyes meet across the chaos. Logan's smile softens just slightly, something private flickering in his expression before Mitch tackles him into a hug
Mark nods once, small and deliberate. Logan returns it over Mitch’s shoulder.
Four years. Logan's staying for four years. The knowledge settles into Mark's chest, complicated and confusing. Relief, because the team needs Logan, because he's good for the franchise. Anxiety, because four more years of wanting something he can't have, four more years of maintaining this careful distance.
Four more years of Logan Hayes in his life, in his space, under his skin.
"Callahan!" Thomas catches his eye. "Good to have you back. We're counting on that leadership down the stretch."
"Yes, sir."
Thomas leaves with Coach, and the room's energy remains high, everyone still buzzing about Logan's extension. It's good news, objectively. The kind that makes a team believe in itself, in the future, in the possibility of building something that lasts.
Mark goes back to taping his stick and tries not to think about what four years means. Tries not to calculate how old he'll be when Logan's extension ends, whether he'll even still be playing. Tries not to imagine watching Logan grow into his prime while Mark's body continues its inevitable decline.
But practice that day is the best Mark's felt in weeks. His shoulder holds up through contact drills, through board battles, through everything the coaches throw at them. It aches by the end, but it's the good kind of ache, the kind that means he's using it properly instead of babying it.
And he's back on a line with Logan.
The chemistry is still there, immediate and natural. Mark reads Logan's movements before he makes them, positions himself exactly where Logan needs him to be, clears space for him to work. Logan, in turn, seems to skate with more confidence when Mark's on the ice, takes chances he wouldn't otherwise, trusts that Mark will have his back.
"That's what I like to see!" Coach calls from the bench. "That's the connection we need."
By the time practice ends, Mark's exhausted but satisfied. His shoulder's sore but functional. His legs feel strong. His mind is clear in a way it hasn't been since before the injury.
In the locker room after, Logan drops onto the bench beside him, close enough that their shoulders almost touch.
"Feels good to have you back out there," Logan says quietly, peeling off his practice jersey.
"Feels good to be back."
"Your shoulder okay?"
"Yeah. Held up fine." Mark doesn't look at him, focused on unlacing his skates. "You played well today."
"Thanks." Logan's quiet for a moment. "I'm glad you'll be in New York this weekend. First game back and all."
New York. Mark had almost forgotten about the road trip, too focused on getting cleared to think about where that clearance would take him. Three games in five nights, New York, Philly, Pittsburgh. The kind of grind that’s gonna test how healthy he actually is.
"Should be good," Mark says neutrally.
"Yeah." Logan stands, and Mark can feel him hesitating. "Hey, uh... thanks. For being half the assists on my goals to earn that contract.” He’s smiling teasingly.
Mark looks up then, meets those blue eyes that have haunted him for weeks. Logan's expression is open, vulnerable in a way he rarely lets himself be. Grateful.
"You earned it," Mark says, and means it. "Four years. Make them count."
Logan's smile is soft, genuine, not the one he puts on. "I will."
He walks away to shower, and Mark's left sitting there, wet practice jersey still in his hands, trying to figure out how he's going to survive four more years of this.
-
The news breaks publicly that afternoon. Logan's extension is all over social media, every hockey reporter talking about what a steal it is for Carolina, how smart the front office was to lock him down early, speculation about what this means for the franchise's future.
Mark scrolls through Twitter in his too-quiet house, reading take after take, watching video clips of Logan's best goals this season. The Athletic has an article calling him "the future of the franchise," breaking down his advanced stats and projecting his development arc.
He's good. Logan Hayes is special, the kind of player who can carry a franchise if given the right support.
And Mark's job is to give him that support. To protect him, to make space for him to flourish, to be the wall between Logan and everything that wants to break him down.
It's just a job, Mark tells himself. Professional obligation. Team responsibility.
But alone in his house with Logan's face filling his phone screen, Mark knows that's a lie. Has been a lie for longer than he wants to admit. This stopped being just a job somewhere between training camp and now. Somewhere between carry your own shit and Logan looking at him across a press box at Mark with a teasing smile.
Sitting here thinking about Logan's extension, about having him around for four more years, something in Mark's chest loosens just slightly. Something that might, in a different life, feel like hope.
New York City in January is cold and gray and exactly what Mark needed.
The team arrives Friday afternoon after a short flight, settling into a hotel in Midtown that's nice enough to make the rookies' eyes widen. They've got a day to adjust before tomorrow's game against New York, which means most of the guys will spend the evening exploring the city, finding restaurants, getting into whatever trouble athletes get into when turned loose in Manhattan.
Mark stays in. Orders room service, reviews video of the New York's recent games, tries to get his mind into game mode. His shoulder aches from the flight, the pressure change doing something uncomfortable to the joint, but he's played through worse. Will play through worse tomorrow.
His phone buzzes. The team group chat is blowing up with dinner plans, Vlasky organizing something expensive, Mitch debating between pizza places, the usual chaos. Mark watches it scroll by without responding.
Then, separately: Logan: You coming to dinner?
Mark stares at the message. He should say yes. Should be part of the team, should show that he's ready to be back. But the thought of sitting in a crowded restaurant, watching Logan laugh with everyone else, maintaining this careful distance while wanting to close it.
Mark: Shoulder's sore. Going to take it easy tonight.
Logan: Oh. Okay. Let me know if you need anything?
Mark: I'm good. Have fun.
He sets the phone down and immediately feels like an asshole. Logan was just being nice, just checking in, and Mark shut him down. Professional but cold, exactly the way he's been trained to be.
But maybe that's better. Maybe distance is what they both need, especially now with Logan's extension making everything feel more permanent, more complicated.
Mark eats his room service, watches his video, and tries not to think about Logan somewhere in the city, probably charming waitstaff and making Vlasky laugh too loud.
Tries not to wish he was there.
-
Game day in New York is electric in a way only MSG can be. The building's practically sacred, decades of hockey history soaked into the ice, and playing here always feels like something special. Even after fifteen seasons, Mark still gets a little thrill stepping onto this ice.
The pregame routine is familiar and comforting. Tape, stretch, meeting, warmups. Mark's shoulder feels good, not perfect, but good enough. The trainers cleared him with minimal fussing, just the usual warnings about taking it easy, about pulling back if something feels wrong.
Mark has no intention of pulling back.
The game itself is exactly what he needed. A fast and physical matinee, New York testing Mark immediately to see if he's really back. He takes a hit in the first period that jars his shoulder, pain flaring bright, but he stays on his feet and delivers a hit right back. Establishes that he's not fragile, that he's still the wall everyone needs him to be.
And Logan, God, Logan plays like he's trying to prove something. Fast, aggressive, taking chances that make Mark's heart jump into his throat. He draws a penalty in the first period, chirping a defenseman until the guy slashes him hard enough to draw the ref's attention. Mark's immediately there, getting between them, making it clear that touching Logan has consequences.
"Easy," Logan says, grinning up at him. "I'm fine."
"Stop running your mouth."
"That's like asking me to stop breathing, Callahan."
Despite himself, Mark's mouth twitches. "Just play smart."
The game ends 3-2 Carolina, Logan with two assists and Mark with a secondary on both. It's not flashy, but it's solid, exactly what his first game back should be. The room after is loud with celebration, everyone riding the high of stealing a win in New York.
"Good game, old man," Logan says, passing Mark on the way to the showers. His hair's damp with sweat, cheeks flushed, that bright smile splitting his face. "Welcome back."
"Thanks, kid."
Logan's smile softens just slightly, something private flickering in his expression, before he's pulled away by Vlasky demanding something in boxy English that Mark doesn't quite catch.
Later, after showers and media obligations, the team loads onto buses to head to a bar with a rooftop terrace that Oskar had apparently scouted earlier. "Team bonding," he calls it, though really it's just an excuse to celebrate the win and enjoy a rare night off in Manhattan.
The bar is exactly the kind of place Mark would normally avoid. But the whole team's going, and Mark's not about to be the only one who stays behind on his first game back.
The rooftop is stunning, Mark has to admit. Glass barriers line the edges, offering unobstructed views of the Manhattan skyline lit up against the night. Heat lamps keep the winter chill manageable, and there's a full bar in one corner that's already doing brisk business with his teammates.
Mark grabs a beer and immediately gravitates to the far edge of the roof, away from the main group. He can still see everyone, can hear Vlasky's laugh carrying across the space, can see Johan talking quietly with Kris, but there's distance. Space to breathe.
The city spreads out before him, endless lights in every direction. Mark's played in a lot of cities over his career, but New York always hits different. The energy, the scale, the sense of possibility. It makes him feel small in a way that's almost comforting, like his problems are just tiny blips in the vast sprawl of buildings.
"Pretty view."
Mark turns to find Logan beside him, hands shoved in the pockets of his joggers. He's wearing a loose long sleeve, the fabric clinging to his shoulders and chest in a way that makes Mark's mouth go dry. His hair's still damp from his shower, curling slightly at the ends, and he's got that easy smile playing at his lips.
"Yeah," Mark manages. "It is."
Logan moves to stand beside him, close enough that Mark can smell his soap, that faint scent of his cologne and something clean that Mark's memorized without meaning to. They stand in silence for a moment, looking out at the city, and Mark's hyperaware of every inch of space between them.
"Do you ever wonder," Logan says quietly, voice almost lost under the noise of the bar behind them, "who you'd be if you didn't put on skates at five years old?"
The question catches Mark off guard. He looks at Logan, finds him staring out at the skyline with an expression that's more thoughtful than Mark usually sees on him. Vulnerable in a way that makes Mark's chest tighten.
"Sometimes," Mark admits. "Late at night. When my body's reminding me what fifteen years in the NHL costs."
"What do you think you'd be?"
Mark considers this. "I don't know. My mom wanted me to go to university. Study something practical. Probably would've ended up in some office job, miserable but stable."
"You don't seem like an office job kind of guy."
"No?" Mark's mouth quirks slightly. "What kind of guy do I seem like?"
Logan's quiet for a moment, and Mark can feel him thinking, choosing his words. "The kind who needs something to fight for. Who doesn't know what to do with himself when there's no battle to win."
It's so accurate it steals Mark's breath. He stares at Logan, at the sharp line of his profile against the city lights, and wonders how this kid, this loud, reckless kid he'd dismissed six months ago, can read him so easily.
"What about you?" Mark asks, deflecting. "Who would Logan Hayes be without hockey?"
Logan huffs something that might be a laugh. "Probably exactly what my mom wanted. College degree, boring job, white picket fence, two point five kids." He pauses. "Definitely married to a woman who makes really good midwestern casseroles."
There's something in his voice, something sad and resigned, that makes Mark's chest constrict. "That doesn't sound like you."
"No," Logan agrees quietly. "It doesn't."
The confession hangs between them, weighted with meaning Mark doesn't dare examine too closely. They fall silent again, standing side by side at the edge of the roof, the party continuing behind them like they're in their own bubble.
Mark's aware of how close Logan is. Could reach out and touch him with barely any effort. Could close that last bit of distance that's been driving him crazy for months. Instead, he grips his beer bottle harder and stares at the skyline.
"I'm glad you're back," Logan says suddenly. "Out there tonight... it felt right. Having you on the ice."
"Felt right to be back."
"Yeah?" Logan shifts slightly, and suddenly they're even closer. Mark can see the way Logan's throat moves when he swallows, can count the individual freckles scattered across his collarbone where the tee dips low. "I missed it. Having you there."
Mark's heart hammers against his ribs. This is dangerous territory, words that sound too much like confession, too much like wanting. He should step back. Should rebuild the distance. Should-
Logan's hand moves, just slightly, fingers brushing against Mark's forearm where it rests on the glass barrier. The touch is light, barely there, could be accidental. Except Logan's eyes are on Mark's face, watching his reaction with an intensity that steals Mark's breath.
"Logan," Mark says, voice rough. A warning. A plea. He's not sure which.
"Mark-"
"Hayes! Callahan!" Vlasky's voice cuts through the moment like a knife. "Come! We are taking photo for Instagram! Team photo!"
They spring apart. Mark turns to see Vlasky waving at them from across the roof, half the team already clustered around him for the picture. There's nothing suspicious in Vlasky's expression, just his usual enthusiasm, but Mark's heart is racing like he's been caught doing something forbidden.
"We should-" Logan starts.
"Yeah." Mark's already moving, putting distance between them before anyone can notice how close they were standing. Before anyone can see the way his hands are shaking.
They join the group for the photo, Mark positioning himself carefully on the opposite end from Logan. But even with half the team between them, Mark can feel Logan's presence like a physical thing, hyperaware of every movement, every breath.
The photo takes forever, Vlasky insisting on multiple angles, Mitch making everyone laugh, the usual chaos. By the time they're done, Mark's wound so tight he might snap. He makes his excuses, claims exhaustion from his first game back, and heads down to catch a cab back to the hotel.
In the elevator, alone finally, Mark leans against the wall and tries to catch his breath. Logan's fingers on his arm. The look in his eyes. The weight of almost that hangs between them heavier than anything Mark's ever carried.
This is spiraling out of control. Has been spiraling for weeks, but tonight he nearly snapped completely. If Vlasky hadn't interrupted-
Mark doesn't let himself finish that thought. Just rides the elevator down and tries not to think about what might have happened on that rooftop if they'd had five more minutes alone.
-
Philadelphia is cold and hostile in the way only Philly can be. The crowd is notoriously brutal, and playing here always feels like going to war. Mark's shoulder is sore from the New York game, but he's not about to admit it to anyone. Not when they're one game away from Pittsburgh, one game away from the end of this road trip that's been testing him in ways that have nothing to do with hockey.
The game itself is ugly. Physical, nasty, both teams taking liberties. Logan gets caught in a scrum in front of the net midway through the first period, and Mark's immediately there, pulling him out, getting between him and three Flyers who are looking for someone to hit.
"I'm fine," Logan says, but there's heat in his eyes when he looks at Mark. Not anger, something else. Something that makes Mark's stomach flip.
They win 2-1 in a game that feels more like a fight than hockey. Mark takes three hard hits and delivers twice as many, his shoulder screaming by the third period but holding together. Logan gets an assist but spends more time battling in the corners than showing off his skill, exactly the kind of game that builds character but leaves everyone bruised.
In the locker room after, the mood is subdued despite the win. Everyone's sore, tired, ready to be done with this trip. Coach gives a brief speech about grinding out victories, about the character this team has, then dismisses them to shower.
Mark's unlacing his skates when Logan drops onto the bench beside him.
"Your shoulder okay?" Logan asks quietly.
"Fine."
"Mark-"
"It's fine." Mark looks up, finds Logan watching him with concern that makes his chest tight. "Really. Just sore."
Logan doesn't look convinced, but he nods slowly. "Okay. But if it's not-"
"I'll tell the trainers." It's a lie. They both know it's a lie. But Logan lets it slide, just sits there for a moment longer before heading to the showers.
Mark watches him go, tracking the line of his shoulders, the way he moves even when he's tired and sore.
The hotel in Philadelphia is nice but impersonal, the kind of place built for business travelers and visiting sports teams. Mark's room is on the eighth floor, identical to every other hotel room he's stayed in over fifteen years. Beige walls, generic art, a bed that's comfortable but not quite right.
He showers, letting the hot water work on his shoulder, and tries not to think about tomorrow. Pittsburgh. The last game of the trip. Then back to Raleigh where maybe distance will be easier, where maybe the familiar routine will help him rebuild these walls that keep crumbling around Logan.
He's just pulled on sweatpants when someone knocks on his door.

Chapter Text

Logan stands in the hallway outside Mark's hotel room for a full minute before he finally knocks.
His hand is shaking. His heart's hammering so hard he can feel it in his throat. Every rational part of his brain is screaming at him to turn around, go back to his own room, pretend this never happened.
But he can't. Can't keep doing this. Can't keep lying awake at night replaying every moment, every look, every almost. Can't keep pretending he doesn't feel what he feels, doesn't want what he wants.
The rooftop had been the breaking point. Ink on his contract fresh, a weight off his shoulders. Standing there with Mark against the backdrop of the city, close enough to touch, Mark's voice going soft when he said felt right to be back. The way Mark had looked at him when Logan's fingers brushed his arm, breath catching, like he wanted to close the distance just as badly as Logan did.
And then Vlasky had interrupted, and the moment shattered, and Mark had pulled away like he'd been burned.
Logan had watched Mark leave the bar early, watched him disappear into a cab, and something in his chest had cracked open. Because he's tired. Tired of wanting. Tired of wondering. Tired of this careful dance they've been doing for months where neither of them will say what they both know.
Straight men don't look at you like that.
The thought had been there since New Year's Eve, growing louder every day. He reexamined everything. In the equipment room when Mark's hand lingered on his face. In the press box in Columbus. Christmas Eve. On that rooftop when Mark's eyes dropped to his mouth for just a fraction of a second.
Mark wants him. Logan's almost certain. Almost.
And that almost is what finally pushed him out of his room and down the hall, because he needs to know. Needs to stop living in this agonizing space of possibility and find out if the thing that's been consuming him for months is real or just wishful thinking.
If Mark opens this door and tells him to leave, at least Logan will know. At least he can stop hoping. Even if it ruins everything.
Because if Mark doesn't….
The door opens.
Mark's standing there in sweatpants and nothing else, hair damp from a shower, and the sight of him steals Logan's breath. Broad shoulders, the dark hair scattered across his chest, the way the sweatpants sit low on his hips. The scar at the corner of his mouth that Logan's catalogued a hundred times.
"Logan?" Mark's voice is rough, confused. "What-"
"Can I come in?" Logan interrupts, because if he doesn't do this now, he'll lose his nerve.
Mark's jaw tightens. For a second Logan thinks he's going to say no, going to close the door, going to end this before it begins. But then Mark steps back, holding the door open.
Logan walks in, and Mark closes the door behind him. The lock clicks into place, too loud in the quiet room.
"What's wrong?" Mark asks, keeping distance between them.
"Nothing's wrong." Logan's pacing now, restless energy he can't contain. "I just... I couldn't sleep. Keep thinking about-" He stops, runs a hand through his hair. "About everything."
Mark stays by the door, watching him with an expression Logan can't read. "Logan-"
"Do you feel it?" The words burst out of Logan before he can stop them. "This thing between us? Or am I completely insane?"
Mark goes very still. "Logan, you can't-"
"I need to know." Logan turns to face him fully, and he knows he must look desperate, frantic, but he can't help it. "Because I've been going crazy trying to figure out if I'm imagining it. If I'm reading into things that aren't there. If I'm just so fucked up that I'm projecting onto the one person who-"
"You're not imagining it."
The words cut through Logan's spiral like a blade. He freezes, staring at Mark, not quite believing what he just heard.
"What?"
"You're not imagining it," Mark repeats, quieter now. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides. "You're not insane. You're not projecting."
Logan's heart stops before hammering back to life so hard it hurts.
"Mark," he breathes.
And then he's moving, crossing the distance between them in three steps, and Mark's meeting him halfway. They collide in the middle of the room, mouths crashing together with months of pent-up want finally breaking free.
It's not gentle. Not careful. Logan kisses Mark like he's been starving for this, and Mark kisses back just as desperately. Mark's hands come up to frame Logan's face, holding him like something precious, and Logan's fingers twist in Mark's damp hair, pulling him closer, closer, never close enough.
Logan's backed against the wall suddenly, doesn't remember moving, doesn't care. Mark's body is solid against his, all muscle and heat, and Logan can feel him, feel how much Mark wants this, wants him. The knowledge sends electricity down his spine.
"God," Logan gasps when they break apart for air. "Mark-"
Mark kisses him again, harder this time, swallowing whatever Logan was about to say. His hands slide down Logan's sides, grip his hips through his joggers, and Logan's whole body ignites.
"We shouldn't-" Mark's saying between kisses, even as his hands tighten on Logan's hips. "This is-we can’t do this"
"I don't care." Logan yanks Mark's head back gently by his hair, meets his eyes. Mark's pupils are blown wide, lips swollen, and he looks wrecked already. "I don't care. I need this. I need you. Just one time, get you out of my system"
Mark's control visibly snaps. He surges forward, kissing Logan with bruising intensity, and Logan gives as good as he gets. Their tongues slide together, hot and demanding, and Logan feels like he's flying apart at the seams.
Mark's hands slip under Logan's tank top, palms hot against bare skin, and Logan arches into the touch. He can feel every callus, every scar, Mark's hands rough from years of fighting but so careful as they map Logan's ribs, his chest, his shoulders.
"Off," Mark growls against his mouth, tugging at the tank top.
Logan pulls back just enough to yank it over his head, and then Mark's mouth is on his neck, his collarbone, his chest. Logan's head falls back against the wall, breath coming in sharp gasps as Mark works his way down his body.
"Fuck, Mark," Logan's fingers thread through Mark's hair again, not pulling, just holding on. Just needing to ground himself in this moment."Please,"
Mark's hands are on the waistband of his joggers now, and Logan's hips buck involuntarily at the thought of where this is going. Mark looks up at him, eyes dark and asking permission, and Logan nods frantically.
"Yes. God, yes. Please."
Mark pulls his joggers and boxers down in one motion, and Logan kicks them off, and then he's completely bare under Mark's gaze. He should feel vulnerable, exposed, but the way Mark's looking at him, like he's something precious, like he's everything Mark's ever wanted, makes Logan feel powerful instead.
"You're so fucking beautiful," Mark says, voice rough with want, and then his hand wraps around Logan and Logan's vision whites out.
The sensation is overwhelming, Mark's hand, warm and sure, the calluses adding friction that makes Logan's knees buckle. Mark's other arm comes around his waist, holding him up, supporting him, and Logan thinks he might die from how good this feels.
"Mark, " Logan can barely get the word out. "I want, can I, "
"Tell me," Mark says, and his voice is wrecked. "Tell me what you want."
"You." Logan's hands are on Mark's shoulders, his chest, everywhere he can reach. "I want you."
Mark groans like the words physically hurt him. He releases Logan long enough to strip off his own sweatpants, and then they're both naked, skin to skin, and it's so much better than Logan's imagination could ever conjure.
They stumble toward the bed, mouths fused together, hands everywhere. Mark's careful of his shoulder even now, even in the middle of this, and something about that mixed with the desperation makes Logan's chest ache.
They fall onto the bed together, Logan on his back, Mark above him. For a moment they just stare at each other, breathing hard, the reality of what they're doing settling over them.
"Are you sure?" Mark asks, and his voice is gentle despite the want burning in his eyes. "Logan, if you're not-"
"I'm sure." Logan pulls Mark down for another kiss, softer this time.
What follows is frantic and messy and perfect. Mark's mouth is everywhere, Logan's neck, his chest, down his stomach, and Logan's making sounds he didn't know he could make. When Mark finally takes him in his mouth, Logan's back arches off the bed, one hand fisting in the sheets, the other in Mark's hair.
"Fuck, fuck, Mark" Logan can't form coherent sentences. Can't think beyond the sensation of Mark's mouth, hot and perfect, taking him apart piece by piece.
Mark lays his forearm across Logan’s torso, trying to keep his hips still and Logan can’t handle it. He can feel every muscle clenching.
Mark pulls off for just a second, lips swollen and shining, eyes bright. "Let go," he says. "I've got you."
The words break something in him. He lets go, of control, of fear, of all the careful walls he’s built.. Lets Mark take him apart piece by piece until he's coming with Mark's name on his lips, everything narrowing down to pleasure so intense it borders on pain.
Mark gentles him through it, soft and careful, and when Logan finally comes back to himself, Mark's crawling back up his body to kiss him. Logan can taste himself on Mark's tongue, bitter and somehow perfect.
Logan's hands are on Mark now, finally getting to touch him the way he's wanted to for months. Mark's body is a map of violence and survival, a bruise dancing across his ribs, a small one on his shoulder, faded marks from surgeries. Logan traces each one with shaking fingers, commits them to memory.
When Logan wraps his hand around Mark, Mark's hips jerk forward, a low groan tearing from his throat. Logan works him slowly, watching Mark's face transform, the careful control cracking, the vulnerability underneath, the way Mark's eyes squeeze shut like the pleasure is too much.
"Look at me," Logan says softly.
Mark's eyes open, dark and desperate, and they stare at each other as Logan brings him closer to the edge. Mark's breathing is ragged, his good hand gripping Logan's hip hard enough to bruise, and Logan's never seen anything more beautiful.
"Logan-" Mark's voice breaks. "I'm-"
"Let go," Logan says, echoing Mark's words from earlier. "I've got you."
Mark comes with Logan's name on his lips, spilling hot between them. They cling to each other as he rides it out, mouths pressed together, breathing in sync.
When they finally come down, Mark collapses beside Logan, careful not to jar his shoulder. They lie there in the tangle of sheets, chests heaving, bodies sticky with sweat and release.
Logan turns his head to look at Mark. Mark's eyes are closed, expression unguarded in a way Logan's never seen. The perpetual tension is gone from his shoulders, his jaw. He looks younger. Softer.
Happy.
"Mark," Logan says quietly.
Mark's eyes open, find Logan's. For a long moment they just look at each other, the weight of what just happened settling between them.
"Yeah," Mark says finally, like Logan asked a question.
Logan shifts closer, careful of Mark's shoulder, and tucks himself against Mark's side. Mark's arm comes around him automatically, holding him close, and Logan feels something in his chest unfold.
This. This is what he's been missing. Not just the physical release, though that was incredible, but this. The intimacy. The rightness of being held by someone who sees him and wants him anyway.
They lie there in silence for a long time, just breathing together, the hotel room quiet around them.
But gradually, reality starts seeping back in.
Logan becomes aware of the time, nearly two in the morning. Becomes aware that they have a game tomorrow in Pittsburgh. Becomes aware that they're teammates who just crossed a line that can't be uncrossed.
Becomes aware that someone might have heard them.
The thought sends ice through his veins. Logan sits up abruptly, heart suddenly racing for entirely different reasons.
"Shit," he breathes. "Shit, shit, shit."
Mark sits up too, instantly alert. "What? What's wrong?"
"We-" Logan gestures between them, panic rising in his throat. "We just– in a hotel full of our teammates, what if someone heard? What if someone saw me come to your room? What if-"
"Logan." Mark's hand on his shoulder stops the spiral. "Breathe. Just breathe."
Logan tries. Fails. His chest is too tight, his mind racing through every worst-case scenario. "This could ruin everything. My contract, your career, the team-"
"I know." Mark's voice is steady, grounding. "I know all of that. But panicking doesn't help."
"How are you so calm?" Logan stares at him. "We just….we crossed every line. If anyone finds out-"
"No one's going to find out." Mark's grip on his shoulder tightens. "Not if we're careful."
The words land heavy. Careful. Which means hiding. Which means pretending this didn't happen. Which means going back to that agonizing distance but now with the memory of this between them.
Logan's chest aches.
"I should go," he says, even though everything in him is screaming to stay. "I should. it's late. We have a game tomorrow. I should-"
He's scrambling for his clothes, yanking on his boxers and joggers with shaking hands. Mark's watching him, something unreadable in his expression.
"Logan, wait-"
"I'll see you tomorrow." Logan pulls his tank top over his head. "For the game. I'll– we'll be fine. Professional. No one will know."
He's at the door before Mark can respond, hand on the handle, and then he freezes.
What if someone's in the hallway? What if Vlasky or Mitch or anyone sees him leaving Mark's room at two in the morning?
“I don’t regret this.” Mark’s voice rises behind him, shaky but firm. He almost sounds tired. Logan just freezes, can’t form the words.
"Look through the peephole first," Mark says quietly from the bed. Like he knows exactly what Logan's thinking instead.
Logan does. The hallway's empty. He opens the door as quietly as possible, slips out, and lets it close behind him with a soft click.
He makes it three steps before he hears voices.
Logan's heart stops. He darts for the stairwell, pushing through the door just as he hears Vlasky's distinctive laugh coming around the corner. He stands there in the stairwell, breathing hard, heart hammering, listening to Vlasky and Mitch pass by in the hallway.
"-cannot believe you ate entire pizza-" Vlasky's saying, voice getting fainter.
"It was good pizza!"
"Was sixteen slices, Mitch"
Their voices fade as they head in the opposite direction. Logan waits until he can't hear them anymore before slipping back into the hallway and practically sprinting to his own room.
Once inside with the door locked, Logan collapses against it, sliding down until he's sitting on the floor.
What did he just do?
The panic that had started in Mark's room crashes over him in full force. He just had sex with his teammate. In a hotel full of other teammates. With a game tomorrow. With his career on the line, his brand-new contract barely dry.
But underneath the panic, there's something else. Something warm and right and perfect that he can't ignore no matter how terrified he is.
Because it was Mark. And it was real. And it was everything Logan's been wanting for months but was too afraid to reach for.
Mark had looked at him like he hung the moon. Had touched him like he was precious. Had said you're so fucking beautiful with such reverence that Logan's chest had ached. Logan can feel where his hand had been gripping his hip, sure that he’s going to have a bruise in the shape of Mark’s fingers.
Logan pulls out his phone with shaking hands. No messages. No missed calls. The team group chat is quiet. If Vlasky or Mitch had seen anything, they would've said something by now, right?
Or maybe they wouldn't. Maybe they'd wait until morning. Maybe they'd tell Coach first. Maybe-
Logan forces himself to breathe. Mark said no one would find out if they're careful. Which means they can't do that again. Can't risk it. Can't-
He sets his phone down and finally drags himself off the floor. His body feels heavy, exhausted, wrung out in the best and worst ways. He strips off his clothes, pulls on fresh boxers, and collapses into bed.
Sleep should be impossible. His mind's still racing, still cataloguing every touch, every kiss, every moment from Mark's room. Still calculating risks and worst-case scenarios and what happens next.
But exhaustion wins. Logan's eyes close, and despite everything, he falls asleep with the ghost of Mark's touch still burning on his skin.
Logan wakes to his alarm six hours later feeling like he got hit by a truck.
For one blissful moment, he doesn't remember. Just registers that his body aches, that his mouth tastes like sleep and bad decisions.
Then it all crashes back.
Mark. The hotel room. The sex. The panic. Nearly getting caught by Vlasky and Mitch.
"Oh god," Logan groans into his pillow.
He has to face Mark today. Has to face the entire team. Has to get on a bus, play a game in Pittsburgh, pretend last night didn't fundamentally change everything.
His phone shows three texts. Two from Vlasky asking if Logan wants to grab breakfast, one from Oskar about the game-day schedule. Nothing from Mark.
Logan responds to Vlasky with a quick yeah, be down in 20 and forces himself into the shower.
The hot water helps clear his head, but it also makes him hyperaware of every mark on his body. A faint bruise on his hip where Mark's fingers dug in. Beard burn on his neck that Logan has to make sure his shirt collar covers. The pleasant looseness in his spine.
Evidence. All evidence that has to be hidden.
Logan dresses carefully, jeans, a hoodie with a high collar, his game-day suit folded in his garment bag. Checks himself in the mirror three times to make sure nothing shows. Takes a deep breath.
He can do this. He's been performing his whole life. This is just another role.
The hotel restaurant is busy with teammates when Logan walks in. He spots Vlasky immediately, waving him over to a table with Mitch and a couple of the younger guys.
"Hazy! I miss you at dinner" Vlasky announces cheerfully.
"Thanks, V. Love you too." Logan slides into a seat and reaches for the coffee pot like it's a lifeline.
"Late night?" Mitch asks around a mouthful of eggs.
Logan's heart jumps. "What?"
"Just asking. You look tired." Mitch shrugs. "Thought maybe you couldn't sleep or something."
"Oh. Yeah. Just... nerves about the game, I guess." It's not entirely a lie. Logan is nervous about the game. Just not for the usual reasons.
"Pittsburgh is tough building," Vlasky agrees. "But we will win. We are playing good hockey now, yes?"
The conversation shifts to game strategy, line matchups, Pittsburghs' defensive structure. Logan contributes when expected but mostly just drinks his coffee and tries not to scan the restaurant for Mark.
He doesn't have to scan. Mark walks in five minutes later with Johan and Kris, and Logan's body reacts before his brain can stop it. Heat floods his chest, his stomach flips, and he has to look away quickly before anyone notices.
But not before he catches Mark's eye. Just for a second. Just long enough to see Mark's careful neutrality slip for a fraction of a moment, something heated and private flickering across his expression before the mask slides back into place.
No one else seems to notice. The conversation at Logan's table continues without interruption. Vlasky's gesturing wildly about something, nearly knocking over Mitch's orange juice.
Logan forces himself to eat even though his stomach's in knots. Forces himself to laugh at Vlasky's jokes, to chirp Mitch, to be the version of Logan Hayes everyone expects.
But he's hyperaware of Mark three tables away. Can feel Mark's presence like a physical thing even without looking. Wonders if Mark slept at all, if Mark's thinking about last night, if Mark regrets-
No. Mark said no regrets.
Logan holds onto that through breakfast, through the team meeting, through loading onto the bus for the short drive to Pittsburgh. He ends up near the back with Vlasky as usually, who's already half-napping against the window.
Mark's near the front with the other alternate captains and Oskar. Professional distance. Exactly what they need.
Pittsburgh's arena is loud and hostile in exactly the way Logan expected. The game itself is brutal, physical, fast, both teams fighting for playoff positioning. Logan takes three hard hits in the first period alone and delivers just as many back.
And every time he glances at the bench, Mark's watching.
Not obviously. Not in a way anyone else would notice. But Logan can feel it, that steady attention that's been there since training camp but feels different now. Weighted with knowledge, with memory, with want.
Logan scores in the second period, a quick wrist shot that beats the goalie glove-side. The celebration is muted, they're still down 2-1, but when Logan skates past the bench for fist bumps, Mark's hand lingers just a fraction too long.
No one notices. Why would they? It's just teammates celebrating a goal.
But Logan feels it burn all the way through his glove.
They lose 3-2, a hard-fought game that slips away in the final minutes. The locker room after is quiet, everyone exhausted and frustrated. Coach gives a brief speech about effort and execution, reminds them they've got two days off before their next game after they get home, then dismisses them to shower.
Logan strips out of his gear mechanically, his body aching, his mind elsewhere. He can feel hear Mark talking to media across the room but doesn't let himself look. Can't risk it. Not here. Not now.
In the shower, Logan lets the hot water work on his sore muscles and tries not to think about last night. About Mark's hands, Mark's mouth, the way Mark had looked at him like he was something precious.
Fails completely.
By the time he's dressed and ready to leave, Logan's wound tight again, that same restless energy from last night building in his chest. He needs to talk to Mark. Needs to figure out what happens next.
"Hazy, you coming?" Vlasky appears beside his stall, game-day suit on, hair still damp.
"Where?"
"Bus. We leave in five minutes. You are staring at wall like is most interesting thing you ever seen."
Logan blinks, realizes he's been staring at nothing while the locker room empties around him. "Yeah. Sorry. Just tired."
"Is okay. Was tough game." Vlasky claps his shoulder. "Come. We go home, we rest, we win next time."
Logan follows him out to the bus, and tries not to notice Mark already in his seat near the front. Tries not to think about tonight, about tomorrow, about how they're supposed to navigate this thing between them that neither of them can name.
The bus ride to the airport is quiet, everyone exhausted. Logan stares out the window and counts down the minutes until they're back in Raleigh, back to some semblance of routine where maybe he can think clearly.
But first he has to survive sitting on this bus, breathing the same air as Mark, pretending last night didn't happen.
Pretending he doesn't want it to happen again.
His phone buzzes. Logan checks it carefully, angling the screen away from Vlasky who's dozing beside him.
Mark: We need to talk. When we get back.
Logan's heart hammers. He types back quickly.
Logan: I know. Your place?
Mark: Tomorrow afternoon. After practice.
Logan: Okay.
He locks his phone and leans his head back against the seat. Tomorrow afternoon. They have almost twenty-four hours to figure out what to say to each other, how to navigate this without destroying everything they've both worked for.
Twenty-four hours to figure out if what happened in Philadelphia was a one-time thing. If either of them believed one time would get it out of their system.
Twenty-four hours to decide if the risk is worth it.
Logan closes his eyes and tries to rest, but all he can think about is Mark saying he didn’t regret it.
All he can think about is how much he wants to hear Mark say it again.

Chapter Text

Mark doesn't sleep after Logan leaves.
He lies in the dark hotel room, staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment. Logan's hands in his hair. The desperate way he’d said his name. The taste of Logan on his tongue. The sound Logan had made when Mark took him apart.
And then the panic. The way Logan had scrambled for his clothes, eyes wide with fear. The door clicking shut behind him, leaving Mark alone with the echo of his voice.
His body feels like it’s bracing to be crushed into the boards.
He'd known this would be complicated. Had known from the moment Logan knocked on his door that crossing this line would change everything. He’d run the situation at lightspeed in his mind and before he’d really decided it, Logan’s lips were under his. But he hadn't expected the hollow feeling that settled in after Logan left, like something vital had been ripped away.
I don't regret this, he'd said. And he doesn't. Can't. Not when Logan had looked at him like that, touched him like that, said his name like a prayer.
But regret and consequence are different things.
Mark rolls onto his side, winces when his shoulder protests. The injury's healing, but moments like this remind him it's not fully healed. Might never be. His body's doing its best and now he's added this impossible desire to the list of things slowly destroying him.
Because it wasn't just physical. That's what terrifies him most. If it had been just sex, just scratching an itch, Mark could compartmentalize it. Could file it away with all the other brief encounters he's had over the years.
But Logan had fit against him like he belonged there. Had looked at Mark with such trust, such want, that Mark's carefully constructed walls crumbled.
And then he'd run.
Mark closes his eyes and tries to sleep. Fails. His mind won't shut off, cataloguing every touch, every sound, the exact way Logan's breath had caught when Mark-
His phone buzzes on the nightstand.
Mark reaches for it, heart jumping. Maybe Logan couldn't sleep either. Maybe he wants to talk about it now instead of waiting.
But it's not Logan. It's Sarah.
Sarah: Can't sleep. Thinking about Mom. Miss her more this time of year.
Sarah: Sorry. Don't mean to dump on you. Ignore me.
Mark stares at the messages, throat tight. His mom. Who'd wanted him to be happy. Who'd told him in those final hospital days that life was too short to spend it afraid.
Mark: I'm awake. I miss her too.
They text back and forth for a while, trading memories. It’s one of the longest conversations they’ve had in years. Eventually Sarah says goodnight, and Mark's alone again with his thoughts.
He finally falls into fitful sleep somewhere around four, dreams full of Logan's hands and the click of a door closing.
Morning comes too early. Mark drags himself through breakfast, through the bus ride to the arena, through the game, through the bus, through the flight home. He sits with Johan and Kris on the bus to the airport as he always does but he can feel Logan so clearly in behind him it’s as if his hand is resting on his shoulder. He can’t handle the way they left it, he’ll drive himself insane. He pulls out his phone and stares at Logan's name in his contacts. They need to talk. Need to figure this out before it spirals further. Mark types out the message before he can second-guess it.
Mark: We need to talk. When we get back.
Logan's response comes less than a minute later.
Logan: I know. Your place?
Mark: Tomorrow afternoon. After practice.
Logan: Okay.
Mark sets his phone down and tries not to count the hours until tomorrow.
When he gets home his house is cold and empty when he walks in. Mark drops his bag by the door and heads straight for the shower, letting the hot water work on his sore muscles. His shoulder's protesting from yesterday's game, that deep ache that means he pushed too hard.
Mark dries off, pulls on sweatpants, and collapses on his couch. He should eat. Should do laundry. Should prepare for practice tomorrow. Instead he just falls into bed and crashes.
Practice the next day is brutal in a way that Mark is craving. Coach works them hard, running through systems, making them pay for the loss. Mark's shoulder screams by the end, but it holds.
Logan's on the ice, fast and sharp, playing like nothing's wrong. They run through drills together, their chemistry still there, that automatic understanding. Professional. Exactly what they need. But Mark catches Logan watching him during water breaks. Catches the way Logan's gaze lingers just a fraction too long. In the locker room after, Mark showers quickly. He's toweling off his hair when Johan approaches.
"You okay?" Johan asks quietly.
Mark's heart stutters. "Yeah. Why?"
Johan's pale eyes are too perceptive. "Just checking in on a friend."
"I’m good," Mark says quietly.
Johan studies him for a long moment, then nods slowly. "Alright. But you know you can talk to me. About anything." The emphasis on anything isn't subtle. Mark wonders exactly how much Johan knows. How much he's guessed.
"I know," Mark says. Johan claps his shoulder and moves on. Mark finishes packing his bag, hyperaware of Logan across the room doing the same. They haven't spoken directly since the plane outside on the ice. Just this careful avoidance that's probably more suspicious than acting normal would be. Mark leaves first, heading out to his truck. Sits there for a moment, hands on the steering wheel, trying to steady his breathing.
Logan's coming over.
The drive home feels endless. Mark unlocks the front door, drops his bag, does a quick scan of the house. Clean enough. Mark paces. Makes coffee he doesn't drink. Sits on the couch, stands, sits again. When the doorbell finally rings, Mark's heart leaps into his throat.
He opens the door to find Logan standing there in joggers and a Copperheads hoodie, hands shoved in his pockets. But despite the nervous energy radiating off him, Logan's mouth quirks into that familiar half-smile. Not his carefully placed grin but his real smile.
"Hi," Logan says.
"Hey." Mark steps back. "Come in."
Logan walks past him into the house, and Mark closes the door. Locks it. The click sound echos. They stand in the entryway, several feet of charged space between them. Logan's looking around, taking in Mark's house, the sparse furniture, the team photos on the walls.
“Nice place,” Logan says, stepping further inside. His voice echoes faintly in the stillness of the house. Then, with a slight grin that pulls at one corner of his mouth, he adds, “Very you. Minimalist.”
Despite himself, Mark’s mouth twitches. “You say that like it’s an insult.”
“Didn’t say that.” Logan’s tone is easy, teasing. But his eyes roam over the space, the clean lines, the absence of clutter, the careful order, and something softer flickers there, something like understanding.
“Want something to drink?” Mark asks, needing to move, to do something with his hands.
“Water’s good.”
He nods, gestures toward the kitchen. The quiet stretches between them, companionable but charged. Mark opens the fridge, grabs two bottles, the cold air spilling out against his bare forearms. He twists off the caps and holds one out to Logan.
Their fingers brush, barely a touch, fleeting, but it sends a current up Mark’s arm, sharp and alive. He pulls back faster than he means to.
Logan inhales too, a small, startled sound. For a moment, neither of them moves. The air between them seems to narrow, focus, like everything else in the room has fallen away.
When Logan finally meets his gaze, his eyes are darker than before, steady, searching, as if trying to decide whether to step closer or back away.
For a long moment, they just stare at each other.
“I don’t regret it,” Mark says, his voice softer than it’s ever been. It doesn’t sound like him, too raw, too honest, but he can’t take it back. He doesn’t want to. The words hang there, fragile but steady. He needs to say it again, to make sure Logan hears it, believes it. “I don’t regret it.”
Logan’s breath hitches. He sets his water down on the counter, the faint clink loud in the quiet of the apartment. “I don’t either,” he says after a moment, voice low. “I just…” His fingers rake through his hair, leaving it messier, his hand trembling just a little when he drops it back to his side. “I panicked, and I just… I’ve never done that before. Not with a guy.”
Mark’s blinks at him. “I didn’t know.”
“How could you?” Logan’s laugh is soft, unsteady, self-deprecating. “I’ve hidden it pretty well until now. Went out with girls. Did the whole thing. It was fine, good even, sometimes. The sex was okay.” He shakes his head, as if trying to shake loose the words. “But it never…” He looks up then, meeting Mark’s eyes. “It never felt like that.”
The silence that follows feels different, charged. Alive.
Mark moves before he can second-guess it. A step, then another, until the air between them is gone. His hands come up, almost reverent, fingers brushing against the line of Logan’s jaw before settling on his face. The warmth of his skin seeps into Mark’s palms. Logan exhales, the sound shaky, and leans into the touch. His eyes flutter closed.
For a long moment, they just stand there, breathing the same air, the world narrowing to the space between them. Mark can feel Logan’s pulse beneath his fingertips, quick and uneven.
“What are we doing, Mark?” Logan asks at last, his voice barely more than a whisper. But there’s no fear in it now, just curiosity. Maybe anticipation. The kind of question that feels less like doubt and more like invitation.
Mark’s thumbs move slowly, tracing the edges of Logan’s cheekbones like he’s memorizing them. The contact feels fragile, dangerous, necessary. “I don’t know,” he admits, the words rough in his throat. It sounds like confession, like surrender. “But I know I want you.”
Logan’s eyes open, blue, bright, and startlingly clear, and for a moment, Mark forgets how to breathe. The corner of Logan’s mouth lifts. “Yeah?”
Mark nods, the movement small, careful. “Yeah.”
Something in Logan eases. His shoulders drop; the tension in his jaw melts. “Good,” he says, and the grin that breaks over his face is sudden and brilliant, like sunlight through storm clouds. It hits Mark square in the chest.
Mark doesn’t think. He just moves, closing the last inch between them, tilting his head, catching the curve of that grin with his mouth.
The kiss starts tentative, almost hesitant, like they’re both testing the reality of it. Logan’s lips are soft, warm, familiar in a way that feels impossible.
Then Logan exhales against him, and something shifts, something hungry and unguarded sparking to life. His hand finds the back of Mark’s neck, fingers curling in, pulling him closer. Mark goes easily, one hand sliding to Logan’s jaw, the other to his waist, steadying them both as the kiss deepens.
The world narrows to touch and breath and the quiet sound of it, the soft catch of air, the low hum in Logan’s throat. Every rational thought dissolves until there’s only this: the press of lips, the slide of heat, the dizzying relief of finally giving in.
When they break apart, Logan’s still smiling against Mark’s lips, breathless, eyes bright. “You got a bedroom in this big house?” he murmurs.
Mark just nods. Words would come out wrong anyway. He takes Logan’s hand, steady, certain, and leads him down the hall.
His room isn’t much. The bed’s unmade, sheets still rumpled from that morning, light from the afternoon sun spilling in through the half-drawn blinds. Logan doesn’t seem to care. He tugs Mark closer by the front of his shirt until they fall onto the mattress together, laughing softly when it dips beneath their weight.
Mark braces himself above him, heart pounding hard enough that he’s sure Logan can feel it. For a moment they just look at each other, so close that Mark can see the faint stubble on Logan’s jaw, the way his pupils have blown wide. Then Logan’s hands slide up, fingers curling at the back of Mark’s neck, pulling him down again.
The kiss starts slow, unhurried, the kind that’s about learning rather than taking. Logan’s lips are warm and sure. They fall into rhythm quickly, like they’ve done this a hundred times before, like their bodies already know the steps.
Mark’s hands move on instinct, up Logan’s sides, over the fabric of his shirt, tracing the lines of muscle beneath. Every small sound Logan makes, every breath, every quiet hum, goes straight through him, setting his nerves alight.
Logan shifts beneath him, fingers finding the hem of Mark’s shirt. His voice is low, a little rough. “Can I?”
Mark pulls back just far enough to see his face. Logan’s eyes are searching his, open and honest in a way that undoes him completely.
Mark nods once, slow. “Yeah.”
Logan exhales, something like relief flickering across his expression before he leans up and kisses him again, deeper this time, surer. Mark sits up enough to pull it over his head, then helps Logan do the same. Skin to skin feels electric. Mark takes his time now, kissing down Logan's neck, his chest, paying attention to the places that make Logan gasp. Taking his time to kiss every freckle he sees on his sternum.
"You're taking forever," Logan complains, but he's grinning, fingers threading through Mark's hair.
"Patience."
"Not one of my strengths." But Logan's breath hitches on the last word when Mark's mouth finds his nipple. Mark works his way down Logan's body, learning him, memorizing him. When he reaches the waistband of Logan's joggers, he looks up.
"Is this okay?"
"God yes." Logan lifts his hips eagerly.
What follows is slower than last time. Mark takes his time, drawing it out, paying attention to what makes Logan fall apart. Logan's hands fist in the sheets, in Mark's hair, his back arching as Mark works him over with lips and tongue.
"Mark, I'm gonna-" Logan's warning comes strangled.
Mark doesn't stop. Takes him through it, easing him through the aftershocks until Logan's pulling at his shoulders, oversensitive.
Mark crawls back up Logan's body, settling beside him. Logan's chest heaves, eyes glazed.
"That was…" Logan starts, then just laughs. "Yeah."
They lie there for a moment. Then Logan shifts, rolling to face Mark with determination in his eyes.
"My turn."
Before Mark can react, Logan's already moving, kissing down Mark's chest with focused intensity. His hands work at Mark's jeans, and Mark helps him, lifting his hips. Then Logan's settling between Mark's legs, and Mark's brain short-circuits.
"I've never-" Logan admits, looking uncertain but game. "I don't know if I'll be good at it"
"Hey." Mark reaches down, cups Logan's jaw, tilting his eyes up to meet his. "You don't have to."
"I want to." Logan's voice is firm despite his nervousness. "Just... tell me if I'm doing something wrong?"
Mark can’t speak when he’s looking at him like this, just nods.
Logan starts tentatively, and yeah, his inexperience shows a bit. But what he lacks in technique he makes up for in enthusiasm. Mark's hands fist in the sheets, trying to stay still.
"You can," Mark gasps. "Your hand, at the base–yeah, like that."
Logan follows instructions eagerly, adapting, learning. And the sight of him like this, blonde hair falling in his eyes, lips stretched around Mark, is almost enough on its own. When Mark comes, it's intense. Logan pulls off at the last second, hand working Mark through it, looking up at him with something like pride.
Afterward, Logan sits up quickly on the edge of the bed as Mark reaches for the tissues beside his bed to clean off his stomach. There's uncertainty creeping into his expression, that instinct to run obviously starting to build.
“No,” Mark says. His voice is low, rougher than he means it to be. He reaches for Logan before the space between them can grow, fingers curling around his wrist, pulling him gently back toward him. “Don’t.”
Logan stills, muscles tensing under Mark’s touch. His eyes flick up, wide and uncertain, caught somewhere between hesitation and hope.
“Logan,” Mark murmurs, a quiet exhale of his name. He shakes his head, a faint, helpless huff escaping him. “Just let me hold you.”
Something in Logan’s expression shifts at that, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders, replaced by something quieter. He hesitates for only a second before he gives in, melting against Mark’s chest.
Mark wraps his arms around him immediately, instinctive, protective. The movement feels natural, like his body already knows how Logan fits against him. They lie there for a long moment in the hush of the room, the only sound their breathing as it steadies, syncing without effort. Mark can feel the warmth of Logan’s skin against his, the faint thrum of his heartbeat pressed close to his own. Every small shift, every quiet inhale, feels impossibly intimate.
Mark’s hand moves slowly, tracing idle, looping patterns on Logan’s back. He doesn’t think about it; it’s just something to keep his hands from shaking. His fingers drift along the line of Logan’s spine, following the rhythm of his breathing.
Logan’s own hand finds its way to Mark’s chest, fingertips moving lightly over the skin there, tracing the edges of old scars with gentle curiosity. The touch isn’t pitying, it’s tender, deliberate, like he’s learning something sacred through touch alone.
Mark exhales, a long, steady breath. The weight of the moment settles around them, quiet but solid.
“I’m sorry,” Logan says after a while, voice muffled against Mark’s chest. “For running last night.”
Mark’s hand stills for a beat, then resumes its slow path. “It’s okay,” he says softly. And he means it, or at least, he wants to.
Logan shifts a little, tilting his head up so he can see Mark’s face. “You don’t have to say that.”
“I know,” Mark replies. He meets Logan’s gaze, his voice steadier now. “You were scared. I get it. It’s okay”
"It's not." Logan props himself up on one elbow, but he's smiling slightly. "You said you didn't regret it and I just... bailed. That was shitty."
Mark reaches up, tucks a strand of blonde hair behind Logan's ear. “You’re here now.”
Logan studies him for a long moment, then sighs and drops his head back to Mark’s shoulder. Mark feels the warmth of his breath against his collarbone, the slow rise and fall of his chest as he finally begins to relax.
"I'm still scared." Logan's thumb traces the center of Mark’s chest. "But I don't want to run this time"
"Then don't."
Logan’s quiet for a moment, his fingers tracing down Mark’s bad arm before finding Mark’s had. He hesitates, then threads their hands together, the simple contact grounding and electric all at once as their intertwined hands rest on Mark’s chest.
“So what is this?” he asks softly. “What are we doing?”
Mark doesn’t answer right away. The question hangs there, heavy in the dim light. He stares at their joined hands, thumb brushing absently over Logan’s knuckles, and thinks about his five-second rule, the one he’s lived by since he was old enough to understand what it meant to hide.
Five seconds to look. To notice. To appreciate. Then look away. Keep moving. Stay safe.
It’s a rule that’s kept him alive in locker rooms, in a world where that needed to be his life. A rule that became second nature, like breathing.
And he’s broken it exactly once in fifteen years of professional hockey.
For Logan Hayes.
And every day since. Every practice, every game, every stupid press conference where Logan’s standing too close, smiling that smile that makes Mark forget how to breathe. He looks, and he keeps looking, and he doesn’t even try to stop anymore.
Maybe that’s what this is. The inevitable result of breaking his rules. Of losing control, one glance at a time.
He swallows hard. “We can’t have anything more than this,” he says finally, his voice low but steady. “More than physical.”
Logan’s breath catches, the faintest flinch rippling through him. “Right,” he says after a moment, though it doesn’t sound like agreement.
Mark forces a small, tired smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You know how it is,” he murmurs. “Thia, us, it doesn’t work outside these walls.”
Logan’s thumb brushes once, slow, across the back of Mark’s hand. “Yeah,” he says softly. “I know.”
But neither of them lets go for a long time. The silence stretches, comfortable now, their fingers loosely intertwined. The air is warm, heavy with the kind of stillness that follows in the afterglow, fragile but somehow steady.
Then Logan’s stomach growls loudly, startling them both.
He snorts, breaking into laughter, the sound bright and unguarded. “Sorry,” he says between laughs. “I didn’t eat lunch.”
Mark’s mouth quirks, the tension in his shoulders easing. “I can tell.”
“Not my fault,” Logan says, mock-defensive. “Morning skate, team meeting, media, you, no time.”
Mark shakes his head, amused. “I’ve got stuff for sandwiches,” he offers, sitting up and stretching, “or we could order something.”
“Pizza?” Logan suggests immediately, eyes lighting up. “There’s that place downtown you guys are always talking about. The one with the brick oven?”
Mark pretends to consider it, lips twitching. “Yeah, okay. Pizza.”
They get dressed slowly, moving in that easy, unhurried rhythm of people who don’t quite want to leave the moment. Between shirts and jeans and laughter, they steal soft, lingering kisses, quick glances that turn into touches, brushes of knuckles that become excuses to lean in again. Every kiss feels like an unspoken reminder: We’re still here. This is still real for right now.
By the time Mark’s pulling his shirt over his head, Logan’s already out in the living room, curiosity leading him around like he’s trying to learn Mark through his space. Mark picks up his phone to order, half-listening as Logan’s voice drifts back to him.
“You look so young here,” Logan says, pausing by one of the framed photos on the wall. It’s a shot from Mark’s first season, fresh-faced, helmet under his arm, pride and nerves still visible in his posture.
“I was twenty-one,” Mark says, coming to stand beside him.
“Baby,” Logan teases, grinning over his shoulder.
Mark rolls his eyes, but the grin lingers. “I’m getting old.”
“There’s a difference between old and experienced,” Logan says, stepping closer. His tone is light, but his eyes have gone soft, warm in a way that makes Mark’s chest do something complicated and traitorous.
“Oh yeah?” Mark asks, arching an eyebrow. “And which one am I?”
“Experienced,” Logan says easily, the grin returning as he reaches for Mark’s hand, fingers finding their way back between his like they belong there. “Definitely experienced. In a hot, dependable, team-captain sort of way.”
Mark huffs out a laugh. “That’s a hell of a description.”
“Hey, I mean it.” Logan squeezes his hand, eyes flicking up. “Besides, I like the gray.”
Mark blinks, surprised. “The gray,” he repeats, a touch of disbelief in his tone.
“Yeah.” Logan’s smile softens. “Right here.” He lifts his free hand, brushing his thumb lightly through the faint streaks near Mark’s temple. “It suits you.”
Mark’s throat tightens unexpectedly at the simple gesture, at the warmth behind the words. “You’re too young to be into gray hair,” he manages, trying for teasing but not quite pulling it off.
Logan's grinning now, that bright sunshine smile. "I have a type, apparently."
"And what's that?"
"Grumpy, brooding hockey players with great arms and hero complexes." Logan's still playing with Mark's hair. "Very specific type."
Mark pulls him in for a kiss, effectively shutting him up. Logan laughs against his mouth, warm and happy, and Mark thinks maybe breaking his own rules isn't the worst thing he's ever done.
They end up on the couch waiting for the pizza, Logan immediately tucking himself against Mark's side like it's the most natural thing in the world. Mark's arm comes around him automatically, and they sit like that, warm and comfortable.
"Does anyone know?" Logan asks. "About you?"
"Johan suspects. Carter knows."
Logan props himself up to look at Mark. "Did you guys ever..."
"No. He's happily married. Just a really good friend." Mark's thumb traces Logan's jaw. "Why, you jealous?"
"Maybe a little." Logan grins. "I mean, he got years with you. I've only had a few months."
"Quality over quantity."
"Oh, so I'm quality now?"
"You're something." Mark feels his lips twitching up "Pain in my ass, mostly."
"You love it."
Mark doesn't reply, just kisses him again.
Pizza arrives, and they migrate back to the couch with the box between them. Logan immediately steals a slice from Mark's side.
"That's the same as yours," Mark points out.
"Yeah, but yours tastes better." Logan takes a huge bite, grinning at Mark's expression.
"How does it taste better? It's the same pizza."
"I don't make the rules." Logan reaches for another slice from Mark's pile. "This is just science."
Mark catches his wrist. "Get your own."
"Make me."
It's such a blatant challenge that Mark can't help but respond. He sets his own slice down and reaches for Logan, who yelps and tries to scramble away, still clutching his stolen pizza. They wrestle for a moment, careful of the pizza box, both of them laughing.
Mark wins easily, Logan's fast but Mark's got size and strength on his side. He pins Logan against the couch cushions, hovering over him.
"Say it," Mark demands.
Logan's still grinning, completely unrepentant. "I'll steal all your pizza. I'll steal your beer. I'll steal your-"
Mark kisses him, tasting tomato sauce and cheese and Logan's laugh. When he pulls back, Logan's eyes are bright.
"Okay, you can have the pizza," Logan concedes. "But only because you kiss better than pizza tastes."
"High praise."
"The highest." Logan shifts, getting comfortable again. "Now let me up, I'm starving."
They settle back in, actually eating this time. Mark puts on a hockey game, Vancouver and Toronto, and they watch for a while, occasionally chirping the players' mistakes.
"That was a terrible pass," Logan says around a mouthful of pizza.
"Mmm."
"I could make that pass in my sleep."
"Sure you could."
"I could!" Logan nudges him with his elbow. "You've seen me make that pass."
"I've also seen you fall on your ass trying to showboat."
Logan gasps in mock offense. "That was one time. And the ice was bad."
"The ice was fine. You're just a showoff."
"I prefer 'confident in my abilities.'" Logan grins. "Also, you love it when I showboat."
Mark doesn't deny it. Just takes another bite of pizza, and Logan looks absurdly pleased with himself.
Between periods, Logan gets up to throw away the pizza box. When he comes back, he doesn't sit beside Mark, he sits on Mark's lap, legs on either side of his thighs, facing him.
"Hi," Logan says.
"Hi."
"This okay?" Logan's hands rest on Mark's shoulders.
Mark's hands settle on Logan's hips automatically. "Yeah."
They kiss slowly, lazily, like they have all the time in the world. Logan's fingers play with the hair at the nape of Mark's neck, and Mark lets his hands wander, Logan's back, his sides, the sharp jut of his hipbones.
"You're distracting me from the game," Mark murmurs against Logan's mouth.
"Good. It's a boring game anyway." Logan kisses him again, deeper this time.
Mark loses track of the game entirely. They make out like teenagers, hands wandering but not urgent, just touching to touch. Logan's weight in his lap is perfect, grounding, and Mark thinks he could stay like this forever. Eventually they break apart, both breathing hard. Logan rests his forehead against Mark's.
"I should go," Logan says, but he doesn't move.
"Yeah."
"Cap will notice if I don't come home." Logan's thumb traces Mark's lower lip.
"You could stay," Mark offers, even though he knows it's a bad idea.
"I want to." Logan kisses him again, soft and brief. "But we both know that’s a bad idea, right?"
"Right."
Logan sighs, extracting himself reluctantly. He stands and stretches, and Mark watches him move, cataloguing the sight, rumpled clothes, messy hair, that satisfied looseness in his movements. Mark watches him call his uber
"This was good," Logan says, turning back to look at Mark. "Like, really good. The talking and the pizza and just... hanging out."
"Yeah."
"Can we do it again? Soon?"
Something in Mark's chest loosens. "Yeah. We can do it again."
Logan's smile could light up the whole room. He leans down for one more kiss, lingering. "See you at practice, old man."
"Get out of my house, kid."
But Mark's smiling when Logan leaves.
The house feels emptier after, but not in a bad way. More like... waiting. Like Logan's presence lingers in the spaces he occupied, the couch cushion still warm, the pizza box in the trash, the faint scent of his cologne in the air.
Mark's phone buzzes. Logan.
Logan: Thanks for dinner. And everything else ;)
Mark smiles, types back.
Mark: Get home safe.
Logan: Always do. Can I come over Thursday? After practice?
Mark: Yeah.
Logan: It's a date! (not a date date, obviously, just like a hang out thing, you know what I mean)
Logan: Ignore that. See you tomorrow!
Mark sets his phone down, still smiling. A hang out thing. Right.
He thinks about his five-second rule again. The one he's broken so completely for Logan Hayes that there's no putting it back together. And maybe that's okay. Maybe some rules are meant to be broken.
Tomorrow they'll go back to being teammates. Professionals. But Thursday, Logan will be back. And another day after that. And however many days they can steal before time or circumstance tears them apart.

Chapter Text

Logan wakes up the morning after he was at Mark's house with a stupid grin on his face that he can't seem to shake and he feels lighter than he has in weeks.
And in two days he plans to go back. Two days of stolen glances at practice, of sitting on opposite ends of the locker room, of acting perfectly professional while Logan's brain replays every moment in vivid detail. Mark's hands. Mark's mouth. The way Mark had pulled him close and said just let me hold you. The way they'd eaten pizza and watched hockey and just... existed together. Like it was normal. Logan's still grinning when he gets to practice, and Vlasky notices immediately.
"You are happy today," Vlasky observes, skating up beside him during warmups. "Like cat with cream. What is reason?"
"Can't a guy just be in a good mood?"
"You? No." Vlasky's eyes narrow suspiciously. "You are plotting something. Or you get laid. Which is it?"
Logan's heart jumps, but he keeps his expression neutral. "Neither. I'm just having a good day."
"Hmm." Vlasky doesn't look convinced, but mercifully he skates away to bother Mitch instead.
Logan risks a glance across the ice. Mark's running through drills with Johan, all business, but when their eyes meet for a fraction of a second, Mark's mouth twitches. Almost a smile
Logan rides the high straight through practice, every stride, every shot landing just right, and into the locker room. He keeps it going through a quick chat with the beat reporter, who doesn’t seem to notice anything unusual about the wide grin stuck on his face. He’s still coasting on it when he reaches his stall, which honestly might be a personal record for how long it’s lasted before something ruins it.
Oskar crosses the room toward him, wearing that look, the one that’s half-smirk, half-mischief, with the kind of glint in his eyes that never means good news. The new mustache Oskar decided to shave into his blonde beard doesn’t help either. It’s ridiculous. (And, fine, maybe kind of hot in an annoying sort of way.)
“Haaazyy…” Oskar drawls, stretching his name out.
Logan lifts one eyebrow in lazy suspicion, leaning down to lace his sneakers. “That’s never a good start.”
Oskar just laughs, shaking his head, used to Logan’s pre-noon grumpiness and knowing this isn’t real attitude.
“I booked Sullivan’s,” he says, naming the fancy steakhouse downtown, “for your contract dinner. Thursday night.”
Logan’s head snaps up. Thursday.
No.
He was supposed to see Mark on Thursday. The schedule’s packed, game tomorrow, another Friday, travel right after. If he misses Thursday, he won’t have another shot until maybe Sunday.
Still, he pastes on his trademark easy grin, the one that’s gotten him through more press scrums and post-game interviews than he can count. This is a team tradition, a good one. Something he’s lucky to have, something that means he belongs here now.
A whole dinner just for him.
To celebrate the thing he’s wanted since the trade, security, stability, a place that feels like home.
So even as disappointment twists quietly in his chest, Logan nods and makes his voice light. “Yeah, perfect. Can’t wait.”
Oskar beams, clapping him on the shoulder before moving off.
And Logan sits there for a moment, sneakers half-tied, smile still fixed in place but disappointment humming. Then he lifts his eyes to see Mark watching him, that soft almost smile playing on the corner of his mouth.
Logan tilts his head to the door in a subtle nod and then grabs his bag and heads towards it. They fall into step as they leave the locker room, the low hum of post-practice chatter fading behind them.
For a minute, it’s easy, the rhythm of walking side by side, the echo of their footsteps down the concrete tunnel. Then Logan clears his throat.
“So, uh. Oskar grabbed me earlier.”
Mark hums, not looking over yet. “Yeah?”
“Team dinner. Thursday. For the contract thing.”
Mark nods once, eyes forward. “Right. Sullivan’s.”
Logan glances over. “You knew?”
“Yeah. He texted me to make sure I could make it. Said you didn’t know yet.”
Logan exhales a small, quiet laugh. “Of course he did.”
They push through the doors into the parking lot, cool air spilling over them. The evening smells faintly of rain, the last bit of winter daylight fading behind the arena.
“I was gonna come by after practice Thursday,” Logan says finally. “Guess that’s not happening.”
Mark’s voice is calm, but not cold. “Yeah, probably not.”
There’s a beat of silence, and then Logan adds, softer, “I wanted to see you.”
Mark looks at him then, just a quick glance, but it’s enough to make Logan’s chest flutter. “You will,” Mark says.
“Yeah.” Logan kicks at a bit of gravel. “Sunday I guess.”
Mark’s mouth quirks like he wants to smile but doesn’t let himself. “Don't look so put out, it’s a good thing. It’s your night. You earned it.”
Logan laughs under his breath. “Quit captaining me.”
“Occupational hazard,” Mark says lightly. “Veteran wisdom.”
They reach Mark’s car and Logan leans against his door, watching Mark toss his bag in the back seat. “You’re coming, right? To the dinner?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Mark says. “Someone’s gotta keep Oskar from making a speech”
Logan snorts, shaking his head. “Good luck with that.”
Mark turns back to him, leaning against the dark truck. “We’ll get time,” he says, voice low, steady. “Might not be Thursday. But we will.”
And for some reason, that simple promise hits harder than it should. Logan just nods, the corner of his mouth tugging up.
“Okay,” he says. “Deal.”
Mark’s hand brushes his shoulder for a moment, brief and familiar, gone before Logan can really react.
“See you tomorrow, Hayes.”
Logan pushes off the truck to head to Oskar’s car to wait for him, knowing he will be one of the last to leave and he definitely does not watch Mark drive away.

He wakes up Wednesday morning to the vibration of his phone under the pillow. He grabs it, squinting at the screen. Mom calling. Again. That's the third time this week.
He answers, voice still rough with sleep. "Hey, Mom."
"Logan!" She sounds breathless with relief. "Finally. I was starting to worry you'd forgotten how to use a phone."
"Sorry, just been busy." Logan sits up, rubbing his face. "Season's intense right now."
"I know, honey. I've been watching every game I can. You looked wonderful against Pittsburgh last week." Her voice softens. "Your dad and I are so proud of you. That contract, four years! We can't believe it."
Something warm settles in Logan's chest. "Thanks, Mom."
"Are you eating enough? Getting enough sleep? That concussion-"
"Mom." Logan cuts her off gently. "I'm fine. Really. The team doctors are all over me. I'm being careful."
She's quiet for a moment. "You just seem... different lately. You look more comfortable there"
Logan's stomach flips. He thinks about Mark's hands on him yesterday, Mark's mouth, the way Mark had held him after. "Yeah," he says carefully. "I think I'm finally feeling at home here."
"That's good." But there's something in her voice, something searching. "You know you can talk to me about anything, right? Anything at all."
His throat tightens. Does she know? Can she sense it somehow, the way mothers are supposed to? "I know, Mom."
"Okay." She doesn't push. "Well, your sister wants to FaceTime this weekend. The girls miss their Uncle Logan."
They chat for a few more minutes before Logan manages to extract himself.
Morning skate before the Vegas game is almost easy. Coach runs them through a couple of power play drills and then video review where Logan has to sit two seats away from Mark and pretend his skin isn't on fire.
Mark's good at this. Better than Logan. He sits there in the dark screening room, arms crossed, expression neutral, contributing when Coach asks questions. Professional. Untouchable.
But Logan catches him looking. Just once, when their assistant coach is rewinding a play. Mark's eyes find Logan's in the darkness, and something hot flashes between them before Mark looks away.
Logan shifts in his seat, suddenly too warm.
"You good, Hazy?" Vlasky whispers beside him. "You are fidgeting."
"Yeah, fine."
Vlasky's green eyes are too knowing when he looks at Logan, but he just nods and turns back to the screen.
After skate, Logan showers quickly and heads out. He’s supposed to meet Vlasky and Mitch for lunch, but honestly, he’s half-tempted to skip it and go straight home for his pregame nap.
Still, he shows up to a greasy burger joint near the practice facility, the kind of place their nutritionists would have a collective aneurysm over. The smell of fried onions and melted cheese hits him the second he walks in, and suddenly he’s starving. He orders a salad to feel less guilty about their nutrition choices but he eyes Vlasky’s burger.
“So,” Mitch says around a mouthful of his own burger, “big dinner tomorrow. You nervous?”
“About dinner?” Logan snorts. “No. It’s just the team.”
“Yeah, but everyone’s gonna give speeches and shit.” Mitch grins, leaning back in the booth. “Oskar’s probably writing one right now. Something emotional.”
“Please no.” Logan steals one of Vlasky’s fries without looking. “I don’t want to cry in front of you assholes.”
“I make you cry all the time,” Vlasky says cheerfully. “With my terrible jokes.”
“Those make me want to cry for different reasons.”
They fall into easy banter he’s starting to get used to, the same jokes, the same rhythm, the same comfort. Logan tries to let it ground him, but his mind keeps drifting somewhere else.
“You are very distracted today,” Vlasky observes, watching him with that sharp, deceptively casual gaze. “More than usual.”
Logan blinks. “What?”
“See? I say thing, you do not hear.” Vlasky smirks. “What is in your head, Hazy?”
“Nothing,” Logan says quickly. Then, a beat later, “Just thinking about the contract. The pressure and all that.”
It’s not exactly a lie. He is thinking about the contract, about the four years ahead, about staying put for once. About what that might mean.
“Is good pressure,” Vlasky says simply. “Means they believe in you. Means you have home.”
Home.
Logan thinks about Oskar’s house, Kelsey cooking, the twins climbing on him, laughter everywhere. Thinks about lunches like this with Vlasky and Mitch, the kind of friendship that sneaks up on you and stays. And then he thinks about Mark’s living room, pizza boxes, quiet smiles, the warmth of Mark’s arm around him on the couch.
“Yeah,” Logan says softly. “Home.”
They lose in a shootout that night, but no one takes it too hard. It’s the kind of loss that stings for five minutes and then fades into the season’s rhythm.
The next evening, Logan’s standing in the basement ensuite, adjusting the collar of his shirt. He’s styled his hair for once, a small miracle, and the soft blue linen button-down makes his eyes look brighter, the black dress pants fitting just right.
He studies his reflection, tilting his head. For the first time in a while, he feels… good. Confident. Maybe even a little handsome.
The restaurant they've rented out for dinner is nice, dark wood, soft lighting, the kind of place that screams fancy team bonding event. Logan arrives with Oskar (and Kelsey, who Logan was pleased was attending even if arriving with the pair did make him feel a little bit like he was their son.)
"You're family," she'd said firmly when Logan had joked about the feeling. "And this is a family celebration."
The word had made Logan's throat tight.
The team's already there when they arrive, clustered around tables pushed together in the private room. Logan immediately spots Mark near the end, talking to Johan and Kris, and has to force himself not to stare.
"Hazy!" Vlasky appears, pulling him into a hug. "The man of the hour!"
"It's just dinner, V."
"Is celebration of your greatness!" Vlasky steers him toward the tables. "Come, we save you seat."
Logan ends up between Vlasky and Mitch, directly across from Mark. Of course. Because the universe hates him.
Mark's eyes meet his as Logan sits down, something warm flickering there before his expression goes carefully neutral. "Congrats again, Hayes."
"Thanks, Callahan." Logan grabs a menu to have something to do with his hands. "How's the shoulder?"
"Good. Feeling strong."
They fall into safe, professional conversation while the team settles around them. Oskar stands to make a toast, thankfully brief and not too emotional, and then food starts arriving.
Logan tries to focus on his meal, on the conversations happening around him. Mitch is telling some story about his first contract signing. Vlasky's adding commentary (but is mostly just teasing Mitch). Johan's across the table talking to Mark about their leadership meeting that morning. .
Normal. Exactly what it should be.
Then Logan feels something brush against his ankle.
He freezes, fork halfway to his mouth. For a second he thinks he imagined it, until it happens again. A slow, deliberate drag of a foot up his calf.
His eyes snap to Mark.
Mark’s expression is perfectly composed, eyes on Johan, nodding along like he’s actually listening. But there’s a glint there, quick, sharp, unmistakably a challenge.
Oh, so that’s how we’re playing this.
Logan leans back in his chair, takes a casual sip of his drink, and lets his own foot slide forward under the table. Slow. Deliberate. Up Mark’s leg. He watches the almost imperceptible shift, the way Mark’s jaw tightens, the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth as he reaches for his water glass just a fraction too quickly.
Logan grins and cuts into his steak, feigning innocence.
Under the table, his foot keeps moving, tracing the line of Mark’s calf, the edge of his knee, then higher. Mark’s hand tightens around his fork, knuckles whitening, but his expression doesn’t waver. Still calm. Still careful. Still pretending nothing’s happening even as Logan’s foot slides higher, pressing against the inside of his thigh.
“You okay, Callahan?” Johan asks, glancing over and eyeing Mark.
Mark doesn’t even blink. “Fine,” he says, voice steady enough to almost fool Logan. “Shoulder is just aching”
Logan’s foot nudges higher, teasing, and that’s when he sees it, the flush creeping up Mark’s neck, the faint flex of his jaw as he exhales through his nose. Then, without warning, Mark’s hand drops beneath the table and catches Logan’s ankle in a firm grip.
The contact is electric.
Mark’s fingers are strong, sure, holding him there, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make Logan’s pulse jump. Across the table, their eyes meet. The din of the restaurant fades until there’s only that look, dark, controlled, hungry.
Mark’s thumb presses once, slow and deliberate, against the bone of Logan’s ankle. Possessive. A warning and a promise in one.
Then he lets go.
Logan exhales a shaky laugh and reaches for his wine, pretending to listen to Johan again, but his heart’s still racing, and his body’s still thrumming with the ghost of Mark’s touch
The rest of dinner is torture. Logan tries to focus on the conversations, on desert, on Vlasky's increasingly ridiculous jokes. But all he can think about is Mark's rough hand on his skin.
When dessert's cleared and people start getting up to mingle, Logan excuses himself to the bathroom. He's washing his hands when the door opens and Mark walks in.
Logan's about to make some joke when Mark's on him, backing him against the wall, mouth catching his. The kiss is rough, desperate, Mark's hands framing Logan's face, his body pinning Logan in place.
"You're such a fucking tease," Mark murmurs against his mouth, voice rough.
Logan can't help the grin even as heat floods through him. "You started it."
"And you," Mark's hand slides slowly down Logan's side, "kept going."
Logan gasps when Mark's thigh presses between his legs, the friction perfect and nowhere near enough. "Mark…"
"Do you know what you do to me?" Mark's mouth is on Logan's neck now, teeth scraping skin that his collar won't cover. "Sitting there, looking like that, touching me where anyone could see,"
"I'm sorry," Logan breathes, even though he's not. His hands fist in Mark's shirt, pulling him closer. "I just..I wanted-"
Mark kisses him again, harder this time, swallowing whatever Logan was going to say. Logan's brain short-circuits, his body responding instantly, heat pooling low in his stomach.
Then footsteps echo in the hallway outside.
They pull apart. Mark steps back quickly, running a hand through his hair. Logan's breathing hard, trying to calm his racing heart, very aware of how obvious his arousal is in his dress pants.
"Fuck," Logan whispers. "We can't, not here."
"I know." Mark's voice is rough. He looks wrecked, lips swollen, color high on his cheeks. "I know. I just…you were driving me crazy out there."
Logan can't help the grin even through his panic. "Worth it?"
Mark's mouth quirks despite himself. "Get back out there before someone notices we're both gone."
Logan nods, adjusting himself as subtly as possible. He splashes cold water on his face, trying to calm down, trying to think about anything other than how badly he wants Mark right now.
When he finally makes it back to the table, carefully not looking at Mark's empty seat, Vlasky's watching him with those too-sharp eyes.
"You okay, Hazy?" Vlasky asks casually. "You look... flushed."
"Yeah, just warm in here." Logan grabs his water glass, drinking half of it in one go.
"Mmm." Vlasky doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't push. Just goes back to his conversation with Mitch, and Logan tries not to think about what Vlasky might have noticed.
Mark returns a few minutes later, looking perfectly composed. He drops back into his seat across from Logan, and their eyes meet for just a second. Long enough for Logan to see the heat still burning there, the promise of later.
Logan spends the rest of dinner half-hard and trying desperately to focus on anything other than the way Mark had pinned him against that wall. By the time dinner finally ends and people start heading out, Logan's wound so tight he might snap.
"Good night, Hazy!" Vlasky pulls him into a hug. "See you tomorrow, yes?"
"Yeah, V. Thanks for coming."
"Always." But Vlasky's eyes flick between Logan and Mark, who's saying goodbye to Johan near the door. Something knowing crosses his expression before he looks back at Logan. "You be careful, okay?"
Logan's heart stops. "What?"
"Just in general." Vlasky's smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "World is complicated place. Easy to get hurt if you not careful."
He leaves before Logan can respond, and Logan's left standing there wondering exactly how much Vlasky knows.
The drive back to Oskar's is quiet. Logan stares out the window, mind racing. They were so reckless tonight. Anyone could have walked in on them in that bathroom. Anyone could have noticed they were both gone. Anyone could have seen the way they looked at each other.
This is exactly what they can't do. But God, it was good to see Mark flustered.
His phone buzzes.
Mark: Sorry about earlier. Got carried away.
Logan types back carefully.
Logan: Don't be sorry. I liked it. But we need to be more careful.
Mark: I know. Sunday?
Logan: Sunday.
He stares at the message for a long moment before adding:
Logan: I can't stop thinking about you.
Mark's response comes quickly.
Mark: Good. Neither can I.
Logan locks his phone and leans his head back against the seat. Three more days.
He's not sure he's going to survive it.

Chapter Text

The Friday night game against Boston is electric from the opening faceoff. The crowd's still buzzing from Logan's contract announcement, and every time he touches the puck, the arena roars. Mark watches him, tracking Logan's every movement, cataloguing the way he weaves through defenders like water.
Midway through the second period, Logan does it again.
Mark wins the faceoff clean, kicks it back to Kris at the point. Kris threads a pass through traffic that finds Logan in the slot, and Logan doesn't hesitate. Quick release, top corner, bar down.
The building erupts.
Mark's moving towards him watching Logan throw his arms wide. The celebration crashes into him, Vlasky nearly tackling him, Kris lifting him off his skates, and through all of it Logan's grinning that brilliant sunshine smile. Mark taps his glove on his helmet affectionately.
They win 4-2, Logan finishing with a goal and an assist, and the locker room after is, riding the high of back-to-back wins.
"Hayes!" Coach Massey calls from his office doorway. "Good game tonight. Keep that up."
"Thanks, Coach!" Logan's still buzzing with adrenaline, can't seem to stop moving.
Mark showers quickly, trying not to watch Logan across the room. Trying not to think about the weekend. Sunday. After two days of careful distance, after being driven crazy on Thursday.
His phone buzzes as he's getting dressed.
Logan: Sunday still good?
Mark types back, fingers moving before his brain can second-guess.
Mark: Yeah. Come over whenever
Logan: Perfect. I'll bring food.
Mark: You don't have to.
Logan: I want to. See you Sunday :)
Mark stares at the emoji for a long moment, something warm settling in his chest.
Saturday drags. Mark does laundry, meal prep for the week, watches film of their next opponent. Normal routine. Except nothing feels normal anymore, not when every thought circles back to Logan.
To the way Logan had looked at him across that dinner table, eyes dark with want. The desperation in that bathroom, Logan's hands in his hair, the soft sound he'd made when Mark pressed against him. Mark can feel his restraint slipping, if it was ever there at all. And here he is, counting down the hours until Logan arrives.
Sunday afternoon comes eventually. Mark's pacing his living room when the doorbell rings, and he feels it in his stomach.
Logan's standing on his doorstep in joggers and a hoodie, holding two bags of takeout and grinning. "Hi."
"Hey." Mark steps back to let him in. "You didn't have to get all that."
"Thai place near Oskar's. Figured you could use real food for once instead of your protein and vegetables meal prep." Logan sets the bags on the counter, already unpacking containers. "I got pad thai, drunken noodles, spring rolls-"
Mark kisses him.
Logan makes a surprised sound against his mouth before melting into it, hands coming up to frame Mark's face. When they break apart, Logan's grinning.
"Hi," he says again, softer this time.
"Hi." Mark can't seem to stop touching him, hands settling on Logan's hips. "Missed you."
"It's been two days."
"Still missed you."
Logan's expression softens. "Yeah. Me too."
They eat on the couch, Logan stealing bites from Mark's container despite having his own identical order. The TV's on but neither of them are really watching, too focused on each other.
"So," Logan says around a mouthful of noodles. "Next week's busy. We've got Tampa on Tuesday, then Long Island on Wednesday wait, no, that's wrong." He pulls out his phone, scrolling. "Tampa on Tuesday, off Wednesday, then we're home against Long Island on Thursday, and another home game Saturday against Ottawa before we fly out Sunday for Montreal on Monday."
"Your schedule memorization needs work," Mark observes.
"Shut up, there's like a million games." Logan grins. "Point is, we're gonna be busy. When can I see you again?"
Mark considers. "Wednesday? If you're not too tired."
"I'll never be too tired for this." Logan's hand finds Mark's thigh, thumb tracing idle patterns.
The words settle warm in Mark's chest. He should probably say something, should remind Logan this is just physical, just scratching an itch. But Logan's looking at him like that, open and honest and wanting, and Mark can't make himself say it.
"Wednesday," Mark agrees instead.
They finish eating, and then Logan's pulling Mark toward the bedroom with single-minded determination. "Come on, old man. I've been thinking about this all weekend."
"All weekend?"
"Since Thursday, really." Logan's already tugging his hoodie over his head. "Since you pinned me against that bathroom wall and-"
Mark cuts him off with another kiss, backing Logan toward the bed. They fall onto it together, hands already working at clothes, mouths fused together. Mark takes his time kissing down Logan's body, finding the places that make him gasp, the touches that make him arch into Mark's hands.
"Mark," Logan breathes, fingers threading through Mark's hair. "Please."
"Tell me what you want."
Logan's eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. "Your mouth. I want, God, I want to taste you again."
They shift positions, Logan settling between Mark's legs with focused intensity. He's better this time, more confident, and when he takes Mark in his mouth, Mark has to grip the sheets to keep from thrusting up.
"Fuck, Logan." Mark's voice is wrecked. "That's, yeah, just like that."
Logan hums around him, the vibration sending sparks down Mark's spine. His hand works what his mouth can't take, finding a rhythm that has Mark gasping.
"Logan, I'm-" The warning comes too late. Mark comes with a groans, and Logan stays with him through it, gentle and careful.
When Logan crawls back up, there's pride in his expression. "Better?"
"You're going to kill me." But Mark's already reaching for him, flipping their positions until Logan's on his back, laughing breathlessly.
Mark returns the favor, taking his time, drawing it out until Logan's a mess beneath him. Writhing, begging, Mark's name falling from his lips like a prayer. When Logan finally comes, it's with a whimper that sounds like Mark’s name.
They lie there after, sticky and satisfied, Logan tucked against Mark's side. This is Mark's favorite part, he's realizing. Not just the sex, though that's incredible. But this. The quiet intimacy of existing together in the aftermath.
Logan's tracing patterns on Mark's chest, fingertips following old scars. "Can I ask you something?"
"Yeah."
"What's this one from?" Logan's finger pauses on a surgical scar near Mark's shoulder.
"Separated shoulder. My rookie year. Took two surgeries to fix it properly."
Logan’s hand drifts lower, brushing over a thinner, fainter line that runs along Mark’s ribs. “And this?”
“Lacerated spleen,” Mark says after a pause. “Got caught in open ice by a guy twice my size. Didn’t even hurt that much at first — just felt off. Ended up in emergency surgery that night.”
Logan’s brow furrows, his touch softening. “Jesus. That could’ve been a lot worse.”
Logan's quiet for a moment, still tracing. "Does it ever scare you? How much of your body is just... evidence of hockey?"
The question catches Mark off guard. "No one's ever asked me that before."
"Sorry, I shouldn't-"
"No, it's okay." Mark's hand covers Logan's, stilling it. "It used to. When I was younger, I'd look at myself and see all the ways hockey had changed me. But now..." He considers. "Now they just feel like proof I survived. That I'm still here."
Logan props himself up to look at Mark properly. "That's kind of beautiful. In a twisted, hockey player way."
"You'll have your own collection eventually."
“I’ve already got a few.” Logan shifts, pointing to a faint scar just above his knee. “Torn meniscus my first year in Minnesota. Scope and a few months of rehab.”
Mark nods. “Classic. Everyone gets one of those eventually.”
“And this one,” Logan twists slightly, showing a small mark along his hip. “Took a skate there during a scramble in front of the net. Needed stitches, but it looked worse than it was.”
Mark traces each scar carefully, committing them to memory. Wanting to know every mark on Logan's body, every story written into his skin.
They fall into comfortable silence. Mark's about to suggest they clean up when Logan speaks again.
"What's that?"
Mark follows his gaze to the nightstand, where a slim volume sits. His poetry book. The one he'd been reading last night when he couldn't sleep, when his mind wouldn't stop circling back to Logan.
Shit.
"Nothing," Mark says, too quickly.
Logan's already reaching for it, that bright curiosity lighting his eyes. "Is this poetry?"
"Give that back."
"Mark Callahan reads poetry?" Logan's grinning now, delighted. "This is amazing."
"Logan-"
"Oh my God, it's dog-eared." Logan flips to the marked page, his expression shifting from teasing to something softer. "Will you read it to me?"
"Absolutely not."
"Please?" Logan's looking at him with those blue eyes, and Mark feels his resolve crumbling. "I want to hear you read it."
Mark sighs, taking the book from Logan's hands. It's a collection of contemporary poetry, one his mother had given him years ago. He'd returned to it recently, finding comfort in the rhythm of the words. The dog-eared poem is short, just a handful of lines. Mark's not even sure why it stuck with him, except that lately when he reads it, he thinks of Logan.
"You don't have to," Logan says quietly, sensing Mark's hesitation.
But Mark's already reading, voice low in the quiet room:
"I thought I knew the mathematics of survival-
how to calculate distance, measure risk,
build walls high enough to keep the world at bay.
Then you arrived like spring after endless winter,
and suddenly I'm learning a different equation:
how to add without counting the cost,
how to multiply joy without dividing myself,
how your laughter subtracts years from my bones.
I'm no longer interested in solving for safety.
I want to solve for this."
The silence after feels weighted. Mark can feel Logan staring at him, can't quite bring himself to meet his eyes.
"Mark," Logan says softly.
"It's just a poem."
"No." Logan's hand finds Mark's face, tilting it until they're looking at each other. "It's not."
Something passes between them, too big to name. Mark's throat feels tight.
"I should shower," he says instead of addressing it. "We both should."
Logan nods slowly, letting the moment pass. "Together?"
"Yeah. Together."
They shower quickly, hands careful on each other's bodies, and then Logan's pulling on his clothes with obvious reluctance.
"I should go," he says, but he's not moving toward the door. "Oskar's probably wondering where I am."
"Probably."
Logan crosses back to Mark, kissing him soft and sweet. "Wednesday?"
"Wednesday."
"I'll text you." Another kiss. "Thank you. For today."
After Logan leaves, Mark returns to his bedroom. The poetry book is still on the bed where Logan left it, open to that dog-eared page.
I'm no longer interested in solving for safety.
Mark closes the book carefully and sets it back on the nightstand.
-
Tampa on Tuesday is brutal in the way only Tampa can be. Fast, physical, their forecheck relentless. Logan takes three hard hits in the first period alone but keeps bouncing back up, keeps chirping, keeps playing his game.
Mark watches, tracking every hit, calculating when he needs to step in. Midway through the second, a Tampa defenseman catches Logan with a late hit in the corner. Mark's in the guy's space before his brain catches up, getting in the guy's face.
"That was late," Mark growls.
"Was clean."
"Try it again and see what happens."
The ref steps between them before it escalates, but the message is clear. The Tampa player backs off, and Logan skates away grinning.
They lose 3-2 in a shootout, and the locker room after is quiet with frustration. They'd been so close.
"We'll get them next time," Oskar says, trying to rally them. "Tampa's one of the best in the league. We hung with them for sixty minutes. That's something."
Logan catches Mark's eye across the room. Tomorrow, his expression says.
Mark nods once. Tomorrow.
Wednesday afternoon finds Mark at the grocery store, which is unusual enough. He's never been much of a cook, surviving mostly on meal prep services and takeout. But tonight feels different.Tonight he wants to make dinner for Logan.
He keeps it simple, pasta, homemade sauce, garlic bread. Things his mother used to make, recipes she'd taught him before she got sick. He hasn't cooked like this in years, but his hands remember the motions. Logan arrives at six with that bright smile, and something in Mark's chest eases.
"Smells amazing in here," Logan says, toeing off his shoes. "What'd you make?"
"Just pasta."
"You cooked?" Logan's grin widens. "For me?"
"Don't make it weird."
"Too late. This is extremely weird and also extremely sweet." Logan follows him to the kitchen, watching as Mark stirs the sauce. "Can I help?"
"You can set the table."
They move around each other easily, finding a rhythm. Logan tells Mark about practice, about Vlasky's latest terrible joke, about how Kelsey's teaching him to make the twins' favorite cookies. Mark half-listens, more focused on the way Logan's hands move, the sound of his laugh, the way he fits so naturally into Mark's space. Dinner is good. Not fancy, but warm and comforting. Logan makes appreciative noises after the first bite.
"This is really good," he says. "Like, actually good. Not just hockey player cooking good."
"My mom's recipe."
Logan's expression softens. "Yeah?"
"She loved to cook. Used to make this all the time." Mark pushes his pasta around his plate. "After she got sick, I tried to learn some of her recipes. Thought it might..." He trails off.
"Might keep her close," Logan finishes quietly.
"Yeah."
Logan's hand finds Mark's across the table, fingers intertwining. "Thank you for sharing this with me."
They eat in comfortable silence, and then Logan helps clean up despite Mark's protests. They end up hip-to-hip at the sink, Logan washing while Mark dries, and it feels domestic in a way that should terrify Mark but doesn't.
"I could get used to this," Logan says softly.
Mark's hands still on the dish he's drying. "Logan…"
"I know." Logan doesn't look at him, focused on the soapy water. "I know what this is. What it has to be. But that doesn't mean I can't enjoy it, right?"
The words settle heavy between them. Mark wants to argue, wants to say something that makes this easier. But Logan's right. They both know this is temporary, borrowed time. So instead Mark just nods and keeps drying dishes.
After, they migrate to the couch. Logan immediately tucks himself against Mark's side, head on his shoulder, and they watch some hockey game neither of them care about. It's easy. Comfortable. Mark's hand plays with Logan's hair absently, and Logan's fingers trace patterns on Mark's chest.
"Long Island tomorrow," Logan says eventually. "Should be good."
"They're fast. You'll need to be careful."
"Always am." Logan tilts his head to look up at Mark. "Well, mostly."
"Mostly." Mark repeats with a tone of slight disbelief.
"You worry too much."
"Someone has to. You certainly don't." It should but an admonishment but it comes out soft.
Logan grins, reaching up to trace the scar at the corner of Mark's mouth. "You like worrying about me. Admit it."
Mark catches Logan's hand, pressing a kiss to his palm. "Maybe."
"Definitely." Logan shifts, straddling Mark's lap with easy confidence. "Now stop worrying about me and kiss me."
Mark does.
What follows is slow and heated, hands wandering but not urgent. Logan grinds down and Mark's hands tighten on his hips, pulling him closer. The friction is perfect, both of them hard, breathing ragged.
"Bedroom," Logan gasps against Mark's mouth.
Mark doesn't need to be told twice.
In the bedroom, they strip each other slowly, taking their time. Mark lays Logan out on the bed, kissing down his body, and when he takes Logan in his mouth, Logan's back arches beautifully off the mattress.
"Mark, God, Mark"
Mark works him with lips and tongue and hand, learning what makes Logan fall apart. Logan returns the favor, his confidence growing each time they do this. Mark watches him, blonde hair falling in his eyes, lips wrapped around him, and thinks this might actually kill him.
When they’re both finally satisfied and boneless, Logan doesn’t pull away. He stays curled against Mark’s side, warm and heavy, fingers tracing lazy, idle patterns across Mark’s chest.
“Can I stay?” Logan asks softly, voice barely above a whisper. “Just for a bit, I’ll just say I was out late?”
“Yeah,” Mark murmurs, tightening his arms around him. “Stay as long as you want.”
Logan shifts slightly, settling closer, letting his head rest against Mark’s shoulder, the weight of him grounding yet achingly familiar. His breathing evens out, deep and steady, and the small rise and fall of his chest is hypnotic.
Mark stays awake, letting himself linger in the quiet, in the stillness that follows the storm Logan’s body on his. He watches the way Logan’s hair falls across his forehead, the way a small, almost imperceptible smile plays at the corners of his lips even in sleep. The soft rise of his eyelids, the faint twitch of a finger, every little detail feels like it belongs only to him.
He knows it’s dangerous. Every second like this chips away at his resolve. Makes it harder to remind himself that this was supposed to be just physical, nothing more. Every heartbeat, every sigh pressed against him whispers something he isn’t supposed to admit.
But even knowing all that, even with the rulebook in his mind screaming caution, Mark can’t bring himself to care. Not when Logan is warm and real against him. Not when the world is quiet outside the blinds and the only sound is the rhythmic, peaceful pull of Logan’s breath.
Mark adjusts slightly, letting his hand rest on the curve of Logan’s back, thumb brushing lightly over his shoulder. He memorizes the weight of him, the way his body melts into his, the smell of his shampoo still lingering in the air.
Hours could pass like this, and Mark wouldn’t move. Doesn’t want to. Doesn’t dare. The rest of the world doesn’t exist in this moment. There’s just Logan, and there’s just him, and it’s enough.Mark presses a soft kiss to the top of Logan’s head. Just a whisper of a kiss. A promise, maybe, or simply acknowledgment of this fragile, perfect peace. Logan murmurs in his sleep, snuggling closer. Mark exhales quietly, committing every detail to memory: the curve of his jaw, the brush of his eyelashes against his skin, the rise and fall of his chest.
If this were truly just physical, Mark wouldn’t be holding him like this, wouldn’t feel Logan’s weight pressing into him, wouldn’t let his arms tighten around him instinctively. And yet, every fiber of him wants to stay, to savor this closeness. He can’t find it in himself to care about rules or distance. So he lets go of all caution, lets himself sink fully into the moment, and finally, exhausted, drifts off to sleep.
The game Thursday is exactly as fast as Mark predicted. They're down 2-1 going into the third when Logan takes a hard hit along the boards. Mark's up instantly, squaring up with the guy who delivered it.
“Got a problem, Callahan?” The guy’s grinning, Jamie Santos, a man Mark fought last season, clearly looking for a rematch. .
“Hit was clean,” the referee says, skating over. “Back off or you’re getting an instigator call.”
Mark glares but backs down. Watches Logan skate to the bench, testing his shoulder. Their eyes meet for just a second, and Logan nods to show he’s fine.
They tie it up with five minutes left, Oskar burying a rebound. The crowd's on their feet, the building shaking with noise. Overtime is chaos, both teams exhausted, trading chances. And then, with thirty seconds left, Logan does what Logan does best. He steals the puck in the neutral zone, burns past two defenders, and goes five-hole on the goalie. The goal horn sounds, and the arena explodes.
Mark finds Logan in the pile of celebrating teammates. Their eyes meet through the chaos, and Mark sees it there, pride, joy, relief. Everything Mark's feeling reflected back at him. In the locker room after, everyone's excited.
"Beauty goal, Hayes!" Mitch tackles Logan into a hug.
"Couldn't have done it without you guys." Logan's grinning, that bright sunshine smile that makes Mark's chest ache. Later, after showers and media obligations, Mark finds Logan by his stall.
"Good game," Mark says quietly.
"Thanks." Logan is looking away. "That hit in the third, "
"Was clean. I know."
"You were ready to fight him anyway."
"That's my job."
Logan looks up, and something passes between them. "Is it? Just your job?"
Mark's throat tightens. They're standing too close, anyone could notice. "Logan"
"I know. I get it." But Logan's eyes are soft when he adds, "Thanks."
Mark nods once and moves away before anyone can read too much into it.
Saturday's game against Ottawa is less dramatic. They win 4-1, Logan getting an assist, and the team's finally hitting their stride. Five wins in the last seven games. The playoff race is tightening, and they're right in the thick of it. Sunday morning finds them on a plane to Montreal. The team's in good spirits, the winning streak lifting everyone's mood. Mark sits with Johan and Kris as usual, reviewing game film on his tablet.
His phone buzzes. Logan.
Logan: Can I come over when we get back, maybe Wednesday :)
Mark: Of course
Logan: Is it weird that I already miss you?
Mark stares at the message, something warm unfurling in his chest.
Mark: No. Not weird.
Logan: Good. Because I do. Miss you.
Mark's thumb hovers over the keyboard. He should keep it casual, should remind himself what this is. But then he thinks about Logan falling asleep in his arms, and the words come easily.
Mark: I miss you too.
He locks his phone before he can second-guess it, leaning back in his seat. Johan glances over, eyebrow raised.
"Everything okay?"
"Yeah. Just team stuff."
Johan studies him for a moment, those pale eyes too perceptive, but he just nods and goes back to his own film review. Montreal on Monday is exactly as tough as expected. The crowd is hostile, the ice tilts against them early, and they're down 2-0 after one period. Mark takes a cross-check to his bad shoulder that makes him see stars, but he stays on his feet, finishes his shift.
"You good?" The trainer asks during the break.
"Fine."
"Mark-"
"I said I'm fine."
They claw back in the second, Johan scoring on the power play to make it 2-1. But Montreal answers right back, and suddenly they're chasing again. The third period is desperate, both teams trading chances, but Montreal's defense holds. Final score: 3-1 Montreal.
The locker room after is quiet with disappointment. They'd been playing so well, and now this. Coach keeps his post-game brief, just reminds them they've got practice tomorrow and then a tough stretch coming up until the trade deadline. Mark showers quickly, shoulder throbbing. He should ice it, should talk to the trainers, but he just wants to get back to the hotel and sleep.
"Callahan." Thomas, the GM, catches him in the hallway. "Got a minute?"
"Sure."
Thomas pulls him aside, voice casual. "Shoulder holding up okay?"
"Yeah. It's good."
"Good. We're going to need you down this stretch." Thomas nods toward the locker room. "By the way, All-Star rosters get announced tomorrow. Just wanted you to know Johan made it. League called me this afternoon. Probably Hayes too, based on what I'm hearing about the fan vote."
Mark's stomach drops, but he keeps his expression neutral. "That's great. They both deserve it."
"They do. You've been instrumental in Hayes' development this year. Real leadership." Thomas claps him on the good shoulder. "Team appreciates it."
After Thomas walks away, Mark leans against the wall, closing his eyes. All-Star Game. Johan and Logan both going. He's happy for them, genuinely happy. But there's a hollow feeling in his chest he can't quite shake.
He's never been selected, probably never will be at this point in his career. It's not what his game's built for, he's not flashy enough, doesn't score enough. The enforcers rarely get recognized like that. But knowing Logan will be there, in that spotlight, surrounded by the best players in the league... Mark's proud of him. Really, genuinely proud.
His phone buzzes as he's walking to his room.
Logan: Rough game. You okay?
Mark: Fine. Shoulder's sore but nothing serious.
Logan: You sure? That cross check looked bad.
Mark smiles despite himself. Logan worrying about him.
Mark: I'm sure. Get some rest.
Logan: You too.
He falls asleep thinking about poetry, Logan in his kitchen, Logan falling asleep in his arms.
-
Tuesday practice back in Raleigh is light, just video review and optional ice time. Mark skips the ice, icing his shoulder instead and getting worked on by the trainers.
"You need to take it easier," Wyatt, the head trainer, says while manipulating Mark's shoulder. "You're not twenty-five anymore."
"I'm aware."
"Are you? Because you play like you've got something to prove."
Mark doesn't respond. What's he supposed to say? That he's running out of time? That every game could be his last? That he needs to prove he's still worth a roster spot? After practice is where Thomas makes the announcement. They're all gathered in the locker room, still in street clothes, when he walks in with a grin.
"Got some good news. NHL announced All-Star rosters this morning." He pauses for effect. "Johan, you're in."
The room erupts. Guys are on their feet, surrounding Johan, congratulating him. Johan's smiling that genuine, humble smile, thanking everyone.
"There's more," Thomas says. "Hayes, you're in too."
Logan's face goes through about five emotions in three seconds, shock, disbelief, joy, then something more complicated when his eyes find Mark's across the room.
"Holy shit," Vlasky's already tackling Logan into a hug. "All-Star! Two Copperheads!"
Mark claps along with everyone else, genuinely happy for both of them. When the initial chaos dies down and they're filing onto the ice for practice, Logan manages to skate up beside him.
"Mark,"
"Congratulations. You earned it."
"I can't believe it." Logan's practically vibrating with excitement. "I mean, I hoped, but I didn't actually think."
"You deserve it." Mark means it. "You've been playing incredible hockey."
Logan's quiet for a moment, just skating beside him before Kris calls him over. Logan smiles that sunshine smile at Mark before skating away. Practice is good, everyone riding high from the All-Star news. By the time Mark gets home, he's exhausted but can't stop thinking about Logan.
About how proud he is. About how much he wishes he could celebrate with him properly, take him out to dinner, tell everyone how incredible Logan is. About how dangerous those thoughts are.
His phone rings just as he's getting out of the shower. Logan.
"Hey," Mark answers.
"Hi." Logan sounds breathless, happy. "Sorry, I know we're supposed to wait until tomorrow but I'm just so excited I had to call."
Mark can't help smiling. "I can tell."
"I'm going to the All-Star Game, Mark. Me. The kid who couldn't hit a wide-open net for like my first month here."
"That kid's gone. You're an All-Star now."
"God, that's so weird to hear." Logan laughs. "Vlasky wants to throw a party. Oskar says absolutely not, we have a game Friday. I'm just…I can't believe it."
"Believe it. You earned this."
Logan's quiet for a moment. "Can I come over tonight? I know we said tomorrow but-"
"Yeah," Mark says before Logan can finish. "Come over whenever. I'll make dinner."
"You don't have to."
"I want to." Mark sits on his bed, phone pressed to his ear. "This is a big deal. We should celebrate properly."
"Yeah?" Logan's voice goes soft. "Okay. I'll be there at six."
After they hang up, Mark stares at his phone for a long moment. He's in deep trouble with Logan Hayes. Has been since the beginning, probably, but it's getting harder to pretend otherwise.
Logan arrives at six sharp, practically bouncing with excitement. Mark pulls him inside and kisses him thoroughly, backing him against the door.
"Hi," Logan breathes when they break apart.
"Congratulations." Mark kisses him again. "I'm really proud of you."
Logan's hands fist in his shirt. "The dinner can wait, right?"
"Yeah. It can wait."
They barely make it to the bedroom. Mark takes his time, stripping Logan slowly, kissing every inch of newly exposed skin. Logan's squirming under the attention, making those soft sounds Mark's addicted to.
"You're killing me," Logan complains.
"Patience."
"Not one of my strengths, remember?"
Mark just smirks and keeps going, working his way down Logan's body until he's settled between his legs. What follows is slow and thorough, Mark taking him apart piece by piece until Logan's gasping, hands fisted in the sheets.
“Mark, I’m close,” Logan murmurs, fingers brushing toward his shoulder, voice thick and heavy with need.
But Mark catches his hand, holding it gently, pulling off him. “Not yet. I want…” He falters, unsure how to say the words.
“What?” Logan asks softly, eyes wide and searching, bright and open. “Tell me.”
Mark swallows, heart hammering in his chest. “I want to be inside you.” The words are rough, deliberate, weighted with meaning. “If you want that.”
Logan’s breath catches. For a long moment, he just stares at Mark, a mix of surprise, desire, and something unspoken crossing his expression. Then his lips curve into a small, tremulous smile. “Yeah. Yes. I want that.”
Mark’s chest tightens, a rush of something fierce and protective washing over him. His heartbeat hammers in his ears. “You’ve never?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.
“No,” Logan admits, voice soft but steady. “But I want to. With you.”
The vulnerability in those words strikes Mark hard. He leans in, pressing his lips to Logan’s in a slow, deep kiss, tasting, grounding, savoring the trust in it. Every second stretches, electric and fragile, and Mark feels the weight of responsibility and desire collide inside him.
When he finally pulls back, he meets Logan’s gaze, dark and shining, pupils blown wide, every nerve alive. He reaches for the nightstand, Thank God he'd thought to be prepared, just in case.
Logan watches him, breathing uneven, still flush against Mark’s chest. “I trust you,” he murmurs, and the words hit like fire, searing Mark in a way he didn’t expect.
“We’ll go slow,” Mark promises, coating his fingers carefully, his eyes locked on Logan’s, reading every flicker of expression. “And if anything hurts, or you want to stop, ”
“I know. I will.” Logan shifts beneath him, parting his thighs, the heat of his skin against his own.
Mark starts with one finger, easing it in slowly, deliberately. Logan tenses at first, muscles tight, breathing shallow, but Mark murmurs softly, praising him, kissing the curve of his hip, whispering encouragement until the tension begins to melt.
“That’s it,” Mark murmurs, his voice low, intimate. “Just like that. You’re doing so good, baby.” The pet name rolls out of his mouth easily and he can’t think of a reason to not say it when Logan looks so beautiful underneath him.
“More,” Logan gasps, voice trembling with need. “I can take more.”
Mark adds a second finger, moving carefully, watching Logan’s face with hawk-like attention. There’s a flicker of discomfort, yes, but also a raw curiosity, a want that’s impossible to ignore. When Mark crooks his fingers, Logan arches off the bed, a gasp tearing from him that’s half surprise, half pleasure.
“Oh, fuck,” Logan breathes.
“Found it,” Mark says with a small, triumphant smirk. He repeats the motion, and Logan makes a sound he’s never heard from him before, sharp and unrestrained.
“Feel good?” Mark asks quietly, almost tenderly.
“Jesus Christ, yes,” Logan pants, skin flushed, pupils blown wide.
Mark works with patient precision, coaxing Logan open, adding a third finger when he can tell Logan is ready. Every movement is measured, every touch weighted with care, and by the time he pulls away to roll on a condom, Logan is trembling, a shiver running through him, his body slick with anticipation.
“Ready?” Mark asks, lining up but holding still, giving Logan the control to set the pace. His hands rest lightly on Logan’s hips, steady, grounding.
“Yeah,” Logan whispers, voice husky, eyes bright and wide, pupils blown, shining with need. “Please, Mark. I want this.”
Mark slides forward slowly, every movement deliberate. He gives Logan time to adjust, to breathe, to find comfort. The tension in Logan’s body is sharp at first, tight and unfamiliar, and Mark has to focus, on his breathing, on keeping his own pulse steady, on controlling his body.
“Okay?” Mark murmurs, voice strained with concentration.
“Yeah… weird but, oh.” Logan’s hands dig into Mark’s shoulders, nails just grazing his skin. “You can move.”
Mark begins, careful and shallow at first, watching Logan’s face, reading every flicker of expression. His own focus sharpens: the tilt of Logan’s head, the column of his neck when he tosses his head back, the way his lips part in response. Slowly, Logan’s body begins to loosen, hips shifting in subtle, urgent rhythm to meet him, signaling trust and desire all at once.
“Good?” Mark asks quietly, voice low, barely above a whisper.
“So good,” Logan gasps, breath ragged, voice full of awe and need. “Harder… I can take it.”
Mark feels it too, the tight line of energy running between them, the way Logan’s body responds, open and trusting. He moves with care, finding the balance between gentle and insistent, reading Logan’s every reaction, every small shiver or sigh. l.
Mark picks up the pace, angling his hips until he hits that spot that makes Logan cry out. Then he does it again, and again, finding a rhythm that has Logan falling apart beneath him.
"Touch yourself," Mark says, voice rough. "Want to feel you come around me."
Logan obeys immediately, hand wrapping around himself. It only takes a few strokes before he's tensing, coming with Mark's name on his lips. The feeling of Logan clenching around him sends Mark over the edge, and he follows Logan into the blissful aftermath.
They collapse together, chests rising and falling, breaths ragged. Mark pulls out carefully, taking a moment to deal with the condom before drawing Logan close again, letting him rest against his chest.
“Holy shit,” Logan breathes, eyes half-lidded, flushed and glowing in the dim light.
“Yeah,” Mark murmurs, a small grin tugging at his lips.
“We’re definitely doing that again,” Logan says, a mischievous lilt under the exhaustion in his voice.
Mark laughs softly, the sound low and warm. “Give me, like, twenty minutes.”
“Not right now, obviously,” Logan teases, nuzzling closer, his fingers tracing lazy circles on Mark’s side. “But soon. Definitely soon.”
They sink into comfortable silence, the kind that doesn’t need words, just the press of bodies and the steady rhythm of breathing. Mark’s hand drifts over Logan’s back, fingers tracing idle, soothing patterns, memorizing the warmth and weight beneath him.
After a long moment, Logan shifts slightly, voice soft but sincere. “Thank you. For this. For… being proud of me.”
The words hit Mark harder than he expects. He swallows, his heart hammering, and before he can stop it, the word slips out.
“Always.”
Logan lifts his head to look at him, something soft in his expression. "Also, I like hearing you call me baby."
Mark should backtrack, should remind them both this is temporary. But with Logan in his arms, sated and happy and looking at him like that, it would feel like too much of a lie. All Mark can do at that moment is kiss him.

Chapter Text

Logan wakes up slowly, awareness coming in waves, the weight of a heavy arm draped across his waist, the soft press of a warm chest at his back, the steady rhythm of someone else breathing. Sunlight filters through the blinds in pale slats, cutting across the sheets and painting Mark’s bare forearm gold. For a long moment, Logan doesn’t move. He just lies there, suspended in the quiet, letting himself feel the solid reality of it, the heat of Mark’s body against his own, the faint scrape of stubble where Mark’s chin rests against his shoulder, the rise and fall that syncs with his own breathing until he almost forgets which heartbeat is his.
This is dangerous.
The thought comes uninvited, sharp and certain, cutting through the soft haze of morning. Because last night wasn’t just sex. It hadn’t been, no matter how much they’d both pretended it was supposed to be. Mark had taken his time with him, hands steady, voice gentle, eyes locked on Logan’s like there was nowhere else in the world to look. Every touch had been deliberate, reverent even, like Mark was memorizing him. And after, when the air was thick with the scent of sweat and skin, Mark had held him close instead of pulling away. The way he’d looked at Logan, unguarded, quiet, his usual edges softened, had made Logan’s chest ache in a way he didn’t know how to handle.
And that word. Always.
It had slipped out like instinct, and maybe it was. Maybe Mark hadn’t even realized what he’d said, but Logan had felt it settle deep under his ribs, heavy and dangerous and far too much.
He knows what this is supposed to be. Just physical. Temporary. Something that burns bright and fast and leaves nothing behind when the season ends, or when one of them gets traded, or when it all inevitably gets too complicated. But lying here in Mark Callahan’s bed, sunlight spilling across tangled sheets, Logan knows he’s already past the point of pretending.
Because he’s falling for him.
Maybe he’s been falling since training camp, since the first time Mark barked at him to carry his own gear with that scowl that somehow made Logan grin. Maybe it started the night in Philadelphia when he’d shown up at Mark’s door with a stupid excuse and no plan. Maybe it was inevitable all along. But now, with Mark’s slow, sleepy breathing in his ear and the echo of baby still looping through his mind, Logan can’t lie to himself anymore.
He’s falling, and it’s going to hurt like hell when it ends.
Mark stirs behind him, the arm around his waist tightening. His voice is rough with sleep when he mumbles, “You’re thinking too loud.”
“Sorry,” Logan murmurs, voice thin.
Mark shifts, propping himself up on one elbow. His hair’s a mess, sticking up in every direction, and his eyes are soft, still heavy with sleep. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Logan says, too quickly. He forces a smile that feels brittle around the edges. “Just thinking about practice.”
Mark studies him for a moment longer, like he’s trying to read something between the lines, then lets it go. He leans down instead and presses a kiss to Logan’s mouth, soft, unhurried, the kind of kiss that undoes him completely. Logan melts into it despite the knot in his chest, hands sliding up to Mark’s shoulders as he turns in his arms to face him, holding on like maybe he can stop time if he just stays still enough.
They shower together after, steam curling around them, their hands careful and tender in a way that feels too much like something they can’t name. Logan traces the scars on Mark’s chest with wet fingertips, memorizing them like he’s afraid he won’t get another chance. He watches the way water drips down Mark’s throat, the way his hair darkens and curls when it’s soaked. He tucks those details away, building a memory he already knows he’s going to revisit.
“I should go,” Logan says finally, voice low, reluctant. “Cap’s probably wondering where I am.”
“Probably.” Mark’s hands find his hips, thumbs drawing lazy circles against his skin. He looks at Logan for a long moment before adding, “Tomorrow night? After the game?”
Mark’s watching him with that unreadable expression, Logan can’t shake the truth curling tight in his chest. He’s already too far gone. But he's weak, and Mark's looking at him like that, and Logan's never been good at denying himself things he wants.
He nods. “Yeah. Tomorrow night.”
Friday’s game against Dallas is everything Logan needs it to be, fast, mean, and punishing. From the first drop of the puck, it feels like the world narrows down to the ice beneath his skates and the chaos in front of him. Dallas are physical, relentless, and Logan meets them hit for hit, like he’s trying to drive something out of himself with every collision.
He takes three hard checks in the first period alone, shoulder into the boards, hip to hip, helmet snapping back with the impact, and he bounces up every time, jaw set, eyes bright with that manic edge that only comes from Logan in his prime performance. His mouth won’t stop either; every chirp he throws across the ice is sharper than the last, and every retort from Dallas only fuels him more.
By the time they reach the TV timeout, his pulse is a hammer in his throat. Mark skates up beside him, helmet tilted, eyes hard behind the visor.
“Easy,” he breathes out“You’re going to get hurt.”
“I’m fine.”
Mark’s jaw works, but before he can answer, the linesman’s already waving them back for the faceoff. Logan turns away before he can read the look in Mark’s eyes.
He scores midway through the second, off a pass from Mark, of course. It’s clean, effortless: a wrister from the top of the circle that beats the goalie glove-side. The crowd roars, the horn blares, and his teammates are all over him, slapping his helmet, shouting praise. It should feel good. It should feel enough.
But as he coasts to the bench, all he can think about is the press of Mark’s palm against his lower back last night, the sound of his voice murmuring always, and the look he gave Logan that morning, like he was something fragile, something worth keeping.
The celebration rings hollow.
They win 3–1. Logan’s name gets called as first star, and he lifts his stick to the crowd, forcing a smile he doesn’t feel. He talks to media about the game and his contract and the only image in his head is Mark’s face buried in his neck.
In the locker room, the noise is loud, music, laughter, the hiss of showers and the clatter of teammates changing, but it all sounds distant. Logan sits on the bench, unwrapping tape from his stick, trying to quiet the restless buzz under his skin.
Vlasky drops beside him, towel draped over his shoulders. “You play good tonight,” he says, accent curling around the words. “Angry, but good.”
“I’m not angry.”
“Hm.” Vlasky’s green eyes narrow, too perceptive for comfort. “You want to get lunch tomorrow? Before we leave for Chicago?”
Logan blinks. “Lunch?”
“Yes. The art museum we went to last time. Is peaceful.” He tilts his head, almost smiling. “You will come with me, yes?”
Logan hesitates, thrown by the sudden subject change, by the softness in Vlasky’s tone. “I… yeah. Okay.”
Vlasky grins, clapping him on the shoulder hard enough to make Logan sway. “Good. We meet at eleven.”
By the time Logan gets to Mark’s house that night, the edges of exhaustion are setting in, the dull ache in his muscles, the bruise forming on his ribs, but all of it fades the second Mark opens the door.
“Congratulations on first star,” Mark murmurs, pulling him inside before the door even clicks shut. His voice is rough, low.
“Thanks.” Logan’s already tugging at Mark’s shirt, hungry, impatient. “Thanks for the assist on that goal.”
“Always.” Mark’s hands slide to his hips, steering him backward toward the stairs.
They don’t make it all the way upstairs in one piece, Mark’s mouth is on his throat halfway up, Logan’s shirt somewhere on the landing, both of them laughing softly against each other’s skin. By the time they reach the bedroom, Logan’s heart is a live wire.
Mark pushes him gently down onto the bed, his expression softening in that way that undoes Logan completely. His hands trace Logan’s ribs, his shoulders, the faint bruise forming along his hip from the game. “You okay?” he asks, voice quiet now.
“Yeah.” Logan’s breath catches as Mark’s mouth finds his chest. “God, yeah.”
“Good,” Mark murmurs, kissing lower. “Then let me take care of you.”
And he does, slowly, reverently, like he’s trying to make up for every rough edge of Logan’s day. His mouth leaves trails of heat down Logan’s stomach, his hands grounding him when his thoughts threaten to spiral.
“Mark, please,” Logan breathes.
“Tell me what you want.”
Logan meets his gaze, eyes dark and earnest. “You. I want to feel you.”
Something flickers across Mark’s face, desire and tenderness and something else. He groans softly, reaching for the nightstand.
Mark’s fingers are patient, coaxing, his praise a quiet undercurrent that makes Logan’s chest ache. So good. So perfect. Look at you. By the time Mark finally presses into him, Logan’s trembling with need, nails digging into the sheets.
“Okay?” Mark manages, voice breaking on the word.
“Yeah. God, yes.” Logan wraps his legs around his waist, pulling him closer. “Move. Please.”
Mark does, slow, deep thrusts that make the world fall away. The rhythm builds, steady and consuming, and when Mark’s hand finds his, their fingers intertwine. Mark presses Logan’s hand into the mattress beside his head, holding him there gently, like an anchor.
“Look at me,” Mark says, and Logan does. Their eyes lock, and the air between them changes, charged, fragile, infinite.
“You’re so beautiful, baby” Mark whispers, voice rough with emotion. “So fucking perfect.”
Logan can’t speak. He wants to say it back, wants to say you make me feel safe, you make me feel wanted, you make me wish this didn’t have to end, but the words choke in his throat. So he just pulls Mark down and kisses him instead, desperate and deep, giving him everything he can’t say out loud.
When release hits, it’s overwhelming, Logan gasps, back arching, Mark’s name breaking from his lips. Mark follows seconds later, trembling against him, and then it’s just the sound of their breathing, uneven and ragged, filling the dark.
Mark doesn’t move right away. He just gathers Logan close, presses a kiss to his temple.
“Stay,” he says quietly. “Don’t go back to Oskar’s tonight.”
Logan should say no. He should remind both of them that this isn’t what they promised, that it isn’t supposed to feel like this. But he can’t.
“Okay,” he whispers.
Later, the room is dark and quiet, lit only by the faint glow of streetlight slipping through the blinds. Logan lies with his head on Mark’s chest, listening to the slow thud of his heartbeat. Mark’s fingers trace idle patterns along his spine, and Logan lets himself drift, pretending, just for tonight, that this could last.
That when this ends, they won’t have to go back to being teammates and strangers.
That always might actually mean something.
But the knot in his chest stays tight, stubborn, unrelenting. Because even now, in Mark’s arms, Logan knows he’s lying to himself.
In the morning, Logan wakes alone in Mark’s bed. The space beside him is still faintly warm, the sheets rumpled, smelling Mark. For a moment, he just lies there, staring at the ceiling, half expecting to hear the sound of Mark’s even breathing beside him again. But instead, there’s the quiet hum of a coffeemaker downstairs and the faint clatter of a pan, and something inside him loosens.
He pulls on boxers and one of Mark’s t-shirts, soft and worn, the fabric smelling faintly of cedar and detergent, and pads barefoot down the stairs. Morning sunlight cuts through the kitchen window, pooling gold across the floor. Mark stands at the stove in gray sweatpants and a faded Boston College hoodie, hair still damp from a shower, spatula in hand as he flips pancakes.
“Hey,” Logan says, leaning against the doorframe.
Mark looks up, and for a second his expression shifts, softens, in that way that makes Logan feel unsteady. “Morning. Hungry?”
“Starving.”
Mark nods toward the table already set for two, mugs, plates, butter, syrup, and it hits Logan in a strange, quiet way. How normal it looks. How easy.
They eat at Mark’s small kitchen table, knees brushing under the surface, the tv murmuring softly in the background. It feels domestic, dangerously so. Like they’ve slipped into something neither of them planned for but both of them crave. The smell of coffee, the scrape of silverware, the low sound of Mark’s laugh, it all settles deep in Logan’s chest, warm and heavy. Like this could be their life if things were different.
“I’ve got that thing with Vlasky at eleven,” Logan says after a few bites, stabbing half-heartedly at a pancake. “Art museum.”
Mark’s eyes flick up. “That’s good. Vlasky’s a good guy.”
“Yeah.” Logan toys with his fork, tracing circles on his plate. “We’re leaving for Chicago tomorrow.”
“I know.” Mark’s hand finds his across the table, fingers curling gently around his wrist. “When we get back?”
“Yeah. When we get back.”
But Logan’s mind is already whirling ahead in the future. Thinking about how the rest of this season sprawls out. That the All-Star break is right after the road trip. That Logan will be gone for nearly a week, different city, different bed, cameras everywhere. That a little distance might be good for them, help them remember what this is supposed to be: uncomplicated, physical, easy to walk away from.
Except Logan doesn’t want distance. He wants this, Mark’s hand warm around his, the quiet clink of coffee cups, the sense of belonging that settles in his bones like muscle memory. He wants something he isn’t supposed to want.
He’s so fucked.
-
The Museum of Art sits on a quiet area of town near the arena, glass and steel rising out of old brick like a conversation between centuries. The morning’s cold, the sky a washed-out blue, and Logan spots Vlasky immediately. leaning against a lamppost in a sharp black coat and a beanie that doesn’t quite cover his messy blond hair. He brightens the second he sees Logan.
“Hazy! You come!”
Logan laughs, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Said I would, didn’t I?”
They wander inside. The museum’s bigger than Logan expected the first time Vlasky brought him here, echoing halls, white walls, light filtering down from skylights above. The air smells faintly of polish and paper. Galleries spill into each other, classical sculptures giving way to bold, modern installations.
To Logan’s surprise, Vlasky moves through the space with the kind of quiet focus he usually only shows on the ice. He stops to read plaques, studies brushstrokes, tilts his head like he’s trying to see the story behind every piece.
“I didn’t know you were this into art,” Logan says when they pause before a massive abstract painting, an explosion of color that seems to vibrate on the canvas.
“My mama,” Vlasky says, voice softening. “She take me to Hermitage when I am young. In St. Petersburg. Is beautiful. Make me love art.” He gestures at the painting, eyes bright. “This one reminds me of hockey.”
Logan blinks. “How the hell does this….” he waves a hand at the chaotic swirl of paint “,remind you of hockey?”
Vlasky grins faintly. “All chaos, but also pattern. You see? From far away, is mess. But close up, you see artist knew what they do. Every stroke has purpose. Every one connects to the next.”
Logan stares at the painting a little longer, trying to see what Vlasky sees. “Huh,” he says finally. “Didn’t think of it like that.”
They move to the next gallery, contemporary photography. Large black-and-white portraits line the walls, intimate glimpses of people caught mid-moment: a woman buttoning her coat, a kid laughing with ice cream smeared across his face, an old man staring out a rain-streaked window.
“These are my favorite,” Vlasky says after a while, his voice quieter now. “Because they show truth. Not what people pretend to be. What they really are.”
Something in Logan’s chest stirs. Truth. He thinks of Mark’s hand steady on his back that morning, the warmth of it, the safety. He thinks about how much they hide to protect it.
“V?” Logan says softly. “You okay?”
Vlasky doesn’t answer right away. He’s still looking at one of the portraits, a close shot of a man sitting alone at a diner table, coffee gone cold in front of him. “Yes. No. I don’t know.” He lets out a small laugh, but it’s brittle. “Sometimes I think we are too good at pretending in hockey, yes? Pretend injuries don’t hurt. Pretend we are not tired. Pretend we are who everyone wants us to be.”
“Yeah,” Logan says quietly. “We are.”
“And sometimes…” Vlasky trails off, still not looking at him. “Sometimes we pretend we do not want things. We tell ourselves is better this way. Safer.”
The words land like a stone in Logan’s stomach. He knows what Vlasky means, what he can’t say out loud here, surrounded by strangers. The weight of it sits heavy between them.
“V-” Logan starts.
But Vlasky cuts him off with a small shake of his head. “No, is okay. I am just saying I understand. About wanting things. About being scared.” His voice drops. “And I am happy you find something that makes you smile.” His eyes flick briefly toward Logan, something raw in the glance. “Even if is not with…” He trails off and stares back at the man with the coffee.
Logan’s throat tightens. The air feels thick. “Vlasky, I-”
“Is okay, Hazy.” Vlasky straightens a little, shoulders squaring as he builds his walls back up. “You are my friend. My best friend here. I do not want to lose this.”
“You won’t,” Logan says immediately, fiercely. “I promise. You won’t.”
Vlasky nods, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth, though his eyes still look tired. “Good. Then we go to practice. Be teammates. Be friends. Is simple.”
When they walk back out into the cold afternoon, Logan is suddenly exhausted. The sun’s higher now, the street louder. As they part in the parking lot, Logan watches Vlasky walk to his car, posture a little too straight, smile a little too fixed, and something twists deep in his chest. Because now he understands what he hadn’t before, what they all hide behind their easy grins and practiced toughness. They’re all pretending. All carrying the weight of things they can’t say.
And for the first time, Logan realizes he isn’t the only one quietly breaking under it.
Chicago a is bad loss in every sense of the word.
The wind cuts through the tunnel to the loading bay as they file into the United Center, all of them hunched in their coats, faces half-hidden behind scarves and beanies. The building hums with the electric tension of a city that loves its team a little too much, and Logan feels the weight of it on his shoulders from warmup to the final buzzer.
By the last minute of the third, his legs leaden, lungs raw. When the stick comes up, accidental or not, he doesn’t even have time to flinch. There’s a flash of white, a sharp sting, then blood, hot and metallic, running down his cheek and dripping onto the ice.
The trainer ushers him off. The locker room blurs around him and the air smells like sweat and disinfectant and the sharp, almost sweet tang of blood.
He sits shirtless in the medical room, the sterile light too bright, his pulse still hammering. The team doctor’s threading neat black stitches above his brow, tug-tug-tug, a rhythm that makes Logan’s stomach twist. Mark stands in the doorway. Helmet off, still in half his gear, hands on his hips. His expression is tight, jaw clenched, brow furrowed, that vein in his temple standing out.
“I’m fine,” Logan says for the third time, though his voice sounds weaker than he wants it to.
“You’re bleeding.”
“Not anymore.” Logan forces a grin. “Just a cut. Adds character, right?”
Mark’s eyes flick to the stitches. “You’ll have a scar.”
Mark doesn’t smile. His throat works, like there’s something he wants to say but can’t. Not here. Not with the doctor stitching him up, not with a trainer in the corner sorting gauze and tape.
So he just nods once and leaves, disappearing into the hallway.
And for reasons Logan can’t explain, that quiet exit hurts worse than the cut.
Two nights later, the rhythm shifts.
St. Louis feels easier, lighter. The ice crisp, the puck moving the way it’s supposed to. They win 3–1. Logan gets an assist, Mark blocks three brutal shots, and for a while it feels like they’re both exactly who they’re supposed to be, great linemates.
But it doesn’t last.
The second the bus starts its long, dark roll out of the arena parking lot, the noise of the others, music, laughter, the shuffle of cards and trash talk, feels distant, muffled. Logan stares out the window, city lights blurring into gold and white streaks. He can still feel the echo of Mark’s gaze on him, the wordless understanding in those glances between shifts.
He tells himself it’s fine. They needed the distance of a roadtrip. Needed to cool off. But he can’t stop replaying the sound of Mark’s voice from the sanctuary of his bedroom, the low, careful way he’d said baby like it wasn’t a mistake.
It’s a stupid thing to fixate on, but he does.
By the time they reach Nashville on Wednesday, the air between them feels stretched thin enough to snap.
They check into the hotel mid-afternoon. The sky is pale gray, rain threatening. Logan tosses his bag on the bed and sits, staring at the carpet pattern until it blurs. He’s supposed to nap. Instead, he paces. Back and forth.
He tries to read scouting notes. Can’t focus.
Tries to scroll through his phone. Doesn’t see a word.
Every thought circles back to Mark, Mark in the locker room, Mark’s hand on his back, Mark’s voice low in his ear, Mark’s arm heavy across his waist, the sunlight turning his skin to gold.
Finally, he gives in.
Logan: Which room are you in?
The response comes fast.
Mark: 412. Why?
Logan: Can I come up?
A pause.
Mark: Logan, we’re on the road. We can’t.
Logan: I don’t care. I need to see you.
Another pause, longer this time.
Mark: Give me five minutes. I’ll make sure the hallway’s clear.
The hallway smells faintly of detergent and old carpet cleaner. Logan’s heart is pounding as he climbs the stairs and every footstep sounds impossibly loud. The fourth floor is silent except for the hum of the air conditioning and the soft shuffle of someone’s TV through the wall.
Mark’s door opens before he can knock.
He’s barefoot, hair damp, wearing sweats and a plain black t-shirt that clings to his chest. His expression flickers, relief, frustration, want.
“This is reckless,” he murmurs, voice rough.
“I know.” Logan steps closer, hand finding the hem of Mark’s shirt. “I know, but I can’t stop thinking about you, and-”
Mark’s hand comes up, sliding into Logan’s hair. “Stop talking.”
He kisses him. The kind of kiss that feels like falling, like surrender, like every boundary they’d built is suddenly dust.
The door slams shut behind them. Logan’s back hits it a moment later. Clothes go fast, tossed anywhere, shirt over the back of a chair, joggers on the floor, the muted clatter of something sliding off the desk.
There’s no slow tenderness, no careful edge to their touches. Just urgency. Hunger. The kind of need that feels like a bruise. Mark’s mouth moves down Logan’s throat, his hands steady but shaking slightly. Logan fists a hand in Mark’s hair, half-biting his own lip to stay quiet. Even in these 4 star hotels, the walls are thin. The risk is high.
When Mark pushes inside, Logan buries his face in his shoulder, teeth catching skin to stifle sound. The world narrows to the rhythm of breath and movement, the heat between them, the rough whisper of Mark reminding him to keep quiet,
Mark’s hand slides down, fingers curling around him, stroking in time. It takes everything in Logan not to cry out, not to give them away. He comes silently, a shudder that feels like breaking open, Mark following seconds later with a strangled groan against his neck.
After, the only sound is the hum of the AC and their ragged breathing.
Mark’s the first to speak. “We can’t do that again. Not on the road. It’s too risky.”
“I know.” Logan’s tracing idle circles on his chest. “But I don’t regret it.”
“Neither do I.” Mark’s voice is quiet. Then: “But Logan…”
“I know what you’re going to say.”
Mark shakes his head. “I don’t think this is what you deserve.”
The words hit harder than Logan expects, air leaving his lungs. “Where’s this coming from?”
“You’re twenty-four. You’ve got everything ahead of you. I’m…”
“Don’t.” Logan sits up, anger flashing through the ache. “Don’t make decisions for me about what I deserve.”
“I’m trying to protect you.”
“From what? From you?” He laughs, a sound too sharp to be real. “Too late for that.”
Mark’s mouth opens like he might argue, but nothing comes out.
Logan pulls his shirt over his head. “I should go. We’ve got a game.”
“Logan, ”
“It’s fine,” he says, voice tight, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. “We’re good.”
He leaves before he can see Mark’s expression.
They win in overtime. The locker room explodes in music and shouting, but Logan’s chest feels hollow. Mark claps Johan on the shoulder but his eyes flicker toward Logan and away again in the same heartbeat.
On the plane home, Logan sits beside Vlasky, who’s rambling about country music and barbecue. Logan nods when appropriate but hears none of it.
“You are not listening,” Vlasky says finally.
“Sorry. Just tired.”
Vlasky glances forward, toward Mark, and then back. “I know it cannot be easy.”
Logan’s head snaps up. “What?”
“Nothing.” Vlasky smiles faintly. “Forget it.”
Thursday morning, the rink feels like a held breath. The optional skate is more habit than necessity, half the team’s already scattered for the All-Star break, and the silence that fills the empty arena is almost comforting.
Logan laces up without thinking, going through the motions because movement is the only thing that quiets his mind. The first few laps are punishingly fast, his blades biting into the ice, lungs burning as if he can skate the restlessness out of his body. Each stride feels like a plea for clarity, a prayer for something he can’t name.
On the far end of the rink, Mark’s a familiar figure, steady, controlled, methodical. He runs through his warm-up with the precision of someone who needs structure, who hides behind it. Their eyes never meet. Not once.
It’s worse that way.
By the time Logan drifts off the ice, sweat slicked down his spine, his legs are trembling from the effort. He strips off his gloves, grabs his stick, and keeps his head down. He’s halfway to his car when he hears his name.
“Can we talk?”
Logan turns, heart stuttering. Mark stands a few yards away, helmet tucked under one arm, his hair damp at the temples, that same unreadable look on his face. Not angry. Not exactly distant either. Just… tired.
“Yeah,” Logan says after a beat. His voice sounds rough. “Your place?”
Mark hesitates. “Coffee shop. Two blocks over. Ten minutes.”
The café is quiet and over-warm, the kind of place where time slows down. The smell of espresso clings to everything. A barista wipes down the counter, music hums low from hidden speakers. Logan wraps his hands around a cup that’s already gone lukewarm, trying to feel grounded.
Mark sits across from him, elbows on the table, eyes on his drink like it might rearrange itself into an answer. There’s a faint crease between his brows, the one that always deepens when he’s overthinking.
“I’m going to Nova Scotia,” Mark says finally. His voice is low, measured. “For the break. See my sister. Visit my mom’s grave.”
Logan blinks. That’s not where he thought this conversation was going. “Oh. That’s-yeah. That’s good. You should go.”
“I need to figure some things out,” Mark says, still not looking at him. “About what I want. About us.”
The words land heavy. Logan’s mouth twists into something like a smile, but it’s brittle around the edges. “And what if you figure out you don’t want this anymore?”
“Logan….”
“It’s fine,” Logan says too quickly. He forces a breath that feels like it’s scraping his lungs raw. “Really. We always knew this was temporary.”
Mark’s gaze flicks up at that, sharp and pained. “Is that what you think this is?”
“I don’t know what it is anymore.” Logan’s voice cracks. He looks down, fingers tracing the seam of his cup. “I just know it’s killing me.”
Silence stretches out, taut and trembling. The espresso machine hisses; someone laughs softly near the counter. Ordinary sounds, in the middle of something that feels anything but.
Mark opens his mouth like he might say something, something that could shift everything, but no words come out. He just looks at Logan, like maybe that’s all he can manage.
Logan stands. His legs feel unsteady. “Good luck in Nova Scotia.”
Mark’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t move to stop him.
The bell above the café door jingles as Logan steps out into the cold. His breath fogs in the air. The sky is a heavy, pale gray, the kind that promises snow that the southern winter won’t allow to fall, and Logan thinks, absurdly, that it feels exactly like this, gray and endless and waiting to break with no release coming.
Saturday morning, the world feels off-kilter.
The house is quiet except for the faint clatter of dishes upstairs. Logan’s half-packed suitcase sits open on the bed, clothes folded too neatly, like order might keep him from falling apart.
Oskar knocks on the basement door and lets himself in, balancing two mugs of coffee. “Kelsey made breakfast,” he says, voice still thick with sleep. “You should eat before your flight.”
“Not really hungry.”
“Logan.” Oskar’s tone softens, but it’s steady. “You’re off lately. You can tell me what’s going on.”
Logan almost breaks right there. Almost says everything, that he’s been sneaking around with Mark Callahan, that it’s not just sex anymore, that he can’t stop thinking about him even when he’s supposed to be sleeping. But the words jam in his throat.
“I’m fine, Cap. Just tired.”
Oskar studies him for a long moment, eyes narrowing like he knows better but won’t press. Finally, he nods. “Okay. But you know where I am if you need to talk.”
When he’s gone, Logan exhales shakily and goes back to packing. He folds a T-shirt, then unfolds it again. His stomach twists.
The phone rings.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Logan!” Her voice is bright, delighted. “I just wanted to call before you leave. Your father and I are so proud of you, honey. The All-Star Game!”
He smiles even though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Thanks, Mom.”
They talk for a few minutes, her asking about his flights, about his meals, about whether he’s sleeping enough, and Logan gives the same reassuring answers he always does. He’s fine. He’s eating. He’s happy.
When the call ends, he stares at the screen for a long time. The silence of the room rushes back in, heavy and hollow.
Then the phone buzzes again.
Mark: Safe travels to Toronto. You’re going to be amazing.
Logan’s heart thuds painfully. His thumb hovers. He types Thanks. Deletes it. Types Miss you. Deletes that too. The cursor blinks back at him like it’s mocking him.
Before he can stop himself, he hits Call.
It rings twice.
“Logan?”
The sound of Mark’s voice punches the air out of him. “Hey.” His own voice cracks a little. “I just…didn’t want to text this.”
There’s a pause. He can hear Mark breathing on the other end, soft and steady, like ocean waves through static. “Okay..” He finally says, carefully.
“I know you said you need space. To think. And I get that.” Logan drags a hand down his face. “But before I go, I need to say this.”
He swallows hard, words trembling on the edge. “This isn’t just physical for me anymore. I don’t know when it stopped being that, but it did. And I know that makes things harder, but I can’t keep pretending.”
Mark exhales, quiet, shaky. “Logan.”
“I’m falling for you, Mark.” The words tumble out, helpless and raw. “And it’s terrifying, and it’s stupid, but it’s true. So figure out whatever you need to in Nova Scotia. Just…know that I already know what I want.”
There’s a long silence. So long that Logan thinks maybe the call’s dropped.
“Logan,” Mark says softly. “You don’t make this easy.”
“I wasn’t trying to.” Logan’s throat burns. “Take care of yourself, okay?”
“Yeah.”
He hangs up before he can lose his nerve.
The phone slips from his hand onto the bedspread. The quiet hum of the house feels too big, too empty. He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, but it doesn’t stop the ache blooming behind them.
He knows, with a clarity that hurts, that he’s already too far gone.
And when this ends, because it has to, it’s going to wreck him.

Chapter Text

Mark's hands are shaking when Logan hangs up.
He stands in his kitchen, phone still pressed to his ear even though the line's gone dead, and tries to remember how to breathe. The silence that follows feels like it's pressing in from all sides, suffocating, and Mark has to set the phone down before he does something stupid like call Logan back and tell him….tell him what?
That he's falling too? That he's already fallen? That every careful wall he's built over fifteen years in this league has crumbled around Logan Hayes like they were made of nothing at all?
‘I'm falling for you, Mark.’
The words loop in his head, over and over, Logan's voice rough with emotion, cracking on the edges. ‘I already know what I want.’
Mark braces his hands on the counter, head dropping forward. His chest feels too tight, ribs constricting around his lungs until each breath comes shallow and painful.
This wasn't supposed to happen. They'd agreed—or maybe they'd just pretended to agree—that this was physical. Temporary. Something they could walk away from. Something safe.
Except there's nothing safe about the way Mark feels right now.
He thinks about Logan underneath him that first night, eyes wide and wanting, trusting Mark with something precious. Thinks about the way Logan looks at him in the morning, sleep-soft and unguarded. Thinks about pasta dinners and poetry and Logan falling asleep in his arms like he belonged there.
Thinks about how Logan's laugh sounds in his living room, bright and unrestrained. How his hair curls at the nape of his neck when it's damp from the shower. The exact blue of his eyes in different lighting, denim-bright in sunlight, darker in the bedroom, almost gray when he’s staring down a goaltender.
The freckles scattered across his collarbone that Mark's memorized with his mouth. The way Logan's breath catches when Mark touches him just right. The soft sound he makes, half-gasp, half-sigh, when Mark pushes inside him.
The way Logan had looked up at him two nights ago in that Nashville hotel room, desperate and beautiful and his, and Mark had thought with crystal clarity: I never want to let this go.
"Fuck," Mark breathes into the empty kitchen.
He's a little bit in love with Logan Hayes.
Has been, probably, since that first day at training camp when Logan climbed out of Oskar's minivan looking like summer itself, all bright smiles and golden skin. When Mark's five-second rule had failed before it even started, when he'd looked once and then couldn't stop looking.
He's in love with Logan Hayes, and it's the most terrifying thing he's ever felt.
Because loving Logan means risking everything. His career, his reputation, the carefully constructed life he's built around being exactly what everyone expects him to be. It means dragging Logan into that risk too, potentially destroying the bright future he deserves.
Mark had pulled away in that coffee shop because the truth was too big to say out loud. Because ‘I need to figure some things out’ was easier than ‘I'm in love with you and it terrifies me.’ Because leaving for Nova Scotia meant buying himself time to think, to breathe, to figure out how the hell he's supposed to navigate this without destroying them both.
Except Logan had just called and said exactly what Mark's been too afraid to admit. Had laid his heart bare in that quiet, devastating way, and Mark had just…what? Said you don't make this easy like Logan was a problem to be solved instead of the best thing that's ever happened to him?
Mark's phone buzzes. For a second his heart leaps, thinking it's Logan calling back. But it's just a calendar reminder: Flight to Halifax, 6 PM.
Right. Nova Scotia.
Mark drags himself upstairs to finish packing, movements mechanical. Jeans, sweaters, the heavy winter coat he only wears when he goes home because Carolina winters are nothing compared to Maritime cold. He throws it all in a duffel bag and tries not to think about how Logan's probably packing right now too, getting ready to fly to Toronto for All-Star Weekend.
Tries not to think about Logan surrounded by the best players in the league, laughing and charming everyone the way he does. About photographers and cameras and the kind of attention Mark's spent fifteen years carefully avoiding..
The flight to Halifax is long and gives Mark too much time to think. He sits in the window seat, watching North Carolina give way to Virginia, then D.C., then the patchwork of cities and forests that stretch up the eastern seaboard. He's got his tablet loaded with game film, but he can't focus. Can't think about hockey when Logan's voice keeps echoing in his head.
‘I'm falling for you, Mark.’
Mark closes his eyes and lets himself remember, really remember, in a way he hasn't let himself do because it felt too dangerous. Remembers the first time he'd really looked at Logan, not the five-second glance he allowed himself, but looked. Training camp, August heat making the air shimmer, Logan laughing at something Oskar said. The way the sunlight had caught in his hair, turning it gold. The sharp line of his jaw, the freckles scattered across his nose, the particular blue of his eyes.
Mark had thought, with a clarity that had stolen his breath: I'm in trouble.
Remembers the equipment room. Logan's breath catching when Mark's fingers brushed his cheek, the heat in his eyes before he'd pulled away. The electricity that had crackled between them, undeniable and terrifying.
Remembers Philadelphia. Logan knocking on his door, desperate and beautiful and wanting him. The way Logan had fit against him like he'd been made for Mark's arms. The taste of him, the sounds he made, the trust in his eyes when he'd said I need you.
Remembers every moment since. Logan falling asleep on his chest. Making dinner together like it was the most natural thing in the world. The way Logan had looked at him the night of the all star announcement, something soft and devastating in his expression, like Mark was someone worth keeping.
Remembers last weekend. Logan underneath him, eyes bright with need, saying ‘I want to feel you’ like it was a confession. The way Logan had trembled when Mark pushed inside him, the desperate grip of his hands, the broken way he'd gasped Mark's name. The afterglow, when Logan had traced patterns on Mark's chest and said I like hearing you call me baby with such quiet honesty that Mark's throat had closed up.
Mark wants that. Wants him. Wants mornings with Logan in his kitchen, wants to fall asleep with him every night, wants to watch him smile over coffee and listen to him ramble about nothing and everything. Wants to take care of him, protect him, love him the way he deserves to be loved.
But wanting it and being able to have it are two different things.
The plane lands in Halifax just before nine PM, the sky already dark and the temperature brutal. Mark collects his bag and heads out to the rental car, breath fogging in the frigid air. The drive to his sister's place in Dartmouth takes twenty minutes through quiet streets and neighborhoods he half-remembers from childhood.
Sarah lives in their childhood house near the water, blue siding and white trim, flower boxes under the windows that are empty now in winter. Warm light glows from the windows, and Mark feels something in his chest ease slightly at the sight. Home, or the closest thing he's had to one in years.
He's barely out of the car when the front door opens and Sarah appears, bundled in a thick sweater and wool socks, dark hair pulled back in a bun. She's thirty-eight, three years older than Mark, and looks more like their mother every time he sees her.
"Mark!" She's off the porch and pulling him into a hug before he can even grab his bag. "You made it!"
"Hey, Sar." Mark hugs her back, breathing in the familiar scent of her lavender shampoo. "Good to see you."
"Come on, it's freezing. Get inside." She tugs him toward the house. "David's making cocoa. And before you say anything, yes, with marshmallows. I know you hate them, but you'll deal."
Mark huffs something that might be a laugh and follows her inside. The house is warm and smells like cinnamon and wood smoke. David, Sarah's fiancé, appears from the kitchen holding two mugs, his dark skin warm brown in the lamplight, his smile genuine and easy.
"Mark! Long time, man." They do that half-hug thing guys do. "How was the flight?"
"Long."
"They always are." David hands him one of the mugs. "Sarah's been bouncing off the walls waiting for you."
"Have not," Sarah protests, but she's grinning. "I'm just excited to see my little brother."
"I'm six inches taller than you."
“Irrelevant. You’ll always be my little brother.”
They settle in the living room, Mark on the couch, Sarah and David in the armchairs that used to belong to their parents. The space smells faintly of cinnamon and sea air, the radiator humming against the steady percussion of waves outside. Family photos fill every surface: Sarah and David’s engagement pictures, last year’s Christmas card with matching sweaters, old shots of hockey teams and graduations. Their mother’s smile appears again and again, frozen in glossy permanence, forever barely older than they are now.
“So,” Sarah says at last, after small talk has worn thin, David’s new project, the snowstorm forecast, whether the Copperheads will manage to claw their way into the playoffs. “How are you? Really?”
Mark wraps his hands around the warm ceramic mug. “Shoulder’s good. Playing well. Team’s in a decent spot.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
He should’ve known she’d see through him. Sarah always could, even when they were kids and he thought silence might make him invisible. “I’m fine.”
“Mark.” Her voice gentles, soft but unyielding. “You flew across the country during All-Star break when you could’ve been on a beach somewhere. Something’s going on.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, staring into the cocoa until the surface stills and he can see his reflection, tired, drawn, older than he remembers being. David catches the shift in the room and stands smoothly. “I’m gonna grab a shower before bed. Good to see you, Mark. We’ll catch up tomorrow.”
When he’s gone, Sarah moves from her chair to the couch, folding herself beside Mark and tucking her feet under her like she used to during late-night sibling debriefs before Mark left home to play in the junior leagues and Sarah left for college in the same year. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?”
Mark’s throat feels tight. He sets the mug down carefully so he won’t have to see his hands shaking. “I don’t know where to start.”
“Start anywhere.”
So he does. Not all of it, he’s not ready for that, but fragments. The season that feels longer every year. The shoulder injury that wouldn’t heal. Sitting in the press box, useless, while his team fell apart without him. The creeping realization that his body isn’t invincible anymore. The quiet house in Raleigh that feels more like a storage space for his life than a home. The kind of loneliness that hums like background noise.
Sarah listens the way she always has, patient and steady, her expression open but unreadable. When he finally runs out of words, she exhales softly.
“It sounds like you’re tired,” she says. “Not just physically. Emotionally.”
“Maybe.”
“When’s the last time you let yourself want something that wasn’t hockey?”
The question lands like a body check, unexpected, knocking the wind out of him. He thinks of Logan: the way his grin ignites a room, the heat that coils low in Mark’s stomach every time their eyes meet, the terrifying, exhilarating hunger of wanting something he’s spent decades denying.
“I don’t know,” he says, voice rough.
Sarah studies him, tilting her head. “Mom wouldn’t want you living like this. She’d want you to be happy.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” she asks quietly. “Because from where I’m sitting, you’re running on autopilot. You’re playing because it’s what you’ve always done, not because it still fills you up. But what happens when it ends? When there’s no more season, no next game? What do you have then?”
The answer should terrify him. Instead, a single image rises unbidden: Logan in his kitchen, barefoot and laughing, light spilling over his shoulders. The warmth of him pressed close. The ease that felt like home.
Mark’s mouth goes dry. “I’m gay,” he says finally. The words scrape on their way out, but once they’re in the air, they’re unshakable. “I’ve always been. Since I was a kid. I just…never said it out loud. I knew what it would cost. In hockey, especially.”
Sarah’s hand finds his, fingers threading through his like when they were little and she used to sneak him courage before games. “Mark…” Her voice breaks. “I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine how lonely that must’ve been.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I should’ve asked. Should’ve made sure you knew you could tell me.”
“You couldn’t have known.” He gives a soft, bitter laugh. “I’m good at hiding things. Always have been.”
“Well,” she says, squeezing his hand, “maybe it’s time to stop hiding.”
The silence that follows is heavy but not unbearable. Outside, the wind moans against the windowpanes, and the Atlantic throws itself endlessly against the rocks, relentless and beautiful. He feels lighter somehow. Like saying it out loud cracked something open inside him, something that had been locked away for years.
“I think I’m in love with someone,” he says suddenly.
Sarah blinks, eyes wet but bright. “Yeah?”
“A teammate. A guy. Someone who deserves better than me.”
“Does he think that?”
He thinks of Logan’s soft smile, of his voice when he said I’m falling for you. The look in his eyes, steady, sure, so full of faith it almost hurt to meet it.
“No,” Mark admits. “He thinks I’m worth it. Somehow.”
“Then maybe you should believe him.”
Mark swallows hard. “He’s the first person I’ve let close in years. The first person I’ve trusted with the real me. And it’s…” He shakes his head, unable to find the words. “It’s everything I’ve been afraid of. And everything I’ve ever wanted.”
“You don’t have to figure it out alone.” Sarah’s watching him with a tenderness that guts him; for a second, she looks so much like their mom it steals his breath.
“It’s not that simple.”
“You keep saying that,” she says gently. “But what if it is? What if it’s only complicated because you keep convincing yourself it has to be? When was the last time you let yourself be happy, Mark?”
He can’t answer. The memory is too vivid. Logan’s breathless laugh in that Nashville hotel room, his skin warm under Mark’s hands, the feeling that for once in his life, everything made sense.
“I’m scared,” he says finally. “Of what it’ll cost. Of what it could cost him.”
“That’s his choice, not yours.”
“But what if I ruin him? What if-”
“What if you don’t?” Sarah interrupts softly. “What if this is exactly what you both need? What if in trying to protect him, you’re actually the one hurting him?”
The words hit their mark. He thinks about the crack in Logan’s voice when he said I’m falling for you. About how Mark couldn’t say it back, not because he didn’t feel it, but because he felt it too much.
“Fuck,” he mutters.
“Language,” Sarah says automatically, smiling through her tears. Then, gentler: “You don’t give your heart easily, Mark. If this person makes you want to be brave, if he makes you feel alive again, maybe that’s worth the risk.”
He looks at her, really looks, and for the first time in months, something inside him unclenches. The fear’s still there, but it’s softer now, outnumbered by hope.
“It’s not that simple,” he says again, but this time it sounds less like a defense and more like a promise he’s already breaking.
Sarah just squeezes his hand. “Maybe it doesn’t have to be.”
They sit in silence for a while, the house settling around them, the distant sound of David's shower running upstairs. Finally Sarah yawns and stands, stretching.
"You look exhausted. Go to bed. We'll talk more tomorrow."
"Sarah…"
"Mark." She cups his face briefly, the way their mother used to. "Whatever you decide, I'm here. Okay? No judgment. Just…be honest with yourself about what you want. Life's too short to spend it afraid."
The guest room his childhood bedroom became after Sarah inherited the house is the same as Mark remembers from his last visit two years ago, pale blue walls, white furniture, a quilt their mother made draped across the bed. Mark strips to his boxers and crawls under the covers, exhaustion finally catching up with him.
But sleep doesn't come. He lies there staring at the ceiling, thinking about Logan in Toronto. Thinking about All-Star Weekend and cameras and shiny people. Thinking about how badly he wants to call Logan right now, to hear his voice, to tell him-
Tell him what?
I'm in love with you. I'm terrified. Come home to me.
His phone is right there on the nightstand. It would be so easy to reach for it, to send a text, to bridge this awful distance between them. But what would he even say? What promises could he make when he doesn't even know what he's capable of giving?
Mark turns onto his side, pulling the quilt higher. Through the window he can see a sliver of moon, clouds scudding across it in the winter wind. Tomorrow he'll visit his mother's grave. Maybe there he'll find some clarity, some answer to the impossible equation of wanting Logan and protecting them both.
But tonight, all he has is the ache.
The cemetery sits on a rise overlooking the harbor, granite headstones marching in neat, obedient rows beneath a sky the color of pewter. Bare trees rattle in the wind, their branches etched black against the winter light. Below, the Atlantic churns and crashes against the rocks, restless, unrelenting, the same sound that used to lull them to sleep as kids.
Mark stands beside his mother’s grave with his hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, trying to keep them from shaking. Sarah’s a few feet away, shoulders hunched against the cold, a bundle of pink roses cradled carefully in her arms. She kneels and brushes away a thin crust of frost before setting the flowers into the metal vase built into the headstone.
Margaret Anne Callahan
Beloved Mother and Wife
1962–2015
The letters are clean and sharp, the marble pale against the dark, wet ground. Someone’s been maintaining the plot, Sarah, probably. Mark swallows hard. He hasn’t been back in so long.
“Hi, Mom,” Sarah says softly. Her voice is almost carried off by the wind. “Brought your wayward son home.”
Mark lets out a sound that’s half-laugh, half-sob. “Guess I didn’t make it out here much.”
Sarah glances at him, but doesn’t say anything. She knows better than to press. The silence between them stretches quiet, but full. The only sounds are the wind off the ocean and the rhythmic flap of the flag at the end of the row.
Mark stares at the name carved in stone until the letters blur. He thinks about the last time he saw her, the antiseptic tang of the hospital, the flowers already wilting on the windowsill, the way her skin looked almost translucent under the harsh light. She’d squeezed his hand and smiled through the pain.
‘Promise me, Mark. Promise you’ll let yourself want more than this.’
He hadn’t understood it then. Or maybe he had and just refused to hear it.
“I should’ve come back sooner,” he murmurs. “I don’t know why it’s so hard.”
Sarah slips her hand through his arm. “Because being here means admitting she’s really gone.”
He nods, jaw tight. “She was tougher than I’ll ever be.”
“She’d say the same about you,” Sarah says. “You just hide it better.”
Mark gives a hollow little laugh. “Yeah. That’s kind of the problem.”
They fall quiet again. The sea keeps hammering at the rocks below, relentless and certain, like it’s never questioned what it’s supposed to do. Mark wishes he felt that sure of anything.
Finally, he whispers, “I’m scared.”
Sarah doesn’t ask what he means. She just waits.
“I’m scared of ruining him,” Mark says. The words feel fragile in the cold air. “Of what this could cost his career. Of being the reason he doesn’t get everything he deserves.”
Sarah’s eyes soften. “And what about what you deserve? Doesn’t that matter?”
“I don’t know.” He exhales, watching his breath ghost white between them. “I don’t even know what that looks like anymore.”
“Well,” she says quietly, “Mom did. She used to tell me she worried about you, about how much of yourself you were giving away to the game. She said she could see how lonely you were, even when you swore you weren’t. She hated watching you shrink yourself down to fit inside what everyone expected.”
Mark’s eyes sting. He blinks hard, but it doesn’t help. “I don’t know how to be anything else.”
“Then learn,” Sarah says, fierce now. “You learned how to play through pain. You learned how to be a captain, a teammate, a man everyone depends on. So learn how to be happy. Be brave about that, too.”
He huffs out a breath, half a laugh, half despair. “You make it sound simple.”
“It’s not simple,” she says. “It’s just necessary.”
The wind picks up, cutting sharp across the hill. Mark closes his eyes against the sting. He can almost hear his mother’s voice, warm, steady, teasing him for taking life too seriously. ‘Don’t wait too long, sweetheart. The world won’t wait for you.’
He swallows. “I don’t know what to do.”
Sarah presses closer, looping an arm through his. “Start by being honest. With yourself. With him. Say what you mean. Say what you want. The rest will figure itself out.”
He nods, even though the words twist something deep in his chest. He thinks of Logan’s smile, the curve of his neck, the trust in his eyes. He thinks of how easy it is to imagine a life with him and how terrifying it is to want it out loud. They stand there for a long time, two siblings at their mother’s grave while the Atlantic hurls itself endlessly against the shore. The cold seeps through Mark’s coat, but he doesn’t move. Sarah slips her gloved hand into his, and he lets her, lets himself lean into the warmth she offers.
When he finally opens his eyes again, the clouds have started to break, thin streaks of pale light spilling through. It’s nothing dramatic, but it feels like a start.
Sarah squeezes his hand once more. “Come on. Let’s get you home before you freeze to death. Mom would kill me if I let that happen.”
They’ve taken only a few steps when Mark stops. “Sar?”
She looks back, brows raised. “Yeah?”
He hesitates, throat thick. “Thank you. For… everything.”
Her expression softens into something that’s both fond and aching. “That’s what big sisters are for.” She bumps her shoulder against his. “Now move it. I want coffee, and you’re buying.”
Mark glances back once at the headstone, at the flowers bright against the gray stone. The wind catches the petals and scatters one loose, sending it tumbling toward the sea. For a second, it looks like it’s flying.
He takes a breath and follows his sister down the hill.
Saturday morning dawns gray and cold. Mark wakes before dawn, restless energy making it impossible to lie still. Sarah's house is quiet, David's soft snoring carrying from down the hall, and Mark finds himself pulling on running gear almost without thinking.
The streets are nearly empty this early, a faint silver mist hanging over the harbor. Frost glitters on windshields, the kind of delicate sparkle that looks pretty only until you have to scrape it off. Mark runs along the waterfront path, each exhale a white plume in the frigid air. The rhythm is muscle memory, footfalls, breath, the steady thud of his heart. This is the only thing that’s ever worked to quiet his head: run until the noise fades.
Except it doesn’t fade today.
No matter how fast he goes, Logan’s still there.
He imagines Logan awake in some Toronto hotel room, lacing his skates, grinning for cameras, charming reporters. Logan’s the kind of person who thrives under the lights, loud, magnetic, alive. Mark pushes harder, lungs burning, the cold slicing through his throat. The ache in his legs becomes punishment, the good kind, the kind he knows how to survive.
When he finally slows, chest heaving, he’s drenched in sweat despite the freezing air. By the time he reaches Sarah’s house, the sky has lightened to dull pewter. The kitchen smells like coffee and toast. Sarah’s at the counter, hair a tangled mess, still in her pajamas.
She takes one look at him and shakes her head. “You look like you’re trying to outrun the devil.”
“Close enough,” Mark says, wiping his forehead with the sleeve of his hoodie.
“You’re going to hurt yourself.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re running from your feelings,” she says pointedly. “Literally.” She pours another mug of coffee and slides it across the counter. “David’s still out cold. Come for a walk with me instead. Something that doesn’t require you to be all sweaty.”
Mark raises an eyebrow.
“Fresh air,” she insists. “Proper pace. Big sister wisdom included.”
He snorts, but twenty minutes later, freshly showered and grudgingly dressed for the cold, he’s walking beside her along the waterfront path. The tide’s out, leaving the rocks slick with seaweed. Seagulls wheel overhead, their cries sharp in the morning air. Sarah sets a slow pace, clearly more interested in conversation than exercise.
“So,” she says finally, hands in her coat pockets. “Tell me about him.”
“Sarah.”
“Don’t ‘Sarah’ me. You flew across the country to brood in my guest room and stare dramatically out the window at the sea. The least you can do is tell me about the guy who’s got you acting like a nineteenth-century poet.”
Mark huffs a laugh. “You’re insufferable.”
“Get it from you.” She grins at him. “Come on, Mark. Let me help.”
He’s quiet for a long time. The sound of the waves fills the silence. Finally, he says, “His name’s Logan. Logan Hayes.”
“The kid you called loud and reckless?”
Mark can’t help the small smile that tugs at his mouth. “That’s him.”
Sarah’s eyebrows lift. “He’s young.”
“Twenty-four.”
“And very pretty,” she says. “I’ve seen his interviews.”
“Yeah.” Mark’s voice softens. “He’s… everything I’m not. Bright, emotional, relentless. He feels things with his whole heart. He never holds back. He talks too much, eats my food even if we have the same thing, leaves his stuff everywhere, and makes terrible jokes.”
Sarah’s watching him carefully now, and when he speaks again, his tone has shifted, gentle, uncertain. “And he looks at me like I’m… someone worth wanting.”
“You are someone worth wanting.”
Mark’s throat tightens. “He’s got his whole career ahead of him. I’m…” He shrugs helplessly. “I’m on the other side of mine.”
Sarah stops walking, grabs his sleeve, forcing him to turn toward her. They’re standing at the lookout, wind biting at their faces, the Atlantic stretched endless and gray before them.
“Listen to me,” she says, voice firm. “You are not ‘just’ anything. You’re Mark Callahan. You’ve led teams. You’ve held people together. You’ve been through hell and didn’t quit. You make terrible dad jokes. You quote Frost and don’t think anyone notices. You survived fifteen years in a league that eats people alive.”
He looks away, throat working. “He deserves better.”
Sarah’s eyes flash. “That’s not your decision to make. He’s a grown man. If he wants you, then trust him enough to mean it.”
They start walking again, slower this time, the conversation hanging between them.
“I’m scared,” Mark says finally, his voice barely audible over the wind.
“I know.”
“I don’t know how to do this. How to… exist like this. I’ve spent my whole life hiding.”
“You don’t have to know,” Sarah says. “You just have to start. Tell him the truth. Tell him what you feel. See what happens.”
“And if it doesn’t work?”
She looks at him, a small, sad smile curving her lips. “Then you’ll survive that too. But what if it does work? What if this is exactly what you’ve been waiting for, and you’re too scared to let yourself have it?”
Mark doesn’t answer. He just stares out at the water, waves crashing violently against the rocks. He thinks of Logan’s voice ‘I’m falling for you; and how it had split something open inside him.
“I think I love him,” Mark says, so quietly the wind almost steals the words. “And it terrifies me.”
Sarah doesn’t respond right away. Then she says softly, “Good. It should. If it didn’t, it wouldn’t mean anything.”
He laughs weakly, rubbing a hand over his face. “You sound like Mom.”
“Yeah,” she says, smiling faintly. “Guess I do”
They sit for a while on a bench overlooking the water, bundled in silence and the bitter ocean wind. Finally, Sarah says, “I’m proud of you Mark. ”
Mark doesn’t answer, can’t, but he feels his eyes burn.
They sit there a long time, two siblings, the sea raging below them, the sky low and heavy with snow. And when they finally stand to leave, Mark feels something inside him shift. Not gone, but looser. Easier to breathe around.
“He’s playing tonight, isn’t he?” Sarah asks as they start back.
“Yeah. Skills Competition.”
“Then let’s go home and watch him. See the guy who’s got you acting like a lovesick teenager.”
Mark wants to say no, that watching Logan on TV surrounded by cameras and fans will just twist the knife. But he nods anyway. Because lying, especially to himself, feels worse.
Back at the house, the kitchen smells like bacon and coffee. David’s up now, humming tunelessly as he flips eggs. Sarah takes over setting the table while Mark half-listens to them talk about wedding venues and guest lists. He tries to focus, but every time he blinks, he sees Logan instead, his grin, his easy swagger, the warmth of his voice.
“Mark,” Sarah says, snapping her fingers in front of his face. “You’ve been staring at the salt shaker for two minutes.”
He blinks. “Sorry. Just thinking.”
“About Logan?”
He doesn’t answer, which is answer enough.
David glances between them, clearly sensing something he doesn’t understand. “Did I miss something?”
“Yes,” Sarah says immediately with a smile but doesn’t elaborate. David just smiles at her and shakes his head fondly.
She leans forward, elbows on the table. “The Skills Competition starts at seven. We’re watching it together.”
Mark sighs. “Okay.”
The hours crawl. Mark tries to help David with some garage repairs but keeps dropping things. He attempts to read, but the words slide off his brain. By late afternoon, Sarah finds him staring out the window at the harbor.
“Come on,” Sarah says, pulling on her coat. “Run an errand with me. You’ll drive yourself insane otherwise.”
Mark doesn’t argue. The walls of the house feel too close, too full of old ghosts and half-buried memories. The air outside is sharp enough to sting, but he welcomes it. They walk downtown, the quiet streets dusted with salt and frost, the harbor wind cutting through their scarves.
“Where are we going?” he asks.
“Just a few stops. Groceries, and I need to pick up an order for David.”
She pauses, glancing sideways at him. They pass the bakery their mom used to love, the one with the blue door and the smell of sugar and yeast that used to fill their Saturday mornings. Through the fogged-up window, Mark sees a display of lemon tarts, the kind she’d always picked, and his throat tightens.
“You still come here?” he asks.
“Sometimes,” Sarah says softly. “They still make her favorite. I get one every year on her birthday.”
He nods, unable to speak. The loss still sits heavy, even after all these years, just quieter now, worn smooth around the edges. They stop at a small grocery store on Portland Street, the kind where the bell over the door still rings when you walk in. Sarah picks up coffee beans, a loaf of bread, a bag of apples. Mark trails behind, pushing the cart, not really seeing what he’s doing. At the checkout, Sarah grabs two chocolate bars and slides one into his hand.
“For the road,” she says. “You look like you need the serotonin.”
Outside, the wind has picked up again, bringing the faint smell of salt and snow. They head toward the waterfront, the city hushed and gray, suspended between seasons. A few gulls wheel overhead; the harbor water laps quietly at the rocks.
“You know what you’re going to say to him?” Sarah asks.
Mark shakes his head. “Not even close.”
“You’ll figure it out,” she says, bumping his shoulder. “You always do.”
He wishes he believed her.
By seven, his stomach’s in knots. They’re settled in the living room: David in the armchair, Sarah curled on the couch beside Mark, the TV glowing in the dim light.
The broadcast opens with sweeping drone shots of Toronto, crowds, lights, energy, the hum of something electric and alive. Then the camera cuts to Logan. Mark’s breath catches.
Logan looks unfairly good in his All-Star jersey, hair perfectly tousled, cheeks flushed, grin wide and easy. He’s talking to a reporter, all confidence and charm, the kind of smile that could melt entire cities.
“He’s very handsome,” Sarah murmurs.
“Yeah,” Mark says hoarsely.
The competition begins. Johan’s in the fastest skater event, and Mark forces himself to focus, professional instinct taking over for a moment. Johan finishes strong, third place.
Then it’s the accuracy shooting. Logan’s event.
Mark’s pulse quickens as Logan takes the ice. The camera follows him, focused and ready. First shot—hit. Second—hit. He nails all five targets, flawless, and the crowd roars. Logan throws his arms up, beaming, every inch the star he was born to be.
“Kid’s got hands,” David says, impressed.
Mark can barely speak. “Yeah. He does.”
The camera lingers, Logan grinning, Johan clapping him on the shoulder. Then Jamie Santos from Long Island skates up, says something that makes Logan throw his head back and laugh.
Mark feels something unpleasant and unfamiliar twist in his gut.
Sarah notices immediately. “Hey.”
“I’m fine.”
“Mhm.” She takes a sip of her tea. “Because ‘fine’ usually involves death-gripping the sofa like it’s a rival suitor.”
Mark lets out a breath that’s half-laugh, half-groan. “He’s just… friendly.”
“He’s also yours, dummy.” She bumps his knee with hers. “You can stop glaring at the TV like you’re about to challenge that poor boy to a duel.”
Mark snorts, tearing his eyes from the screen. “What?”
“Your face,” Sarah says, grinning. “You’ve got your fight look. Like you’re about to slap him with a glove and demand satisfaction.”
He groans. “He’s just—talking.”
“Uh-huh. Sure.”
They watch the rest of the competition with less attention. Logan doesn’t win, but he places high enough to be on camera again and again, laughing, flushed, every part of him so alive that Mark’s chest physically aches. By the time it’s over, he’s wrung out.
“I need to make a call,” Mark says abruptly, standing.
Sarah just pats his arm. “We’ll be here when you’re done, Lord Jealousy.”
He retreats to the guest room, sits on the bed, and stares at his phone. After a long pause, he finds Carter’s contact. It’s late, after ten in Minnesota, but Carter picks up on the second ring.
“Mark? What’s up?”
Despite everything, Mark smiles. “Hey. Sorry. You busy?”
“Never too busy for your annual emotional crisis. What’s going on?”
Mark drags a hand through his hair. “I need to tell you something. Something I should’ve said a long time ago.”
Carter’s tone shifts instantly, calm and steady. “Okay. Hit me.”
“I’m gay.” The words come out more even than he expects, though his heart feels like it’s about to explode. “I’ve known forever. I just…never said it. Not out loud. Not to anyone.”
There’s a pause. Then Carter sighs. “Yeah, I figured.”
Mark blinks, Carter is taking something they’d danced around for years remarkably well.
“Buddy,” Carter says, sounding amused. “I was with you at the Olympics. You spent a week ‘casually chatting’ with that Russian skier like you were in a Bond movie. We all knew.”
“You never said anything.”
“Because I’m not an idiot. You weren’t ready.” A soft chuckle. “Besides, that guy’s quads were hypnotic. I got it.”
Mark lets out a startled laugh, half relief, half disbelief. “Jesus Christ, Carter.”
“Hey, it’s true.” Carter’s voice turns gentler. “I’m proud of you, man. Seriously. I know how hard it is to say it.”
Mark swallows. “Thanks. But that’s not all.”
“Okay, hit me with the sequel.”
“There’s someone.” He hesitates. “A teammate.”
“Oh.” Carter pauses, but his voice stays warm. “And this teammate… feels the same?”
“He said he’s falling for me,” Mark admits quietly. “Called me yesterday and said it. And I froze. And now he’s in Toronto for All-Star Weekend and I’m here, watching him on TV like an idiot.”
“Mark,” Carter says gently. “Breathe. In through the nose, out through the tragic pining.”
Mark exhales shakily. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Do you love him?”
“I think so.”
“Does he make you happy?”
“More than anything.”
“Then the math seems easy.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It never is. But tell me something, when have you ever done simple?”
Mark groans. “He’s young, Carter. He’s got a career ahead of him. What if being with me ruins it?”
“What if being with you makes it better?” Carter says simply. “Mark, you’ve spent your entire life protecting everyone but yourself. At some point, you gotta stop bracing for disaster and let yourself want something good.”
“This sucks.”
“I know.” Carter’s voice softens even more. “But being scared doesn’t mean it’s wrong. You remember that promise you made your mom? About finding happiness? This is what that looks like. Messy, terrifying, worth it.”
Mark’s eyes sting. “You remember that?”
“Of course I do. You told me after that playoff loss in Chicago, remember? We were both half-drunk and eating gas station sandwiches in the parking lot. You said you wanted to find something real one day.” A pause. “Maybe you just found it.”
They fall quiet for a while after that. Carter fills the silence with stories about Minnesota, the rookie who can’t park his car straight, his kid learning to skate, the new goalie who’s already tried to fight a defenseman. Ordinary stuff. Safe stuff. The kind of friendship Mark has built his whole life around.
By the time they hang up, Mark feels raw, but lighter. Like something heavy has shifted, even if only a little.
When he comes back to the living room, Sarah looks up from the couch. “That Carter?”
“Yeah.”
“How’d it go?”
Mark sits beside her. “Better than I thought. He kind of knew.”
She smiles. “Of course he did.”
The next night is the All-Star Game and Mark finds himself watching again. Logan’s on the ice, grinning, loose, radiant. The camera loves him, and Mark feels like the rest of the world must be seeing it now, the charm, the spark, the way he lights up a whole rink just by existing.
And then Jamie Santos leans over to say something that makes Logan laugh, and something stupid and sharp curls in Mark’s chest.
“They’re just teammates,” Sarah says.
“I know.”
She looks at him sidelong. “Do you?”
He exhales, chuckling softly. “He doesn’t know what Logan’s laugh sounds like when he’s half asleep. So yeah, I do.”
Sarah grins. “There’s the smug boyfriend energy I was waiting for.”
Mark smiles, a little helplessly. “He’s not-”
“Oh, please,” she interrupts. “He’s yours. Everyone can see it but you.”
When the game ends, Logan’s being interviewed, eyes bright, smile wide. Mark’s chest swells with pride and longing all at once.
Sarah nudges him. “Text him.”
“What would I even say?”
“Something small. Something real.”
Mark hesitates, thumb hovering over Logan’s name. Then he types:
Mark: Watched you tonight. You were incredible. I’m proud of you.
He stares at it. It’s not enough, but it’s a start. He hits send.
Minutes later, his phone buzzes.
Logan: Thanks. Miss you.
The breath leaves Mark’s lungs in a rush. He types back before fear can catch up.
Mark: Miss you too. We’ll talk when we’re both home, okay?
Logan: Okay.
Logan: I’ll be waiting.
Mark sets the phone down, and for the first time in days, the ache in his chest feels lighter. Not gone, but bearable. Hopeful, even.
Sarah glances over at him and smirks. “That the sound of your heart growing three sizes?”
He laughs. “Shut up.”
But he can’t stop smiling.

Chapter Text

The elevator doors close with a soft chime, sealing Logan into a mirrored box that rises through the heart of downtown Toronto. He watches his reflection multiply in the polished steel. same blonde hair, same sharp cheekbones, same practiced smile that's gotten him through a thousand interviews. But the eyes looking back feel different now, older maybe, or just tired in a way sleep won't fix.
His phone buzzes against his thigh.
Mom: So proud of you honey!
Mom: Are you eating enough? The hotel has room service right?
Mom: Love you! Call when you can.
He types back a quick response—Love you too Mom, eating fine, talk soon—and shoves the phone back in his pocket. The elevator dings again. Eighteenth floor. His floor. The hallway stretches out in that anonymous hotel way, beige carpet and abstract art and doors that all look the same.
Room 1847 is at the end of the hall. Logan swipes his key card and pushes inside to find Johan already there, unpacking with that methodical efficiency that makes Logan feel like a chaos agent by comparison. His suit's already hanging in the closet, shoes lined up beneath it, toiletries arranged on the bathroom counter like a tiny regiment.
"You made it," Johan says, glancing up with that small, warm smile. "How was the flight?"
"Long." Logan drops his bag on the bed and collapses beside it. "But good."
"Mm." Johan folds a shirt with surgical precision. "Your first All-Star Game. Big deal."
"Yeah." Logan stares at the ceiling, trying to summon enthusiasm that feels just out of reach. "Big deal."
Johan's too perceptive to miss the flatness in his tone, but he doesn't push. Just keeps unpacking while Logan lies there wondering if he's always been this bad at faking excitement or if Mark Callahan has broken the part of him that eased through this.
The Welcome Party that night is exactly what Logan expected: loud, crowded, full of the best best hockey players on the planet, pretending they’re just regular guys hanging out. The hotel ballroom’s been transformed into something sleek and expensive-looking, all mood lighting and curated playlists that sound like someone Googled “cool athlete party.” A bar runs along one wall, already three-deep with players in perfectly tailored suits. The air smells like cologne, champagne, and competition.
Logan spots at least four players whose posters used to cover his bedroom wall. Guys he copied during driveway practices as a kid. He should be soaking this in, networking, being charming, being the bright young star everyone expects him to be. Instead, his mind keeps drifting to Mark’s house in Raleigh. The quiet hum of the dishwasher after dinner. The soft rumble of Mark’s voice when he’s talking to him, just for him.
“Hayes!” A firm hand claps his shoulder, spinning him around.
Jamie Santos grins at him, movie-star smile, perfectly styled hair, dark eyes full of mischief. He’s wearing a suit that probably cost more than Logan’s first car and looks annoyingly good in it. “Finally! The legend himself. Been waiting to meet you properly.”
Logan laughs, switching into his public smile. “Santos. Hell of a season you’re having.”
“Could say the same about you.” Jamie still has a hand on his shoulder, thumb pressing just a little too familiarly into muscle. “That goal against Boston last month? Filthy. I replayed it three times.”
“Thanks, man. Got lucky.”
Jamie smirks. “Don’t give me that humble rookie crap. That was skill.” He gestures toward the bar. “Come on, meet some people. You know Martinez?”
Logan lets himself get pulled through the crowd to where Diego Martinez is holding court, a shorter, stockier forward with an easy laugh and a drink in each hand. He’s one of those players everyone loves: flashy on the ice, disarming off it.
“Hayes!” Diego grins, pulling Logan into a quick hug. “The kid who’s been terrorizing our conference! Welcome to the east, man. About time they brought in someone who can skate.”
Logan laughs, accepting a drink from a passing server. “Appreciate it. Means a lot coming from you.”
“Don’t let it go to your head,” Diego says, raising his glass. “Santos here will knock you down a peg.”
“Someone has to,” Jamie says, taking the spot next to Logan, close enough their shoulders brush. Not inappropriate, just deliberate. Like he’s claiming space.
“So Hayes,” he says, tone light. “Word is you’re still living with Oskar, yeah?”
“Yeah, for now. Until I find a place.” Logan takes a sip of his drink, it burns clean and sharp. “He and his wife have been great.”
“That’s nice,” Jamie says. “Someone to take care of you.”
Something in his voice makes Logan glance over. Jamie’s smile is still there, but it’s got an edge. A challenge. Not flirting exactly, but not not flirting either.
“Yeah,” Logan says carefully. “I got lucky.”
Jamie hums, eyes lingering on him a beat too long. Then Diego tells a story about a terrible team flight, and the group breaks into laughter. The conversation drifts to safer ground, who’s hot right now, who’s slumping, which teams are scary heading into playoffs. It’s all banter and big laughs and easy arrogance, and Logan tries to ride the current, but his focus keeps slipping.
Jamie doesn’t help. He’s magnetic in that effortless way some guys are, laughing too easily, standing too close. Every now and then his hand lands on Logan’s arm, a light touch that sends static through his skin.
It’s familiar, the kind of subtle testing that happens in bars at 2 a.m., all plausible deniability and half-smiles. Except this time it’s not a woman at a college party. It’s Jamie Santos, NHL forward, charming and dangerous in equal measure.
“You doing anything after this?” Jamie asks eventually, voice low enough for only Logan to hear. “Few of us are hitting a club I know. Private room, no cameras. Just players, no bullshit.”
A year ago, Logan would’ve said yes. Would’ve chased the rush, the attention, the sense of being wanted. Would’ve convinced himself it didn’t mean anything.
Now all he can think about is Mark, Mark’s soft smile, the weight of his hand on Logan’s thigh, the warmth in his voice when he says his name.
“Thanks,” Logan says, forcing a polite smile. “But I’m beat. Early day tomorrow."
Jamie’s expression flickers, just for a second, before the charm snaps back in place. “Yeah, man. Rain check?”
“Sure,” Logan says, and means no.
When Jamie drifts away, Logan exhales, tension he hadn’t noticed bleeding out of his shoulders. He ends up at the bar again, half-watching the chaos swirl around him, players laughing too loud, selfies, highlight reels looping silently on a big screen above the bar.
The bartender, a young guy with sleeve tattoos and kind eyes, slides him a refill before he can ask. “Rough night?”
Logan gives a small, tired smile. “Something like that.”
“Well, for what it’s worth, you’re one of the few guys here that I recognize.”
That earns a real laugh out of Logan. “Thanks. Appreciate it.”
“Don’t mention it.” The bartender grins.
Eventually, the party thins out, players splitting off into groups heading to clubs or after-parties. Logan finds Johan near the elevators, deep in conversation with a defenseman from Calgary. He looks relaxed, composed as always.
“You have fun?” Johan asks as they step into the elevator.
“Yeah,” Logan lies. “Met some good guys.”
“Jamie Santos seemed very… interested in meeting you,” Johan says, voice mild but teasing.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Logan asks, glancing at him.
Johan’s lips twitch. “Nothing. Just an observation.”
Back in their room, Logan changes into sweats and flops onto his bed. Johan’s still up, going through his nightly routine with surgeon-level precision, cleansing wipes, moisturizer, mouthguard case. Watching him is oddly grounding, like witnessing stability in motion.
Logan’s half-drunk, half-tired, and way too full of thoughts he can’t untangle. It slips out before he can stop it. “Hey, Johan?”
“Mm?” Toothbrush still in hand.
“Can I tell you something?”
“Of course.” Johan rinses, spits, and then steps back into the room, calm as ever.
Logan sits up, rubbing the back of his neck. His heart’s pounding, but he doesn’t want to carry this secret tonight. Not after the party, not after seeing all those guys pretending everything’s normal when nothing feels normal inside him.
“I’m gay,” he says quietly.
The words land and hang there. Johan doesn’t blink. He just nods, goes to hang up his towel.
“Okay,” he says simply.
“Okay?” Logan echoes, wary.
“Okay,” Johan repeats, sitting on the edge of his bed, facing him. His voice is calm, warm. “Thank you for telling me.”
Logan stares at him, throat tight. “You’re not… surprised?”
Johan shakes his head. “No. I had sort of assumed.”
Logan lets out a strangled sound that might be a laugh. “That obvious, huh?”
“Only to people who pay attention,” Johan says, faint smile tugging at his lips. “And I do.”
For the first time all night, Logan feels like he can breathe. Really breathe.
“Thanks,” he says softly. “For… not making it weird.”
Johan shrugs. “Why would it be weird? You’re my friend. It changes nothing. Except maybe now I can stop pretending I don’t notice when you stare at your phone like a lovesick teenager.”
Logan groans, burying his face in a pillow. “I hate you.”
“You don’t,” Johan says mildly, switching off his lamp.
And Logan lies there in the dark, smiling into the pillow. They fall quiet after that, the easy silence of people who understand each other. Logan's phone sits on the nightstand, dark and silent. No new messages. No calls. He tells himself it's fine. Mark said he had to figure things out. Logan just has to be patient.
The Skills Competition the next day is everything Logan hoped it would be and nothing like he expected. The arena is packed, the energy electric, and Logan's nerves are firing on all cylinders. He nails the accuracy shooting—five for five, every target dead center—and the crowd roars. Jamie Santos is there, grinning, clapping him on the back like they're old friends. The cameras love it, love them, two young stars from different divisions joking and laughing like this is all just fun. And it is fun, objectively. Logan's living his childhood dream, playing with the best in the world, being celebrated. But there's a hollowness underneath it all, like he's watching himself from a distance.
During a break, Jamie sidles up beside him. "You're killing it out there."
"Thanks. You too."
"We should hang out more." Jamie's smile is easy, practiced. "I think we'd get along."
Logan looks at him, really looks. Jamie's handsome in that obvious way, sharp features and perfect hair, the kind of guy who turns heads wherever he goes. His dark eyes are warm, his laugh is genuine, and there's an easiness to him that's appealing. For a split second, Logan lets himself imagine it. What it would be like to pursue whatever this is that Jamie's offering. The plausible deniability, the safe distance, the way he would be too far away to get attached.
But then he thinks about Mark. About the way Mark's voice goes soft when he says baby. About the careful way Mark touches him, like Logan's something precious. About the quiet mornings in Mark's kitchen. And Logan knows, with absolute certainty, that Jamie Santos could be perfect and it still wouldn't be enough.
"Yeah," Logan says, keeping his tone light, friendly, a perfect echo of the polite deflection he's mastered. "Maybe next time we're both in the same city."
Jamie’s smile doesn’t falter, he’s too good at this for that, but something flickers in his eyes. Understanding, maybe. Or resignation. “Yeah. Next time.” His hand lingers on Logan’s arm a moment longer than necessary before he lets go, the contact leaving a ghost of warmth behind.
As Jamie turns away, Logan exhales.
Later, back in the hotel room, Johan’s out at a captain’s dinner, and the quiet feels too heavy. Logan’s scrolling mindlessly through his phone, half a mind to text Mark something stupid just to hear back from him, when his screen lights up: Vlasky.
“V!” Logan answers immediately, grinning before he can help it. “What’s up?”
“Hazy!” Vlasky’s voice bursts through the speaker, full of sunshine and mischief. “How is All-Star? You are famous now, yes? You are on television every five minutes. Very sexy, very serious face.”
Logan laughs. “Something like that. How’s your break going? Somewhere tropical?”
“Very tropical.” There’s the faint sound of waves, music, and laughter in the background. “Turks and Caicos. You know this place? Is paradise. White sand, blue water. I look like model now. Tan everywhere.”
“You go alone?” Logan teases.
Vlasky hums, obviously enjoying himself. “Maybe not alone,” he says, voice dipping just enough to make the implication clear. There’s a muffled laugh in the background, definitely male, and then Vlasky’s voice again, a little lower now, soft with satisfaction. “Is good company. You would approve.”
“V…” Logan says, half sigh, half smile.
“Is okay, Hazy. Don’t make that face,” Vlasky says, and Logan can hear the grin through the phone. “Is just… friend. Very good friend.”
“Yeah.” Logan’s voice is quiet. “I know.”
There’s a pause, not uncomfortable, just full of all the things neither of them ever say out loud.
“You play good tomorrow,” Vlasky says finally, tone gentler now. “Show them who is real star. And when you come back, I tell you all about my friend. Yes?”
“Yeah,” Logan says, his chest tightening. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
They talk for a while longer, Vlasky describing the food, the ocean, the way he’s finally able to relax. He never mentions the other voice again, and Logan doesn’t ask. When they hang up, Logan stays sitting there, phone still in his hand, listening to the faint echo of the ocean through the empty room.
Vlasky’s getting what he needs, too. Whatever that means, wherever it takes him. And Logan’s happy for him, honestly, he is. Happy that his friend isn’t alone with it anymore, even if it’s just a week spent pretending on a beach where nobody knows their names.
The All-Star Game on Sunday passes in a blur, goal, assist, grinning teammates, camera flashes, the crowd roaring his name. By the end, he’s smiling on autopilot, shaking hands with legends, posing for photos he’ll never look at.
Jamie catches him by the tunnel, suit already swapped for street clothes, smile easy as ever. “Good playing with you, Hayes. You were unreal out there.”
“Thanks,” Logan says, meaning it.
“See you during the playoffs, yeah?”
“If we both make it.”
“Oh, we will.” Jamie’s grin is confident, unbothered. “Count on it.”
Logan watches him go, all effortless charm and uncomplicated possibility, and feels nothing but a distant fondness. It would’ve been easy, he realizes, to enjoy Jamie Santos. Someone who understands the spotlight, who Logan doesn’t feel a spark of anything with.
But Logan doesn’t want easy.
He wants Mark.
The flight home Monday morning is quiet in that bone-deep way that only comes after too much noise. The cabin hums with the low murmur of half-asleep passengers, the occasional rustle of snack wrappers. Johan sits beside him, tablet in hand, absorbed in whatever dense nonfiction he’s reading. Logan just stares out the window, watching clouds drift by like endless white fields.
His phone hasn’t buzzed once.
No new messages.
Mark’s last text from the night before sits at the top of their thread.
We’ll talk when we’re both home, okay?
Well, Logan’s home now. Or he will be, in a few hours. And Mark’s flying back from Nova Scotia tonight. Then they’ll talk.
The thought makes his stomach twist, half anticipation, half dread.
“You okay?” Johan asks, not looking up.
“Yeah.” Logan’s voice sounds rough. “Just nervous.”
Logan glances over. Johan’s eyes stay on his tablet, but there’s a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth.
“Whatever has you worked up, it will be okay.”
Oskar’s house feels the same but not the same when he walks in Tuesday afternoon. The air smells like coffee and something sweet from the oven. Kelsey’s humming in the kitchen, the twins are bickering over blocks in the living room, and sunlight slants through the windows like it’s been waiting for him.
“Logan!” Tyla spots him first, her face lighting up like Christmas. She drops her toys and runs straight into his legs. “You’re back!”
“Hey, troublemaker.” Logan scoops her up and spins her until she shrieks with laughter. “Miss me?”
“So much!” she squeals, throwing her little arms around his neck.
Kelsey appears in the doorway, smiling. “Welcome home. You hungry? I’ve got leftover pasta.”
“Starving.”
He eats at the kitchen table while Kelsey fills him in on everything he’s missed, the twins’ new favorite cartoon, Oskar’s ongoing war with the leaky faucet, how the neighbor’s dog got loose again. The domestic chatter settles something in Logan, even as it tugs at him. It’s so easy here. So warm.
And yet, underneath it all, he feels like a visitor. Like he’s already half somewhere else.
Then his phone buzzes. Finally.
Mark: Landed. At my place. Come over when you’re ready.
Logan’s pulse jumps. He types back before he can think.
Logan: Give me an hour.
Mark: I’ll be here.
That hour feels endless. Logan showers, changes shirts twice, brushes his teeth three times because his hands won’t stop shaking. He stares at himself in the mirror, trying to find something reassuring in his reflection.
What is he even going to say?
I love you feels too big, too raw.
I missed you feels small.
Please don’t let this be over sounds pathetic.
He’s out the door before he decides what he’s going to say.
The ride to Mark’s house takes fifteen minutes and lasts an eternity. The February sky is low and gray, the roads slick from melted frost. Logan drives in silence, no music, no distractions, just his heartbeat pounding in his ears. Every red light feels like an eternity. Every green one feels like a dare.
When he finally turns onto Mark’s street, his chest is so tight it hurts. The porch light is already on even though it’s barely dusk, and Logan can’t help wondering if Mark left it on for him.
He knocks, too nervous to ring the bell.
The door opens almost immediately.
Mark looks wrecked. Not in a dramatic way, just human. His hair’s a mess, his eyes are shadowed, his jaw’s rough with stubble. He’s wearing sweatpants and a faded Copperheads T-shirt that’s seen better days. But his eyes, when they meet Logan’s, there’s a softness there that almost undoes him.
“Hi,” Mark says, voice rough.
“Hi.”
They just stare at each other for a moment. The air between them hums, fragile and charged. Then Mark steps aside. “Come in.”
Logan walks in and the smell hits him, cedar, coffee, the faint trace of Mark’s cologne. He has to close his eyes for a second, because it feels like coming home and breaking open all at once.
“Do you want something to drink?” Mark asks, too careful.
“No.” Logan turns toward him. “I just… I want to talk.”
Mark nods slowly and leans against the door like it’s holding him up. “Okay.”
The silence stretches. Logan can hear the faint ticking of the clock in the kitchen.
“Nova Scotia was good,” Mark says finally, voice quiet. “Saw my sister. Visited my mom’s grave. Did a lot of thinking.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Mark’s jaw tightens. “Logan, I,”
“I meant what I said,” Logan blurts, cutting him off. The words rush out before he can stop them. “Before you left. I meant every word. I’m falling for you. Honestly, I think I already fell. And I know it makes everything messy, but I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel it.”
Mark’s eyes flutter shut. “Logan…”
“And if you don’t feel the same…if this was just… fun, or temporary, or too complicated. If I’m too much, then tell me now.” Logan’s voice cracks. “Because I can’t keep doing this halfway. I can’t keep pretending this is casual when it stopped being that weeks ago.”
“You think you’re too much?” Mark’s eyes open, fierce now. “Logan, you’re not too much. You’re everything.”
Logan freezes. “What?”
Mark pushes off the door, crossing the space between them in three long strides. “You’re everything I’ve been afraid to want. Everything I didn’t think I could have. You walk into a room and the air changes. You make me laugh, you make me crazy, and you make me feel things I thought I’d locked away for good.”
“Mark..”
“I did not go to another country to figure out if I wanted you, I went to Nova Scotia to figure out if I could walk away,” Mark says, voice shaking now. “If that would protect you, protect me. But all I figured out is that letting you go would hurt you more than anything this league could ever do.”
He lifts a hand, tentative at first, then sure, cupping Logan’s face, thumb brushing along his jaw. “You get to choose what you want, Logan. And you chose me. I’ve been too fucking scared to admit that I chose you too.”
Logan’s breath hitches. “You chose me?”
“I chose you,” Mark says. “I chose you the second you knocked on my door in Philadelphia. Maybe before that. And I’m done pretending I didn’t.”
“Then say it,” Logan whispers. “Please. I need to hear you say it.”
Mark leans in, forehead to forehead, eyes searching his. “I love you. I’m in love with you. And it terrifies me, but not as much as not trying.”
The sound that breaks from Logan’s chest is half laugh, half sob. “You love me?”
“Yeah, baby. I love you.”
Logan kisses him. It’s desperate and shaking and months of wanting packed into a single breath. Mark kisses him back like he’s been starving, hands tangling in Logan’s hair, pulling him closer until there’s no space left at all. When they finally break apart, both of them are breathless, foreheads pressed together, hearts racing in sync.
“I love you too,” Logan whispers, voice wrecked. “God, I love you.”
“I know.” Mark’s smile is soft and wrecked and full of wonder. “I know, baby.”
They stand like that for a long moment, just breathing each other in. Then Logan’s fingers hook in the hem of Mark’s shirt, voice low and certain.
Mark nods, just once, his hand finding Logan’s. “Yeah.”
They barely make it to Mark’s bedroom. Clothes disappear in a trail up the stairs, Logan's shirt, Mark's, shoes kicked off haphazardly. By the time they stumble into Mark's room, they're both down to their boxers and Logan's trembling with need. Mark backs him toward the bed, hands everywhere, mouth hot against his neck. "Missed you. Missed this."
"Me too." Logan's hands slide down Mark's chest, fingers hooking in the waistband of his boxers. "Need you. Please."
Mark groans, low and wrecked. "What do you want, baby?"
“You.” Logan pushes at the waistband of Mark’s boxers, urgency burning through him. “Want to feel you. Want…” He falters, cheeks flaming, jaw tight, and he has to turn his head just to hide his embarrassment. “…Want to ride you.”
Mark’s fingers curl under his chin, tilting his face up so their eyes meet. Whatever he sees there, desperation, need, absolute trust, makes him groan, a low, broken sound. “Fuck. Yeah. Okay.”
They strip with hurried efficiency, years of hockey giving them practiced ease, tossing boxers aside until they’re down to bare skin, breaths mingling in the charged air of the room. Mark slides back against the headboard, reaching for the lube and condom on the nightstand. Logan watches, captivated, as Mark gives himself a slow, teasing stroke, the way his breath catches, the way his eyes never leave Logan’s. Every glance, every hitch in Mark’s breathing, makes Logan’s pulse spike.
“Come here,” Mark says, voice rough, low and insistent.
Logan straddles him, knees braced on either side of Mark’s hips, feeling the warmth and weight beneath him, the familiar solidity he’s craved. Mark’s hands are gentle but deliberate, guiding him, opening him with care. One finger… then two… then three, each movement slow, patient, like he’s savoring Logan’s sharp gasps and shivers.
“Please,” Logan gasps, voice cracking as Mark crooks his fingers just right, tilting him, holding him. “I’m ready. I’m ready.”
Mark pulls his fingers free, rolling the condom over himself with slightly trembling hands. Logan shifts, reaching back, guiding Mark to his entrance, inching forward, feeling every stretch, every burn of anticipation. Then, with a slow, measured motion, he sinks down, and everything tightens around him, a mix of heat, friction, and overwhelming intimacy that steals his breath.
Every small adjustment, every shared inhale, sends sparks through them both. The world narrows to the press of skin, the rhythm of heartbeats, the low groans that slip between them, and the unspoken promise lingering in every touch: they are exactly where they’re meant to be, together, completely, utterly.
The stretch is perfect, burning just enough to feel exquisite, a tension that makes every nerve hum. Mark’s hands grip Logan’s hips with just the right pressure, firm enough to hold him steady but gentle enough to let him move, guiding him without saying a word. Logan adjusts slowly, feeling the heat of Mark’s skin beneath him, the solid strength of his body anchoring him.
When he’s fully seated, they pause, breathing hard, foreheads nearly touching. The room is silent except for the ragged sound of their inhales.
“Okay?” Mark asks, voice rough, strained with wanting.
“Yeah,” Logan breathes, hands braced against Mark’s shoulders, nails digging in slightly. “So good. You… you feel so good.”
He starts to move, cautiously at first, rolling his hips, testing the rhythm, finding the angle that makes them both shiver and gasp. Mark’s hands never leave him, guiding, adjusting, encouraging, grounding him. Every brush of skin sends sparks up Logan’s spine, every subtle pressure from Mark amplifies it. The heat between them builds, sharp and insistent, and Logan feels like he’s teetering on the edge of something infinite.
“God, baby,” Mark groans, voice low and broken. “So perfect. You’re so perfect.”
The words hit Logan like a shockwave, and he responds instinctively, lifting, rolling, chasing the pleasure building deep in his chest and spine. Mark wraps a hand around him, stroking in time with his movements, fingers firm and steady, guiding him closer and closer to the edge. Logan’s vision blurs at the edges, world reduced to the taste of Mark’s mouth, the warmth, the exquisite burn of every nerve ending.
“Mark,” he gasps, voice raw, nearly strangled. “I’m close. I’m so close.”
“Let go,” Mark rasps, voice fierce but tender. “Let go, baby. I’ve got you. Always.”
Logan shudders violently, letting everything spill over, a cry tearing from his throat, body tensing, trembling, and the sensation sends a shock through Mark as well. Mark’s hips jerk, his own breath breaking, hands holding Logan close as their pulses hammer together, hearts slamming in unison.
For a long moment after, they don’t move. Just cling, chest to chest, skin still slick and warm, letting the aftershocks roll through them in quiet waves. Logan nuzzles against Mark, forehead resting against his shoulder, breathing ragged but slowly settling into calm. Mark’s arms tighten around him without a word, strong and steady, the only acknowledgment needed: they’re together, and they’re exactly where they belong.
“I love you,” Logan murmurs, his lips brushing against the skin of Mark’s neck, voice soft, intimate.
“I love you too.” Mark presses a kiss to the top of Logan’s head, lingering, letting him feel the weight of the words in every touch.
They stay like that for what feels like hours, too wrung out to move, bodies pressed together over the rumpled sheets. The quiet hum of the house, the faint creak of settling wood, even the distant city noises outside, it all fades away, leaving only them. Eventually, Mark shifts, rolling Logan gently onto his back before reaching for the washcloth and towels. His hands are careful, precise, brushing over Logan’s skin, helping him clean up. Logan shivers, letting himself enjoy the touch, savoring the lingering closeness, the unspoken devotion in every movement.
Once they’re clean, they slide back under the covers, Logan tucked against Mark’s side, chest to chest, one arm draped lazily over him. It feels like coming home, like the world has shrunk to just this bed, this warmth, this heartbeat against his own.
“We need to talk,” Mark says quietly, voice husky, eyes tracing the line of Logan’s jaw.
Logan stiffens for just a second. “Okay.”
Mark tilts his chin up, brushing a soft, lingering kiss over Logan’s lips. “Not bad talk. Just… logistics.”
Logan exhales, a laugh tugging at the edges of his mouth. “Okay. So… what happens now?”
“Well.” Mark’s hand drifts to trace idle, gentle patterns across Logan’s back, each touch deliberate, grounding. “We tell people. Not everyone, not right away. But the people who matter. Johan already suspects something, right?”
“Yeah,” Logan admits. “I told him I’m gay this weekend. Didn’t mention you specifically, but… I think he knows.”
“Good. We tell him. And I think Vlasky might know something too.”
Logan chuckles, a short, incredulous sound. “Yeah, definitely. Shameless bastard.”
Mark smiles against his temple. “And my sister… she knows about you.” He pauses, watching Logan’s reaction. Logan swallows, eyes wide, heart thumping. “We’ll have to be careful, but maybe… we can try to have more. More time together.”
“I can do careful,” Logan says, voice soft but firm. “As long as I get this. Get you.”
“You have me.” Mark kisses him softly, pressing their foreheads together. “For as long as you want me.”
Logan grins, tilting his head back. “That’s going to be a really long time.”
“Good.” Mark’s smile is soft, lingering against his lips. “Because I’m not letting you go.”
They fall asleep like that, wrapped around each other, warmth radiating from skin to skin, and for the first time in weeks, Logan sleeps through the night, dreaming only of Mark, of home, of safety, of the certainty of this love.
When morning comes, sunlight streams through the blinds, painting the room in soft golden streaks. Mark is already awake, lying beside him, eyes tracking every little movement, expression tender enough to make Logan’s throat tighten.
“Morning,” Logan mumbles, voice hoarse but content.
“Morning.” Mark brushes hair away from his forehead, thumb grazing gently over the arch of his brow. “Sleep okay?”
“Best I’ve slept in weeks.” Logan stretches languidly, yawning, feeling the warmth of Mark pressed against him. “What time is practice?”
“Ten. We’ve got a couple hours.”
Logan’s grin spreads slowly, mischievous and lazy. He rolls to straddle Mark’s hips, chest pressing into his. “Whatever will we do with all that time?”
Mark’s hands settle on his waist, firm and grounding. “I’m sure we’ll think of something.”
They show up to practice separately, like they always do. Same parking lot, same locker room, same routines, but something’s different now. Logan can feel it humming under his skin, a quiet current he can’t turn off. Everything feels sharper today: the chill of the rink air, the scrape of blades on ice, the laughter echoing off the boards. His chest feels lighter than it has in weeks. He’s in love with Mark Callahan. And Mark Callahan loves him back. Somehow, impossibly, that makes everything make sense.
Johan catches his eye across the locker room, halfway through taping his stick. His eyebrow goes up in silent question. Logan just grins, can’t help it, and Johan’s mouth curves into that small, knowing smile.
Vlasky immediately notices, of course. “Why you smile like idiot, Hazy?” he asks, squinting at him from two stalls down.
Logan laughs, shaking his head. “Maybe I just had a good weekend.”
“Uh-huh,” Vlasky says, unconvinced. “You glow. You are glowing.” He gestures at Logan’s face. “Is disgusting.”
“Must be getting away from you for a couple days,” Logan deadpans, and the room breaks into laughter. Even Mark, across the way, lets out a low chuckle, not looking up from his skates, but Logan catches the small, secret smile anyway.
Practice is good. Better than good. Logan’s flying, fast, focused, loose in a way he hasn’t been in months. Every pass lands crisp on his teammate’s tape, every shot finds the back of the net. His body feels lighter, surer. He and Mark fall into rhythm effortlessly, that old on-ice chemistry now pulsing with something electric underneath it. A look, a pass, a quick grin across the ice, it all feels charged.
In the scrimmage, Logan dangles past Kris with a little shoulder fake that earns a surprised yell, then snipes a shot top corner over Mitch’s glove. The puck hits twine with a satisfying snap, and the guys erupt, cheers, laughter, sticks banging on the boards.
“Show-off!” Vlasky crows, barreling into him and tackling him against the glass.
“You love it,” Logan shoots back, still laughing, breath fogging the air.
“I do love it!” Vlasky declares dramatically, clutching his chest. “But next time, pass to me, asshole.”
The mood in the rink is easy and buoyant, everyone in high spirits, but for Logan, it’s more than that. It’s joy. It’s freedom. Every time he and Mark share the ice, he feels it, the quiet tether between them, invisible but strong as steel.
After practice, Logan’s sitting at his stall, half-dressed, scrolling through his phone when Mark walks by. Just another end-of-practice moment to anyone else. But when Mark’s hand lands on his shoulder, the touch lingers, warm and grounding, thumb brushing against the back of Logan’s neck for just a heartbeat longer than it should.
Logan’s face goes hot. He forces himself to keep his expression neutral, tossing his towel into his bag.
“Good practice,” Mark says, voice even, captain-steady. Loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Thanks, Cap,” Logan replies easily, glancing up.
Their eyes meet for a fraction of a second. The tiniest flicker, enough to make Logan’s pulse trip. Mark moves on, all business again, calling out a reminder about tomorrow’s travel schedule. But the warmth where his hand touched Logan doesn’t fade.
When Logan looks up again, Johan’s watching from across the room, expression thoughtful but not unkind. That same quiet understanding. Logan just shakes his head, smiling to himself. Johan doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t need to.
By the time Logan finishes showering and packing up, the room’s mostly cleared out. Only Mitch’s music is still playing softly from the corner, echoing off the tile. When Logan steps out into the crisp evening air, Mark’s leaning against his truck, hands shoved in his pockets.
The sight of him, hair still damp from the shower, hoodie sleeves pushed up, posture relaxed, makes something in Logan’s chest ache in the best way.
“Hey,” Mark says, voice low, eyes soft.
“Hey.” Logan stops in front of him, close enough to feel the residual heat coming off his skin. “You waiting for me?”
Mark’s mouth quirks. “Maybe.”
“Subtle.”
“I try.” There’s a glint of humor in his eyes, but his tone softens when he adds, “You going to your place or mine?”
Logan doesn’t even hesitate. “Yours,” he says immediately, the words coming out steady even though his chest is hammering.
For a second, Mark just looks at him, raw and unguarded, like he’s seeing Logan all the way through. Then his lips curve into that small, private smile, the one reserved for Logan, the one that makes everything else in the world fade. “Come on then. Let’s go home.”
Logan glances around the empty parking lot, the quiet hum of distant traffic, a faint breeze rustling leaves along the edges, the way the streetlights catch the dust motes in the air. It all feels intimate, like a secret waiting to be claimed. He walks over, opens the door to Mark’s truck, and climbs in, feeling the worn leather under his hands, the faint scent of leather that clings to the cab.
Mark starts the engine, the low rumble filling the quiet space between them. They pull out, headlights cutting through the early evening dim, the streets of Raleigh stretching ahead in long, familiar lines. Logan watches the city pass in a blur of gold and blue streetlights, the occasional neon sign flickering as they go.
The truck moves easily, smoothly, but every turn, every pause at a stoplight makes Logan acutely aware of Mark beside him, his hands resting on the wheel, the subtle sway of his shoulders, the way he hums along softly to the faint music playing through the speakers. Logan’s fingers itch to reach out, to brush against Mark’s arm, but he holds back, savoring the quiet tension between them.
It’s more than just being close. It’s the knowledge of what’s waiting at the end of this drive, the warmth, the privacy, the moment when everything they’ve been holding back can finally exist without pretense. His chest tightens with anticipation and something more: gratitude, awe, the kind of weightless joy that makes ordinary things, streetlights, passing cars, the gentle hum of tires on asphalt, feel like part of some private universe they share.
The city has changed since Logan’s last drive here, construction zones, new apartment complexes, but the familiar markers remain, and with each one, a subtle pulse of comfort swells in him. This is home, too. Not the city itself, not the roads or the stoplights, but the knowledge that at the end of this path, Mark is there. Waiting.
They fall into an easy rhythm on the road. Mark drives with a calm certainty that makes Logan feel like he could sit in the passenger seat forever, just absorbing the quiet intimacy of being near him. The streetlights wash over Mark’s profile, catch the line of his jaw, the tilt of his head, the slight curve of his lips when he notices Logan staring. And Logan can’t stop looking. Every detail is seared into his mind: the soft brown of Mark’s eyes in the dim light, the tension of his hand on the wheel, the way he breathes, calm and measured, but just slightly quicker when Logan reaches subtly toward the space between them, brushing fingertips against Mark’s knee.
The ride is long enough to feel like an eternity but short enough to make every second count. Logan keeps stealing glances at Mark, tracing that small, private smile, memorizing the way his hair falls over his forehead, the way his hoodie bunched slightly at the shoulders. He thinks about how this is his life now: the quiet thrill of secrets, the warmth of stolen touches, the weight of a love that terrifies him, and steadies him always.
He doesn’t know what comes next. They’ll have to be careful. There’ll be questions, rumors, close calls. But he knows one immutable truth: Mark is waiting for him at the end of this drive. Waiting for him tomorrow. And the day after that.
For now, that’s enough.
For now, it’s everything.

Chapter Text

Mark’s standing in the hotel bathroom in Edmonton, staring at his reflection while trying to remember how to breathe like a normal person. The mirror shows him exactly what he expects: same broad shoulders, same dark hair with streaks of gray creeping in at the temples, same old scar at the corner of his mouth from that high stick in Nashville years ago. But something’s different now. Something in his eyes, maybe. A softness that wasn’t there before. A kind of quiet wonder.
He leans on the counter, exhales slowly.
He’s in love with Logan Hayes.
And Logan loves him back.
The thought still makes his chest tight, but in a good way now. Like his ribs are expanding to make room for something he’d long ago convinced himself he’d never have. He looks at himself a second longer, trying to recognize this new version of Mark Callahan, the one who lets himself be happy, who lets someone see him, all the way through.
When he walks back into the hotel room, the sight hits him like a punch to the chest. Logan’s sprawled on the bed, hair still damp from his shower, wearing joggers and one of Mark’s hoodies, too big, sleeves hanging past his wrists. The neckline droops just enough to show the curve of his collarbone. It’s so domestic, so intimate, it makes something warm and dangerous unfurl in Mark’s chest.
“You look nervous,” Logan observes, pushing himself up on his elbows.
“I’m fine.”
“Mark.” Logan sits up properly, hair sticking up in uneven tufts. “We don’t have to do this today. We can wait.”
“No.” Mark crosses to the bed, sits on the edge. “We said we’d tell people. The people who matter. And I…” He reaches for Logan’s hand, thumb brushing the inside of his wrist, feeling the steady pulse there. “I want them to know. I want to be able to do this without hiding.”
Logan’s smile is soft and understanding, a little crooked. “Okay. So, game plan. I’ll talk to Vlasky and Mitch after skate. You talk to Oskar, Kris, and Johan.”
“Yeah.”
“And then we meet back here and…” Logan’s thumb traces lazy circles on the back of Mark’s hand. “Deal with whatever happens.”
Mark nods, and because he can, because Logan is his now, he leans in and kisses him. Slow and sweet. Logan hums softly against his mouth, his free hand sliding up to cup Mark’s jaw.
“I love you,” Mark murmurs, lips brushing his.
“Love you too.” Logan grins, eyes bright even this close. “Now go. Before we get distracted and you’re late for your captain meeting. Again.”
Mark chuckles, kisses him once more, because self-control has never been his strong suit around Logan Hayes, and heads out.
The practice facility feels different than all the times he’s played here before. Or maybe Mark’s the one who’s different. There’s a lightness in his step he can’t quite hide, a hum under his skin that’s been missing for years. He goes through the motions, morning skate, video review, the usual pre-game routine, but his mind keeps drifting. Every time he catches sight of Logan across the room, his focus threatens to crack. Logan looks happy. Really, genuinely happy. He’s chirping Vlasky, leaning back on the bench laughing, hair sticking up everywhere.
When their eyes meet, just for a heartbeat, Mark has to look away before anyone notices the stupid smile tugging at his mouth.
After practice, Logan heads off with Vlasky and Mitch, all casual confidence, tossing Mark a quick “See you later, ” that sounds perfectly innocent but feels like a secret code. Mark watches him go, chest tight with a mix of pride and nerves.
“Mark?” Oskar’s voice pulls him back. “You coming?”
Right. His turn.
He follows Oskar to one of the empty conference rooms, the kind with bad lighting and a whiteboard that’s still half-covered in strategy notes. Kris and Johan are already there, Kris scrolling through his phone, Johan reading over game plans like he’s deciphering ancient scripture.
“What’s this about?” Kris asks, not looking up yet. “You sounded serious?”
Mark shakes his head, closes the door behind him, and sits across from them. His hands are shaking slightly, so he folds them together on the table. Deep breath.
“I need to tell you something,” he says. His voice sounds steadier than he feels. “Something important.”
Johan sets his notes down immediately, giving him his full attention. Oskar leans forward, concern creasing his brow.
“Are you okay?” Oskar asks. “Is it your shoulder?”
“No.” Mark swallows. “I’m…” He takes another breath. “I’m gay.”
The words hang in the air for a long, still moment. Mark keeps his gaze steady, refuses to back down or soften it. Kris blinks once. Twice. Then sighs heavily and reaches into his wallet. He pulls out a crisp hundred-dollar bill and slides it across the table to Johan.
Mark blinks. “What?”
“Sorry, Mark,” Johan says, pocketing the cash with a small, satisfied smile. “We had a bet on how long it would take you to tell us.”
“You-” Mark stares at them. “You knew?”
“Suspected,” Kris corrects. “For years, honestly. You’re not as subtle as you think.”
“Jesus Christ.” Mark drags a hand through his hair. “How long have you-”
“Since maybe our second season together?” Kris shrugs. “You were careful, but there were signs. You’d bolt early when women started flirting with you. You avoided club nights like they were penalty kills. And there was that time in Montreal where you definitely picked that guy up and thought I didn’t watch you do it” He waves a hand vaguely. “Anyway, it wasn’t hard to put together.”
Mark groans, dropping his head in his hands. “You people are unbelievable.”
“Hey,” Oskar says gently. “You’re our friend. Nothing changes that. Except maybe now you’ll finally stop looking like you’re about to implode every time someone mentions dating.”
Johan nods sagely. “Less brooding. More scoring goals. That would be nice.”
Mark huffs out a laugh before he can stop it. “There’s, uh… more.”
Kris leans back in his chair, smirking. “Oh, this ought to be good.”
“I’m… seeing someone. A teammate.”
Three heads snap up.
“Logan,” Johan says immediately, voice calm, like he’s been waiting to say it out loud.
“How?”
“Mark.” Johan’s expression softens. “I’ve been watching you watch him for months. And the way he looks at you? It was only a matter of time.”
“Since when?” Oskar asks.
“It started in Philadelphia. Early January.” Mark can feel the blush creeping up his neck. “We made it official after all-star.”
There’s a pause. Then Kris whistles low. “You finally did it, huh? This grump’s got himself a pretty young thing.”
“Kris,” Oskar warns.
“I mean that affectionately!” Kris grins. “He’s good for you. You’ve been way less grumpy lately.”
“Yeah, well,” Mark mutters, “you’d be less grumpy too if you–never mind.”
Oskar chuckles. “Ollie is going to be insufferable about this.”
“Why?”
“He bet on you going after him in December,” Oskar says, pulling out his phone. “Which means Vlasky’s about to make bank.”
“There was another bet?” Mark gapes.
Kris shrugs. “We’re hockey players. We bet on everything. Also, for the record, Johan bet you’d hold out until playoffs, so you’ve officially ruined his streak.”
Johan sighs. “I should have known better. Love makes fools of us all.”
Mark groans, covering his face again. “I hate you all so much.”
“No you don’t,” Oskar says with a grin. “You love us. Almost as much as you love him.”
Mark doesn’t bother denying it. He’s too relieved. Too grateful.
They knew.
They’ve known.
And they’re okay with it.
For the first time in a long time, he feels weightless.
The three of them start talking then, asking questions Mark's never had to answer out loud before. How long has he known? (Forever, basically.) Has it been hard hiding it? (Harder than anything.) What made him finally act on it with Logan? (Logan knocked on his door in Philadelphia and Mark's only so strong.) Kris asks about the power dynamic thing, Mark being older, being an alternate captain, being Logan's linemate. It's a fair question, one Mark's spent sleepless nights worrying about.
"I tried to stay away," Mark admits. "Tried to keep it professional. But Logan..." He trails off, remembering that night. Logan's eyes, determined and wanting. "Logan doesn't let you push him away when he wants something. And he wanted me."
"He's a good kid," Oskar says. "Talented. But young. You sure about this?"
"He's twenty-four, not twelve," Mark says, more sharply than he intends. Then, softer: "I know what you mean. But he's an adult making his own choices."
"We know that," Johan says. "But others might not see it that way."
"I know." Mark's jaw tightens. "We've talked about it. We know what we're risking."
“And you think it’s worth it?” Kris asks finally, voice softer now.
Mark doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah,” he says. “He’s worth it.”
That’s the thing about Mark, when it comes to Logan, he’s done second guessing.
They shift into logistics after that, the practical talk that’s supposed to make everything easier. How they’ll handle things publicly (they won’t, not unless they’re forced). What happens if rumors start. How to keep it from affecting the locker room. Oskar’s pragmatic as always, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, methodically running through possible scenarios like he’s breaking down a penalty kill. Johan listens more than he speaks, thoughtful and calm, while Kris keeps interrupting with bad jokes to keep the tension from swallowing the room.
“You know the chirping’s going to be relentless, right?” Kris says. “You’re robbing the cradle. Cougar jokes for days.”
Mark groans. “I’m thirty-five, not fifty.”
“Eleven years is eleven years, old man,” Kris fires back.
“I will fight you.”
“No you won’t,” Kris says cheerfully. “You love me too much. Also, your boyfriend would be devastated if you got suspended for punching me.”
Mark pinches the bridge of his nose. “Don’t call him my boyfriend. That sounds ridiculous.”
Oskar grins. “What should we call him, then? Your special friend? Your gentleman caller?”
Johan deadpans, “His partner. Or just Logan. You don’t need a label if you don’t want one.”
Mark exhales through a small, helpless smile. “Logan’s good.” Then, after a pause, quieter: “Logan’s my… Logan.”
Kris snorts. “Smooth. Real poetic there, Callie. Shakespeare could never.”
But they’re all smiling now, real, easy smiles, and something unknots in Mark’s chest for the first time in months.
“This is okay?” he asks, glancing around the room. “You’re all okay with this?”
Oskar gives him a look that’s equal parts affection and exasperation. “Mark, you’re family. Nothing about this changes that.”
“Besides,” Kris says, stretching his legs out with a grin, “we’ve been waiting for you to get your head out of your ass for months. Watching you pine was physically painful.”
“I wasn’t pining.”
“You absolutely were,” Johan says calmly. “You got that sad puppy face every time Logan left the room.”
Mark opens his mouth to argue, but his phone buzzes on the table. The name on the screen makes his pulse kick up.
Logan: Can you come to your room? Need you.
He’s on his feet before he’s fully processed the words. “I need to go. Logan needs me.”
“Go,” Oskar says, waving him off. “We’ve got pre-game in a few hours anyway.”
Mark barely remembers leaving the room. The elevator takes forever, each floor dragging by. His reflection in the mirrored walls looks tense, jaw tight, eyes sharp with worry. Need you could mean anything. Maybe Mitch took it badly. Maybe Vlasky said something careless.
The doors open and Mark’s already moving, long strides down the hall, key card ready.
When he opens the door, Logan’s sitting on the edge of the bed. His head’s down, hands clasped between his knees. He’s not crying, but his eyes are red-rimmed. His whole body seems folded in on itself, like he’s trying to take up less space.
“Hey,” Logan says, voice scratchy.
Mark crosses the room in three strides and drops to his knees in front of him, hands finding Logan’s thighs. “What happened?”
“Vlasky was great,” Logan says, and his voice cracks a little. “He wasn’t surprised. Just hugged me, said he already knew. Said he was happy for me.”
“But?”
“Mitch.” Logan swallows. “I didn’t even get to tell him about you. Just said I was gay and he… Mark, he looked at me like I was someone different. Like he didn’t know me.”
Mark’s chest burns with something sharp and protective. “What did he say?”
“Asked if I was sure. If maybe I was confused. Said he didn’t understand how guys could….” Logan’s voice breaks off. His hands ball into fists. “He wasn’t cruel. Just… uncomfortable. Like I’d said something wrong.”
Mark’s hand slides up, thumb tracing the side of Logan’s jaw. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I’m so sorry.”
“Vlasky looked like he wanted to say something. Didn’t, though. I think he was trying to protect Mitch. Or me. I don’t know.” Logan lets out a bitter laugh. “I acted like it didn’t bother me, but it did. It really did.”
Mark pulls him up, straight into his arms. Logan melts against him, face pressed into his shoulder, fists gripping the back of his hoodie.
“I know we said we’d be ready for this,” Logan mumbles against his neck, voice shaking. “But I wasn’t ready for how much it would hurt.”
“I know, baby,” Mark whispers, holding him tighter. “I know.”
They stand like that for a long time, the hum of the city outside, the soft thud of their hearts against each other. When Logan finally pulls back, his lashes are damp but his gaze is steady.
“How’d yours go?” he asks quietly.
Mark brushes a strand of hair from his forehead. “Better than I expected. They already knew. Apparently there was a bet about how long it would take me to admit it.”
Logan huffs out a laugh, half incredulous, half fond. “Of course there was.”
“And another bet on when we got together. Oskar lost money because he thought it was December.”
“Jesus.” Logan smiles now, small but real. “So they’re cool with it?”
“More than cool. Kris made about seven age-gap jokes before I left.”
“You kind of are robbing the cradle,” Logan teases softly.
“You’re twenty-four. Not exactly cradle material.”
“Still eleven years,” Logan says. His thumb drags across the scar by Mark’s mouth, tender. “Doesn’t bother me though. Kinda like that you’re older. Makes me feel… safe.”
Mark’s breath catches. “Yeah?”
Logan nods. “You make me feel safe, Mark.”
Mark kisses him, slow, careful, full of everything he can’t put into words.
When they break apart, Mark says, “We knew this wouldn’t be easy. Some people won’t get it. But we’ll get through it.”
“I know.” Logan’s eyes shine. “I just wanted Mitch to be okay with it.”
“Give him time,” Mark says. “If he doesn’t come around, that’s on him. You’re not changing for anyone.”
“You really believe that?”
“Yeah, baby,” Mark says. “I do.”
Later, they lie together on the bed, tangled in the quiet kind of closeness that only comes from handling something hard together. Mark’s arm rests around Logan’s shoulders, his thumb rubbing slow circles into his skin.
“There’s one more thing,” Mark says softly. “The power dynamic. I’m older. I’m an alternate. Some people might think I’m taking advantage of you.”
Logan sits up, eyes flashing. “That’s bullshit.”
“Maybe. But it’s what people might think.”
“Well, they can think whatever they want. I chose this. I chose you.”
Mark opens his mouth, but Logan cuts him off, hands firm on his face. “I want you because you’re you. Because you make me laugh, and because you hold me when I can’t breathe, and because you look at me like I’m,” His voice wavers. “Like I’m something worth loving.”
Mark’s eyes sting. “You are.”
“I love you,” Logan says fiercely.
“I love you too,” Mark whispers. “So much it scares me sometimes.”
“Good,” Logan says, pressing his forehead to Mark’s. “Be scared with me.”
They stay like that until Mark’s phone alarm goes off, cutting through the quiet. The reminder to get ready for the game feels almost surreal now, like it belongs to someone else’s life, a version of Mark who hadn’t just held Logan in his arms and felt the weight of the world lift, even for a moment. Logan kisses him one more time before sliding off the bed, still close enough that Mark can feel the warmth of his breath against his jaw.
“You should head back,” Mark says, reluctant but practical. “Before anyone starts asking questions.”
“Yeah.” Logan hesitates by the door, hair mussed, shirt halfway untucked, eyes softer than Mark’s ever seen them. “Thanks. For making it better.”
Mark gives him that small, private smile, the one he reserves for Logan alone. “Always.”
When the door closes behind him, Mark sits on the edge of the bed for a while, staring at the space Logan just left. His chest feels too full, like his ribs can’t quite contain it all. Love, worry, exhaustion, hope. It’s dizzying. He finally exhales, stands, and goes to pull on his suit.
The rhythm of getting ready, tie, jacket, watch, keys, helps settle him back into himself. But underneath the routine, that soft hum of something new and certain remains: Logan’s out there, somewhere down the hall, lacing up for the same fight and somehow, impossibly, loving him back.
That night, Boston plays mean and fast. Mark’s shoulder protests every hit, but adrenaline keeps him going. The air smells like sweat and ice and victory when Johan buries the overtime winner. The bench erupts, and for a few shining seconds, it’s just hockey and heartbeats and the sound of Logan’s laughter echoing over the boards.
It’s perfect. Chaotic, fleeting, perfect.
The next few weeks blur. They win in Pittsburgh, lose in Columbus, split their homestand. The grind of travel and practice and press doesn’t stop, and Mark’s shoulder gets worse, but he doesn’t say a word. Can’t afford to. Not when they’re clawing for a playoff spot. Not when he finally feels like himself again, and when “himself” now means them.
Through it all, there’s Logan.
They’re careful, so careful. They arrive separately, leave separately, never linger too long after practice. On the ice, they’re the same as they’ve always been: competitive, synced, constantly chirping each other. Off the ice, when the doors are closed and the world shrinks down to two people and the hum of quiet breathing, they’re something else entirely.
Logan’s tactile, endlessly so. Always reaching out, brushing fingers through Mark’s hair while they watch film, or hooking an ankle over Mark’s leg on the couch. He narrates documentaries out loud, badly, and Mark lets him. Sometimes Logan gets serious mid-sentence and says things like “You know, I used to dream about this when I was a kid. Just…this.”
Mark never knows what to do in those moments except pull him closer and hope it says enough.
Mark’s quieter about it, but no less needy. His hand always finds the back of Logan’s neck, thumb pressing against his pulse, grounding himself in the simple fact of him.
One night in late February, they’re curled on the couch at Mark’s place, Logan stretched out across his lap, half-asleep while some documentary about whales murmurs in the background, when Logan suddenly says, “I’m looking for an apartment.”
Mark’s hand pauses where it’s been tracing idle circles on Logan’s back. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Logan sits up, still half draped over him. “I mean, I love Oskar and Kelsey, but it’s time. I need my own space. Somewhere that’s… mine.”
Something tightens in Mark’s chest. He wants to say or you could just move in here, but that feels too dangerous, too soon. They’ve only been official for a couple weeks. He swallows the thought.
“That’s good,” he says instead. “You should have your own place.”
“You could help me look,” Logan says, hopeful. “You know, give me the veteran’s perspective on which neighborhoods have the best coffee and least potholes.”
Mark smiles. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
“Good.” Logan grins, then shifts so he’s straddling Mark’s lap, grin widening when Mark’s hands instinctively find his hips. “Because I was going to drag you along anyway.”
“Demanding,” Mark says.
“You love it.”
“I really do,” Mark admits, and kisses him until Logan forgets what they were even talking about.
By the time March rolls around, the trade deadline looms over everything like a storm cloud. The whole league hums with tension. Phones buzz constantly. Rumors spin out of nothing.
Mark’s not worried, not really, he’s got a no-move clause, and Logan’s fresh off an extension, but experience has taught him that no one’s truly safe. He’s seen faces fall and hearts break before the ink even dries. The day itself dawns cold and bright, deceptively calm. They’ve got the afternoon off before a back-to-back, and somehow, six of them end up at Oskar’s house: Mark, Logan, Vlasky, Oskar, Kris, and Johan. Kelsey’s taken the twins to her mom’s, leaving the guys to collectively spiral in peace.
Mark and Logan are on the couch, closer than teammates normally sit but not quite enough to draw suspicion. There’s a blanket over them, Kelsey’s, floral and soft, and under it, Logan’s hand rests on Mark’s thigh. Just barely. Just enough.
“This is torture,” Vlasky groans from the floor, where he’s surrounded by snack wrappers and anxiety. “Waiting is worse than playing.”
“Could be worse,” Kris says from the armchair, nursing a beer. “Could be in a contract year.”
“Don’t remind me,” Vlasky moans. “My stomach is dying.”
“I’m feeling safe,” Logan says, gesturing at himself and Mark. “NMC and new deal. We’re good.”
“For now,” Mark mutters automatically, and immediately regrets it when Logan’s hand tightens under the blanket.
“Don’t jinx it,” Logan warns. A moment later, phones start buzzing in unison. One, then another, then all at once, the sound of dread.
“Trade developing between Carolina and Long Island,” Johan reads aloud, scrolling fast. The room goes silent. Everyone’s refreshing their feeds like it’s a matter of life and death. Mark’s heart pounds. Logan’s leg bounces beside him, his hand clammy against Mark’s.
Then Logan’s phone rings.
Not a text. A call.
The blood drains from his face. He looks at the screen, frozen. Mark can barely breathe. No, no, no. Mark feels his world starting to crumble. This is it. This is the call that's going to rip Logan away from him before they've barely started. Mark can't breathe, can't think, can only watch as Logan's finger hovers over the answer button-
Logan swallows and answers. “Hello?”
The silence stretches. Then Logan’s brow furrows, and suddenly, he….smiles.
“Jamie?” Logan says, relief flooding his voice. “You’re, wait, you’re coming here?”
Chaos.
“Santos?” Vlasky yelps, already grabbing his phone. “We got Jamie Santos?”
“No way,” Kris says, already grinning.
Logan’s laughing into the phone now. “Yeah, man. That’s insane. You’re gonna love it here. Okay. See you soon.”
When he hangs up, everyone’s staring.
“Santos is coming to Carolina,” Logan confirms, eyes bright. “He just got the news. Wanted to give me a heads-up before it goes public.”
“What’d we give up?” Johan asks, already typing.
“First and a second,” Oskar says after a beat. “That’s… actually not bad.”
Mark's still trying to catch up. Logan's not being traded. Logan's staying. Relief floods through him so intensely he feels lightheaded.
“This is awesome,” Logan says, practically bouncing. “Jamie’s incredible, fast, creative, stupidly skilled. You guys are gonna love him. He’s hilarious, too. Great guy.”
“He’s also very handsome,” Kris says casually, sipping his beer and watching Mark out of the corner of his eye.
“Oh yeah,” Logan says enthusiastically. “He’s stupid good-looking. Like, movie-star good-looking. I wanted to tell him he looks like a mobster but I wasn’t really sure if italian americans found that offensive”
Mark’s jaw tightens. Logan doesn’t notice, still talking.
“And he’s just… genuine, you know? Listens when you talk. Real kind of charm. I’m so glad he’s coming.”
“Same,” Oskar says. “Guy can shoot the lights out.”
Mark’s phone buzzes, team confirmation of the trade. He barely registers it.
Oskar claps his hands. “We should celebrate. Dinner? Drinks?”
Logan glances at Mark. “Actually, I think we’re gonna head out. Start apartment hunting online. Get a head start.”
“Need help?” Vlasky asks.
“Nah, Mark said he’d give me advice on neighborhoods.” Logan stands, tugging Mark up with him. “Still up for it?”
“Yeah,” Mark manages. His voice comes out tight. “Let’s go.”
They make their goodbyes, Logan still chatting excitedly about the trade as they step into the cold night air. By the time they’re in Mark’s truck, his hands are tight on the wheel.
“Your place?” Logan asks.
“Yeah,” Mark says, a little too sharply.
Logan studies him. “You okay?”
“Fine.”
“Mark.”
“I said I’m fine.”
Logan raises an eyebrow, then reaches over and rests a hand on his thigh. “You’re upset about Jamie.”
“I’m not.”
“Mark.” His voice is gentle now, teasing but kind. “Talk to me.”
Mark exhales through his nose. “You were very… enthusiastic about him.”
“Because I’m excited he’s joining the team?”
“You said he was stupid good-looking.”
Logan blinks. Then understanding dawns. "Oh. Oh. Mark, are you-" He sounds almost delighted. "Are you jealous?"
"No." But even Mark doesn't believe himself.
"You totally are." Logan sounds pleased about it, which only makes Mark more irritated.
"It's stupid," Mark mutters.
"It's kind of adorable."
"Logan."
“It is. You’re pouting.”
“I’m not-”
“You totally are.” Logan’s hand squeezes his thigh again. “Mark Callahan, jealous because I said another man is handsome. You realize that makes you sound a little possessive, right?”
“Stop talking,” Mark says, but his ears are pink and Logan laughs breathlessly
"I'm serious!" Logan's hand squeezes his thigh. "Logan, I watched you flirt with him in Toronto. Watched you laugh with him and be comfortable with him in a way that..." Mark trails off, jaw clenched.
"In a way that what?"
"That I wanted to be." The admission costs him. "I wanted to be the one making you laugh like that. But I was stuck in Nova Scotia trying to figure out if I was brave enough to have you."
Logan's quiet for a long moment. When Mark risks a glance at him, Logan's expression has gone soft.
"Pull over," Logan says, voice tight.
"What?"
"Mark, pull over. Please."
Mark does, heart hammering as he swings the truck into an empty parking lot behind a shuttered strip mall. The engine's still running, headlights cutting through the gathering dusk, when Logan unbuckles. The click of the seatbelt is loud in the sudden quiet between them.
Then Logan's climbing across the center console, awkward and graceless in the confined space, knee bumping the gearshift, elbow catching on the steering wheel, but determined. He settles into Mark's lap, straddling him, and suddenly the cab of the truck feels impossibly small, the air too warm, everything too close and too much.
Mark can smell Logan's shower gel from practice, something citrusy and clean, mixed with the faint musk of his anxiety-sweat. Can feel the heat of Logan's thighs through his joggers, the weight of him solid and real and here.
"Listen to me," Logan says, and his hands frame Mark's face, palms warm against his stubbled jaw. His thumbs press against Mark's cheekbones, anchoring him. "Jamie Santos is objectively attractive. I'm not going to lie about that. But you know what? I don't care."
"Logan-"
"I don't care," Logan repeats, voice fierce now, fingers tightening slightly against Mark's face. "Because I'm in love with you. Jamie doesn't make my heart race when he walks in a room. He doesn't make me feel safe. He doesn't know that I stress-eat before big games or that I call my mom every Sunday morning even when I'm hungover. He didn't hold me when I was scared or kiss me in his kitchen while making his mom's pasta recipe."
Mark's hands find Logan's hips almost of their own accord, sliding under the hem of his hoodie to touch bare skin. Logan's warm, feverish almost, and Mark can feel his pulse jumping under his skin..
"You're it for me," Logan says, and the words come out thick with emotion. His eyes are bright in the dim light, blue going dark with something Mark's learned to recognize as want. "Jamie Santos is a teammate. A friend, maybe, eventually. But you..." Logan's thumb drags across Mark's lower lip, the touch electric. "You're everything."
Mark surges up to kiss him, the movement rough, desperate. He's trying to pour every complicated emotion into it, the jealousy, the fear, the overwhelming love that threatens to drown him. Logan responds immediately, a small sound catching in his throat as his hands slide from Mark's face into his hair, fingers twisting, pulling.
The kiss tastes like Logan's chapstick, that mint stuff he got in his stocking at Christmas in Minnesota, and underneath it something uniquely him. Mark's hands tighten on his hips, thumbs pressing into the hollow of bone, feeling Logan's breath hitch. Logan's tongue traces the seam of Mark's lips and Mark opens for him, lets Logan in, lets him take what he needs.
When they break apart, both breathing hard, Logan's lips are swollen, his cheeks flushed. The streetlight catches in his hair, turning it gold at the edges.
"Home," Mark says, voice wrecked. "Now."
Logan scrambles back to his seat with considerably less grace than he'd climbed over, nearly elbowing Mark in the face. The moment breaks slightly, both of them huffing breathless laughs, but the tension's still there, coiled tight between them.
Mark drives probably faster than he should, one hand on the wheel, the other finding Logan's thigh, unable to stop touching him. Logan's hand covers his, threading their fingers together, squeezing. Neither of them speaks. The radio plays something country and forgettable, the truck's heater blows warm air that smells faintly of old coffee, and Mark's entire body thrums with anticipation.
They barely make it through the door before Logan's on him, crowding him against the wall beside the coat hooks. Mark's keys clatter to the floor, forgotten. Logan's hands are already tugging at Mark's shirt, pulling it up and over his head with single-minded determination.
"Someone's impatient," Mark manages, but his own hands are busy with Logan's hoodie, yanking it off and tossing it aside.
"Been thinking about this all day," Logan breathes against the side of Mark's neck, lips dragging over his pulse point. His breath is hot, damp, making Mark shiver. "Thought I was gonna lose my mind sitting on that couch next to you, not able to touch you properly. Wanted to climb in your lap right there in front of everyone."
Mark groans as Logan's teeth scrape his collarbone, sharp enough to sting. His shoulder gives a warning twinge when Logan pushes at his jacket but Mark ignores it, too focused on getting Logan's clothes off, on getting his hands and mouth on bare skin.
They stumble toward the stairs, still kissing, hands roaming. Logan's shirt comes off somewhere near the bottom step. One of Mark's shoes gets kicked into the wall. By the time they reach the landing, they're both breathing hard, Mark's shoulder screaming in protest but the pain distant, unimportant compared to the feel of Logan's skin under his hands.
Logan's wearing those joggers Mark loves, the gray ones that sit low on his hips, and when Mark slides his hands down to cup his ass, he realizes Logan's not wearing anything underneath. The knowledge sends heat straight to his groin.
"Tease," Mark mutters against Logan's mouth.
"You love it," Logan shoots back, grinning even as his hands work at Mark's belt.
They make it to the bedroom finally, both down to their boxers. Mark can see the outline of Logan through the thin black fabric, already hard, and his mouth goes dry. Logan catches him looking and smirks, hooking his thumbs in the waistband suggestively.
"Bed," Mark orders, voice rough and commanding. "Now."
Logan goes, sprawling back against the pillows with a grin that's pure invitation and challenge. The lamplight catches on his skin, highlighting the lean muscle of his chest, the sharp cut of his hipbones where they disappear into his boxers. His hair's a mess from Mark's fingers, lips bitten red, eyes dark.
He's the most beautiful thing Mark's ever seen.
Mark follows, settling between Logan's legs, letting his full weight press Logan into the mattress. The familiar warmth of Logan's body beneath him, the way Logan's legs wrap around his waist automatically, the soft sound he makes when their bodies align, it's all so perfectly right that Mark wonders how he ever thought he could give this up.
"Fuck," Logan gasps as Mark grinds down, the friction almost too much through the thin layers between them. "Mark, please."
"Please what?" Mark's mouth finds Logan's neck, searching out that sensitive spot just below his collarbone where nobody outside of the locker room. He sucks hard enough to mark, to claim, and feels Logan's whole body shudder beneath him. "Tell me what you want."
"You," Logan's hands scrabble at Mark's back, nails dragging down his spine. "Want you to fuck me."
Mark's hand slips into Logan's boxers, wrapping around the hot, hard length of him. Logan arches beautifully, neck exposed, head thrown back into the pillows. The tendons in his neck stand out, his mouth falls open on a silent cry, and Mark drinks in the sight of him, commits it to memory.
"That's it, baby," Mark murmurs, setting a slow, torturous rhythm with his hand. He watches Logan's face, cataloging every reaction, the flutter of his eyelashes, the pink flush spreading down his chest, the way his hips cant up seeking more. "So beautiful like this. So perfect for me."
"Mark," Logan gasps, voice breaking on his name. "Please, I need, I need more."
Something shifts in Mark then. All the jealousy from earlier, all the possessive feelings he's been trying to tamp down since Logan started gushing about Santos, suddenly surge to the surface like a wave breaking. His hand stills on Logan, and Logan whines at the loss.
Mark strips Logan's boxers off in one swift motion, then his own, tossing them aside carelessly. The cool air hits his overheated skin, raising goosebumps, but he's focused on Logan, sprawled beneath him, flushed and wanting.
"Roll over," Mark says, and his voice comes out rougher than he intends, almost a growl.
Logan blinks up at him, surprise flickering across his face. They've never, Mark's always been so careful, so gentle. Face to face, eye to eye, sweet and tender. This is something else entirely.
"What?"
"Roll over, baby." Mark's hands find Logan's hips, guiding him. "On your hands and knees."
Logan's eyes darken, pupils blown wide, and he obeys, moving to position himself the way Mark asked. The sight of him like this, back arched, head ducked, offering himself so completely, makes Mark's breath catch in his chest. The lamplight plays across the muscles of Logan's back, highlighting every dip and curve, the twin dimples just above his ass.
Mark runs his hands down Logan's spine slowly, reverently, feeling him shiver and twitch under the touch. His skin is hot, damp with sweat, and Mark can see the rapid flutter of his pulse at the nape of his neck.
"Stay just like that," Mark says, reaching for the lube in the nightstand drawer. His own hands are shaking slightly as he slicks his fingers. "Gonna make you feel so good."
He takes his time preparing Logan, but there's an edge to it now, something more intense than their usual sweetness. His fingers work steadily, opening Logan up, and he watches the way Logan's back arches, the way his fists twist in the sheets, the desperate little sounds that fall from his lips.
"More," Logan pants into the pillow, pushing back against Mark's fingers. "Please, Mark, I'm ready."
"I'll tell you when you're ready," Mark says, and the command in his voice makes Logan whimper.
When he finally adds a third finger, crooking them just right, Logan's whole body jerks. "Fuck!" The curse comes out strangled, desperate. "Mark, please, I need,"
"What do you need?" Mark's other hand slides up Logan's spine, fisting gently in his hair. Not pulling, just holding, grounding. "Tell me."
"You," Logan gasps. "Please."
Mark pulls his fingers free, reaching for the condom. His hands are steadier now, focused on this, on Logan spread out before him. He rolls it on, slicks himself thoroughly, then lines up.
"Ready?" Mark asks, but he's already pressing forward, the head of his cock breaching Logan's body.
"Yes, god, please,"
Mark pushes in slowly, savoring every inch, watching Logan's back arch as he takes him. The heat of him, the tight clench of muscle, the broken moan that tears from Logan's throat, it all combines into something overwhelming, something that makes Mark's vision swim at the edges.
Once he's fully seated, buried as deep as he can go, he leans forward, pressing his chest against Logan's back. He can feel Logan's heart hammering, can feel the rapid rise and fall of his breathing. His lips find Logan's ear, breath hot against the shell.
"You have any idea what you do to me?" Mark's voice is low, darker than usual, rough with possession. "Watching you talk about him, smile about him, light up like that?"
Logan whimpers, and Mark feels him clench around him, muscles fluttering.
"Tell me who you belong to," Mark says, and the words surprise even him, commanding, possessive, nothing like the gentle lover he's been until now. Nothing like the careful way he's always touched Logan before.
Logan's breath hitches, a shocked sound escaping him, his whole body going taut. But then he's pushing back desperately, trying to take Mark deeper. "You," he gasps. "God, Mark, I'm yours."
"That's right." Mark pulls almost all the way out, slow and deliberate, then slams back in harder than he's ever been with Logan before. The sound of skin meeting skin echoes obscenely in the quiet room. "Mine."
"Fuck," Logan moans, fingers twisting in the sheets until his knuckles go white. The curse breaks on a whimper, high and desperate, and Mark can feel him trembling. "Mark, I, oh god, "
"No one else gets to touch you like this." Mark sets a punishing rhythm now, one hand gripping Logan's hip hard enough that he knows it'll leave bruises, five perfect finger-shaped marks. He wants them there tomorrow,"No one else gets to see you fall apart. Just me."
Logan's making sounds Mark's never heard from him before, desperate and wrecked, caught somewhere between shock at this new side of Mark and drowning in pleasure. His arms are shaking, barely holding himself up. "Only you," he manages, voice thin and reedy. "So good, Mark. So much” His words come out ragged between breaths.
"You can take it." Mark's other hand slides around to wrap around Logan, finding him hard and leaking. "You're gonna take everything I give you. Gonna make sure you remember who you belong to."
"I will," Logan practically sobs, hips jerking between Mark's hand and his cock. "I'll remember,"
The dual sensations, Mark's rough thrusts hitting that perfect spot inside him, the firm stroke of his hand, push Logan over the edge faster than either of them expected. He comes with a cry that sounds like prayer and desperation combined, Mark's name broken on his lips, his whole body going rigid before collapsing forward.
The feeling of Logan clenching around him, still whimpering with aftershocks, sends Mark tumbling after. He buries his face in Logan's neck as he comes, breathing in the salt-sweat smell of him, Logan's name a growl against his damp skin.
They collapse together onto the mattress, Mark barely managing to catch his weight on his good arm before crushing Logan completely. Both of them are breathing hard, hearts pounding in sync. Logan's trembling slightly, fine shivers running through him, and Mark immediately gentles, running soothing hands down his back.
"Hey," Mark says softly, carefully pulling out and discarding the condom. Worry creeps into his voice. "You okay? Was that too much?"
Logan makes a sound that might be a laugh, might be a sob. "Too much? Mark, that was…" He turns his head to look at Mark, and his eyes are still glazed, unfocused. "Holy shit."
"I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me…"
"Don't you dare apologize." Logan shifts carefully onto his back. "That was the hottest thing that's ever happened to me."
Mark blinks, searching Logan's face for any sign he's just saying that. "Really?"
"Are you kidding? The jealous possessive thing?" Logan's grin is dopey and satisfied, his voice still rough. "You telling me I belong to you? In that voice? Like you were barely holding it together?" He shivers, a full-body tremor. "We're definitely doing that again."
Relief floods through Mark, so intense it makes him lightheaded. "I've never been like that before. With anyone."
"I know. That's what made it so hot." Logan reaches up with shaky hands, pulling Mark down for a kiss that's softer now, tender. "You're usually so careful with me. So sweet. Don't get me wrong, I love that. I love how gentle you are. But this..." He traces Mark's jaw with trembling fingers. "Seeing you lose control a little? Knowing I affect you that much? God, Mark."
"You affect me more than you know," Mark admits, carefully pulling out and reaching for the tissues on the nightstand. He cleans them both up gently, pressing soft kisses to Logan's shoulder, his spine, his hip where he knows it'll be sore tomorrow. "I watched you in Toronto with him. Saw how comfortable you looked, how easy it was between you. And it made me realize how much I wanted that. Wanted to be the one you smiled at like that. The one you were excited to see."
"You are," Logan says, shifting to face him fully in the bed. The sheets rustle softly, and Mark can feel the warmth of Logan's body as he moves closer. "Mark, you're the one I want to smile at. The one I want to talk to, laugh with, wake up next to." His hand finds Mark's face, palm cupping his jaw, thumb brushing over the scar at the corner of his mouth. "Jamie Santos doesn't stand a chance."
"I know. I just..." Mark trails off, not sure how to explain the visceral fear that had gripped him when Logan's phone rang earlier, the terror that had seized his lungs, made his heart stutter. The absolute certainty that he was about to lose this before he'd barely had it. "When your phone rang, I thought…"
"I know what you thought," Logan interrupts gently. His thumb is still moving, tracing that scar over and over like a meditation. "I saw your face. You went completely white."
"I've never been that scared in my life," Mark admits, voice barely above a whisper. "But this, you, it happened so fast. And the thought of losing you just as fast..."
"I'm not going anywhere," Logan says, and it sounds like a vow. Like he's making a promise in the dim light of Mark's bedroom. "You're stuck with me, Callahan."
"Good," Mark says, and means it with his entire being. His arms tighten around Logan, pulling him impossibly closer until there's no space between them. He can feel Logan's heartbeat against his chest, steady and sure. They lie like that for a while, breathing in sync, Logan's fingers now tracing idle patterns across Mark's collarbone. The house settles around them with creaks and sighs. Outside, a car passes, headlights briefly painting the ceiling before fading away.
"We should shower," Logan murmurs eventually, but he doesn't move.
"Probably," Mark agrees, also not moving.
"I'm gonna be sore tomorrow," Logan says, and there's satisfaction in his voice. "Gonna feel every step."
"Sorry," Mark says, not sorry at all.
"Don't be." Logan lifts his head to look at Mark, eyes bright. "I meant what I said. I like knowing I affect you like that. Like I drive you crazy."
Mark cups the back of Logan's neck, pulling him down for a slow kiss. "You do drive me crazy, that much has always been true."
"Then show me again," Logan whispers against his lips.
"Later," Mark promises. "After we shower. Let me take care of you first."
They finally extract themselves from the bed, muscles protesting, and make their way to the bathroom. Mark turns the shower on hot, steam quickly filling the small space and fogging the mirror. They step under the spray together, and Logan hisses as the water hits his lower back.
"Here," Mark says, positioning Logan under the stream and reaching for the shampoo. "Let me."
Logan hums contentedly as Mark works shampoo through his hair, fingers massaging his scalp with practiced ease. His eyes close, face tilted up toward the water, completely relaxed. Mark watches the soap slide down his neck, his chest, following the path of water over lean muscle and smooth skin.
"You're beautiful," Mark says, the words slipping out without permission.
Logan's eyes open, soft and tender. "So are you."
They wash each other slowly, hands gentle now where they'd been desperate before. Mark washes Logan's back carefully, pressing soft kisses to his shoulder blades, the nape of his neck. Logan leans into the touch, letting Mark support his weight.
When they're clean, Mark turns off the water and wraps Logan in a towel, rubbing him dry with tender efficiency. Logan's practically falling asleep standing up, eyes half-closed, swaying slightly.
"Come on, baby," Mark murmurs, guiding him back to the bedroom. "Bed."
They collapse onto the mattress, Mark having hastily changed the sheets while Logan dried his hair, and Logan immediately tucks himself against Mark's side, head on his shoulder, one leg thrown over Mark's thighs. His hair is still damp, smelling of Mark's shampoo, and he's already halfway to sleep.
"For what it's worth," Logan says sleepily, voice thick, "I didn't mean to make you jealous. I was just excited about the trade. About having another scorer on the team. Someone who can help us make a real playoff push."
"I know." Mark's hand traces idle patterns on Logan's back, circles and figure-eights and random shapes. He can feel each bump of Logan's spine, the shift of muscle under skin. "And you were right to be excited. Santos is a good player. He'll help us make the playoffs."
"But?" Logan prompts, hearing the unspoken word hanging in the air.
"But..." Mark stops, organizing his thoughts but unable to find the words. He shakes his head against the pillow. "I sound ridiculous."
"You sound like someone who's in love," Logan corrects, and Mark can hear the smile in his voice. "Which, lucky for you, I am too." He presses closer, nuzzling into Mark's neck. "And for the record, no one's going to know me the way you do. Because I'm not going to let them. These things-" He taps Mark's chest over his heart. "These are just for you."
Mark tightens his arms around Logan, overcome with the fierceness of his love for this man. "When he gets here tomorrow, I'll be professional. I'll be a good teammate."
"I know you will. You're a good man, Mark Callahan." Logan presses a kiss to his chest, right over his heart, lips warm against skin. "Even when you're being a jealous caveman."
"I wasn't that bad," Mark protests weakly.
"You literally said 'tell me who you belong to,'" Logan reminds him, laughter bubbling up in his voice.
"...Okay, maybe I was that bad."
Logan laughs, the sound muffled against Mark's skin, body shaking with it. "I liked it. A lot. So feel free to be that bad whenever you want. Actually, please be that bad whenever you want."
Mark feels his lips curve despite himself. "Noted."
They fall quiet for a while, comfortable in the silence. Mark's running through tomorrow's practice schedule in his head, line drills, power play work, probably some defensive zone coverage. Mark almost sighs at the realization that Jamie will probably be integrated into their group and something in his chest protests at the thought of going back to careful distance, at least in the space of their friends. After having the freedom with Oskar and Johan and Kris to be a little more open, a little more themselves, the idea of hiding again feels suffocating. He quietly voices as much.
"It's going to be hard," Logan admits. "Especially now that Oskar and Johan and the others know. It'll be easier around them. We can be a little more relaxed. But then Santos will be there and we'll have to..." He trails off, frustration clear in his voice, in the set of his shoulders.
"I know." Mark's hand finds Logan's, threading their fingers together and squeezing. "But we'll figure it out. We always do."
Logan's quiet for a moment, then says softly, barely audible, "I wish we didn't have to hide."
The words hit Mark square in the chest, stealing his breath. Because he wishes that too. Wishes he could hold Logan's hand in public, kiss him after a goal, celebrate their relationship the way straight couples do without a second thought. Wishes the world was different, that hockey was different, that they could just be themselves without fear.
"I know, baby. Me too." Mark brings their joined hands up to his lips, pressing a kiss to Logan's knuckles. "More than you know."
"But we do. At least for now."
"At least for now," Mark echoes, and pulls Logan impossibly closer, until there's no space left between them at all. "But one day, maybe..."
"Maybe," Logan agrees, and there's hope in that single word. Hope that maybe someday things will be different. That maybe they won't have to hide forever.
They fall asleep like that, tangled together, fingers still intertwined, and Mark tries not to think about how much harder it gets to hide.
Practice the next morning is routine, until it isn't.
Mark's going through his usual warm-up, shoulder protesting with every movement but manageable if he doesn't think about it too much. The familiar burn, the dull ache that's become background noise. He's doing his stretches, focusing on his breathing, when the door to the rink opens with a metallic clang that echoes through the arena.
Jamie Santos walks in.
He's tall, probably six-one, with dark hair that's perfectly styled even at eight in the morning and dark eyes that scan the rink with interest. He's wearing a brand new Copperheads practice jersey with the number 91 on it, the number he wore in Long Island. He's got that easy confidence that comes from being one of the best players in the league, shoulders back, head high, but there's something approachable about him too. The way he smiles at the equipment manager who holds the door. The way he's already greeting guys he doesn't know, hand extended, genuine warmth in his expression.
Mark watches from across the ice, his stretching forgotten.
Logan spots Santos first, face lighting up like Christmas morning. "Jamie!"
Santos grins, that movie-star smile, and crosses the ice to meet him with quick, confident strides. "Hayes! Man, this is crazy, right?"
They hug, that brief back-slapping thing hockey players do, three quick pats, and Mark forces himself to stay where he is, hands gripping his stick a little too tight. Professional. He's going to be professional about this. He's not going to cross the ice and insert himself into their reunion like some territorial animal.
"I still can't believe you're here," Logan's saying, practically bouncing on his skates. His enthusiasm is visible in every line of his body. "When you called yesterday I thought you were joking. Like, what are the odds?"
"Nah, man. Though I was pretty shocked when they told me." Santos glances around the rink, taking it in, the Copperheads banners hanging from the rafters, the practice setup, the other players warming up. "Nice setup you got here. Way nicer than Long Island's. This is gonna be good."
"Come on, I'll introduce you to everyone."
Mark watches as Logan leads Santos around the ice, making introductions. His hand is on Santos's shoulder, guiding him, and Mark can see the easy rapport between them already. The way they lean toward each other when they talk.
Vlasky's enthusiastic, shaking Santos's hand vigorously with both of his and immediately launching into rapid-fire questions about his training regimen, his shooting technique, whether he does yoga because Vlasky's been thinking about trying yoga. Santos laughs, answering each question patiently, and Vlasky beams at him.
Mitch is polite but distant, he's been that way with Logan too since the conversation, carefully professional but no longer seeking him out for lunch or post-practice hangs. The space between them when they interact is noticeably wider than it used to be. He shakes Santos's hand, says something brief that Mark can't hear, then skates away. Logan's smile falters for just a second, but Santos doesn't seem to notice.
Johan's gracious, welcoming Santos with that quiet warmth he brings to everything. He says something that makes Santos laugh, then gestures toward the net, probably talking strategy already. Johan catches Mark's eye across the ice and raises an eyebrow slightly–you good?
Mark nods once—fine.
Then Logan brings Santos over to Mark, and Mark has to actively relax his grip on his stick before he snaps it in half.
"Jamie, this is Mark Callahan. Alternate captain, and one of the best enforcers in the league."
Santos extends his hand, smile genuine, eye contact steady. His handshake is firm, confident but not aggressive. "Man, you’re good at your job. I was scared shitless when you squared up to me last month. Thanks for keeping our boy safe out there." He nods toward Logan, and the casual possessive, our boy, makes something twist in Mark's stomach.
Mark shakes his hand, grip firm but not crushing. Professional. "That's my job."
"From what I saw in Toronto, he needs it." Santos grins at Logan, conspiratorial. "Kid's got a mouth on him."
"Tell me about it," Mark says, and is pleased when it comes out light, almost amused. Not jealous at all. Not like he wants to punch Santos's perfect teeth down his throat.
Logan rolls his eyes, but he's grinning. "You guys are the worst. I'm a delight and you both know it."
"Sure you are," Santos says easily, already falling into the teasing rhythm like he's been part of the team for years instead of minutes.
They run through practice, and Mark tries to focus on his own drills, his work on the penalty skill unit. But his eyes keep tracking to Logan and Santos. Santos slots in easily despite it being his first day, he's good, Mark can admit that objectively. Fast, smart hands, reads the play well. He doesn't just react; he anticipates. This is the moment when the trade becomes clear to Mark. Santos skating in his spot. The future. Coach puts him on a line with Logan and Kris to start, testing the chemistry, and it's immediately apparent they work well together.
Too well, Mark's traitorous brain supplies, watching Logan laugh at something Santos says during a water break. Logan's head is thrown back, exposing the long line of his throat, and Santos is grinning at him like he's just won something. Like he's accomplished something just by making Logan laugh.
Mark takes a drink of water and tries to ignore the way his jaw is clenching so hard his teeth hurt.
"Stop scowling," Kris mutters, skating past close enough that his shoulder bumps Mark's. "You look like you're planning his murder."
"I'm not scowling."
"You absolutely are." Kris glances over at Logan and Santos, then back at Mark. "Also, you're gripping your stick hard enough to snap it."
Mark forces himself to relax his grip, fingers aching from the tension. "I'm fine."
"Sure you are." Kris pats his back, a little harder than necessary. "Just remember, you've got nothing to worry about."
The words help, a little. Enough that Mark can get through the rest of practice without embarrassing himself. But watching Logan and Santos develop an easy on-ice rapport, the way they move together like they've been playing on the same line for years, watching Santos make Logan laugh again and again, watching them click in a way that's going to make them dangerous for opposing teams, it all sits heavy in Mark's stomach like a stone.
After practice, in the locker room, Santos is immediately surrounded by guys asking questions, welcoming him to the team. He's got that magnetic quality, the kind of charisma that draws people in. Everyone wants to talk to him, hear his stories about Long Island, ask about the trade. He handles it all easily, comfortable in the spotlight.
Mark hangs back, methodically removing his gear, trying not to watch Logan chatting animatedly with their new teammate. Logan's telling some story, Mark can hear fragments, something about All-Star Weekend, and Santos is listening intently, jumping in at all the right moments. Logan's hands are moving, animated, and he looks happy. Genuinely happy in a way Mark hasn't seen him look around most of the team since the thing with Mitch.
"You good?" Johan asks quietly, sitting down beside Mark at his stall. His voice is low enough that no one else can hear over the general locker room noise.
"Fine."
"Mark." Johan's voice is patient but knowing. He's too perceptive for Mark's own good sometimes.
"What do you want me to say?" Mark keeps his voice low, leaning closer to Johan. "That I'm thrilled we just added a guy who's objectively better looking than me, objectively younger than me, a better center than me and who my boyfriend seems to really enjoy spending time with?"
"I want you to say you trust Logan."
Mark's jaw tightens. He pulls off his shoulder pads carefully, wincing as the movement pulls at injured tissue. "I do trust Logan."
"Then act like it." Johan's voice is gentle but firm. "Santos is a teammate. That's it. Don't make it more than that in your head. Don't torture yourself with scenarios that aren't happening."
Mark knows Johan's right. Knows he's being irrational, letting jealousy cloud his judgment. But knowing it and feeling it are two different things. The logical part of his brain understands that Logan loves him, chose him, wants to be with him. But the part of him that's terrified of losing this, the part that's never had something this good and is just waiting for it to fall apart, can't quite quiet down.
He showers quickly, avoiding eye contact with Logan across the room. They'd agreed to be professional, to not give anything away, especially with Santos now in the mix. But right now, professional feels impossible when what Mark wants is to cross the room, pull Logan into his arms, and kiss him in front of everyone until there's no doubt about who he belongs to. Mark wants to press Logan against the lockers and claim him in a way that would make everyone, including Santos, understand that Logan is his.
Instead, he finishes packing his bag with mechanical precision, every movement controlled, and heads for the parking lot. The cold air hits him like a slap when he pushes through the doors, but he welcomes it, the sharp bite of winter that clears his head slightly.
He's almost to his truck, keys in hand, when he hears footsteps behind him.
"Hey," Logan says, slightly out of breath like he ran to catch up. "You left fast."
Mark doesn't turn around, just unlocks his truck. "Had stuff to do."
"Mark." Logan's voice is careful now, gentle. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong." Mark opens the driver's door, tosses his bag in the back seat. Still not looking at Logan because his reaction is starting to get embarrassing.
"Don't lie to me." Logan steps closer, and Mark can feel his presence even though he's not touching him. "Is this about Jamie? Because I thought we talked about—"
"We did." Mark finally turns, runs a hand through his still-damp hair. Logan's close enough now that Mark can see the concern in his eyes, the little furrow between his brows. "I know. I'm just... adjusting."
Logan's expression softens, his shoulders dropping slightly. "He's a teammate. That's all."
"I know." And Mark does know, logically. But the fear is still there, irrational and persistent.
"Do you?" Logan's hand twitches like he wants to reach for Mark but stops himself, glancing around the parking lot. "Because you looked like you wanted to fight him in there. You had that look,he one you get before you drop gloves on the ice."
"I didn't…" Mark stops, sighs heavily. "Maybe a little."
"Mark." But Logan's smiling now, fond and exasperated and so full of affection that Mark feels some of the tension in his chest loosen. "You're ridiculous. You know that, right?"
"I know." Mark allows himself a small smile. "I'm working on it."
"I’m coming over tonight." It's not a question, it's a statement, firm and sure. "Let me prove to you that you have nothing to worry about."
Mark glances at him, sees the heat already building in Logan's eyes, the promise written in every line of his body. The knowledge that Logan wants him, still wants him despite Santos's presence, despite everything. "Okay."
"Good." Logan takes a step back, smile turning playful, that cocky grin that makes Mark's heart do stupid things. "Now go home and stop being jealous. It's unbecoming for a man of your age."
"I'm thirty-five, not ancient."
"Keep telling yourself that, old man." Logan winks, then turns and heads back toward the building, and Mark's absolutely watching the way his ass looks in those joggers.
"You're staring," Kris calls from across the parking lot, and Mark startles, heat creeping up his neck.
"Shut up."
"Just saying." Kris grins, climbing into his own car. "You've got it bad, man."
Mark flips him off, but he's smiling despite himself as he climbs into his truck. Later that night, Logan does indeed prove that Mark has nothing to worry about, thoroughly and repeatedly, until Mark's too exhausted and satisfied to remember why he was jealous in the first place. .
"Better?" Logan asks smugly afterward, sprawled across Mark's chest, skin damp with sweat, heart still racing.
"Much better." Mark's hand trails down Logan's spine, tracing each vertebra, feeling Logan shiver under his touch. "Though I might need another reminder tomorrow."
"Mm, I think that can be arranged." Logan presses a kiss to his collarbone, then his chest, working his way up to his jaw. "As many reminders as you need. I'll remind you every single day if that's what it takes."
"Every day might be excessive," Mark says, but his arms tighten around Logan, betraying how much he likes that idea.
"Nothing about you is excessive." Logan lifts his head to look at Mark, eyes soft in the dim light. "You're exactly what I want. Exactly what I need."
And Mark falls asleep with Logan warm and solid against him, heartbeat steady under his palm, breath evening out into sleep.

Chapter Text

Logan wakes slowly, consciousness returning in layers. First comes awareness of warmth, the kind that radiates from another body, skin against skin. Then the weight of Mark's arm draped across his waist, possessive even in sleep. For a long moment, he just lies there, eyes still closed, breathing in the familiar scent of Mark's shampoo, something woodsy and clean, mixed with the faint smell of coffee drifting up from downstairs. Someone must have set the timer last night. Mark, probably, in that careful way of his that thinks ahead to mornings.
His body aches in all the best ways, muscles pleasantly sore from last night's thorough reminder that he belongs to Mark Callahan and Mark Callahan alone. The soreness is a map: his hips where Mark's fingers dug in hard enough to leave marks, his shoulders where teeth grazed, his thighs that still remember being pushed open with firm insistence. Logan shifts slightly under the covers, feeling the ghost of all of it, and heat curls low in his belly despite how thoroughly satisfied he'd been just hours ago.
The memory makes him smile against the pillow, face half-buried in Egyptian cotton that probably cost more than Logan wants to know. Mark's jealousy over Jamie had been unexpected but also kind of hot, scorching hot, if he's being honest with himself. Watching the careful, controlled Mark lose his composure, get possessive and commanding, had done things to Logan he's still processing. Things he didn't know he wanted until Mark's voice had gone rough and dark, until those strong hands had positioned him exactly where Mark wanted him, until that normally measured control had frayed at the edges and revealed something raw underneath. He'd always known Mark loved him. But last night had been different. Last night had been mine and nobody else and I'm going to make sure you remember who you belong to. It had been intense and overwhelming and exactly what some hidden part of Logan had been craving without knowing how to ask for it.
"You're thinking too loud," Mark mumbles against his shoulder, voice thick with sleep and rough as gravel.
"Sorry." Logan turns carefully in his arms, not wanting to dislodge them entirely. He finds Mark's eyes still closed, dark lashes resting against his cheeks, hair sticking up at odd angles in a way that's ridiculously endearing. There's a crease on his face from the pillow, and stubble darkening his jaw that Logan wants to feel against his skin. "I was just thinking about last night."
Mark's lips curve into a small smile, the kind that's barely there but transforms his whole face if you know how to read it. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." Logan traces the scar at the corner of Mark's mouth with his fingertip, that familiar line he's memorized through countless kisses. He knows the story now—a high stick in junior hockey, eight stitches, a permanent reminder that Mark's career was built on sacrifice. "I liked round two of jealous Mark. Possessive Mark."
"I noticed." Mark's eyes open now, dark and warm as melted chocolate, unfocused with sleep but sharpening as they settle on Logan's face. "You practically begged for it."
Heat floods Logan's face, spreading down his neck and across his chest. He can feel the blush blooming, and there's no hiding it, not this close. "I did not beg."
"Baby, you absolutely begged." Mark's hand slides down his spine, a slow drag that raises goosebumps, settling at the small of his back and pulling Logan closer until their hips align. "Not that I'm complaining. You're gorgeous when you beg. All breathless and desperate and-"
"Okay, okay." Logan wants to argue properly, wants to defend his dignity, but Mark kisses him instead, cutting off any protest. It's slow and deep and thorough, the kind of kiss that doesn't rush toward anything but exists just for its own sake. Mark tastes like sleep and something indefinably Mark, and Logan melts into it, into him, his hand coming up to cup Mark's jaw and feel the scratch of stubble against his palm.
This is what he wants every morning for the rest of his life: Mark's mouth on his, Mark's hands on his skin, the quiet intimacy of waking up together with nowhere to be and nothing to do except exist in the same space. The weight of forever doesn't scare him the way it once might have. Instead, it feels like relief. Like finally finding the answer to a question he'd been asking his whole life without knowing it.
When they finally break apart, both breathing harder, lips kiss-swollen and eyes dark, Logan says quietly, "I need to talk to you about something."
Mark's expression shifts immediately to concern, eyebrows drawing together, body tensing slightly. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. It's just..." Logan sits up, pulling the sheet around his waist more for something to do with his hands than for modesty. They're long past that. "Mitch. The way he's been since I came out to him. It's been eating at me."
Mark sits up too, back against the headboard, giving Logan his full attention. The concern doesn't leave his face, but it shifts to something more focused, more ready to listen. "I've noticed. He's been keeping his distance from both of us."
"Not both of us. Just me." Logan's throat tightens around the words, and he has to swallow hard. "He still talks to you. Still jokes around with Kris and Johan. I see him laughing in the locker room, giving guys shit like always. But with me, it's like he can barely look at me. Like I've become... I don't know. Something uncomfortable. Something he doesn't know how to deal with."
The hurt is sharper than Logan expected when he actually voices it. He's been trying not to think about it too much, trying to focus on all the teammates who'd been great about it, Kris with his easy acceptance, Johan and his matter-of-fact shrug, Oskar the doting captian. But Mitch's rejection sits different, heavier, because they'd had something before. Not best friends, maybe, but real connection.
"That's his problem, not yours," Mark says, and his voice has that firm edge it gets when he's being a leader, when he's laying down truth he expects to be accepted.
"I know. But it still hurts." Logan picks at the edge of the sheet, fingers finding a loose thread and worrying it. "We were close, you know? Not best friends or anything, but good teammates. We'd grab dinner sometimes after practice. He'd text me stupid memes during road trips. And now there's just this wall between us. This distance. Like everything we had before doesn't matter anymore because now he knows I'm gay."
The word sits in his mouth strange and familiar all at once. He's still getting used to saying it out loud, to claiming it as his identity rather than just something he feels. The secret feels smaller than it used to, more manageable, except for the Mitch-shaped hole it left behind. Mark's hand finds his, threading their fingers together. His palm is warm and slightly rough with calluses, familiar as breathing. "Give him time. Some people need longer to process."
"And if he doesn't come around?" The question comes out smaller than Logan intended, almost a whisper.
"Then that's on him," Mark says firmly, squeezing his hand. "You're not changing who you are to make him comfortable. You're not shrinking yourself to fit into someone else's limitations. You did the brave thing, coming out. If he can't handle that, if he can't get past his own hang-ups, that's his failure, not yours."
Logan nods, but the ache in his chest doesn't ease. He thinks about Mitch's face that day in the hotel room, the way understanding had flickered across his expression, oh, you and guys, followed immediately by discomfort. The careful way he'd excused himself, suddenly remembering somewhere else he needed to be. Like Logan had become something foreign overnight, something to be wary of, something that might be contagious if he got too close.
It's one thing to know intellectually that not everyone will be okay with it. It's another thing entirely to watch someone you trusted, someone you thought you knew, look at you like you're suddenly a stranger. Like everything you shared before was built on false pretenses, even though Logan is exactly the same person he was before that conversation. The only thing that changed was Mitch's knowledge, not Logan's reality.
"Come here," Mark says, pulling Logan against his chest. Logan goes willingly, gratefully, tucking his head under Mark's chin and letting himself be held. He can hear Mark's heartbeat, steady and strong, and feel the rise and fall of his breathing. Mark's hand strokes slowly up and down his back, soothing, grounding. "I'm proud of you. For telling them. I know it wasn't easy."
"It was terrifying," Logan admits, his voice muffled against Mark's skin. "But worth it. Most of them, anyway. Kris and Johan were great. And Vlasky's been amazing about it. Checks in on me, makes sure I'm doing okay. It's just... Mitch was the one I didn't expect to lose."
"You didn't lose him. He's the one who walked away."
"Same result, though."
"Maybe." Mark presses a kiss to the top of Logan's head. "But you've got a whole team of guys who have your back. Me. V. Kris. Johan. You're not alone in this, baby."
Logan knows he's right. Knows he should focus on the positive, on all the support he has rather than the one person who couldn't give it. But brains don't work that way, and hearts work even less logically. The rejection stings, and probably will for a while, and maybe that's okay. Maybe he's allowed to hurt about it while still knowing he made the right choice.
They lie like that for a while, Mark's heartbeat steady under Logan's ear, fingers tracing idle patterns on Logan's shoulder blade. The coffee smell from downstairs is getting stronger, more insistent, and winter sunlight filters through the blinds in pale gold stripes across the bed. Logan can hear birds outside, the distant sound of someone's car starting, the quiet domestic symphony of a Sunday morning in Mark's neighborhood where houses are spaced far enough apart for privacy but close enough to hear life happening.
Eventually, Logan's stomach growls loudly enough to make Mark laugh, a real laugh that rumbles through his chest.
"Breakfast?" Mark suggests, amusement clear in his voice.
"Please. I'm starving." Logan lifts his head to look at Mark. "I blame you. You're the one who insisted on all that cardio last night."
"You weren't complaining at the time."
"I'm not complaining now either." Logan grins, leaning up to steal a quick kiss. "Just stating facts. You wore me out. I need sustenance."
They shower together, and it's intimate in a different way than sex, hands wandering but not urgent, just touching to touch. Mark washes Logan's hair with careful fingers, massaging his scalp until Logan's practically purring. Logan returns the favor, running soapy hands over Mark's shoulders, working at the knots he finds there from carrying the weight of being Mark Callahan, being everything to everyone.
"You take care of everyone," Logan says quietly, thumbs pressing into a particularly tight spot between Mark's shoulder blades. "Who takes care of you?"
"You do," Mark says simply, like it's obvious, like it's just truth.
The words settle warm in Logan's chest, taking up residence next to all the other things Mark has given him: safety, acceptance, love that doesn't demand he be anything other than exactly who he is.
Logan steals Mark's toothbrush, his own is still at Oskars, and he keeps forgetting to bring it over even though he's here more nights than not. Mark gives him an exasperated look in the bathroom mirror but no real protest, just a head shake that's more fondness than frustration.
By the time they make it downstairs, Logan's wearing Mark's sweats, soft gray ones that he has to roll at the waist, and an old Copperheads hoodie that's too big, sleeves hanging past his hands so only his fingertips show. It smells like Mark's laundry detergent and faintly of his cologne, and Logan breathes it in like a drug.
Mark makes pancakes while Logan perches on one of the kitchen counter stools, watching. There's something domestic and perfect about this, about Mark moving around his kitchen with easy confidence, knowing exactly where everything is. The way he automatically cracks extra eggs because he knows Logan eats more than a normal human should. The way he makes extra bacon without being asked because he knows Logan will steal half of it anyway and he might as well plan ahead.
"You're staring," Mark says without looking up from the griddle, spatula in hand.
"You're pretty when you cook."
Mark snorts, flipping a pancake with practiced ease. "Pretty?"
"Very pretty. Ruggedly handsome. Devastatingly attractive." Logan grins, warming to the theme. "Domestic god. Pancake master. Should I keep going?"
"Please don't." But Mark's smiling, that small private smile that's just for Logan, the one he never shows cameras or reporters or anyone else. It's soft around the edges, unguarded, real.
Logan's heart does something complicated in his chest, some combination of expansion and contraction that feels too big for his ribcage. This is it, he thinks. This is the thing people write songs about, make movies about, search their whole lives for and sometimes never find. And he gets to have it. He gets Mark Callahan's private smiles and morning pancakes and the weight of his arm in the night.
They eat at the kitchen table, actual plates, actual silverware, like civilized people even though they're both still in pajamas. Their knees bump underneath, a constant point of contact, neither of them bothering to move away. Mark's made enough food to feed a small army, and Logan works his way through his stack of pancakes methodically, stealing bacon from Mark's plate when he thinks he's not looking.
"I can see you, you know," Mark says, not even glancing up from cutting his own pancakes.
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Sure you don't." But Mark pushes his plate slightly closer to Logan anyway, surrendering the bacon without a fight.
Logan thinks about how much his life has changed in the last few months. How he went from living in Oskar's basement, lonely and lost and trying to convince himself he was fine when he absolutely wasn't, to this: Mark's kitchen, Mark's pancakes, Mark's everything. From pretending he didn't want things he couldn't have to having them, holding them, being allowed to keep them.
"What are you thinking about?" Mark asks, and Logan realizes he's gone quiet, fork paused halfway to his mouth.
"How happy I am." Logan says it simply, without embellishment, because sometimes the truest things are the simplest. "Right now, in this moment. I'm really happy."
Mark's expression softens, something tender crossing his face. "Me too."
Practice that afternoon is intense in the way only Coach Massey can make it intense. They've got Washington tomorrow night, a crucial game in the playoff race, and Coach is running them through defensive zone coverage until Logan's legs are screaming and his lungs burn with cold air.
Again. Reset. Again.
Jamie fits in seamlessly despite only being with the team for less than a week, reading plays before they develop, finding space that shouldn't exist, making passes that thread through impossible gaps. Logan can see why Long Island was so dominant with him on their roster, why they'd been reluctant to let him go even in a rebuild. The guy's got vision, the kind you can't teach, that you either have or you don't.
During a water break, Jamie skates over, grinning despite being drenched in sweat. "Massey's intense. I thought my old coach was bad."
Logan takes a long drink from his water bottle, catching his breath. "Coach Massey doesn't mess around when we're in playoff position, evidently. Wait until we hit a losing streak. Then you'll see intense."
"Looking forward to it," Jamie says, and somehow sounds like he means it. "At least the company's good."
His smile is genuine, friendly in a way that has no undertone Logan can detect. None of the careful flirting from Toronto, no lingering looks or loaded comments. Just easy camaraderie, the kind that develops between teammates who respect each other's game. It's such a stark difference from before that Logan almost wants to laugh.
It's different now, being around Jamie. In Toronto, there'd been that edge of possibility hanging between them, the unspoken question of what if. Jamie's interest had been flattering and terrifying in equal measure, proof that Logan could be wanted, that his attraction to men wasn't one-sided, but also dangerous because it wasn't Mark. Now Jamie has surely figured out that Logan's with someone, even if he doesn't know who, and the dynamic has shifted to something comfortable. Brotherhood. The kind of thing Logan can actually have without guilt or complication.
"You settling in okay?" Logan asks, squirting some water over his overheated face. "Found a place yet?"
"Still in the hotel, unfortunately. Looking at apartments this week, though." Jamie stretches his arms overhead, working out the kinks. His jersey rides up slightly, showing a strip of compression shorts. "There's a place downtown that looks promising. Two bedroom, which is more than I need, but it's got a gym in the building."
"Downtown's good. Close to the arena, lots of restaurants." Logan wipes water off his face with his practice jersey. "If you need recommendations, just ask. Or ask V, Vlasky knows every good place to eat in the city."
"I'll do that." Jamie's grin widens. "This is good, Hayes. Really good. I'm glad I ended up here instead of somewhere else. The team feels solid. Like you guys actually like each other, you know? That's rarer than people think."
"Me too," Logan says, and means it. Jamie's going to be good for them. He can feel it.
He catches Mark watching them from across the ice, expression carefully neutral in that way that means he's actually paying very close attention. Their eyes meet for a fraction of a second, and Logan tries to communicate everything in that glance: I'm yours. Only yours. Stop worrying.
Mark's mouth quirks slightly, barely there, like he heard.
Coach's whistle splits the air. "Let's go! Power play units!"
They break apart, Jamie skating toward the first unit while Logan joins the second. The rest of practice is a blur of drills and conditioning, and by the time Coach finally blows the final whistle, Logan's grateful for the shower that awaits.
After practice, Logan showers quickly, eager to get out of his gear and into regular clothes. He finds Vlasky waiting by his stall when he emerges, already dressed in designer jeans and a sweater that probably cost more than Logan's rent.
"Lunch?" Vlasky asks without preamble. "You, me, Jamie?"
Logan blinks, still toweling his hair. "Sure. Where?"
"That place with good sandwiches. The one with outdoor seating." Vlasky's already pulling out his phone, probably looking up the menu even though he always orders the same thing.
"It's March, V. It's like forty degrees."
"Fresh air is good for lungs!" Vlasky insists with the kind of iron conviction that suggests disagreement is futile. "Come. Jamie already said yes."
Twenty minutes later, they're sitting at an outdoor table despite the chill, jackets pulled tight, breath fogging in the air. Logan can't feel his fingers, and he's pretty sure this qualifies as mild torture, but Vlasky looks happy so he doesn't complain. Much. Jamie orders the biggest sandwich on the menu, turkey club with everything, Vlasky gets soup and somehow also fries because his metabolism is a gift from the hockey gods, and Logan goes for the regular club because it's reliable and he's not trying to be adventurous today.
The conversation flows easily. Jamie tells stories about Long Island, about the veteran defenseman who used to prank rookies mercilessly, putting fish in equipment bags, swapping gear, once somehow getting a rookie's car completely wrapped in plastic wrap. About the time their goalie got stuck in the hotel elevator for three hours before a playoff game and had to be talked down from a full panic attack by the coaching staff through the speaker system.
Vlasky counters with his own stories, his accent getting thicker as he gets more animated, hands gesturing wildly. He talks about his rookie year, about the time he accidentally insulted a referee in Russian thinking the guy wouldn't understand, only to find out the ref's wife was Russian and he spoke it fluently. About the road trip where half the team got food poisoning and they had to play with twelve healthy players.
Logan's halfway through his sandwich when he notices it.
The way Vlasky's eyes linger on Jamie's mouth when he laughs, like he's memorizing the shape of it. The way Jamie's gaze drops to Vlasky's hands when he's gesturing, watching them move through the air with the kind of attention that suggests fascination rather than just courtesy. How they lean toward each other when they talk, unconsciously closing the space between them like gravity, like magnetic pull.
Oh.
Oh.
Logan keeps eating, trying not to stare, but now he can't unsee it. It's in everything, every gesture, every glance, every carefully casual comment. The way Jamie's smile softens when he looks at Vlasky, like he's seeing something good. The way Vlasky's knee bounces under the table whenever Jamie speaks to him directly, excess energy that has nowhere to go. The careful way they're not touching despite sitting close enough that it would be easy, like they're both hyperaware of exactly how much space exists between them and working hard to maintain it.
It's familiar. Logan recognizes it because he's lived it, that careful dance of wanting and not being sure if you're allowed to want, of trying to read signals while sending your own, of being terrified and exhilarated in equal measure.
"You okay, Hazy?" Vlasky asks, catching him staring.
"Yeah, just cold." Logan wraps both hands around his water glass, which does nothing for warmth but gives him something to do. "Should've listened to me about indoor seating."
"Is fine, sunny day," Vlasky says smugly, but his eyes are on Jamie again, tracking him as he reaches for his water.
They finish lunch, splitting the bill three ways despite Vlasky's protests that he should pay, "I pick place, I pay!", and walk back to the parking lot together. Jamie's car is farthest away, some rental sedan that looks like every other rental sedan, and when he peels off with a wave and a "See you tomorrow!", Logan notices how Vlasky watches him go. The way his eyes follow Jamie's path across the parking lot, lingering even after he's out of sight.
"He's nice," Logan says carefully, testing the waters.
"Yes. Very nice." Vlasky's voice is too casual, the kind of casual that's actually the opposite of casual. "Good teammate."
"Good teammate," Logan agrees, letting the words hang there.
Vlasky glances at him, and something vulnerable flickers across his face, something raw and uncertain and scared. "You like him? As teammate?"
The question has layers. Logan can hear them.
"I do. I think he'll fit in great with us."
"Good. Is good." Vlasky nods several times, like he's convincing himself of something. His hands are shoved deep in his jacket pockets. "See you tomorrow, Hazy."
Logan watches him go, mind spinning. He thinks about Vlasky's careful admission that he understands about wanting things. About being scared. He doesn't say anything. Won't say anything. It's not his story to tell, and Vlasky will figure it out in his own time, or he won't. But Logan understands now, understands the careful questions, the quiet support, the way Vlasky had made sure Logan knew he wasn't alone without ever quite saying why it mattered so much to him personally.
He files it away to tell Mark later, this new development, this recognition of something familiar reflected back at him in someone else's eyes. But for now, he just heads home thinking about lunches and lingering looks and all the ways people try to say ‘I want’ without actually saying anything at all.
That night at Mark's place, they're tangled on the couch watching game film when Logan says casually, "I think Vlasky's into Jamie."
Mark's hand stills where it's been playing with Logan's hair. "What?"
"At lunch today. The way they were looking at each other." Logan shifts to see Mark's face. "Like, I could be wrong, but I don't think I am."
Mark's quiet for a moment, processing. "Does Jamie...?"
"I don't know. Maybe? The vibe was definitely there on both sides." Logan settles back against Mark's chest. "I'm not going to say anything. But I noticed."
"Huh." Mark's hand resumes its gentle stroking. "That would be... complicated."
"Everything about us is complicated," Logan points out.
"Fair point."
They fall quiet, the film playing unwatched. Logan thinks about Vlasky, about the careful way he navigates the world, the walls he keeps up. He thinks about Jamie, new to the team, trying to find his place. He hopes, quietly, that if something is there between them, they find a way to be happy.
"Speaking of complicated," Mark says, "when are you going to tell your parents about us?"
Logan's stomach clenches. "Eventually."
"Logan."
"I know, I know. I should tell them. I will tell them." He closes his eyes. "I'm just scared."
"Of what they'll say?"
"Of disappointing them." Logan's voice cracks slightly. "They already worry so much. What if this is the thing that breaks them?"
Mark's arms tighten around him. "Your mom literally asked if you were happy. Remember? She knows something's different."
"That doesn't mean she's ready to know what."
"Maybe not," Mark says gently. "But you can't hide forever. And the longer you wait, the harder it gets."
Logan knows he's right. Has known he needs to tell them. But the thought makes his chest tight with anxiety.
"I'll think about it," he says.
"That's all I ask."
The Washington game is brutal from the opening face-off. Physical, fast, exactly the kind of game that gets Logan's blood pumping and his adrenaline singing. The Capitals come out hitting, forechecking aggressively, making every inch of ice something you have to earn rather than claim. Logan takes three hits in the first period alone, one in the corner that rattles his teeth, one at center ice that he sees coming just in time to brace, and one blindside check near the bench that sends him sprawling into the boards. Each time, he bounces up grinning, chirping the guy who delivered it with comments about their skating form or whether they learned to hit from their grandmother.
The physicality lights something up in him, that competitive fire that's been burning hotter all season. He's playing with confidence he's never had before, the kind that comes from knowing exactly who he is and what he's capable of. From having nothing left to hide, at least not from himself.
Jamie fits in immediately, like he's been playing with them for years instead of days. On his second shift with the team, Logan gets the puck along the half wall, sees Jamie streaking toward the net with his stick on the ice, and sends a pass tape-to-tape across the slot. Jamie one-times it without hesitation, pure instinct, pure skill, and the puck rockets past Washington's goalie before he can even react. The red light flashes, the horn blares, and the crowd explodes.
The celebration is chaos. Logan crashes into Jamie at full speed, both of them laughing breathlessly, gloves up, helmets knocking together. Jamie's yelling something about what a perfect pass it was, and Logan's yelling back about the release, and they're both just riding the high of a goal that felt inevitable the moment the play developed.
Over Jamie's shoulder, Logan can see Mark watching from his position near the blue line. Not jealous, that possessive edge from before has settled into something calmer, just present. Protective. Their eyes meet for half a second, and Mark's expression softens almost imperceptibly. Pride, maybe. Or just love that he can't quite hide even behind his captain's mask.
The rest of the game is a blur of hard shifts and harder hits. Washington ties it up in the second period, and the game stays knotted until Kris scores on a wraparound that nearly breaks the goalie's glove hand. Johan adds an empty netter with forty seconds left, and then it's done: 4-2 final, two crucial points in the standings, momentum building at exactly the right time.
The locker room after is electric with the kind of energy that only comes from clicking as a team. Music blasting, something with a heavy bass that makes the walls vibrate, guys dancing in various states of undress, water bottles being sprayed, the joy of winning written on every face. Jamie's right in the middle of it, already one of them, doing some ridiculous dance move that has Kris doubled over laughing. Vlasky's filming it on his phone, probably for Instagram, while Johan tries to teach Jamie the proper technique which only makes it funnier.
Logan feels warmth bloom in his chest, spreading through his entire body. This is what he wanted. This team, this family, this sense of belonging. Not having to partition himself into acceptable pieces, not having to monitor every word and gesture. Just being Logan Hayes, winger, teammate, himself.
His phone buzzes as he's getting dressed, pulling on jeans and a team hoodie. Three texts from his mom lighting up the screen:
Mom: Saw the game! You looked wonderful, honey. That new player is very talented.
Mom: Are you eating enough? You looked thin on TV.
Mom: Call me when you have a chance. Love you.
Logan stares at the messages, thumb hovering over the screen. The words glow up at him, familiar and warm and suddenly weighted with possibility. Call me when you have a chance. He could do it now. Could FaceTime her right here in the locker room, well, maybe not right here with half-naked teammates everywhere, but tonight. He could call tonight and tell her about Mark, about being in love, about finding something real and good and worth the risk of honesty.
His chest tightens with the familiar cocktail of want and fear. She's his mom. She loves him. But loving someone and accepting something fundamental about them aren't always the same thing, and the gap between those things can sometimes swallow a relationship whole.
Instead, he types: Love you too Mom. Will call soon. Promise.
It's not a lie, exactly. He will call. Just not tonight.
Mark catches his eye across the room, pulling his own shirt on over still-damp skin. There's a question in the tilt of his head, in the way his eyebrows draw together slightly. Logan shakes his head in a tiny motion. Not yet. Soon, but not yet.
Mark nods, understanding without needing words. He always understands.
March bleeds into playoff push madness, every game carrying weight that sits heavy in their legs and lungs. They win four straight—Ottawa, Montreal, Detroit, Boston—each victory hard-earned and celebrated like it might be their last. Then they lose a heartbreaker to Pittsburgh in overtime, a defensive breakdown in the final seconds that has Coach screaming himself hoarse and the locker room silent as a tomb afterward. But they bounce back. They rattle off three more wins against, and suddenly they're in a playoff position that looks almost comfortable if you squint.
Every game feels like the season is hanging in the balance anyway. One wrong stretch, one bad week, and they could slide right back out of contention. The pressure builds like steam in a closed system, nowhere to release, just constant mounting tension that Logan learns to convert into fuel.
He's playing some of the best hockey of his career. The stats back it up, he's on pace for his most goals in a season, and the advanced metrics people on Twitter keep posting charts showing his Corsi and Fenwick numbers trending up. But more than the numbers, it's the feeling of it. The confidence in his hands, the way he's reading plays faster, anticipating rather than reacting. The chemistry with Jamie clicking immediately, their styles complementing each other perfectly, Jamie's vision and Logan's shot, Jamie's playmaking and Logan's forechecking intensity.
But it's his connection with Mark that feels transcendent, like they've moved beyond normal hockey sense into something almost supernatural. They move together on the ice like they can read each other's minds, like they're connected by invisible threads that pull them into the right positions without conscious thought. Mark always knows where Logan will be before Logan knows himself. Logan always knows where Mark needs him, whether it's providing support on the breakout or filling the lane for a cross-ice feed. It's beautiful and dangerous and everything Logan's ever wanted from hockey, that perfect synchronicity that happens maybe once or twice in a career if you're lucky.
Off the ice, they steal moments where they can. Quick kisses in Mark's truck after practice when everyone else has already left, Logan leaning across the center console with Mark's hand cupped around the back of his neck. Logan's hand finding Mark's thigh during film sessions when the lights are dim and everyone's focused on the screen, fingers pressing gentle pressure when he squeezes three times to say ‘I love you’. Nights at Mark's house that bleed into mornings, Logan waking up wrapped around Mark like he's afraid he might disappear if he lets go. Then the careful extraction before sunrise, Logan sneaking back to Oskar's place in the pre-dawn darkness, both of them pretending the separation doesn't hurt every single time.
"You should just move in with me," Mark says one morning, half-asleep, pulling Logan back against his chest when Logan tries to slip out of bed. His voice is rough as sandpaper, still thick with sleep, and his arms are warm iron bands around Logan's waist.
Logan's heart stutters, then kicks into overdrive. "What?"
"Move in. You're here most nights anyway." Mark presses his face into Logan's shoulder, words muffled against skin. "Makes no sense traying to find an apartment, paying for a place you don't use."
"Mark, we've been together less than two months." Logan's trying to be the reasonable one, trying to think practically even though his heart is screaming yes, yes, a thousand times yes.
"So?" Mark's clearly not interested in being reasonable. He presses a kiss to Logan's shoulder, then another one higher up near his neck. "I love you. You love me. Why waste money on an apartment you won't use? Why pretend we're doing something we're not?"
Logan wants to. God, he wants to so badly it's almost a physical ache. He wants to wake up in Mark's bed every morning without having to sneak away before light. Wants his clothes in Mark's closet, his toothbrush in Mark's bathroom. Wants to stop living out of a duffel bag, stop existing in the liminal space between Oskar's basement and Mark's house like he doesn't have a real home anywhere.
But there's the team to think about. The questions it would raise if Logan suddenly didn't have his own place, if they couldn't maintain the careful distance in public that keeps people from looking too closely.
"Let me think about it," Logan says quietly, turning in Mark's arms so they're face to face. "Not no. Just... let me think."
Mark's disappointed, Logan can see it in the tightness around his eyes, but he nods. "Okay. Think about it."
But the seed is planted, taking root, growing.
The apartment tours are an exercise in frustration that borders on comedy except nothing about it feels funny.
The first one is downtown, in one of those new high-rise buildings with a lobby that looks like a hotel and a doorman who eyes Logan like he's assessing his net worth. It's sleek and modern with floor-to-ceiling windows that let in floods of natural light. The view overlooks the city, all gleaming glass and distant trees. Logan loves it immediately, can picture himself living here. The building has a gym on the third floor, not as good as the team facility but respectable, and a rooftop deck where he could sit and drink coffee and feel like he's actually made it in life.
"What do you think?" Logan asks, turning to find Mark standing in the middle of the empty living room with his arms crossed, frowning.
"The building's too public," Mark says, voice flat. "Too many people coming and going. Someone would notice your car here all the time."
"My car wouldn't be here all the time," Logan argues, even though they both know it would barely be here at all.
But Mark's already pointing out another issue with the layout, something about the sight lines from the street, how anyone could see into the apartment from the building across the way. His jaw is set in that stubborn line that means he's made up his mind and no amount of discussion will change it.
The second apartment is in a quieter neighborhood, a townhouse with a small yard, actual grass, actual privacy, and a garage that could fit all his hockey equipment. It's older than the downtown place but well-maintained, with hardwood floors and crown molding that gives it character.
"The yard's nice," Logan says hopefully, standing on the small patio and imagining summer barbecues that will never happen because he'll be at Mark's house instead.
"The walls are thin," Mark says immediately from inside, rapping his knuckles against the shared wall with the neighbor's unit. "I can hear the neighbors through this. You'd hear everything."
"I don't mind noise." Logan comes back inside, trying to salvage this somehow.
"You'd mind this noise." Mark's jaw is set in that stubborn way again, the one that means he's not backing down, not budging, not willing to compromise. "Trust me."
"How do you know? We've been here five minutes."
"I can tell." And somehow that's supposed to be a complete argument.
The third place is perfect. Actually perfect. Two bedrooms, one for sleeping, one for a home office or workout space. Updated kitchen with stainless steel appliances and granite counters. Walking distance to the practice facility, which means Logan could literally walk to work on nice days. Reasonable rent that won't eat his entire paycheck. The landlord seems normal, the building is quiet but not too quiet, and there's parking included.
Logan turns to Mark, bracing himself for another critique, expecting to hear about insufficient natural light or questionable insulation or the wrong feng shui. But Mark's just staring at the empty living room with an expression Logan can't read. Something haunted. Something that looks like loss.
"Well?" Logan prompts when the silence stretches too long. "What's wrong with this one?"
"Nothing," Mark says quietly, voice stripped bare of the judgmental edge from before. "It's perfect."
"Then why do you look like someone died?"
Mark's throat works, Adam's apple bobbing. He shoves his hands in his pockets like he needs to physically restrain himself from reaching out. "Because you don't need it. You could just live with me."
"Mark." It comes out softer than Logan intended, almost a plea.
"I know, I know. Too fast, too risky, bad idea." Mark's words come faster now, like a dam breaking. "We've been together less than two months, people would ask questions, we can't risk people finding out, I get it. I get all of it. But watching you look at places you'll barely use because you're always at mine anyway, it's killing me, Logan."
Logan's chest tightens, constricts, makes breathing feel like work. The realtor's on the other side of the apartment, pretending to inspect the closet space and definitely hearing every word of this. But Logan can't bring himself to care.
"You really want me to move in?" His voice comes out smaller than he means it to.
"More than anything." Mark finally looks at him, and his eyes are dark and intense and completely honest. "I want you in my space. In my bed every night. I want your stuff mixed with mine, want to trip over your shoes in the hallway, want to argue about whether you put the dishes away in the right cabinets. I want all of it. Everything."
Logan crosses the empty living room, pristine hardwood that his footsteps echo on, and kisses him. Hard and desperate and completely inappropriate with the realtor twenty feet away, but he doesn't care about that either. "I love you," he says against Mark's mouth. "And I want that too. Living together. Waking up together every morning without having to leave. Building something real that isn't split between two places."
"But," Mark says, because there's always a but.
"But you're right, we can't. Not yet." Logan pulls back just enough to look Mark in the eyes. "Not because I don't want to. Because I want it so much it scares me. But we have to be smart about this. The team, the questions, the risk…"
"I know." Mark kisses him again, softer this time, sadder. "Doesn't stop me wanting it."
They end up not taking any of the apartments. Logan tells his realtor he'll keep looking, that he needs to think about it, that none of them felt quite right. She looks at him with the kind of knowing expression that suggests she's been doing this long enough to recognize when the problem isn't the apartments.
But Logan knows the truth: nowhere will feel right because home isn't a place anymore. Home is Mark Callahan's warmth in the morning, Mark's hands on his skin, Mark's voice in the dark saying I love you like it's the easiest truth in the world.
Home is a person, and Logan already lives there in every way that matters.
It's a random Tuesday in mid-March when Logan finally works up the courage to call his parents. Not a special occasion, not after a particularly good game, just an ordinary Tuesday that suddenly feels weighted with significance. He's at Mark's place, their place, really, in all but official designation, pacing the living room while Mark watches from the couch, quiet support radiating from his stillness.
Logan's made about fifteen circuits of the room now, phone clutched in his hand like a talisman. He can feel Mark's eyes tracking him, patient, waiting for Logan to be ready without pushing.
"You don't have to do this now," Mark says gently when Logan passes the couch for the sixteenth time. "You can wait. Do it when you're ready."
"Yes, I do." Logan stops pacing, plants his feet, tries to make his hands stop shaking. They don't cooperate. "If I don't do it now, I never will. I'll keep making excuses, keep putting it off, and they deserve better than that. I deserve better than that."
He's been carrying this weight since he first understood what he was, and it's gotten heavier every year. Heavier every time his mom asks if he's seeing anyone, every time his dad makes a comment about grandkids someday, every time he has to navigate a conversation while carefully editing out the most important parts of his life.
"Okay," Mark says simply. "I'm here."
Logan pulls up FaceTime with fingers that feel numb and clumsy. His mom's contact photo grins up at him, her at the draft, proud and beaming. He taps it before he can lose his nerve.
She answers on the second ring, face lighting up with that particular joy mothers have for their children. "Logan! This is a nice surprise! I wasn't expecting-"
"Hey, Mom." Logan sits on the couch, suddenly grateful for the solid surface beneath him. Mark's just out of frame, a warm presence on his right. "Is Dad there?"
His mom's smile falters slightly, maternal instinct picking up on something in his tone. "Let me get him. Is everything okay, honey?"
"Yeah, everything's good." The lie tastes bitter. Nothing is good right now; everything is terrifying. "I just need to talk to both of you about something."
He watches on the screen as his mom walks through their house, the house he grew up in, walls he knows by heart. He can hear her calling for his dad, hear his dad's muffled response from somewhere that sounds like the garage. A moment later, his dad's face appears on screen too, concerned in that quiet way he has, eyebrows drawn together.
"Logan?" His dad's voice has that particular timbre it gets when he's worried but trying not to show it. "What's going on? Are you hurt? Did something happen?"
"No, I'm not hurt. Nothing happened." Logan takes a breath that doesn't fill his lungs enough. Mark's hand finds his back, just out of camera view, palm warm and grounding between his shoulder blades. "So, um. I have something to tell you. Something important."
His parents exchange glances on the screen, that silent married-couple communication that doesn't need words. His mom's hand goes to her mouth, and Logan's heart clenches at how scared she looks.
"I'm gay," Logan says, and even though he's said it before, to Mitch and Vlasky, to himself in the mirror, saying it to his parents feels different. Final. Like this is the moment that makes it real in a way nothing else has. "I've known for a long time, but I didn't know how to tell you. Didn't know if I could."
Silence.
It stretches out, seconds ticking by that feel like hours. Logan's heart is pounding so hard he can hear it in his ears, feel it in his throat. His palms are sweating. His dad's expression is unreadable, face carefully neutral in a way that could mean anything. His mom's eyes are shining with tears that haven't fallen yet, hand still pressed to her mouth.
"And there's more," Logan continues, voice cracking around the words. He has to get it all out now, has to say everything before he loses his nerve completely. "I'm seeing someone. A teammate. We've been together since January, and I..." He swallows hard, tries to steady his voice and fails. "I love him. Really love him."
More silence. Mark's hand presses firmer against his back, anchoring him when he feels like he might float away or shatter into pieces.
Then his mom is crying, really crying, not just tearing up, hands covering her face completely. "Oh, Logan."
"Mom, please don't-" His own voice breaks. This is it. This is the moment he loses them, the moment everything falls apart.
"I'm sorry, honey, I'm just-" She wipes her eyes with shaking hands, and when she lowers them she's laughing through tears, making these small hiccupping sounds. "I'm so relieved."
Logan blinks. "What?"
"We've known something was going on." His mom's smiling now, wet and radiant and completely genuine. "You've been different lately. Since the season started, really. Happier. More yourself. And I was so worried it was something bad like drugs or gambling or depression or who knows what. But this-" Her voice breaks with emotion. "This is wonderful, baby. This is you being honest with us. That's all we've ever wanted."
"You're not mad?" Logan can barely process what he's hearing. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. He'd prepared himself for disappointment, for rejection, for love that came with conditions.
"Mad?" His dad speaks up, and his voice is rough with emotion too, thick in a way Logan's never heard before. "Logan, no. We're not mad. Not even a little bit."
"But I'm gay, and I'm dating a man, and it's not what you expected…"
"It's your life," his dad interrupts, and his tone is firm now, carrying that particular Dad authority that brooks no argument. "And if he makes you happy, if you love him, then that's all that matters to us. That's all that's ever mattered."
Logan's vision blurs with tears he didn't know were building. Mark's arm comes around his waist, pulling him close, solid and real. Logan leans into him gratefully, no longer caring if his parents see.
"Does he treat you well?" his mom asks, leaning closer to the camera like she's trying to see him better through the screen. "This man you love?"
"The best," Logan manages, voice thick. "He's... he's everything, Mom. He's patient and kind and he makes me feel safe. Like I can be myself without editing or hiding. He's everything I didn't know I needed."
"Then I can't wait to meet him." She's beaming now, tears still on her cheeks but smile luminous. "What's his name? Can we see him? Or is he private?"
Logan glances at Mark, who nods once. It's a small movement, but it carries permission and trust and willingness to step into this with him. Logan shifts the phone so Mark's visible in the frame, and suddenly they're both on camera together.
"Mom, Dad, this is Mark Callahan."
There's a beat where Logan watches his parents process. Mark's older than him, visibly, undeniably older. And he's the team alternate, which carries its own complications. But if they're surprised by either of those facts, they don't show it. His mom just smiles wider, and his dad's expression softens.
"It's lovely to meet you, Mark." His mom's using her company voice, the polite one she brings out for important occasions. "Even if the circumstances are a bit unusual. I wish we could do this in person, but I'm grateful to meet you at all."
"You too, ma'am." Mark's voice is steady, respectful, carrying none of the uncertainty Logan feels. "Your son is incredible. I'm lucky to have him."
"We think so too," his dad says with a slight smile. "Though we might be biased."
They talk for another twenty minutes, and it's surprisingly normal. His parents ask gentle questions, how they met (which makes Logan laugh because it was him and Mark being assholes to each other), how long they've been together, whether the team knows (complicated, Logan explains, some of them). Mark answers thoughtfully, honestly, not trying to be anything other than exactly who he is. He talks about Logan's hockey sense, his work ethic, the way he makes everyone around him better. He's careful and genuine and everything Logan loves about him distilled into the version you show parents.
Logan mostly stays quiet, letting them talk, still processing the fact that this is happening at all. That his parents know and they're okay with it and his mom keeps smiling at Mark like she's already adopted him into the family.
By the time they hang up, his mom extracting promises that they'll call again soon, that she wants to know how the playoff push goes, Logan's emotionally wrung out but lighter than he's felt in weeks. Maybe years. Like he's been carrying bricks in his chest and suddenly someone removed half of them.
"That went better than expected," Mark says softly, pulling Logan against his chest as soon as the call disconnects.
"Yeah." Logan wipes his eyes, realizes his face is wet and doesn't remember when he started crying again. "My mom for sure wants to meet you in person. During the summer maybe. If you're... if you want to."
"I'd like that." Mark presses a kiss to his temple. "I'd like that a lot."
"Thank you," Logan whispers. "For being here. For being you. For not running away when things get complicated."
Mark kisses him, slow and sweet, pouring everything he can't say into the press of lips. "Always."
And Logan believes him.
The days after the call to his parents feel different. Lighter. Like Logan's been walking through the world with weights attached to his ankles and someone finally cut them free. He catches himself smiling at random moments, during practice, in the shower, while brushing his teeth. Mark notices, of course. Mark always notices.
"You're happy," Mark observes one evening. They're on the couch, Logan sprawled across Mark's lap while some documentary about ocean conservation plays on TV. Neither of them are really watching.
"I am," Logan agrees, tilting his head back to look at Mark. "It's weird. I didn't realize how much energy I was spending on hiding until I stopped having to hide."
"From your parents, anyway." Mark's hand runs through Logan's hair, fingers gentle against his scalp.
"Yeah." The team is still complicated. They maintain their distance in public, their careful professionalism, the captain-teammate dynamic that gives them plausible deniability. "But it's different now. Knowing they know. Knowing they're okay with it."
"With us," Mark corrects.
"With us," Logan echoes, and the word feels warm in his mouth.
His mom texts him more after that. Not about anything heavy, just normal mom things. Asking about games, reminding him to eat vegetables, sending him photos of their dog doing ridiculous things. But there's a new ease to it, a lack of careful editing on both sides. She asks about Mark sometimes, How's Mark doing? Tell him I said hello, and Logan answers honestly, no longer having to sanitize his responses or pretend Mark is just a teammate he happens to spend time with.
His dad calls after a particularly good game against Toronto, one where Logan scores twice and sets up another. "Proud of you, son," he says, voice gruff the way it gets when he's emotional. "You're playing the best hockey of your life."
"Thanks, Dad." Logan's in Mark's kitchen, phone on speaker while Mark cooks dinner. Mark glances over, smiling softly.
"Is Mark there?" his dad asks.
Logan blinks. "Yeah, he's here."
"Put him on."
Logan exchanges a confused look with Mark, then holds out the phone. Mark wipes his hands on a towel, takes it cautiously. "Hello, sir."
"Don't 'sir' me, I'm not that old yet," Logan's dad says with a laugh. "I just wanted to say thank you. For taking care of my son. For making him happy. That's all a father can ask for."
Mark's expression does something complicated, softening and tightening at once. "He makes me happy too. Makes me better."
"Good. That's how it should work." There's a pause. "And Mark? If you hurt him, I know people."
Mark actually laughs, surprised and genuine. "Understood."
After the call ends, Mark hands Logan his phone back and returns to cooking without comment, but there's something pleased in the set of his shoulders, something settled.
"My dad likes you," Logan says, watching him.
"Your dad threatened me."
"Same thing, with him." Logan grins. "That's how you know he approves."
The domesticity of it all should feel strange, Logan's still living out of a duffel bag technically, still has his place at Oskar’s even if he hasn't slept there in days. But it doesn't feel strange. It feels right, like pieces clicking into place, like this is what his life was always supposed to look like and he just had to wait for it to arrive.
They cook together, or Mark cooks while Logan "helps" in ways that mostly involve stealing tastes and getting in the way. They do laundry together, which is how Logan discovers Mark is weirdly particular about folding techniques. They watch games together, sprawled on the couch, providing running commentary that's half analysis and half chirping each other's plays.
"You were out of position there," Mark says during a replay of their game against Toronto.
"I was creating space!"
"You were gambling. If Jamie hadn't covered, that's a two-on-one going the other way."
"But Jamie did cover, because we have chemistry."
"Chemistry isn't the same as good defensive structure."
"You're just mad because I scored and you didn't."
Mark pulls him into a headlock, gentle but firm. "I'm leading in assists in the league, baby. I'm not worried about your two goals."
Logan laughs, squirming free. "Those are off my goals!"
"Johan is there too."
It's comfortable, this bickering. Safe. The kind of thing Logan never had with anyone else because he never let anyone close enough to see all of him, the competitive parts, the insecure parts, the parts that need reassurance that he's doing okay, that he's enough.
With Mark, he lets himself be all of it. And Mark loves him anyway.
Two days after the call with his parents, Logan's doing laundry. It's become his job somehow, Mark cooks, Logan does laundry, and it's a fair trade considering Logan would probably survive on protein bars and takeout if left to his own devices.
He's transferring clothes from the washer to the dryer when he finds it: one of Mark's older worn game jerseys. Not a practice jersey, but an actual game-worn away one from before they changed the design a couple years back. Number 47, CALLAHAN across the back in bold red letters on white. It must have gotten mixed in with the regular laundry somehow, probably should have been sent out for professional cleaning but ended up here instead.
Logan pulls it out, holds it up. It's huge, Mark's got almost four inches on him and broader shoulders. The fabric is heavier than a regular shirt, that technical moisture-wicking material that's seen dozens of games, hundreds of hits, thousands of shifts.
On impulse, he pulls his tee off and throws it on.
It's massive on him, hanging past his thighs, sleeves going well past his fingertips. Logan catches his reflection in the laundry room mirror, he looks ridiculous, swimming in fabric, but there's something about it that makes his heart beat faster. CALLAHAN across his shoulders. Mark's number on his chest and back. Like he's wearing a claim, a brand, proof of belonging.
He should take it off. Should finish the laundry, fold it properly, put it in Mark's closet with his other game gear.
Instead, he goes looking for Mark.
He finds him in the kitchen cleaning up. The espresso machine is hissing, filling the air with that rich dark smell that Logan associates with weekend mornings and lazy afternoons.
When Mark turns around, the mug in his hands nearly slips free. He catches it at the last second, sets it down on the counter with exaggerated care, then just stares.
"What are you wearing?" Mark's voice comes out strangled, rough.
"Your jersey." Logan grins, doing a little spin that makes the hem flare out. "Found it in the laundry. Thought it would be funny."
"Funny." Mark's eyes have gone dark, pupils blown wide, and his hands grip the edge of the counter like he needs the support. "That's the word you're going with?"
"What's wrong?" Logan asks innocently, even though he can see exactly what's wrong, or right, in the way Mark's looking at him. Like he wants to devour him. Like he's holding himself back through sheer force of will.
"Take it off." Mark's voice drops an octave, gets that commanding edge that makes Logan's knees weak.
"But I just put it on." Logan starts, still playing innocent.
"Logan." Just his name, but it carries weight. Authority. Promise. "Take it off, or I'll take it off for you."
Heat floods Logan's body, pooling low in his belly. His mouth goes dry. "Why? Does it bother you?"
"Bother me?" Mark crosses the kitchen in three strides, eliminating the space between them, backing Logan against the counter. His hands land on Logan's hips, gripping through the thick fabric of the jersey. "Seeing you in my name, my number? Looking like you belong to me?" His voice is barely above a growl. "Bother isn't the word I'd use."
Logan's breath catches, comes shorter. He has to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact. "What word would you use?"
Mark's thigh slides between his legs, firm pressure, and Logan barely suppresses a whimper. "Mine," Mark growls against his ear, breath hot. "You look like exactly what you are, my boyfriend wearing my jersey."
Logan's knees go weak. He's grateful for the counter behind him, for Mark's hands holding him up. "I am yours."
"Yeah?" Mark's hand fists in the jersey, pulling Logan impossibly closer. "Then prove it. Upstairs." His eyes flash dark and possessive. "And keep that on."
They barely make it to the bedroom. Mark's on him the second the door closes, mouth hot and demanding, hands everywhere at once. He strips Logan down to just the jersey, pulls off the joggers, even Logan's socks, but leaves the jersey on, that massive thing that makes Logan look small and claimed and perfect.
Mark lays him out on the bed, Logan sprawled on his back with the jersey rucked up to his chest, and just looks for a moment. His eyes track over every inch of exposed skin, dark with want and possession.
"Do you have any idea what you do to me?" Mark's voice is wrecked already and they've barely started. "Walking around my house in my jersey like it's nothing?"
"It's not nothing," Logan breathes. His skin feels too tight, too hot.
Mark strips out of his own clothes with efficient movements, then crawls over Logan, caging him in with his arms. "Mine," he says again, like he needs to hear it, needs Logan to confirm it.
"Yours." Logan arches up into him, desperate for contact, for friction, for more. "Only yours, always yours."
Mark kisses him deep and thorough, tongue claiming every inch of Logan's mouth. His hands roam over Logan's body, ribs, chest, thighs, always coming back to grip the jersey, like he can't quite believe Logan's wearing it.
When Mark pulls back to reach for supplies, Logan whines at the loss of contact. Mark huffs a laugh. "Patience, baby."
"Don't want patience. Want you."
"You have me." Mark slicks his fingers, brings his other hand back to Logan's hip, thumb rubbing circles through the jersey material. "You've had me since that first kiss.”
He works Logan open with his fingers, slow and thorough, three fingers deep, Logan writhing beneath him against the sheets. The whole time, Mark mutters praise, how perfect Logan looks like this, how good he takes it, how beautiful he is wearing Mark's name.
"So perfect like this," Mark breathes, twisting his fingers just right, making Logan gasp. "Wearing my name. Looking like you belong to me."
"I do," Logan gasps, trying to push back onto Mark's fingers, trying to get more. "God, Mark”
"That's right." Mark pulls his fingers free, and Logan whimpers at the emptiness. But then Mark's rolling on a condom, slicking himself, lining up, and Logan's breath catches in anticipation. "Mine. Say it again."
"Yours," Logan pants as Mark pushes inside, slow and steady and overwhelming. The stretch is perfect, that edge of too much that becomes exactly right. "Yours, only yours, always, oh fuck-"
Mark bottoms out and pauses, giving Logan time to adjust, but his hands are shaking where they grip Logan's hips. One hand slides up, fists in the jersey right over Logan's heart. "Never taking this off you," he grits out, voice strained. "Gonna fuck you in it every chance I get."
"Please," Logan arches up, clenching around Mark deliberately. "Please, Mark-"
Mark pulls back and snaps forward, setting a pace that drives the breath from Logan's lungs. It's intense and overwhelming and exactly what Logan needs, Mark surrounding him, inside him, the jersey making him feel possessed and claimed and safe.
"Touch yourself," Mark commands, voice rough and authoritative. "Want to watch you fall apart in my jersey. Want to see you come wearing my name."
Logan obeys, hand wrapping around himself, and the dual sensation is too much. Mark hitting that perfect spot inside him with every thrust, the rough tone of his voice, the weight of the jersey on his skin, the knowledge that he's wearing Mark's name, Mark's number, Mark's claim.
"Close," he gasps, hand working faster, everything building tight and hot in his core. "So close, Mark, please-"
"Come for me, baby." Mark's voice is wrecked, breaking around the edges. "Come for me wearing my name. Show me you're mine."
Logan does, crying out Mark's name, back arching off the bed, the jersey twisted in his free hand while the other works himself through it. The orgasm crashes over him in waves, whiting out his vision, making his whole body shake. Mark follows seconds later, rhythm faltering, hips stuttering. He groans into Logan's neck, long and low, body shuddering through his release.
They collapse together, both panting, sweat-slicked and trembling. Mark carefully pulls out, deals with the condom with shaking hands, then gathers Logan close. The jersey's still on, rumpled and damp with sweat, sticking to Logan's skin.
For a while, they just breathe together, coming down slowly, heartbeats gradually returning to normal. Mark's hand traces idle patterns on Logan's ribs, slipping under the jersey to touch bare skin.
"You can't wear that in public," Mark says eventually, voice still rough and raw. "I wouldn't survive it."
Logan laughs breathlessly, the sound punched out of him. "Noted. But I'm definitely wearing it again."
"Good." Mark kisses his temple, soft and reverent, completely different from five minutes ago. "Because seeing you in my number does things to me."
"I noticed." Logan shifts, feeling the pleasant ache in his muscles, in his hips. "You get really possessive."
"Can you blame me?" Mark's hand slides under the jersey again, palm warm and sure against Logan's ribs. "It drives me crazy how much I want to show you off. Want to put a ring on your finger someday. Put my name on your jersey"
The words should scare Logan. He knows that Mark is lost in this same little world that’s just the two of them, knows he doesn't mean it. It's too fast, too intense. But they don't scare him. They make him feel safe, wanted, precious.
"Maybe someday," Logan reminds him gently, bringing them back to reality.
"I know." Mark's voice goes quieter, some of the post-orgasm haze fading into something more melancholy. "But in here, in this house, you're mine. And I'm yours."
"Always," Logan promises, turning in Mark's arms so they're face to face. He cups Mark's jaw, feels the scratch of stubble against his palm. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm yours in every way that matters, and someday, when we're ready, everyone will know it."
"Someday," Mark echoes, like a prayer.
They stay like that for a long time, wrapped around each other, Logan still wearing Mark's jersey like a second skin. Eventually they'll have to get up, shower, finish the laundry, face the world. But for now, they're just here, Mark and Logan, center and winger, two people who found each other against the odds and decided to hold on.
The playoff push intensifies as March bleeds into April. Every game is crucial, every point matters, the standings shifting daily like sand. They beat Philadelphia 5-3 in a game that gets chippy in the third period, lose to Boston in overtime on a defensive breakdown that has Coach screaming for twenty minutes straight, then beat New York in a shootout where Logan scores the winning goal and nearly breaks his hand from the force of the celebration.
Jamie's fitting in so well it's like he's always been on the team, his chemistry with Logan electric and getting better every game. They've developed an almost telepathic connection on the ice, Logan knows where Jamie will be before Jamie does, and Jamie can thread passes through impossible gaps straight to Logan's tape.
After one particularly good game against New Jersey,where Logan gets a goal and two assists, and Jamie adds a goal and assist of his own, Logan and Jamie are the last ones in the locker room. Everyone else has cleared out, heading home or to whatever post-game plans they've made, but Logan had to do a media scrum and Jamie waited for him.
Jamie's telling a story about his old teammate in Long Island, animated and laughing, hands gesturing wildly. Something about a prank involving a rubber snake and the assistant coach's coffee mug. Logan's laughing too, doubled over, when he catches Vlasky watching from across the room.
Vlasky's lingering by his stall, supposedly packing his bag but barely moving. His expression is carefully neutral, that practiced blankness that doesn't quite hide what's underneath. But his eyes betray him, tracking Jamie's mouth when he laughs, his hands when they move, the way his whole body gets into the storytelling.
Logan sees it clearly now. The careful distance that's actually the opposite of distance, that hyperawareness of exactly where someone is in a room.
Jamie notices Vlasky looking and his smile shifts, softens into something more private. "Hey V, you coming to dinner?"
"Maybe," Vlasky says, and his voice is too casual, too studied. "Where you go?"
"That Italian place near the arena. Rigatoni's or whatever it's called. Kris and Johan are meeting us there in like twenty minutes."
"I come," Vlasky decides immediately. Then, after a pause that's just a beat too long: "You can ride with me. If you want. Save gas."
Jamie's grin widens, something pleased flickering across his face. "Yeah, sure. Thanks, man."
Logan watches them leave together, Vlasky's hand hovering near Jamie's back like he wants to touch but doesn't dare, like there's a magnetic pull he's resisting through sheer force of will. They're talking as they disappear through the door, Jamie laughing at something Vlasky says, Vlasky's face lighting up in response.
Logan makes a mental note to tell Mark later, to compare observations, to see if Mark's noticed the same thing developing.
-
The apartment tours continue, but every place Mark finds some fault with. Too expensive, too far from the arena, walls too thin, parking situation too complicated, too something. Logan knows Mark's doing it on purpose, trying to delay the inevitable. They're at Mark's house on a Tuesday afternoon, both of them with the day off, and Logan's scrolling through rental listings on his phone while Mark pretends to read a book. He's been on the same page for fifteen minutes.
"What about this one?" Logan asks, showing Mark a listing. "Two bedroom, parking included, updated kitchen. It's in that neighborhood near the practice facility."
Mark barely glances at it before returning to his book. "Parking garage entrance faces the street. Too visible."
"Mark."
"What?" Mark's face is a picture of innocence, but his eyes give him away, there's guilt there, and stubbornness, and something desperate.
"You're sabotaging this on purpose."
"I'm not."
"You are." Logan sets his phone down on the coffee table with more force than necessary, turning to face Mark fully. "Every apartment I show you, you find something wrong with it. The last one you said the doorknobs looked suspicious."
"They did look suspicious!"
"They were doorknobs, Mark. Normal doorknobs."
Mark sets his book aside with a sigh. "Okay, fine. Maybe I'm being a little critical."
"A little?" Logan raises an eyebrow. "You rejected one because you didn't like the font on the building directory."
"It was Comic Sans!"
"It was the guest directory for deliveries!" Logan's trying not to laugh now, the absurdity of it breaking through his frustration. "You don't want me to get my own place."
Mark's jaw tightens, and for a moment Logan thinks he's going to keep denying it. But then his shoulders slump, defenses crumbling. "Of course I don't. But you need a place of your own."
"Mark."
"Fine." Mark drags a hand through his hair, making it stick up at odd angles. "Fine. I don't want you to get your own place. I want you here. I want to wake up with you every morning and go to sleep with you every night. I want your shit all over my house and your terrible taste in TV shows taking over my viewing history." He's talking faster now, words tumbling out. "I want your books on my shelves and your clothes in my closet and your coffee mug next to mine in the cabinet. I want..." He stops, throat working. "I want us to have a life together. A real life. Not this half-hidden thing where you pretend to live somewhere else and sneak out before sunrise like we're doing something wrong."
Logan's chest aches, tight and full. "I want that too."
"But we can't have it." Mark's voice goes flat, resigned.
"Why can't we?" The words come out before Logan can think them through, but once they're out there, he realizes he means them. "Why can't we?"
Mark stares at him. "Logan, the team, "
"Most of them already know. " Logan shifts closer, takes Mark's hand. "And the ones who've figured it out, they're not saying anything. They're protecting us."
"That's different from you moving in with me."
"Is it?" Logan challenges. "I’m here six nights a week. I do my laundry here. Half my stuff is already here. Anyone paying attention could figure it out if they wanted to."
"That's exactly why you need your own place. For cover."
"For cover I'll never use." Logan squeezes Mark's hand. "We're spending money to maintain a fiction that's not fooling anyone. That's stupid."
"It's safe."
"Since when have we ever done anything smart or safe?" Logan's voice softens. "We fell in love in the middle of the season. We kissed in a hotel in Philly. We've been together every night for two months despite knowing we should be more careful." He cups Mark's jaw with his free hand. "When have we ever made the logical choice when it comes to us?"
Mark's breath catches. "Logan, if this goes wrong, "
"Then it goes wrong, and we deal with it." Logan leans in until their foreheads touch. "But I'm tired of pretending. I'm tired of looking at apartments I'll never live in because I'm already home. This is home. You're home."
Logan pulls back to look Mark in the eyes. "Do you want me to live here? Really, truly want it?"
"You know I do." Mark's voice cracks.
"Then stop making logical arguments against it and say yes."
Mark stares at him for a long moment, and Logan can see the war happening behind his eyes, fear and hope, caution and desire, the instinct to protect versus the need to hold close.
"Okay," Mark says finally, voice barely above a whisper. "Okay, yes. Move in with me. Officially. Bring all your stuff. Make this place ours instead of mine."
Logan kisses him, hard and deep and full of relief. When they break apart, both breathing hard, Logan's grinning. "I should talk to Oskar and Kelsey…”
"After that you live here." Mark says it like he's testing the words, seeing how they feel. His smile grows. "You live with me."
"I live with you," Logan echoes, and it feels like the most honest thing he's said in weeks.
They spend the rest of the afternoon planning, which closet space Logan can have (half of the master, Mark insists, plus the guest room closet for off-season clothes), where Logan's desk should go (the spare bedroom that'll become his space), what they need to buy (more towels, apparently, and Logan's own set of good knives because Mark refuses to share his).
It's domestic and perfect and terrifying in the best way. They're really doing this. Moving in together. Building a life.
That night, lying in bed with Logan's head on his chest, Mark says quietly, "The guys are going to find out we're living together."
"Probably," Logan agrees. "Is that okay?"
"Yeah." Mark's hand traces patterns on Logan's shoulder. "Yeah, it's okay. They already know about us. This is just... the next step."
"A big next step."
"The best next step." Mark kisses the top of his head. "I love you."
"I love you too." Logan snuggles closer. "And for the record? I've basically been living here since February. This is just making it official."
Mark laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Fair point."
-
Late March brings the final desperate playoff push. They're sitting right on the bubble, fighting tooth and nail for that last Wild Card spot, trying to recover from their slow start. Every game is a battle, every shift crucial, the pressure mounting with each passing day. Logan's playing the best hockey of his life, and he knows it's because of Mark. Because he's happy. Because he's in love. Because for the first time in his life, hockey isn't the only thing that matters, and paradoxically, that's made him better at it.
After beating Buffalo, in a hard-fought 3-2 win where Logan scores the game-winner with four minutes left, Logan's sitting at his stall, still in his gear, sweat-soaked and exhausted. The locker room is loud with celebration, music playing, guys laughing and chirping each other. Then Mitch approaches, and the noise around Logan seems to fade.
Logan tenses automatically, waiting for the cold distance that's become their new normal. The careful avoidance, the way Mitch's eyes slide past him in meetings, the stilted conversations that die before they start.
"Hey," Mitch says, and his voice is uncertain, almost nervous. "Can we talk?"
Logan's heart pounds. "Sure."
They end up in one of the empty hallways near the equipment room, away from the rest of the team. Mitch looks uncomfortable, hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched.
"I've been a dick," Mitch says finally, words coming out in a rush. "Since you told me. About being gay. I've been a complete asshole, and I know it."
Logan's throat tightens. "Yeah. You have."
"I know. And I'm sorry." Mitch finally meets his eyes, and there's genuine remorse there. "I was surprised, and I handled it badly. Really badly. But that's my problem, not yours. You didn't do anything wrong."
"What changed?" Logan asks quietly, not quite ready to accept the apology yet but willing to listen.
"I talked to my girlfriend. Several times, actually. She basically called me an idiot in increasingly creative ways." Mitch manages a small, rueful smile. "Said you're still the same person you've always been. That me being weird about it says more about me than it does about you. That I was letting my own discomfort hurt someone who'd been a good friend."
"She sounds smart."
"She is. Way smarter than me." Mitch takes a breath, lets it out slowly. "Look, I don't fully understand it. I'm still working through my own shit about it, my own preconceptions and whatever. But you're my teammate, Hayes. And I miss you. I miss grabbing dinner after practice. I miss your terrible jokes. I miss just... being friends."
Something in Logan's chest unclenches, a knot he didn't realize had been there loosening. "I miss you too."
"So we're good?"
"We're getting there," Logan says carefully. He needs to be honest, needs Mitch to understand. "But Mitch, I need you to know,'m not hiding who I am to make you comfortable. I'm gay, I'm in a relationship, and I'm not apologizing for either of those things."
"I'm not asking you to." Mitch extends his hand, and the gesture feels significant, formal. "Friends?"
Logan looks at the offered hand, thinks about what it represents. It's not perfect, there's still awkwardness, still moments where Mitch will probably look uncomfortable, still work to be done. But it's a start. It's Mitch trying, which is more than Logan expected a few weeks ago.
Logan shakes his hand. "Friends."
They walk back to the locker room together, and while it's not the easy camaraderie they used to have, it's something. A foundation to rebuild on.
That night, Logan tells Mark about it. They're curled up on the couch, their couch now, Logan's officially moving his stuff in this weekend, and Mark's fingers are carding through Logan's hair in that way that always makes him drowsy.
"I'm proud of you," Mark says, fingers never stopping their gentle movement. "For standing your ground.."
"I learned from the best." Logan tilts his head to kiss Mark's jaw, feeling the scratch of evening stubble. "You never apologize for who you are."
"Comes with age and too many years in this league." Mark's voice is wry, self-deprecating. "But I'm glad Mitch came around. Or started to, anyway."
"Me too." Logan settles back against Mark's chest, listening to his steady heartbeat. "It hurt more than I expected. Having him pull away."
"Of course it did. You trusted him with something important." Mark's arms tighten around him. "But you handled it right. You didn't chase his approval. You just existed as yourself and let him figure out whether he could handle it."
They fall quiet, comfortable in the silence. Logan thinks about how far they've come in just a few months. About the team that's slowly learning to accept him, about the love that's grown between him and Mark, about the future they're carefully building together, not in theory or someday, but actually building, with Logan's stuff moving into Mark's house this weekend and his name going on Mark's mailbox.
"Hey Mark?" Logan says softly.
"Yeah?"
"When we make the playoffs and we're celebrating after, in the room, I want to kiss you. In front of everyone."
Mark's hand stills in his hair. "Logan."
"I know, I know. Too risky, bad idea, all the logical reasons we shouldn't." Logan shifts to look at Mark's face, needs to see his eyes for this. "But I want it anyway. I want everyone to know you're mine."
"Baby." Mark's voice is thick with emotion, rough around the edges. "If we make playoffs and you want that, fuck it. Kiss me. I don't care who sees."
Logan's breath catches. "Really?"
"Really." Mark cups his face with both hands, thumbs stroking his cheekbones. "I'm tired of hiding. Tired of pretending you're just my teammate, just someone I mentor. If they have a problem with it, that's on them. We'll deal with whatever comes."
"We could get in trouble. The league, the team, management…"
"I don't care." Mark's eyes are fierce, blazing with conviction. "You're worth any trouble. Any risk. Any consequence. I'd rather be honest and face whatever happens than spend another season pretending I don't love you."
Logan kisses him then, pouring every ounce of love and gratitude and relief into it. When they break apart, both are breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.
"Playoffs first," Mark says. "Then we'll figure out the rest."
"Deal."
They make playoffs with a week left in the season, clinching with a dramatic overtime win against Columbus. Logan scores the game-winner twenty-three seconds into OT, a snapshot from the slot that goes top shelf, and the celebration that follows is pure chaos.
The locker room after is bedlam, music blasting so loud Logan can feel it in his bones. The kind of joy that comes from achieving something hard-fought, something that felt impossible just weeks ago. Logan's in the middle of it soaked in spraying water bottles and sweat, when Jamie appears beside him and tackles him into a hug. "We did it! We actually fucking did it!"
"We did!" Logan hugs him back, both of them jumping up and down like kids, screaming over the music.
Across the room, Vlasky's watching them with that same soft expression Logan's gotten used to seeing, and when Jamie glances his way. Logan sees it clearly: the way they both smile, the way they hold eye contact just a beat too long, the flush that spreads across Jamie's cheeks, the way Vlasky's grin turns almost shy before he looks away.
He catches Mark's eye over the crowd of celebrating teammates and grins. Mark grins back, unguarded and happy in a way he rarely lets himself be in public, and mouths I love you across the chaos.
Logan mouths it back, not caring if anyone sees.
In this moment, surrounded by their team, Logan thinks maybe everything really will be okay. Maybe the risk is worth it. Maybe honesty is always worth it, even when it's hard.
Maybe someday isn't someday anymore. Maybe someday is now.
And so with that in mind he takes a careful step towards Mark.

Chapter Text

Mark watches Logan move through the celebrating chaos of the locker room, water dripping from his hair, that brilliant grin lighting up his entire face. The kid's practically glowing with joy, high-fiving teammates, shouting over the music, living in this perfect moment of achievement. They made the playoffs. After everything, the slow start, the uncertainty, they actually made it.
But Mark's not thinking about playoffs right now. He's thinking about Logan twenty minutes ago, flushed and breathless after scoring the game-winner, looking across the ice and finding Mark's eyes in the celebration. The way Logan had smiled at him then, open and unguarded and full of love he wasn't trying to hide.
I want to kiss you. In front of everyone.
Logan's words echo in Mark's head as he watches him accept congratulations from Kris, as he sees Jamie tackle him into another hug, as he notices the way the whole team has embraced him as one of their own. No more careful distance, no more walking on eggshells. Logan Hayes belongs here, and everyone knows it. Mark makes his decision.
He starts moving across the room at the same moment that Logan starts moving towards him, weaving between celebrating teammates, equipment scattered on the floor, water bottles being sprayed in victorious arcs. The music pounds, something with heavy bass that makes his ribs vibrate, but it fades to background noise as his focus narrows to Logan. Logan spots him coming and his grin softens into something more intimate, more knowing. He says something to Jamie, who claps him on the shoulder and moves away, leaving space that Mark fills immediately.
"We did it," Logan says, having to raise his voice over the noise. His eyes are bright, pupils still dilated with adrenaline and something else, anticipation, maybe.
"You did it," Mark corrects, stepping closer than is strictly professional. Close enough to smell Logan's sweat, see the flush across his cheekbones, notice the way his chest is still rising and falling rapidly. "That goal was perfect."
"Perfect setup from you and Johan," Logan argues, but he's not really focused on hockey right now. His eyes keep dropping to Mark's mouth, then flicking back up, a question there that Mark understands perfectly. The same question that's been building between them for hours, days, weeks. In his fuzzy mind Mark can hear Oskar's voice cutting through the celebration, suddenly authoritative: "Media out! Team only! Come on, everyone out, we need some privacy for the celebration!"
There's grumbling, protests from reporters who want locker room quotes, but Oskar's the captain and his word is law. Mark hears the shuffle of feet, equipment being packed quickly, voices fading as the door opens and closes. The music stays loud enough to mask anything said in normal conversation, but the energy in the room shifts, becomes more intimate, more family-like. Mark looks at Logan, really looks at him. Sees the hope there, the want, the trust. Logan's putting this choice in Mark's hands, letting him decide if they're ready for this. If they're ready to stop hiding, stop pretending, stop being careful.
They are.
"Come here," Mark says quietly, but Logan's already moving, stepping into his space until they're chest to chest, close enough that Mark can feel the heat radiating off his skin through their jerseys. Mark's hands find Logan's face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones, feeling the warm flush there, the slight dampness from exertion and emotion. Logan's breath catches, a small sound that gets lost in the music but that Mark feels against his palms.
Around them, the celebration continues but feels distant, like they're in a bubble of their own making. Mark can hear Kris laughing at something Vlasky said, can hear the pop of another beer being opened, can hear Johan's quiet voice offering congratulations to someone. But it all feels far away, unimportant compared to this moment, this choice.
"You sure about this?" Mark asks, giving Logan one last chance to back out. "Once we do this, everyone knows. No taking it back."
"Never been more sure of anything," Logan breathes, his hands coming up to cover Mark's where they rest on his face. "I'm tired of hiding. Tired of pretending you're not everything to me."
Mark kisses him.
It's not gentle or tentative. It's months of wanting poured into contact, relief and joy and love all tangled together. Logan melts into him immediately, hands fisting in Mark's jersey, pulling him closer until there's no space left between them. He tastes like victory and possibility, like everything Mark's ever wanted and finally gets to have. His mouth is warm and eager, tongue meeting Mark's with confidence that makes Mark's knees weak.
The locker room doesn't go silent, the music's still too loud for that, but Mark can feel the shift in energy around them. Conversations that trail off, movement that stills, the collective intake of breath from twenty guys who just witnessed their alternate captain kiss their young winger like his life depends on it. When they break apart, both breathing hard, Logan's eyes are dark and dazed, pupils blown wide. His lips are red and slightly swollen, and Mark wants to kiss him again immediately.
"Holy shit," Logan whispers, voice rough.
"Yeah," Mark agrees, resting his forehead against Logan's. "Holy shit."
That's when the real celebration starts.
Kris whoops loud enough to be heard over the music, throwing his arms in the air like his team just won the Stanley Cup. "Finally! Jesus Christ, finally!"
Johan's smiling that small, satisfied smile, the one that says he knew this was coming and approves completely. "About time."
Vlasky appears out of nowhere, soaking them both with a water bottle while yelling something in Russian that's probably congratulations but could also be creative cursing. Jamie's grinning like this is the best entertainment he's had all season, shaking his head in amused disbelief. Even Mitch is smiling, tentative but genuine, raising his water in a small toast that means more than he probably realizes.
"You guys are idiots," Oskar calls from across the room, but he's laughing, the kind of fond exasperation that comes from watching friends finally get their act together. "Cute idiots, but idiots. Couldn't wait five more minutes for media to clear out?"
"Worth it," Logan calls back, not moving away from Mark. His hand is still twisted in Mark's jersey, anchoring them together, and Mark can feel the slight tremor in his fingers, adrenaline, emotion, relief all mixed together. Mark looks around the room at these men who've become family, who've just witnessed him kiss Logan Hayes in front of everyone, and feels nothing but relief. No fear, no regret, just the bone-deep satisfaction of finally being honest. Finally being himself.
"Anyone got a problem with this?" Mark asks, his voice carrying enough authority to cut through the noise. It's not really a question, it's a statement, a line in the sand.
The responses come immediately:
"Hell no."
"Been waiting for you to stop being idiots."
"As long as you don't make out in the celly."
"Can we please get back to celebrating playoffs?"
Laughter ripples through the room, and just like that, it's normal. They're still a team. Still family. Still the group of guys who just fought their way into the playoffs against the odds. Mark can see some guys watching with quiet apprehension but the number is so few that he pushes it from his mind. Mark kisses Logan again, quicker this time but no less meaningful, and Logan's smile could power the entire arena. It's the smile Mark fell in love with, the one that's just for him, the one that makes everything else fade into background noise. The one with no cracks underneath.
They stay for another hour, caught up in the celebration, accepting congratulations from teammates who've clearly been waiting for this moment almost as long as they have. When they finally leave, it's together, no more pretending they're going separate ways, no more careful timing to avoid suspicion.
In the parking lot, Logan stops walking and just looks at Mark for a moment, like he's seeing him for the first time.
"What?" Mark asks, keys jingling in his hand.
"Just... processing. We just came out to the entire team."
"Regrets?"
"None," Logan says immediately. "You?"
"None," Mark echoes, and means it completely.
The drive home is quiet but not uncomfortable. Logan's hand finds Mark's thigh, thumb tracing small circles through his dress pants, and Mark covers it with his own. They don't talk much, don't need to. The air between them is charged with possibility, with the weight of what just happened and what comes next.
At home, their home now, officially, Logan disappears into the bathroom while Mark opens a bottle of wine. Good wine, the kind he's been saving for special occasions. This feels like the most special occasion they've ever had.
When Logan emerges, he's changed into soft sweatpants and one of Mark's t-shirts, the gray one that's gotten soft from too many washes. He looks younger like this, more vulnerable, and Mark's chest tightens with love and protectiveness and pure want.
"Come here," Mark says, settling onto the couch with two glasses of wine.
Logan curls up beside him, tucking his legs underneath him and leaning into Mark's side. The wine is good, rich and complex, but Mark's more interested in the way Logan's body feels against his, warm and solid and real.
"So," Logan says after a while, voice quiet. "What happens now?"
"Now we deal with whatever comes because I just don’t see this staying in the locker room," Mark says, pressing a kiss to Logan's temple. "Media, league office, whatever. Together."
"I'm not scared," Logan says, and Mark believes him. "Not about any of that. Are you?"
"No." Mark's surprised to realize it's true. "I thought I would be, but I'm not. I'm tired of hiding, tired of pretending you're not the most important thing in my life."
Logan sets his wine glass on the coffee table and turns to face Mark fully. His eyes are dark in the dim light, pupils dilated with something that has nothing to do with the wine.
"Show me," Logan says quietly.
Mark doesn't need to ask what he means.
He sets his own glass aside and pulls Logan into his lap, hands settling on his hips, thumbs slipping under the hem of the t-shirt to find warm skin. Logan's breath catches, and he shifts closer, thighs bracketing Mark's legs. Mark kisses him then, slow and deep, tasting wine and possibility on his tongue. Logan melts into it, hands tangling in Mark's hair, pulling him closer. The kiss deepens, becomes hungrier, more desperate, months of careful control finally unraveling.
Mark's hands slide up Logan's back under the t-shirt, mapping the planes of muscle, the ridges of his spine, the wings of his shoulder blades. Logan's skin is warm and slightly damp, and Mark wants to taste every inch of it.
"Let me take you to bed," Mark murmurs against Logan's mouth.
Logan nods, sliding off Mark's lap and taking his hand. They climb the stairs together, Logan leading, Mark following, both of them moving with purpose but not rushing. This isn't frantic or desperate. It's inevitable, like gravity, like coming home.
In the bedroom, Logan turns to face Mark, hands going to the hem of his t-shirt. He pulls it off slowly, deliberately, and Mark's breath catches at the sight of him. He's seen Logan shirtless countless times, in locker rooms, during training, in this very bed, but tonight feels different. Tonight, there's no hiding, no pretending this is anything other than what it is: love, future, complete surrender.
Mark steps closer, hands finding Logan's waist, thumbs tracing the sharp jut of his hipbones. Logan's skin is smooth and warm, marked with the faint lines of his equipment, the small scars that tell the story of his career. Mark knows every one of them now, has catalogued them with his eyes and hands and mouth.
"I love you," Mark says, the words feeling heavier tonight, more significant. "I love you, and I'm done hiding it."
"I love you too," Logan whispers, hands working at the buttons of Mark's shirt. "So much it scares me sometimes."
They undress each other slowly, hands gentle but sure, taking time to touch and taste and memorize. When they're finally naked, Mark guides Logan to the bed, following him down onto the soft sheets. For a moment, they just look at each other, taking in the sight of long limbs and flushed skin, the rise and fall of chests, the obvious evidence of want. Mark traces a finger down Logan's sternum, following the line of blonde hair that disappears below his navel, and Logan shivers.
"What do you want?" Mark asks, voice rough with desire.
"Everything," Logan breathes. "I want everything with you."
Mark starts with his mouth, kissing a path down Logan's throat, tasting salt and something uniquely Logan on his skin. He finds the spot where Logan's pulse beats rapid and strong, and sucks gently, just enough to mark. Just because it doesn’t matter anymore. Just because he can. Logan's breath hitches, his hands tangling in Mark's hair. Mark continues his exploration, mapping Logan's collarbones with his tongue, finding the sensitive spot where his neck meets his shoulder that makes Logan gasp and arch beneath him. He takes his time with Logan's chest, mouth closing around one nipple while his hand works the other, drawing soft moans from Logan's throat.
"Mark," Logan gasps, hips rolling upward seeking friction. "Please."
"Patience," Mark murmurs, pressing kisses down Logan's ribs, feeling them expand and contract with each shaky breath. "We have all night."
He works his way lower, tongue tracing patterns on Logan's stomach, feeling the muscles jump and tremble under his attention. When he reaches the sharp cut of Logan's hipbones, he bites gently, just enough to make Logan cry out and thrust upward.
Mark's hands slide down Logan's thighs, feeling the powerful muscles there, the strength built from years of skating and training. He kisses the inside of Logan's knee, the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, everywhere except where Logan wants him most.
"Mark, please," Logan whimpers, voice breaking on the words.
Mark finally takes mercy on him, mouth closing around Logan with deliberate slowness. Logan's back arches off the bed, a strangled cry escaping his throat as Mark works him with lips and tongue, alternating between gentle suction and teasing flicks that have Logan writhing beneath him.
Mark takes his time, listening to the way Logan gasps, feeling his thighs tremble, watching with fascination as his hands fist in the sheets. He brings Logan to the edge twice, backing off each time until Logan is sobbing with need, completely undone.
"Please," Logan begs, voice wrecked.
Mark pulls off, pressing soothing kisses to Logan's hip, his thigh. "What do you want, baby? Tell me."
"You," Logan gasps. "Inside me. I want to feel you, all of you."
Mark's breath catches. They've done this before, many times, but tonight feels different. Tonight, there's an intensity, a desperation that wasn't there before. Like they're trying to crawl inside each other's skin, to merge completely. Mark reaches for the bedside drawer, muscle memory guiding him to the supplies they keep there. But Logan's hand on his wrist stops him.
"No," Logan says quietly. "Not tonight."
Mark stills, understanding flooding through him. They've never even discussed this. But Logan's looking at him with such trust, such certainty, that Mark's chest tightens with emotion.
"Are you sure?" Mark asks, voice rough with want and responsibility. "We've never..."
"I'm sure," Logan breathes, hands framing Mark's face. "I want all of you. Want to feel all of you. I trust you."
Mark's never done this before either, never trusted anyone enough, never wanted anyone enough. But with Logan, he can’t figure out why it’s taken them this long.
He reaches for the lube instead, warming it between his fingers before slowly working Logan open. Logan's body accepts him eagerly, hungrily, like it's been waiting for this. Mark takes his time anyway, adding fingers gradually, stretching and preparing until Logan is gasping and pushing back against his hand.
"Ready," Logan pants.
Mark positions himself, looking down at Logan spread beneath him, flushed and wanting and completely open. The look in Logan's half lidded eyes nearly undoes him.
When he pushes inside, the sensation is overwhelming, heat and friction and intimacy that makes his vision white out at the edges. The feeling draws a low sound out of Mark and Logan gasps beneath him, back arching, fingernails digging into Mark's shoulders hard enough to leave marks.
"Okay?" Mark manages, holding perfectly still despite every instinct screaming at him to move. The feeling of Logan around him, hot and tight and perfect, is almost too much to bear.
"So good," Logan whispers, voice breaking. "God, Mark, you feel so good."
Mark starts to move, slowly at first, letting Logan adjust to the sensation. But Logan's having none of it, wrapping his legs around Mark's waist and pulling him deeper, urging him on with breathless pleas and soft gasps.
They find a rhythm together, slow and deep, Mark watching every expression that crosses Logan's face, cataloging each sound he makes. It's intense and overwhelming and perfect, skin slick with sweat, breath mingling in the space between them. Mark can feel every pulse of Logan's heart, every tremor that runs through his body, every clench of muscle around him.
"I love you," Logan gasps as Mark finds that perfect angle, the one that makes his whole body shudder. "God, Mark, I love you so much."
"Love you too," Mark groans, burying his face in Logan's neck, breathing in his scent, sweat and soap and something uniquely Logan. "God you take it so good, baby.”
The pace builds gradually, both of them chasing something just out of reach, something that feels bigger than just physical release. Mark can feel Logan getting close, can see it in the tension of his body, the flush spreading down his chest, the way his breath comes in short gasps.
"Touch yourself," Mark commands, voice rough. "Want to watch you come. Want to feel you fall apart around me."
Logan obeys immediately, hand wrapping around himself, stroking in time with Mark's thrusts. The sight of Logan touching himself while Mark moves inside him is almost too much to bear. Mark can feel his own orgasm building, coiling tight at the base of his spine. Logan gasps, hand working faster.
"Come for me, baby" Mark growls, snapping his hips forward harder.
Logan comes with a cry that sounds like prayer and desperation and pure joy all rolled into one. His whole body tenses around Mark, clenching and pulsing, and the sensation sends Mark tumbling over the edge immediately after. He spills into Logan with a groan that comes from somewhere deep in his chest, deeper than sound, deeper than breath.
They collapse together afterward, hearts hammering against each other, sticky and sated and closer than they've ever been. Mark can feel Logan's pulse where they're still connected, can taste salt on his skin where he's pressed against Logan's throat. For a long time, they just breathe together, coming down slowly, reluctant to separate even though they know they should. When Mark finally pulls out, Logan makes a soft sound of loss that goes straight to Mark's heart.
Mark reaches for the tissues on the nightstand, cleaning them both gently, pressing soft kisses to Logan's hipbones, his ribs, anywhere he can reach. Logan's boneless beneath him, eyes closed, a satisfied smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
"Come here," Logan murmurs, reaching for Mark with lazy arms.
Mark settles beside him, pulling Logan against his chest, feeling the warm weight of him, the slow return to normal breathing. Logan's hair is damp with sweat, sticking up at odd angles, and Mark smooths it down with gentle fingers.
"We can't go back," Logan says quietly, tracing patterns on Mark's chest with one finger. "After tonight, after this, there's no going back."
"Don't want to go back," Mark murmurs, pressing a kiss to Logan's hair. "Want to go forward. With you."
"Good," Logan says, tilting his head up to look at Mark. His eyes are soft, satisfied, full of love and contentment. "Because I'm not letting you go."
"Promise?" Mark asks, only half joking.
"Promise," Logan says solemnly, sealing it with a kiss that tastes like forever.
Outside, the world continues to turn. Tomorrow, there will be questions and complications and challenges they haven't even thought of yet. But tonight, they're just Mark and Logan, finally free to love each.
Tonight, they're home.

The playoffs are everything Mark expected and more, brutal, exhausting, exhilarating. They draw Boston in the first round, a team that plays hard and hits harder, with a defensive core that's been together for years and knows exactly how to make life miserable for skilled forwards.Game One is a feeling-out process, both teams careful, testing boundaries. They lose 2-1 in a game that could have gone either way, Logan hitting two posts and Mark taking a hit from behind that tweaks his already-angry shoulder. But it's not the worst start to a series they've ever had.
Game Two is when things get nasty.
Boston comes out hitting everything that moves, clearly having decided that Carolina's skill players are going to pay a price for every touch of the puck. Logan takes three hard hits in the first period alone, getting up each time with that grin that means he's enjoying the battle.
But there's one hit that crosses the line.
Late in the second period, Logan's carrying the puck up the left side when Boston's defenseman, a guy named Morrison who's built like a refrigerator and has a reputation for borderline plays, catches him with his head down. It's a clean hit technically, but Morrison follows through with his elbow, catching Logan high, sending him crashing into the boards headfirst.
Logan goes down hard and doesn't get up immediately.
Mark's moving before conscious thought kicks in, dropping his gloves as he skates hard toward Morrison, who's already backing away with his hands up. But Mark doesn't care about Morrison's sudden reluctance to fight. He cares about Logan, who's still down on the ice, holding his head.
"You piece of shit!" Mark roars, grabbing Morrison by the front of his jersey. "Keep your fucking elbows down!"
"It was clean!" Morrison protests, but he's not fighting back, clearly not interested in tangling with Mark Callahan when Mark's this angry.
The referees are between them before Mark can throw a punch, separating them while Logan finally struggles to his feet, wobbling slightly. Mark wants to go to him, wants to check that he's okay, but the officials are already herding Morrison to skate away and gesturing for Mark to do the same.
Mark gets two minutes for roughing. Morrison gets nothing.
The home crowd cheers loud enough to shake the building.
When Mark gets out of the box, Logan is beside him on the bench. "I'm fine," he says before Mark can ask. "Rattled me a little, but I'm fine."
"He caught you with his elbow."
"I know. But I'm okay. Don't do anything stupid."
Mark nods, but he's watching Morrison for the rest of the game, looking for his chance.
It comes in the third period.
Morrison's carrying the puck behind his own net when Mark catches him with a perfectly legal but devastating check, the kind that sends a message to the entire Boston bench: you touch Logan Hayes, you answer to me. Morrison goes down hard, loses the puck, and Mark's already skating away when Morrison gets up throwing punches.
The fight is brief but vicious. Morrison's bigger, but Mark's angrier and more experienced. He lands three solid shots before Morrison catches him with an uppercut that splits his cheek open, blood immediately streaming down his face.
Mark responds by tackling Morrison to the ice, both of them going down in a tangle of limbs and flying fists. By the time the linesmen separate them, Mark's jersey is soaked with blood and Morrison's nursing what looks like a broken nose.
Five minutes each for fighting. Mark doesn't care. Worth every second.
In the penalty box, he holds a towel to his cheek and watches Logan score the game-winning goal with two minutes left. Logan doesn't celebrate, just skates straight to the penalty box and pounds on the glass, grinning at Mark through the blood and plexiglass.
After the airport in Raleigh that night, in the quiet of Mark's truck, Logan reaches over and gently touches the bandage covering Mark's cheek.
"You didn't have to do that," Logan says softly.
"Yes, I did." Mark catches Logan's hand, brings it to his mouth to press a kiss to his palm. "Nobody touches you like that. Not ever."
"Mark…"
"I don't care if it was legal or borderline or completely accidental. He hurt you, so I hurt him back. That's how this works."
Logan's quiet for a moment, thumb brushing over Mark's knuckles. "I love that you want to protect me. But it put us on the kill"
"I know you can. Doesn't mean you have to."
That night, Logan insists on taking care of Mark's injuries. He's gentle but thorough, cleaning the cut on Mark's cheek with careful touches, applying antibiotic ointment, checking Mark's knuckles for damage.
"It's not that deep," Logan murmurs, examining the cut in the bathroom light. "Looks worse than it is because head wounds bleed so much."
"I know. I've had worse."
"That doesn't make me feel better." Logan's voice is tight with something Mark can't quite identify. Guilt, maybe. Worry. "You got hurt because of me."
"I got hurt because Morrison's a dirty player and I made sure he knew it." Mark catches Logan's chin, makes him look up. "This isn't your fault."
"Isn't it?" Logan's eyes are bright, too bright. "If we weren't... if you didn't feel like you had to protect me..."
"Hey." Mark's voice goes firm, commanding. "Look at me. This has nothing to do with us being together. I'd have done the same thing if you were just my linemate. That's what teammates do, we protect each other. And Morrison needed to learn some respect."
Logan stares at him for a long moment, processing this, the way Mark's jaw is set, the certainty in his voice. Then something shifts in his expression, gratitude and love and something deeper, something that looks like respect.
Without warning, Logan drops to his knees on the bathroom tile.
"Logan, what are you…"
"Let me take care of you," Logan says, hands already working at Mark's belt with deliberate slowness. His fingers are steady despite the emotion in his voice. "Please. I need to."
Mark's breath catches as Logan's fingers work his belt buckle open with practiced ease, as his hands push Mark's dress pants down. There's something desperate in Logan's touch, something that feels like apology and gratitude and love all tangled together.
"You don't have to," Mark starts, but Logan cuts him off with a look that's pure determination.
"I want to. I need to." Logan looks up at him, eyes dark and serious, pupils already dilated. "You fought for me. Bled for me. Let me show you what that means to me."
Mark's hand finds Logan's hair as Logan takes him into his mouth, warm and wet and perfect. The sensation makes Mark's knees weak, makes him grateful for the cool tile wall behind him. Logan's gotten better at this, more confident, more intuitive about what drives Mark crazy. He's learned to read the subtle changes in Mark's breathing, the way his fingers tighten in Logan's hair, the soft sounds that escape his throat.
"God, baby," Mark groans, fingers tightening in the soft strands. "That's so good. You're so good at this."
Logan hums around him, the vibration sending shockwaves through Mark's entire nervous system. His tongue works in deliberate patterns now, long slow strokes alternating with quick flicks at that sensitive spot just below the head that makes Mark groan.
Mark looks down and nearly loses it at the sight, Logan on his knees, lips stretched around him, eyes closed in concentration, completely focused on making Mark feel good. But it's more than that. There's something reverent about it, something that speaks to how much Logan wants to give this to him, how much this means.
Logan pulls off for a moment, breath coming fast, lips red and swollen. "I love doing this for you," he says, voice rough. "Love making you feel good. Love that I can make you fall apart."
Before Mark can respond, Logan's mouth is on him again, taking him deeper this time, relaxing his throat in a way that makes Mark’s knees almost give out completely. The heat and pressure are overwhelming, and Mark has to brace both hands against the wall to keep from buckling.
"I'm close," Mark warns, voice strained. "Logan, I'm.."
But Logan doesn't pull away. Instead, he doubles down, one hand gripping Mark's hip to hold him steady while the other reaches up to play with Mark's balls, rolling them gently between his fingers. The combination of sensations is too much.
Mark comes hard, spilling into Logan's mouth with a groan that echoes off the bathroom tiles. Logan takes all of it, swallowing around him, gentling him through the aftershocks with soft touches and careful kisses along his hipbones.
When Mark can think again, his legs shaking slightly from the intensity, he pulls Logan to his feet and kisses him deeply, tasting himself on Logan's tongue.
​​But Mark can see that Logan's achingly hard beneath his joggers, can see the wet spot where he's been leaking, can hear the slight hitch in his breathing that means he's desperate for touch.
"Your turn," Mark murmurs against Logan's mouth, hands already working at the waistband of Logan's pants. Logan starts to say something, but Mark cuts him off with a firm shake of his head.
Mark smiles at him and echoing Logan's earlier words, mutters. "Let me take care of you."
He pushes Logan's joggers down, freeing him, and Logan gasps at the cool air hitting his heated skin.
Mark doesn't waste time, sinking to his own knees on the tile, looking up at Logan with dark eyes
."Mark," Logan breathes, hands automatically going to Mark's shoulders for support.
Mark takes his time, pressing kisses to Logan's hipbones first, then lower, nuzzling at the base before finally taking Logan into his mouth. Logan's reaction is immediate and intense—his whole body jerks, a broken sound escaping his throat
"Fuck, yes," Logan gasps, one hand tangling in Mark's hair while the other braces against the wall.
"God, your mouth."Mark works him slowly, methodically, using everything he's learned about Logan's body over the months they've been together. He knows exactly how to use his tongue, where to apply pressure, how to make Logan completely come apart. Logan's hips start to move on their own, small thrusts that Mark encourages with his hands on Logan's ass.
"So close," Logan pants, voice breaking. "Mark, I'm so close."
Mark pulls off just long enough to look up at him, taking in Logan's flushed face, his parted lips, the way his chest heaves with each breath.
"Come for me," he says, voice rough. "Let me taste you."
When Mark takes him deep again, Logan falls apart with a cry that's probably too loud for their bathroom, coming hard down Mark's throat. Mark swallows every drop, working Logan through it until he's trembling and oversensitive.Mark stands slowly, pulling Logan into his arms as Logan's legs shake with aftershocks. They hold each other for a long moment, both still breathing hard, both overwhelmed by the intensity,
"You're incredible," Mark murmurs against Logan's mouth, hands framing his face.
"I love you," Logan whispers back, voice thick with emotion. "I love how you protect me. I love how you fight for me. I love that you're mine and I'm yours and people knoe now."
"Always," Mark promises, wrapping his arms around Logan and holding him close. "Always yours, baby."
They go to bed wrapped around each other, Mark's cheek throbbing but his heart full. Logan falls asleep first, exhausted from the game and the emotional intensity of the evening, but Mark lies awake for a while, listening to Logan's breathing, feeling the weight of him against his chest.
Tomorrow there will be more questions about the fight, about his control, about whether his emotions are getting the better of him. But tonight, all that matters is this: Logan safe in his arms, trusting him completely, loving him without reservation.
They win Game Three at home 4-1, with Logan getting two goals and Mark adding two assists despite his swollen knuckles and stitched cheek. The momentum has completely shifted. Boston looks rattled, frustrated, making careless penalties and bad decisions. After three games, Carolina looks like a completely different team than the one that barely squeaked into the playoffs.
Game Four should be a coronation. They're up 2-1 in the series, playing at home, and Boston looks demoralized. The crowd is electric from the opening face-off, sensing that they're about to witness their team's first playoff series win in three years.
Mark wakes up that morning feeling good, rested, focused, ready to finish what they started. His cheek is healing well, the cut already scabbing over into what will probably be a thin scar. Logan's in an excellent mood, humming in the shower, stealing bacon from Mark's plate at breakfast, that infectious energy that means he's ready to play. Everything feels normal, routine, exactly as it should be on a game day.
That changes the moment Mark walks into the locker room.
The atmosphere is wrong immediately. Too quiet, too tense. Guys are getting dressed with their heads down, not making eye contact. The usual pre-game music isn't playing. Something's happened.
Johan appears at Mark's side before he can even reach his stall. "We need to talk," he says quietly. "Leadershop meeting. Now." He pauses a second, “Logan you better come to.”
Mark follows him to the small conference room off the main locker room, where Oskar is waiting with Coach Massey and GM Blake. Logan looks pale and shaken when Mark turns to him, sitting in a chair with his shoulders hunched like he's trying to make himself smaller.
"What's going on?" Mark asks, though the sick feeling in his stomach suggests he already knows.
Coach Massey nods to Blake, who pulls out his phone and sets it on the table. "This went live on social media about an hour ago. Someone recorded it from outside the locker room after you clinched."
He presses play.
The video is shaky, clearly shot through a crack in a door, but the audio is crystal clear. Mark can hear the celebration, the music, the sound of his own voice saying "Anyone got a problem with this?" And then, unmistakably, the image of him and Logan kissing in the middle of the locker room, surrounded by their celebrating teammates.
Mark's stomach drops.
"Fuck," Logan whispers, his voice barely audible.
"It's already been picked up by ESPN, TSN, every major sports outlet," Blake continues, his voice carefully neutral. "The league office has been calling non-stop for the last hour."
"Who?" Mark asks, his voice coming out rougher than intended. "Who recorded this?"
"We don't know yet. Could have been anyone, arena staff, security, someone from the media who lingered. The account that posted it is anonymous."
"This is my fault," Logan says suddenly, voice thick with guilt. "I pushed for this. I wanted everyone to know. This is–"
"Stop," Mark interrupts firmly. "This isn't anyone's fault. We knew this was a possibility."
"Did you?" Coach Massey speaks for the first time, and his voice is tight with something Mark can't quite read. Anger? Disappointment? "Because I sure as hell wasn't prepared to have to answer questions about my players' personal lives two hours before the biggest game of our season."
The words hit like a physical blow. Mark feels Logan flinch beside him.
"Coach" Oskar starts, but Massey cuts him off.
"I don't care what you do in your private time," Massey says, looking directly at Mark and Logan. "But this? This is a distraction we can't afford. Not now. Not in the playoffs."
The silence that follows is deafening. Mark can hear Logan's breathing, quick and shallow, can see his hands shaking slightly where they rest on his knees.
"What do we do?" Logan asks quietly.
Blake sighs heavily. "For now? Nothing. We don't confirm, we don't deny. We focus on hockey. The league is sending someone down to meet with you both after the game."
"What does that mean?" Mark asks.
"It means they're going to want to discuss how this affects the image of the game. How it affects sponsorships, broadcast deals, the family-friendly brand they've spent decades building."
Logan's face goes even paler. "Are we in trouble?"
"I don't know," Blake admits. "This is uncharted territory. There's never been an active player who's been openly gay, let alone two teammates who are... together."
The word hangs in the air like a dirty secret.
"We should get ready for the game," Oskar says quietly. "We can deal with everything else afterward."
As they file out of the conference room, Mark catches Logan's arm. "Hey," he says softly. "We're going to be okay."
"Are we?" Logan's eyes are bright with unshed tears. "Did you see Coach's face? He looked like we'd personally ruined his season."
"He's just stressed. This is a lot to process."
"Mark, what if—" Logan's voice cracks. "What if they make us choose? Between hockey and each other?"
Mark's heart clenches at the fear in Logan's voice, at the way his shoulders are shaking slightly. "Then we'll figure it out. Together."
"But hockey is everything to you. Your whole life."
"No," Mark says firmly, hands coming up to frame Logan's face. "Hockey is just what I do. You're who I am."
Logan's breath hitches, and for a moment Mark thinks he might cry. But then Logan nods, takes a shaky breath, and straightens his shoulders. "Okay. Okay. Let's go play hockey."
The warm-up is surreal. Mark can feel the weight of every gaze in the arena, can hear the murmur of conversation that's different from the usual pre-game buzz. People are pointing, whispering, holding up phones. He tries to focus on his skating, on his stick handling, on anything except the fact that thousands of people now know his most private truth. Logan's struggling too. Mark can see it in the tension of his shoulders, the way he's gripping his stick too tightly, the forced smile he gives to fans who call his name. When they line up for the national anthem, Logan's close enough that Mark can hear his breathing, quick and shallow.
The game itself is a nightmare.
Mark can't focus, can't find his rhythm. Every hit feels heavier, every pass a fraction off target. He's thinking too much, second-guessing every play, hyperaware of every camera pointed in his direction. Logan's even worse. He's trying too hard, forcing plays that aren't there, taking unnecessary risks. In the first period, he gets caught in the neutral zone trying to make a highlight-reel play and gives up a breakaway that Boston converts.
By the end of the second period, they're down 3-0 and Mark has never felt more disconnected from the game he's played his entire life. In the locker room during intermission, Coach Massey doesn't even look at them.
The message is clear: this is their fault.
The third period is more of the same. Boston scores twice more, and the home crowd starts leaving early, disappointed and confused by their team's complete collapse. When the final horn sounds—5-0 Boston—the silence in the arena is deafening.
In the locker room afterward, nobody talks to them directly, but Mark can feel the weight of unspoken accusation. They blew a 2-1 series lead. They cost the team momentum. They let their personal drama affect their play. Logan sits at his stall with his head in his hands, still in full gear except for his helmet and gloves. Mark wants to go to him, wants to offer comfort, but he's acutely aware of all the eyes on them, all the cameras that might be lurking just outside.
"Hayes. Callahan. Conference room. Now."
The league representative is a thin man in an expensive suit who introduces himself as Gary Michaels from the Department of Player Safety and Conduct. He has the kind of bland, corporate face that reveals nothing, and when he speaks, his voice is carefully modulated to convey professional concern.
"Gentlemen," he begins, settling into his chair with practiced ease. "I'm sure you understand why I'm here."
"The video," Logan says quietly.
"The video," Michaels confirms. "Which, I should mention, has been viewed over two million times in the past six hours. It's trending on every social media platform. ESPN has been running it on loop for the last three hours."
Mark's jaw tightens. "What do you want from us?"
"The league's position is that players' private lives are their own business," Michaels says, consulting his notes. "However, when those private lives become public in a way that affects the league's image, broadcast partnerships, and fan experience, it becomes our business."
"What does that mean?" Logan asks.
Morrison leans forward slightly. "It means the league is prepared to support you, with certain conditions."
"Conditions?"
"First, you'll participate in league-sponsored media training to help you handle questions about your relationship appropriately. Second, you'll agree to avoid public displays of affection during games, team events, or any league-sanctioned activities. Third, you'll work with our public relations team to control the narrative."
"Control how?" Mark asks, though he suspects he knows.
"Present yourselves as professionals first, teammates second, and whatever you are to each other third. The focus needs to remain on hockey."
Logan's hands clench into fists on the table. "So we can be together, but only if we pretend we're not."
"You can be together," Michaels says carefully. "But the league has spent decades building a family-friendly brand. We have broadcast partners who cater to conservative markets. We have sponsors who might not be comfortable being associated with... this type of situation."
"This type of situation," Mark repeats, his voice dangerously low. "You mean gay people."
Michael's expression doesn't change. "I mean any situation that could be seen as controversial or divisive. The NHL has always tried to stay above political and social issues."
"Being gay isn't political," Logan says, his voice stronger now, angry. "It's just who we are."
"Perhaps. But the reaction to it can be political. And that's what we need to manage."
Mark looks at Logan, sees the hurt and anger warring in his expression. They're being told they can exist, but only if they hide. They can love each other, but only if they pretend they don't.
"We need time to think about it," Mark says finally.
Michaels nods. "Of course. But I should mention that your cooperation with this process will be taken into consideration if any disciplinary action becomes necessary."
"Disciplinary action for what?" Logan's voice is sharp.
"Conduct detrimental to the league. Bringing negative attention to the sport. There are precedents."
The threat hangs in the air like smoke. Mark feels something cold and hard settle in his chest.
"We'll let you know," he says, standing up.
Michaels gathers his papers with practiced efficiency. "I'll be in touch tomorrow. For what it's worth, gentlemen, this doesn't have to change your careers. But it will require some... adjustments."
After he leaves, Mark and Logan sit in silence for a long moment. The weight of what just happened, what's happening, presses down on them like a physical thing.
"We could do it," Logan says quietly. "Play along. Keep our heads down. Act like teammates in public and save everything else for home."
"Is that what you want?"
Logan's laugh is bitter. "What I want is to not have to choose between you and hockey. What I want is to play the game I love with the person I love without having to apologize for either one."
"Then we don't do it."
Logan looks at him sharply. "Mark, they could suspend us. Fine us. They could make it impossible for us to play."
"Maybe. Or maybe we call their bluff." Mark reaches across the table, takes Logan's hand. "Maybe we decide that some things are more important than their approval."
"Your career?"
"Will be fine. Or it won't. But I won't spend the rest of it pretending you don't matter to me." Mark squeezes Logan's hand. "I love you. That's not something I'm ashamed of or something I need to hide."
Logan stares at him for a long moment, then a slow smile spreads across his face. It's the first real smile Mark's seen from him all day.
"So what do we do?"
Mark grins back. "We play hockey. We win this fucking series. And we let them figure out how to deal with it."
Game Five is back in Boston, and the media circus that follows them is unlike anything either of them has ever experienced. There are cameras everywhere, reporters shouting questions, signs in the crowd that range from supportive to vitriolic. But something's different about the team. Maybe it's seeing how Logan and Mark handle the pressure, maybe it's the realization that they're all in this together now, but the guys rally around them in a way that makes Mark's chest tight with gratitude.
Before the game, Kris makes a point of bumping fists with both of them during warm-ups. Johan skates over during line changes just to check in. Even Mitch, who's still awkward about the whole thing, makes an effort to include them in the usual pre-game chirping.
And when they take the ice for Game Five, Mark feels something he hasn't felt since the video leaked: like himself.
They win 6-2, with Logan scoring twice and Mark adding three assists. After Logan's second goal, Mark skates straight to him and they embrace, not a kiss, but a hug that lasts a beat longer than strictly professional. The camera catches it, and Mark doesn't care.
In the post-game interviews, a reporter asks Logan directly about the video.
Logan looks straight into the camera and says, "Mark Callahan is my teammate, my linemate, and the man I love. I'm proud of all three of those things. Any other questions actually about hockey?"
The room erupts. Mark, watching from across the hall, has never been more proud of anyone in his life.
Game Six is back in Carolina, and they close out the series with a 4-1 win. When the final horn sounds, Logan skates straight to Mark and they hug like they always have, like they always will, regardless of who's watching.
As they celebrate with their teammates, as the crowd chants their names, Mark realizes something: they've already won the only fight that really matters.
Everything else is just noise.

Chapter Text

The second round against the New York Empires should be harder. They're a veteran team with Cup rings and swagger, led by a goaltender who’s stolen entire series with nothing but spite. But something’s shifted in Carolina since the video leaked, since the league tried to tell them what was acceptable, who they were allowed to be.
There’s a current running through the locker room now, hot and defiant, a sense of unity Mark’s never felt in all his years in the league. It's not just camaraderie anymore; it's protection. It’s love, disguised as stubborn loyalty and sharp-edged humor. When one of their own is targeted, they all close ranks.
They sweep New York in four games.
Game One: 3–1. Tight, fast, emotional. Logan scores the game-winner, a quick release from the high slot that freezes the goalie and silences Madison Square Garden. Mark sets up two goals, his passes sharp and instinctive. When Logan scores, Mark’s the first one there, gloves flying, laughter spilling out of him as he hauls Logan in. Cameras catch it from every angle: the unguarded joy, the closeness, the obvious something more. Neither of them cares anymore.
Game Two: 5–2, a statement win. Every line contributes. Guys who haven't scored in months get one. In the locker room afterward, the energy is euphoric and raw. When reporters ask Kris about their chemistry, he just smiles and says, “We’re playing for each other. All of us. That’s what family does.” The quote trends for two days straight.
Game Three: 2–1 in overtime. Jamie Santos buries the winner on a gorgeous feed from Logan, who now has ten points in eight playoff games. The bench empties. Mark jumps over the boards, shouting, grabbing whoever’s closest. And when the chaos settles for half a second, he sees Jamie glance across the ice, finds Vlasky’s gaze in the tangle of helmets and gloves, and something soft and secret passes between them. Mark catches Logan watching too, a knowing little half-smile tugging at his mouth.
Game Four: 4–0. Total domination. Carolina’s barn is shaking, the crowd deafening. Logan scores twice, Mark adds two assists, and when the final horn blares, the team collapses around their goalie in a storm of gloves and grins. The chanting of the fans echoes through the rafters like a war cry.
After the sweep, the call comes. Gary Michaels from the league office, who promised he would follow up. Mark and Logan sit in Blake’s office, the blinds drawn, speakerphone between them. The air smells like coffee and nerves.
“Gentlemen,” Michaels begins, his voice crisp and bureaucratic. “I’ve spoken with the Commissioner and the Board about your situation.”
Mark’s jaw tightens. Logan’s hand slides beneath the table, fingers brushing his. Mark takes it, grounding himself.
“And?” Blake prompts when the silence drags.
“The league has decided to take no disciplinary action at this time.”
For a second, the words don’t register. Then relief hits hard and fast, leaving Mark dizzy. Logan exhales, his grip tightening.
“However,” Michaels continues, the word slicing through the moment, “this comes with expectations. You’ll participate in our media training program. You’ll coordinate with PR on messaging. And you’ll maintain appropriate professional conduct during league events.”
Mark’s chest goes tight again. “What does that mean, exactly?”
“It means you can be together,” Michaels says carefully, “but public displays of affection should be limited to what we’d expect from any teammates celebrating. No kissing on camera. No overt romantic gestures during games. Keep the focus on hockey.”
Still conditions. Still compromises.
Mark glances at Logan, sees the same frustration burning there, the same defiance.
“Fine,” Logan says finally, voice low but steady. “We can work with that.”
“Excellent.” Michaels sounds relieved. “I’ll have someone reach out about scheduling. For what it’s worth, gentlemen, the league believes this can be a positive story if handled correctly. You could be role models.”
When the line goes dead, the office is silent again.
“It’s not everything,” Blake says quietly. “But it’s something.”
Mark nods, squeezing Logan’s hand under the table. “It’s enough,” he says. “For now, it’s enough.”
The Eastern Conference Final is against Florida. The team that ended their run two years ago in heartbreak in the first round. This time feels different. They’re sharper, hungrier, fueled by more than just the dream of a Cup. They’re playing for the right to exist as they are. For love in all its messy, inconvenient forms. For every kid watching who needs to know that the game can make space for them, too.
Game one is a double-overtime heartbreaker. 3–2. Florida wins on a deflection that changes direction three times before trickling past their goalie. Mark plays too many minutes, shoulder screaming by the end, but he doesn’t say a word. He’s too proud, too focused. Afterward, Logan finds him in the tunnel, presses a hand to his back. “We’ll get the next one,” he murmurs. Mark nods, even though he can feel the grind in his bones.
Game two ends 4–1 Carolina. A statement win. Jamie scores twice, Logan once, the third line gets one; Mark racks up three assists and an ache that feels like fire down his arm. In the locker room, he can barely lift his gear off. The doctor gives him a cortisone shot, tells him it’ll hold for a few more weeks, “Maybe.” Mark doesn’t ask what happens after maybe.
Game three at home is another win but it’s the kind of playoff game that eats years off your life. Mark takes a brutal hit mid-second that leaves the ice spinning, but he finishes the shift, because that’s what he does. Logan scores the winner with four minutes left, bursting past two defenders, lifting the puck top shelf. When they celebrate, Mark finds him, hands on his helmet, eyes bright and wet. “You’re insane,” he says, laughing through the adrenaline. Logan just grins. “You love it.”
In Game four, Florida punches back, 5–3. Nothing goes right. Bad bounces, bad calls, bad luck. And then the hit, late in the third, Mark’s chasing a puck behind the net when a defenseman buries him from behind. There’s a pop, a flash of white-hot pain so fierce it blanks his vision.
He stays down for a heartbeat. Then he gets up. Finishes the shift, because that’s what playoff hockey players do. When he gets to the bench, his left arm hangs useless. The trainer’s face goes pale. The MRI confirms what Mark already knows before Dr. Patterson even opens his mouth. The damage is ugly, a shoulder joint that’s hanging on by scar tissue and sheer willpower. He’s done.
“Grade three separation,” Dr. Patterson says quietly, clicking through the images. “Probably needs surgery. Definitely needs rest.”
Mark stares at the glowing screen. The grayscale image of his shoulder looks almost abstract, tendons like frayed rope, gaps where there should be connection. It feels like looking at a map of himself in ruin.
“How long?” he asks, even though he already knows.
“Six to eight weeks,” Patterson says. “Minimum.”
Mark exhales through his nose. “Can you freeze it?”
The doctor gives him a sharp look. “Mark…”
“Can you freeze it for three more games? Maximum three.”
Patterson leans back, crossing his arms, studying him. “It’s not about pain management anymore. The joint is unstable. One more bad hit and you could do permanent damage.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
The silence stretches. Finally, Patterson sighs, weary. “Yes. I can freeze it. But if you get hit wrong.”
“I know the risks.”
He doesn’t say the rest: I’ve known the risks my entire career.
That night, Mark lies in bed with ice packs strapped to his shoulder, the air-conditioning humming softly. He tells Logan what Patterson said.
“You can’t keep playing,” Logan says immediately, sitting up so fast the sheets twist around his legs. Fear sharpens his voice. “Mark, you could permanently wreck your shoulder. Your career could be over.”
“My career’s going to be over anyway,” Mark says quietly. “I’m thirty-five, Lo. Two good years left, maybe. If everything goes perfect. If we lose this series, this might be my last chance at a Cup.”
Logan’s hand moves over his chest, slow and careful, tracing light circles over uninjured skin. He’s quiet for a long time. “And if playing ruins your shoulder completely? If you can’t even lift your arm afterward?”
Mark looks at the ceiling. “Then at least I’ll know I gave everything.”
“Mark…” Logan’s voice cracks on his name, raw and pleading. “I can’t watch you destroy yourself. Not for hockey. Not even for a Stanley Cup.”
Mark turns his head, grimacing at the pain the movement sparks. “You need to understand something,” he says softly. “I’ve been chasing this dream for twenty-five years. Since I was six years old, sitting on the couch with my dad, watching the playoffs like they were religion. Every injury, every bus ride, every rehab, everything was for this.”
Logan’s eyes glisten in the dim light. “We’ll have other chances.”
Mark smiles faintly, shaking his head. “You’ll have other chances. I won’t.” He reaches up, his good hand finding Logan’s face, thumb brushing gently along his jaw. “If we lose this series, I’m done. I’m retiring.”
The words hang heavy between them, a final buzzer no one wanted to hear.
Logan just stares at him, wide-eyed. “What?”
“I can’t keep doing this,” Mark says quietly. “The hits are harder, the recovery’s longer, and now the league’s trying to dictate who I can love. I’m tired, Lo. Tired of fighting battles I shouldn’t have to fight.” His throat tightens. “If we don’t win the Cup this year, I’m walking away.”
Logan’s breath shudders. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’ve never been more serious about anything.”
“But hockey is your life.”
“No.” Mark’s voice is steady now. “You’re my life. Hockey’s just what I was doing while I waited to figure that out.”
Logan looks away, swallowing hard. The quiet stretches, full of love and fear and everything unsaid. When he finally speaks, his voice is thick. “What would you do? If you retire?”
Mark exhales, a small, broken laugh escaping. “I don’t know. Maybe coach. Maybe broadcast. Maybe open a diner somewhere and make terrible coffee.” He smiles faintly. “Or maybe I’d just be Logan Hayes’s boyfriend, the one who makes good pancakes and gives excellent shoulder rubs.”
Logan lets out a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. “That’s not enough for you.”
“It’s everything for me.”
They lose Game Five. 2–1 in double overtime. Another gut punch.
Mark plays through pain that makes his vision blur, his shoulder frozen between periods until he can’t feel anything except a dull, electric ache. Logan scores their only goal, and Kris sets it up, threading a perfect pass through traffic. But it’s not enough.
In the locker room afterward, no one speaks for a long time. Tape unravels. Skates drop to the floor. The silence feels like mourning.
Game six is do or die.
The building roars like a living thing. Fans on their feet before the puck even drops. Carolina wins 4–2, every shift a war. Mark’s practically delirious from pain by the end, his arm useless, his vision going white whenever he gets hit. But he stays on the ice, because this might be his last game in Raleigh, his last time hearing that crowd chant his name.
When the horn sounds, he can barely breathe. The roar swells and Logan finds him through the chaos. Their helmets clatter together, foreheads pressed, sweat and adrenaline and disbelief between them.
“One more,” Logan whispers, voice shaking. “One more game.”
“One more,” Mark echoes. His voice is barely audible, but it’s a promise.
The night before Game Seven, the hotel room in Florida feels impossibly quiet.
Mark stands in the bathroom, shirt off, staring at his reflection. His shoulder’s a patchwork of bruises, swollen and discolored, an ugly purple bloom spreading toward his chest. He can’t raise his arm higher than his sternum. Every breath feels like it scrapes bone.
From the shower, he can hear Logan humming, some nervous tune that drifts and fades. The sound is strangely grounding, painfully human.
His phone buzzes on the counter.
is phone buzzes on the bathroom counter.
Sarah: Watching tomorrow. So proud of you no matter what happens. Love you.
Mark smiles faintly, warmth threading through the exhaustion. Sarah’s always been the steady one and she steadies him now.
Another buzz. He glances at the screen—and freezes.
Dad.
The name looks foreign sitting there, like it belongs to someone else’s life.
He hasn’t seen it in years. Not since the texts stopped coming after their mom got sick. Not since his father packed a duffel bag, muttered something about not being able to watch her fade like that, and walked out of their lives in the middle of the night. Mark had been twenty-two, playing in the minors, trying to keep the world from collapsing. Sarah had gone to her own life and Mark had been the one to clean up the pieces.
He shouldn’t open it. He knows that. But his thumb moves anyway.
Dad: Son, I don’t understand everything that’s happened this year, but I understand love. That’s all that matters. Play your heart out tomorrow.
Mark stares at the message, his pulse thudding in his throat.
For a second, he doesn’t feel anything. Then the anger hits, sharp and sudden, rising from somewhere deep in his gut.
Now you understand love?
Now, after you walked out on Mom when she needed you most? After you disappeared for a decade and pretended you didn’t have kids? After you missed every Christmas, every call, every milestone? He wants to throw the phone. Wants to launch it against the wall and watch it shatter into plastic and glass. Instead, he grips it tighter, jaw clenched so hard his teeth ache.
It’s been years since he’s thought of his father as anything other than a ghost, someone who abandoned them when life got messy, who let cancer take their mother alone while his kids dealt with the aftermath. And now he decides to show up with this? A text about love?
His vision blurs, and it isn’t from tenderness. It’s fury. Confusion. The cruel timing of it all.
Because the truth is, part of him still wants this. Still wants to believe the man who raised him, the one who used to drive him to dawn practices, who taught him how to tape his stick, who yelled himself hoarse at youth tournaments, didn’t just stop caring.
But he did. He left.
Mark sets the phone down like it’s something dangerous. His hands are shaking. He stares at the floor for a long time, jaw tight, breathing slow and shallow.
He doesn’t reply.
He can’t.
The message stays open on the screen, glowing in the half-light of the hotel room, and Mark feels hollowed out. Not broken, he’s past that, but scraped raw in places he thought had long since scarred over.
When Logan emerges from the bathroom, steam curling out behind him, he stops instantly at the look on Mark’s face.
“What happened?”
Mark drags a hand over his mouth. “My dad texted.”
Logan’s eyebrows lift, surprise flickering across his face. “What did he say?”
Mark lets out a laugh, short, harsh, nothing like amusement. “He said he ‘understands love.’” He shakes his head, looking away. “Guess it’s easier to understand once you’ve run from it your whole life.”
Logan moves closer, cautious, like approaching a wounded animal. “You didn’t respond?”
“No.” Mark’s voice is flat. “There’s nothing to say.”
He stares at the phone again, the message still glowing faintly on the nightstand. “He left when Mom got sick. Never came back. I sat and watched her die, and he didn’t even send flowers. And now he wants to talk about love?” His laugh cracks at the edges. “The irony’s almost impressive.”
Logan sits beside him on the edge of the bed, silent for a long time. Then, softly, “You don’t owe him anything, you know. Not even anger.”
Mark exhales, long and shaky. “Yeah. But I’m still angry anyway.”
He reaches for the phone again, thumbs hovering for a moment before finally turning it facedown. “He doesn’t get to be part of this,” he says quietly. “Not now. Not when it’s almost over.”
Logan nods, resting a gentle hand against his back.
Mark doesn’t look up, but he leans into the touch, just slightly. His father’s words linger in his mind like a bruise he can’t stop pressing, sharp, stubborn, familiar. But then his phone buzzes again. One message. Then another. Then another.
Kris: Ready to run through walls for you tomorrow.
Johan: An honor to play beside you.
Oskar: Proud to be your captain. Proud to be your friend.
Mitch: Whatever happens tomorrow, you showed me what courage looks like.
Mark swallows hard, blinking fast. The ache in his chest shifts, less hollow now, more full. Win or lose, this team has already given him everything, loyalty, love, a kind of belonging he thought he’d aged out of.
“Second thoughts?” Logan asks softly.
Mark shakes his head. “No second thoughts.” His voice is hoarse. “If we lose tomorrow, I’m done. But if we win…” He trails off, afraid to say it aloud.
Logan brushes his thumb along Mark’s jaw, patient. “If we win?”
Mark’s lips twitch into a small smile. “If we win, I’ll play until my body completely falls apart. Because playing with you, winning with you, that would be worth everything.”
Logan kneels on the bed, straddling Mark’s lap carefully, mindful of his shoulder. His hands come up to cradle Mark’s face, thumbs tracing the edges of exhaustion there.
“I love you,” he says simply. “Win or lose, that doesn’t change. If you retire, if you keep playing, if you decide to become a professional pancake chef, I love you.”
Mark huffs a small laugh, breath shaky. “Even if I’m just some washed-up player who can’t lift his arm?”
“Always.” Logan whispers, pressing their foreheads together.
For a moment, the world shrinks to just this: two people, one broken body, one impossible love, and the quiet before everything changes.
They make love gently that night, Logan doing most of the work while Mark tries not to aggravate his shoulder. It's tender and desperate and perfect, both of them trying to memorize every touch, every sensation, not knowing what tomorrow will bring.
Game Seven is everything Mark expected and nothing he was prepared for.
The atmosphere in the arena is electric from warm-ups. Both teams are running on adrenaline and stubbornness, knowing that one mistake could end everything. Mark's shoulder is completely frozen, he can't feel anything from his collarbone to his fingertips, but at least it's not actively screaming at him.
The first period is scoreless, both teams too careful, too aware of what's at stake. Mark takes a hit that should probably end his night, but the numbness in his shoulder means he doesn't feel it. He finishes his shift and heads to the bench like nothing happened.
"You okay?" Logan asks during a line change, concern clear in his eyes.
"Perfect," Mark lies.
Second period: Logan scores first, a beautiful goal off a feed from Jamie that sends the small contingent of Carolina fans into hysterics. Mark gets the second assist, and when Logan skates over to celebrate, they bump helmets with wide smiles.
Florida ties it up six minutes later on a power play goal that deflects off Kris's stick. The arena erupts, and Mark can feel the momentum shifting.
Third period: Both teams trade chances, but the goalies are standing on their heads. Mark takes another big hit with five minutes left, and this time, even through the freezing, he feels something give in his shoulder. Something important.
But he stays on the ice.
With two minutes left, Florida scores. A scramble in front of the net, bodies everywhere, and the puck slides across the line by inches. The building explodes, and Mark feels something die inside his chest.
They lose 2-1.
Season over. Career over. Cup dreams over.
In the handshake line, Florida's captain finds Mark and says something about what an honor it was to play against him. Mark nods and moves on, going through the motions because that's what you do. You shake hands. You show respect. You act like a professional even when your world is ending. In the locker room afterward, the silence is deafening. Guys sitting at their stalls with their heads in their hands, some crying openly, others just staring at nothing. Mark sits at his own stall, still in full gear except for his helmet and gloves, and tries to process that it's over.
Decades of hockey. Over.
The dream he's chased since childhood. Over.
Logan appears in front of him, still in his gear too, eyes red with tears. He doesn't say anything, just sinks to his knees in front of Mark's stall and puts his head on Mark's chest, careful of the injured shoulder.
That's when Mark breaks.
The sob that comes out of him sounds like it's been torn from somewhere deep in his chest. Logan's arms come around him immediately, holding him while he falls apart, while fifteen years of dreams and disappointment pour out of him.
"I'm sorry," Logan whispers, his own voice breaking. "I'm so sorry we couldn't get it done."
"Not your fault," Mark manages between sobs. "You were perfect."
They hold each other in the middle of the chaos, teammates moving around them, equipment being packed, the business of ending a season happening all around them. But Mark's world has narrowed to this: Logan's warmth against his chest, the solid reality of the person he loves most in the world.
Eventually, the tears stop. Mark pulls back to look at Logan, whose face is streaked with tears and exhaustion.
"So what now?" Logan asks quietly.
"Now I go talk to Coach and Blake. Make it official." Mark's voice is hoarse from crying, but steady. "And then we go home."
"Home to what?"
Mark manages a small smile, the first genuine one he's had since the final horn. "Home to figuring out what comes next. Together."
The conversation with Coach Massey and GM Blake is brief and professional. Mark thanks them for everything, promises to stay in touch, assures them he'll always be available if they need anything. They offer him a front office position, but he's not ready to think about that yet.
The media availability is harder. Sitting at a table with microphones pointed at him, announcing his retirement to a room full of reporters who've covered his career for over a decade.
"After fifteen years in the NHL, I've decided it's time to step away from playing professional hockey," Mark says, reading from notes he scribbled on hotel stationary. "This was an incredibly difficult decision, but it's the right one for me and my family." He sees Logan over the heads of the reporters wearing a radiant smile at the word family.
A reporter follows his gaze and smiles a private smile but doesn’t ask, she asks about his shoulder injury, whether that factored into the decision.
"My body's been telling me for a while that it's time," Mark says honestly. "The shoulder is part of it, but it's more than that. I've given everything I have to this game, and it's given me everything in return. Including the most important thing." He glances toward the back of the room, where Logan is standing with other players who've finished their own media sessions. "It's time for the next chapter."
Another reporter asks what he'll miss most about playing.
Mark thinks for a moment. "The guys in that locker room. The brotherhood. The way you can trust someone completely when everything's on the line." His smiles at his hands"And the way this game can bring people together."
The flight home is quiet. Most of the team sleeps or stares out windows, processing the end of their season, the end of Mark's career. Logan sits beside him, their hands linked on the armrest, both of them lost in their own thoughts. Vlasky and Jamie sit in front of them immersed in quiet conversation.
"Any regrets?" Logan asks as they begin their descent into Raleigh.
Mark considers this, really considers it. A year ago, he would have said yes immediately. Not winning a Cup, not achieving the thing he'd worked toward his entire career, it should feel like failure. But sitting here next to Logan, thinking about the team they built, the love they found, the courage they discovered in themselves and each other, it doesn't feel like failure at all.
"No," Mark says, surprised by how much he means it. "No regrets."
"Not even about the Cup?"
"The Cup would have been nice," Mark admits. "But we did something maybe more important. We showed that love doesn't make you weak. That being yourself doesn't make you less of a man or less of a player. We changed things. Maybe not as much as we wanted to, but we changed them."
Logan squeezes his hand. "What do you want to do first? When we get home?"
Mark thinks about this. "Sleep for about twelve hours. Then make you pancakes. Then figure out what comes next."
"Sounds perfect."
Their house feels different when they walk in. Quieter, maybe. More settled. Like it knows they're going to be spending a lot more time here. Mark makes good on his promise, sleeping almost fourteen hours straight while his body finally allows itself to feel the accumulated damage of a playoff run. When he wakes up, Logan's already up, sitting in the kitchen with coffee and his laptop, probably watching game film out of habit.
"Morning," Logan says, looking up with a smile. "How's the shoulder?"
Mark tentatively rotates it, winces at the sharp pain. "Feels like it got hit by a truck. But better than yesterday."
"Doctor called. Surgery scheduled for next week."
"Good." Mark pours himself coffee, moves to stand behind Logan's chair. "What are you watching?"
"Just... processing, I guess. Trying to figure out what we could have done differently."
Mark gently closes the laptop. "Logan. It's over. We gave everything we had. Sometimes that's not enough, and that's okay."
"Is it?" Logan turns to look at him. "Is it really okay?"
Mark considers this, searching his heart for any lingering resentment or regret. "Yeah," he says finally. "It really is."
They spend the morning making pancakes and talking about everything except hockey. Logan tells him about a documentary he wants to watch. Mark mentions that his sister called, wants them to visit this summer. Normal things. Domestic things. The kind of conversation Mark never imagined having with another person.
Around noon, Mark's phone starts ringing. Reporters wanting follow-up quotes about his retirement. Agents calling about broadcasting opportunities. Other teams inquiring about front office positions. The business of ending a career. But Mark doesn't answer. Not today. Today is for him and Logan and figuring out how to be just Mark Callahan instead of Mark Callahan, NHL player.
"Do you think we'll be okay?" Logan asks that evening. They're on the couch, Logan's head in Mark's lap, some mindless TV show playing in the background. "Without hockey as the thing that brought us together?"
"Baby," Mark says, running his fingers through Logan's hair with his good hand. "Hockey didn't bring us together. Hockey just gave us an excuse to be in the same room long enough to fall in love. The rest was all us."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
That night, they make love for the first time since Mark's retirement became real. Logan initiates it, moving slowly across the couch until he's straddling Mark's lap, careful not to jostle his injured shoulder. His hands frame Mark's face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones with reverent touches.
"I want you," Logan whispers, voice soft in the dim light of their living room. "Not because we're celebrating or drowning sorrows or because adrenaline is running high. Just because I love you and we're here and we have all the time in the world."
Mark's good hand finds the back of Logan's neck, pulling him down for a kiss that's deep and unhurried. They taste like the wine they shared with dinner, like the promise of lazy mornings and quiet evenings stretching ahead of them.
"Okay" Mark murmurs against Logan's mouth.
They climb the stairs together, Logan's hand gentle on Mark's lower back, both of them moving without urgency. In their bedroom, Logan helps Mark out of his shirt with careful movements, fingers tracing the edge of the bandage that covers his shoulder.
"Does it hurt?" Logan asks, pressing a soft kiss to Mark's collarbone.
"Not right now," Mark says honestly. "Nothing hurts right now."
Logan undresses slowly, deliberately, and Mark watches with appreciation that has nothing to do with performance or proving anything. Just love, simple and uncomplicated, for the man standing before him.
When they meet on the bed, it's careful because of his shoulder, but it's also different in a way Mark can't quite define. More present, maybe. Less rushed. Like they have all the time in the world now, and they plan to use every second of it.
Logan takes the lead, settling over Mark with his knees bracketing his hips, leaning down to kiss him slowly. His mouth moves from Mark's lips to his jaw, down his throat, finding that spot that makes Mark's breath hitch. He works his way across Mark's chest, tongue tracing patterns on heated skin, taking time to explore every inch like he's memorizing it all over again.
"I love this," Logan murmurs against Mark's ribs, voice muffled. "I love having time to do this properly. To touch you without worrying about practice in the morning or games tomorrow."
Mark's good hand tangles in Logan's hair as Logan continues his exploration, mouth working lower, across his stomach, along his hipbones. Every touch is deliberate, unhurried, designed to build heat slowly rather than race toward any finish line.
When Logan finally takes him into his mouth, Mark arches carefully off the bed, mindful of his shoulder but lost in the sensation. Logan's gotten so good at this, learned exactly how to drive Mark crazy with long, slow strokes of his tongue, with the perfect amount of suction that makes Mark's vision blur.
"Logan," Mark gasps, fingers tightening in the soft strands. "Come here. Want to touch you too."
Logan pulls off reluctantly, crawling back up Mark's body to kiss him deeply. Mark's good hand explores Logan's body while they kiss, relearning the planes of muscle, the sensitive spots that make Logan gasp and press closer. When his fingers wrap around Logan, stroking slowly, Logan breaks the kiss with a broken moan.
"Want you inside me," Logan breathes against Mark's mouth. "Want to feel you."
They move together with practiced ease, Logan preparing himself while Mark watches, fascinated by Logan's complete lack of self-consciousness, the way he moves like his body belongs to both of them. When Logan finally sinks down onto him, they both exhale shakily at the sensation of connection, of being complete.
Logan sets a slow rhythm, rolling his hips in ways that make Mark's breath catch, taking his time, drawing out every sensation. Mark's good hand grips Logan's hip, guiding but not controlling, just holding on while Logan moves above him like something beautiful and perfect.
"I love you," Logan says, voice breaking slightly with emotion and pleasure.
Mark makes a breathy sound, then pulls Logan down for a deeper kiss, pouring everything he feels into the contact. "You're everything, baby. Everything I never knew I needed."
Logan's breath hitches at the words, his movements becoming more urgent, more desperate. "Mark,"
"I know," Mark whispers, his good hand sliding up Logan's back, feeling the tension building in every muscle. "Let go for me. We have all night."
The rhythm builds gradually, both of them chasing something that feels bigger than just physical release, something that speaks to the profound shift in their lives, the way their future has opened up into something vast and theirs. When Logan comes, it's with Mark's name on his lips and his whole body shuddering, clenching around Mark in a way that sends him over the edge immediately after, both of them calling out into the quiet of their bedroom, their voices mixing in the space between them.
They collapse together, Logan careful not to put weight on Mark's injured shoulder, both of them breathing hard and trembling with aftershocks. For a long moment, they just hold each other, hearts hammering against each other, sticky and sated and completely content.
Afterward, Logan traces patterns on Mark's chest with one finger. Lazy circles and figure-eights, the letters of his name, random designs that have no meaning except the pleasure of touching.
Mark's good arm tightens around Logan, pulling him impossibly closer.
Logan smiles, pressing a kiss to Mark's chest right over his heart. "I could get used to retired Mark. He's very thorough."
"Retired Mark will have a lot of time to be thorough," Mark says with a grin. "Retired Mark also doesn't have to worry about getting up at five AM for practice."
"Mm, I like retired Mark very much." Logan settles more comfortably against Mark's side, head pillowed on his chest. "Think he'll still like active hockey player Logan? Even when Logan has to leave for road trips and early practices?"
"Retired Mark will miss active hockey player Logan terribly," Mark says, pressing a kiss to the top of Logan's head. "But he'll also be very good at welcome home celebrations."
Logan laughs, the sound vibrating through Mark's chest. "I'm holding you to that.".
"I'm proud of you," Logan says quietly after a moment. "For everything. For how you played, how you fought for us, how you're handling this transition. For being brave enough to walk away when you knew it was time."
"I'm proud of us," Mark corrects. "For finding each other. For being honest about it. For showing that love isn't something to hide from."
"Even though it cost us?"
"It didn't cost us anything that mattered," Mark says firmly. "We still have each other. We still have our friends, our family. We still have a future to build together. The Cup would have been nice, but this? This is better."
Logan lifts his head to look at Mark, eyes bright in the dim light. "I love you, Mark Callahan. Retired hockey player, pancake chef, best man I've ever known."
"I love you too, Logan Hayes. Current hockey superstar, future Cup winner, best thing that ever happened to me."
They fall asleep wrapped around each other, Mark's injured shoulder finally relaxing for the first time in weeks. Outside, the world continues to turn, bringing spring and summer and a future neither of them can quite imagine yet.
But they'll figure it out. Together.

Chapter Text

Mark’s in the kitchen when Logan gets home from his exit interviews a week later. The windows are open, the faint hum of the city drifting in with the smell of freshly brewed coffee and something citrusy, probably the candle Mark’s sister sent as a “happy retirement” gift.
Surgery went well. The doctor said the shoulder would be fine, for a normal person, not a professional athlete. He’ll need to take it slow for a while, but he’s been cleared for light activity, which, for now, means he can make coffee without wincing and load the dishwasher one-handed if he’s careful.
“How’d it go?” Mark asks as Logan drops his bag by the door.
“Good. Weird, but good.” Logan steps into his space like it’s the most natural thing in the world, wrapping his arms around Mark’s waist as he accepts the mug Mark offers. “Blake asked if I thought you’d be interested in a development coach position. Part-time, working with prospects.”
Mark raises an eyebrow. “What did you tell him?”
“That I’d ask you,” Logan says, smiling into his shoulder. “But that you’re probably busy planning our summer vacation and learning how to be a house husband.”
Mark laughs, the sound warm and echoing off the tile. “House husband? Is that what I am now?”
“If you want to be,” Logan teases. “Though I vote for hot retired boyfriend who makes excellent pancakes and gives even better life advice.”
“I can live with that,” Mark says, tugging him closer by the belt loop. “What else did Blake say?”
Logan hesitates for a moment, a small, pleased smile curving his lips. “That the team’s retiring your number next season. Banner ceremony and everything.”
Mark goes still. For a heartbeat, the world narrows to the hum of the refrigerator and the steady warmth of Logan’s hand against his back. “Really?”
“Really,” Logan says softly. “Something about being an inspiration and lifelong Copperhead or something” His smile is teasing, “They want you to drop the puck for the home opener. If you want to.”
Mark’s throat tightens. “Yeah,” he manages after a moment. “I’d like that.”
“Oh, and,” Logan’s grin turns mischievous. “Michaels called Blake. From the league office.”
Mark tenses. “What did he want?”
“To say congratulations on a great career. And that they’re officially closing their investigation into us. No further action required.” Logan’s eyes spark. “Apparently, being a role model couple for a playoff run before one of us retires is sufficient for their purposes.”
Mark barks out a laugh, startled by how light it feels. “Good. I’m tired of dealing with them anyway.”
Logan’s phone buzzes on the counter. He checks the screen and snorts. “Speaking of the team, Vlasky’s texting about this summer trip he’s planning. Something about renting a house somewhere for a bit. Wants to know if we’re in.”
“Who’s going?”
“The usual suspects. Kris, Johan, Oskar and his family. Jamie. A few others.” He scrolls through the message. “Sounds like chaos. The good kind.”
Mark leans against the counter, considering. Time away sounds perfect, actually. Time to decompress from the playoffs, to celebrate Logan’s new four-year contract extension, to figure out what life looks like now that his days don’t revolve around practice schedules and game nights. Time to just be, no cameras, no questions, no pressure.
“Tell him yes,” Mark says finally. “But I’m bringing my good coffee.”
“Deal.” Logan types back quickly, thumbs flying.
Mark’s phone rings then, vibrating across the counter. Olivia, his agent’s, name flashes on the screen.
“Answer it,” Logan says, stepping back but staying close.
“Hey, Olivia,” Mark says, smiling.
“Mark! Perfect timing. I just got off the phone with ESPN.”
His stomach dips slightly. “ESPN?”
“They want to interview you. Both of you, actually. For a documentary they’re doing about LGBTQ+ athletes. Nothing invasive, just your story, your impact on the sport. What do you think?”
Mark glances at Logan, who’s already watching him with raised eyebrows and a faint grin. Logan nods, easy and confident, like always.
“We’ll think about it,” Mark says. “Send me the details?”
“Already in your email. And Mark?” Olivia’s voice softens. “I’m proud of you. Both of you. For everything you’ve accomplished. Everything you’re going to change.”
After they hang up, the quiet in the kitchen feels full, not empty.
“Documentary?” Logan asks.
“Apparently we’re inspiring,” Mark says with a wry smile. “Who knew?”
“I knew,” Logan says, no hesitation. “From the very beginning, I knew you were going to change everything.”
Sunlight floods through the kitchen windows, painting everything gold. Mark studies Logan’s face, the crinkle near his eyes, the faint tan from runs in the spring sun and feels something deep and unshakable settle in his chest. Six months ago, everything was uncertain: his career, his shoulder, their future. Now, for the first time in years, there’s no fight left in him, only peace.
The development coaching position calls to him, more than he wants to admit. Working with young players. Teaching them not just how to move their feet and read the ice, but how to stand tall in a world that doesn’t always know what to do with difference. Maybe being the voice he never had. Someone who can tell them, It’s okay to be yourself. It’s okay to love who you love. Hockey is big enough for all of us.
“You know what?” Mark says, drawing Logan closer by the front of his shirt. “I think I want to take that coaching job.”
Logan’s face lights up. “Really?”
“Really. Part-time means I still get to be here when you come home. But it also means I get to stay connected to the game, to help kids who might be going through what we went through.”
“You’re going to be amazing at it,” Logan says, voice steady, certain. “Those kids are going to be so lucky to have you.”
They stand like that for a long while, wrapped around each other, the faint tick of the wall clock marking the quiet between them. Mark thinks about the banner ceremony in the fall. About Logan’s next season. About the documentary, and how maybe telling their story might help someone else find courage.
“So,” Logan murmurs against his chest. “Beach house for a few weeks. Documentary interviews. Your banner ceremony. Coaching job. Busy summer ahead of us.”
“Good thing I’m retired,” Mark says, kissing the top of his head. “I’ll have plenty of time to manage our schedule.”
“Our schedule,” Logan echoes, smiling. “Our life.”
Mark pulls back just far enough to look at him. The man who changed everything. The man who made him brave enough to walk away. The man who turned an ending into the start of something better.
“Hey, Logan?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For showing me that sometimes the best way to win is knowing when the game’s over.”
Logan kisses him then, soft and sure and a little salty from tears neither of them noticed. “Always,” he whispers against Mark’s mouth.
And Mark believes him.
Later that night, Mark leans back against the porch railing, closing his eyes and breathing in the soft hum of early southern summer. The air is heavy with honeysuckle. Somewhere inside, Logan is laughing at something on TV, that bright, easy sound that used to grate on Mark during long road trips and now feels like the pulse of home.
His shoulder twinges, a dull echo of everything he’s endured, but it doesn’t hurt the way it used to. Not really. The ache is just a reminder, of all the miles he’s skated, the bones he’s broken, the pieces he’s put back together.
He isn’t an enforcer anymore. He doesn’t have to protect anyone, doesn’t have to fight to prove he belongs. The only thing that matters now is the warmth of the house behind him, the man who still makes his chest go tight for reasons that have nothing to do with pain.
The screen door creaks open, and Logan steps out, barefoot, two beers in hand. “You okay out here, old man?”
Mark smirks, taking one of the bottles. “Perfect.”
Logan leans beside him, shoulder to shoulder. For a long while, they don’t say anything. The world has gone quiet except the cicadas and the steady rhythm of Logan’s breath next to his.
Once, Mark measured his life in periods and penalties, in five-second glances and bruised ribs. Now, he measures it in moments like this, the sound of laughter through open windows, the brush of a hand against his, the peace of knowing he doesn’t have to hide anymore.
He takes another slow breath, lets it fill him completely, and thinks that maybe, for the first time, he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.

Chapter Text

The Art of the Breakaway

Dmitri Vlaskeleski loves his life. He loves hockey, loves his team, loves the careful balance he's built between the player everyone sees and the man he is in private. Hockey brought him from Moscow to the NHL, gave him everything that matters, and if the price is keeping parts of himself quiet, well, that's a trade he made peace with years ago.
Two weeks in the Bahamas should be exactly what he needs: sun, friends, and the kind of uncomplicated fun that comes with vacation. No pressure, no expectations, just him and his teammates enjoying paradise.
But there's nothing uncomplicated about Jamie Santos.
Jamie, who makes everything louder and brighter just by existing. Who treats Dmitri like his favorite person in any room. Who's straight, definitively straight, except for the way he looks at Dmitri sometimes when no one's watching.
Dmitri's spent his whole life being practical, taking what he can get and not asking for more. But fifteen days in paradise with Jamie is testing every rule he's ever made for himself.
Some things are worth risking everything for. The question is whether Dmitri's ready to believe he could be one of them.