Carey can feel sweat dripping down his back. His sweats and t-shirt are soaked with it. He punches the bag again, though, a right and then a left and then a right again. He doesn't know how long he's been at this, but his entire body feels tight with something more than the tension and anger that's been eating away at him since the final goal light went off behind him.
He hates losing and he hates losing when all of it comes down to him. The shootout isn’t hard, it’s a fucking skills competition, and he’s supposed to be skilled. There’s no reason to see triple zeros after his shootout save percentage. He punches the bag again and tries to clear his head of the pucks that went sailing past him. It was just him and the shooter, and he let in every fucking goal.
Breaking his stick hadn’t felt like enough. Throwing the broken ends hadn’t made him feel any better either. There was something heavy and angry in his stomach after Boyes deked it past him, and all Carey wanted to do was let it out.
Putting the gloves on and hitting the heavy bag actually makes a dent in the feeling, lets out the frustration and anger. He wishes he were in a fight for real, or that he were out roping, that the steer could fight back against being roped, drag him over the ground for a while and tire him out completely.
There’s someone standing in the doorway, Carey can feel it, and when he stops to glance over, he sees it’s PK. He goes to hit the bag again, but stopping his rhythm to look for PK has given his body a chance to realize how sore it is from playing and now punching out his frustration.
Carey stops, putting his arms around the bag to steady himself, and then leans in, forehead resting against it, and breathes. "I was gonna tell you the bag wasn't gonna quit first, but the longer you kept going, I started to doubt it, Carey," PK says.
Carey doesn't lift his head, he just shrugs. That kinda hurts, though, so he quits. "I'm good," he says, voice muffled against the leather.
"I'm not the smartest, but I don't think that's what 'good' looks like, Carey," PK answers.
Carey glares at him, because he knows how to handle himself; he doesn't need PK of all people to be checking up on him.
"You need a ride?" PK asks, voice neutral.
Carey looks over at him, glaring. He wants to say no, get in his truck and drive away, leave the Bell Centre and this shitshow of a game in his rear view mirror. His F-150 is a stick, though, and the last thing his arms feel up for right now is shifting while he drives through the ice and snow between downtown Montreal and his place.
"Yeah, sure," he says, voice clipped and cold. Carey tries to just go, but when he steps by PK, PK puts his hand on Carey's chest.
"Whoa. Not that my car hasn't probably seen worse, but how about you try taking a shower first?" PK says. "You smell like Skillsy's socks."
"You'd know from smelling bad," Carey says, but does what he asks. The hot water actually feels good on his shoulders and arms, which is a sure sign that he overdid it. Washing his hair is a bit hard, but he doesn't bother to be all that thorough about it. Mostly he just gets the sweat out and concentrates on scrubbing the rest of him. The whole time, he can feel PK's eyes on him. "You staring at me showering?" he asks.
"Someone's gotta make sure you're not about to fall over," PK answers, grinning. "You about done?"
"No one's making you stick around and watch me scrub up in the shower," Carey tells him. He turns the water off, though, and grabs a towel, heading back for the locker room where his suit is hanging.
"You look like shit," PK says. He's still grinning, the asshole.
"Yeah, well, I feel like shit," Carey shoots back. Bending over to step into clean underwear and his suit pants isn't so bad, but putting on his undershirt and dress-shirt really is. He has to shrug into his coat, wincing the whole time.
"You can probably get a rubdown tomorrow," PK says.
"Isn't that nice for me." Carey knows it sounds sulky and doesn't give a shit. He aches and he lost another shootout.
"C'mon, you little ray of sunshine," PK says. "Gotta get you home before you snap at someone who won't laugh it off."
"You laughing at me?" Carey asks. He's ready to go, though, and they head out together.
"Not to your face," PK says. "Not since you laid me out last season."
"It was your idea," Carey answers. He sees the stutter in PK's step, where he'd have normally hipchecked him. He's holding it back, though, because Carey overdid it and sort of hurts. It says something really shitty about him that even PK Subban is acting more mature than he is.
The drive to Carey's goes by quickly. He didn't know PK knew the shortcut to his place, though it does make sense. He's over a fair amount, laughing and needling Carey about his CD collection and lying all over his couch while they watch movies together. He doesn't expect PK to pull up into the driveway, and he really isn't expecting PK to park the car and start unbuckling his seat belt.
"Inviting yourself in?" Carey asks, staring at him.
"I'd feel pretty dumb if I went through all this trouble and you bit it slipping on some ice, eh?" PK says. He's still smiling. Carey wishes he'd fucking stop. They lost, he shouldn't be happy.
"I'm not actually a fucking invalid," Carey says.
"Nah, just an idiot. Which says a lot, coming from me," PK says. He goes into Carey's house after him, and to Carey's surprise, he heads for his kitchen. He comes out with a beer for Carey and another for himself, so Carey can't really be upset. He sits down and takes a drink, wondering what PK really wants.
"You shouldn't do that," PK finally says, after they've sat in companionable silence for a while.
"What? Hit the bag? It's what it's there for," Carey says.
"No, blame yourself," PK answers.
Carey rolls his eyes. "Right, because there's nothing I could have done about Vanek and Boyes converting on the shootout," he says, jaw clenched, and then takes a huge swig of his beer. He wishes he could get drunk, but he has work to do tomorrow. He's going in early to work with his goalie coach, look over video and work on his angles and positioning.
"You're not alone out there," PK tells him. "It's not like your dmen were nails and your forwards hung ten on Enroth or something."
Carey shrugs. He has one job and one job only: to stop pucks. Two goals should be more than enough for Carey to give them a win, no matter what else is happening in front of him. "Seriously, Carey," PK says. Carey's finished his beer, though, and he doesn't feel like listening to PK, so he doesn't.
"Did you want something?" Carey asks. PK shrugs.
"I'm trying to make sure you're okay," PK tells him, gently nudging his side. "And you're being a dick about it."
"I don't need you to babysit me, PK. One of us needs a babysitter and it isn't me," Carey says, because fuck him. Carey doesn't need Skillsy to watch over him and make sure his training wheels are coming off right. He slaps PK's hand away, not needing his kindness or worry or… pity.
"Carey," PK tries to touch him again, and Carey punches him in the shoulder. It's weak, because he's been punching for forever, but PK stops trying to… comfort him or whatever he's doing. "You're such a fucking dick," PK says, and punches him back.
He's stiff and sore from punching the heavy bag, so he doesn't try and throw another punch, but it doesn't stop him from reaching out and shoving PK hard in the chest. "Then you won't mind getting the fuck out, will you?" he asks, and he can hear the barely controlled anger in his voice.
"Because there's a good idea if I ever heard one," PK says, rolling his eyes.
"Like I said, PK. You're not my fucking babysitter. I'm gonna go to bed, and when I wake up, I'll head in early for a rubdown, like you said," Carey tells him, because unlike PK, he's not an idiot.
"I don't see why you're being such a dick about me trying to be your friend," PK says. "You're pissed we lost, we're all pissed-"
"You're not looking at goose eggs after your name when it comes to save percentages on the shootout," Carey says, furious with himself, with PK, with everyone, really.
"Carey-" PK stops, shakes his head and leans in. For a second, Carey thinks he's going to punch him again, but instead he presses his mouth to Carey's. His lips are really soft, even if his mouth is pressing against his kind of hard. He might as well have punched him again, as surprised as Carey is by it.
His eyes go wide and he just sits there for a second, before he puts both hands against PK's chest and pushes him away again. "No," Carey says, shaking his head. He's thought about it before; it would be hard not to. PK is constantly in his face and in his space, filling it up until he spills out into the areas surrounding him. He leaves dirty dishes in Carey’s living room, spare socks in Carey’s bedroom and CDs and plugs for his iPod in Carey’s car.
It would be ridiculous for Carey not to have thought about it in general, but it’s especially ridiculous because PK’s such a flirt. He doesn’t mean anything by it, and he doesn't go too far, but Carey would have to be PK-levels of dumb not to notice. But there’s no way they’re doing this now.
“You don’t want-” PK doesn’t finish, just looks at him.
“I don’t need a pity fuck, PK,” Carey tells him, and even he can hear how bitter he sounds.
PK rolls his eyes. “It’s not a pity fuck,” he says.
“And you just happened to finally make a pass at me after I got embarrassed in the crease?” Carey asks.
“You’re full of yourself, aren’t you?” PK asks, grinning.
“Excuse me?” Carey asks.
“I got two hung on me in a single period,” PK says. “Maybe I’m the one who needs a pity fuck.” He’s smirking when he says it, like it’s not true, and Carey can’t punch him, so he goes to shove him away. PK grabs his arm, though, uses his momentum to pull Carey closer.
“Don’t,” Carey says.
“Why not?” PK asks. “You don’t wanna, say it. Something that isn’t you feeling sorry for yourself.”
“What did you just say?” Carey asks.
“You heard me, Carey,” PK says. He lets go of him and shoves him away.
“Go fuck yourself,” Carey answers, grabbing hold of PK and pulling him in again. He kisses PK this time, face tilted down to press his mouth harshly against PK’s. It’s not really good; Carey isn’t being soft enough for that. PK opens his mouth anyway, parts his lips to let Carey inside, and because he isn’t stupid, Carey takes it.
He has ahold of PK’s arm, hand wrapped tight around his biceps, and he uses that to push him down the hall. “Come on,” Carey says, forcing PK to walk backward. It’s clumsy and a little awkward, but PK’s doing it. “You’re so hot for this, let’s go.”
And PK does. He lets Carey half lead, half shove him down his hallway, back toward his bedroom, keeping his face tilted up for more bruising kisses. Carey keeps thinking to himself that he should be gentler, go easier on PK, but then PK will slit his eyes open, give him another cocky grin between kisses, and Carey will shove him against another wall.
When they finally get to Carey’s bedroom, he shoves PK through the open door and PK smiles at him, wide and pleased. “Strip off,” Carey says, just watching him, and PK makes a face and then rolls his eyes. He doesn’t try to make a game of it or anything, but there’s something about watching PK’s abs appear while he pulls his shirt up and then off that Carey’s into.
It’s the same when PK unbuttons his pants and pulls them down with his underwear. PK’s got his share of bruises, because contrary to what the reporters are saying, PK sacrifices plenty for the team. Carey just wants to worry at all of them, push down hard and make PK wince. Carey licks his lips and shoves PK again, hard enough to make him stumble and fall back onto the bed.
“Fuck, PK,” Carey says, looking down at him. PK doesn’t land very gracefully, but he kicks off his pants and underwear from around his feet and spreads his legs for him. It’s stupid and it should look stupid, but all Carey wants to do right now is fuck him. “This isn’t sexy,” he says, and PK just smiles up at him.
“Course not, c’mon, Carey,” he says and he’s fucking smirking now.
“Fuck you, PK,” Carey tells him, pulling off his shirt and pulling his belt out of his pants. He leans in after that, shoves PK further up the bed and doesn’t bother to be gentle about it.
“Lube?” PK asks, and Carey reaches for it in his bedside drawer. It’s been a while since he last used it, but it’s still good and there’s still condoms next to it. “Always prepared, eh, Carey?”
“Stop talking, PK,” Carey says. “I’m serious.” He pours lube out onto his fingers and is going to warm it up, but PK opens his mouth to say something again, so he drops his hand and presses them against PK’s rim. PK gasps, jumping a little, and Carey traces lube-slick fingers against the outside.
“Yeah,” PK says and he’s spreading his thighs again, arching up against Carey’s finger.
“Jesus, you’re slutty,” Carey tells him, and before PK can respond, he presses one finger inside, so all PK does is moan. This has never been Carey’s favorite part of anything, but PK’s almost stupidly responsive, arching and letting out stupid sounds that aren’t sexy at all, no matter how hard they make Carey. It makes him want to keep it up, even after he’s got three fingers inside of PK and he knows PK’s more than ready for more.
“Carey, c’mon,” PK says and bites his lip. He’s rocking down onto Carey’s fingers and Carey wants to keep going, see if he could make PK come like this, because the faces and sounds he’s making have him thinking he might be able to, but PK has a point. “Fuck me, Carey,” PK says, and Carey pulls his fingers out of him.
He grabs a condom and slicks it on, pouring more lube on his dick. “Want me to turn over?” PK asks, watching Carey jerk himself off.
“No,” Carey says. “Just, stay.” He doesn’t know why he wants PK like this, face-up and watching. It would probably be better if he could turn him over and just muffle his voice in the sheets if he started saying something dumb again, but he does. He grabs hold of one of PK’s thighs, holding it in an almost bruising grip and forces him to spread the way he wants him to.
He watches PK while he pushes in, watches the way he bites his lip and screws up his face. Then, when it looks like PK’s about to open his eyes, Carey looks down their bodies, to where PK’s dick is hard against his abs. "Jesus," Carey says. "You're really into this."
"No," PK says. "I-" he breaks off to moan, when Carey rocks up hard into him. "I don't like sex at all and never enjoy myself." PK moans again and rocks his hips up, fucking himself a little deeper. Carey can't help being a little impressed.
"You know what I mean," Carey says.
"I like fucking and love getting fucked," PK says. "That's a plus for you, so come on and fuck me, Carey." He rocks down hard onto Carey, bracing his hands against the bed to get what he wants and for some reason, Carey doesn't like it.
He reaches down, pressing his hands against PK's wrists, and holds them there, rocking forward as hard as he can. He's rewarded with PK moaning, so he does it again. It's good, so fucking good to just take what he wants from PK and have PK enjoy it like this. Carey can feel how badly he wants to move his hands, he can feel the trembling in his wrists. He grips them tighter and rolls his hips into PK.
Braced like this on top of PK, their mouths are close together, so they're sharing breath while PK makes dumb little noises that Carey doesn't ever want to stop. "Carey," he whispers, and Carey leans in and kisses him. It isn't like before; he lets PK keep it soft, as soft as possible when Carey's still holding him down and giving it to him like this.
"Let me," PK whispers against Carey's mouth. "C'mon." He's flexing his wrists, and Carey knows what he wants, he wants to touch himself, because there's no way he isn't close, not judging by the way he's moving around beneath him. "Carey."
Carey lets go of PK's wrists, braces himself on the bed up around PK's head, and PK reaches down to wrap his hand around his dick. He's jerking it erratically and not at all in time with the way Carey's fucking him, but it doesn't seem to matter, because in almost no time at all, PK's clenching around him and coming into his fist and over his belly.
"Jesus," Carey says, watching PK fall back against his bed.
"Just me, Carey," PK says, and Carey rolls his eyes. "Go on." He rocks down against Carey to illustrate his point. He does, leaning down, arching into PK and just fucking him as hard as he wants. He closes his eyes while he does it, biting his lower lip, and when he opens them, PK's rubbing at his own nipples, pinching lightly.
He isn't expecting to come, he just does, shuddering against PK and sort of falling on top of him when he doesn't have the energy to hold himself up anymore.
"You're heavy," PK says, and Carey shoves him as best he can when he doesn't feel like moving ever again. "I'm not kidding, Carey." PK starts shoving at him, and Carey rolls over. It's for the best; this way he can just reach out and pinch PK's side.
"Thanks," he says, after they've been lying there for a few.
"Real hardship, Carey," PK says and Carey can't see him, but he knows he's rolling his eyes at him.
“Whatever, you’re an asshole but I’m glad you, whatever, gave me the pity fuck after all,” Carey says.
PK starts laughing and rolls over until he’s looking down at Carey. “Don’t let this go to your head, Carey, but you’re kind of hot when you’re pissed off. Quit calling it a pity fuck.” He sits up after he says it and nudges Carey.
“Oh, umm, thanks?” Carey says, not really knowing what else to say.
PK laughs again. “I’m grabbing a shower, you coming?” he asks.
“I dunno,” Carey says, because he’s feeling kind of wiped.
“Come on, we can make out, and you can get me off when you don’t want to hit me more than fuck me,” PK says.
“Never happen, PK,” Carey answers, but follows him anyway. Standing is hard and walking is harder, but the water feels good on the muscles in his arms and back. He guesses having PK, wet and pressed up against him, kissing him soft and slow, helps too, a little.