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I'm gonna let myself ride

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He makes this sound when Harry touches him, a barely audible breath.

Harry would back off, but it’s Sweetheart, Roman’s Sweetheart, and so he leans closer, listens for that betraying little sound again.

He doesn’t expect Sweetheart to lean in too. “Chicken?” Evan asks.

His eyes are bright and clear. He’s not teasing—fuck it, he can’t be teasing. Evan “Connie” “Sweetheart” Connelly is too honest to tease.

“Maybe,” Harry says.

Evan leans forward a few more inches and kisses him.

Harry recoils.

Evan flushes. “I should have asked first. Sorry.”

“No,” Harry says. “It’s all right. I just thought that you and Novak—” he doesn’t know how to end that sentence.

Evan shakes his head. “We aren’t anything,” he says.

“But you like him. He likes you.” Harry protests.

Evan tucks one of Harry’s curls behind his ear. “Yes.”

“But you just kissed me.”

Evan shrugs. “I don’t see why this has to be an either or choice,” he says.


Evan puts a hand on Harry’s knee. “I don’t see why this has to be an either or choice.” He slides his hand up until it’s on Harry’s thigh, until there is no mistaking his intentions.

“You’re good at this,” Harry says.

“At what?”


Evan reddens. “Honesty is an aphrodisiac? I don’t know.”

Harry leans forward and kisses him. “But won’t Roman mind?”

Evan takes out his phone, opens the camera, and switches to selfie mode. He takes his time framing the shot, him peering over Harry’s shoulder in a way that implies how close they’re sitting. He texts it and “Room 207” to Roman. Then he kisses Harry.

The reply is one word. “Cozy.”

Evan replies with two: “Join us.”

Harry literally cannot believe his life right now.

* * *

The U-shaped booth would be a tight it for eight normal-sized people, but it’s even more crowded when full of victorious hockey players. Connie is in the middle, of course, with Roman on his left and Harry on his right. Liam is on the end and he’s actually smirking into his phone. Harry avoids his eyes. He has no desire to be chirped until he dies.

Connie’s beer is almost empty and his hands aren’t on the table any more. Harry notices this at the exact moment he feels Connie grip his knee. Roman gives a little start, imperceptible unless you’re watching for it like Harry is, imperceptible unless you’re some sort of sicko perversely attracted to two of your teammates—your teammates, Chalmers, get a grip, this is literally the shittiest fucking idea—at the same time.

Harry risks a glance down. Roman gently peels Connie’s hand up finger by finger and moves it back into his own space. Harry just freezes and Connie’s fingers drag up his thigh.

“What the hell are you playing at?” he asks.

“I’ll stop if you want me to,” Connie says.

Harry picks up Connie’s hand, squeezes his fingers, and drops Connie’s hand back into Connie’s lap. Connie hunches a little and drinks his beer with both hands. Connie thinks he got rejected, Harry realizes.

He meets Roman’s eyes behind Connie’s back. Roman’s gaze is heated and some of that heat leeches into Harry and warms the back of his neck.

“Scuse me,” Harry says, and squeezes out past Liam. He waits in the bathroom for almost five minutes before Roman arrives.

“Did Connelly just feel you up too?” Harry asks.

“Yep,” Roman says.

“Both of us. He’s hitting on both of us.”

“Yep.” Roman turns his back to piss in the urinal.

“It’s like watching something cute and pathetic. A baby bird trying to fly.”

“Except not cute,” Roman says as he washes his hands. “And fuck, if Fitzy smiles at me one more time I will beat his ass and Mike Brouwer can just fucking deal.”

“Pretty sure Mike beats his ass already.”

“Fitzy probably likes it,” Roman mutters. They snigger together like twelve year olds. “Let’s go,” Roman says. “Face the music.”

Connie catches them outside the bathroom. “Starting without me?” he asks, and goes red.

“What the hell, Evan,” Harry says.

Roman is blushing too. “Not exactly,” he says. “I gotta get going. You kids have fun.”

“No,” Connie says. He’s even drunker standing up, soft and blurred and Harry just wants to fall into him.

“Words, Connie,” Roman says quietly. “Use your words.”

Connie tries to play it off lightly but his beautiful hands betray him and flutter like birds. “Both of you come home with me.”

Harry looks at Roman. He looks at Connie. He looks at the floor. Roman flicks Harry’s cheek and whacks the back of Connie’s head. “Okay.”

“Get me another drink, first,” Harry says.

* * *

Harry is ashamed to say that this is actually not the first time he has woken up in a bed with no idea how he got there. Surely everyone else on the team has gone home with someone and not remembered their name in the morning. To hear some of them talk it’s like that every weekend, but Harry knows that’s all just talk.

And while he might not remember all the details of how he got here, he definitely knows the people who are with him—the leg thrown over his is Roman’s and the blond hair ticking his nose is Connie’s. Harry pulls his head back quickly before he sneezes.

“Not getting up,” Connie mutters and rolls over. He pillows his head on Harry’s shoulder, hugging Harry’s torso closer like he’s a goddamn body pillow or something. Roman emits a soft snore.

Harry closes his eyes again. When he wakes up Roman is sitting propped against the headboard scrolling through his phone and Connie is still dead to the world.

“Morning,” Roman says. He looks down at Connie who is still shamelessly using Harry as a pillow.

“Umm,” Harry says. “Good morning.” Impossible to tell, with the sheet covering him, if Roman is wearing boxers, but he kind of guesses not.

Roman puts his phone down. Harry slides out from under Connie and goes to the bathroom. He uses the toilet and looks at himself in the mirror. His hair is a wreck, maximum ruination. There’s a dark purple smudge on his throat and an honest-to-God bite mark on his chest. Harry blushes at his reflection in the mirror, which may be the second most ridiculous thing to happen to him after last night.

He feels suddenly self-conscious. He’s not bad-looking but Roman and Connie are both, objectively speaking, sex gods, and he’s average.

Connie is still sleeping when Harry finishes freaking out and goes back into the bedroom. He pulls clean shorts out of the drawer and puts them on. Roman is petting Connie’s hair, letting it curl around his fingers.

Roman grins. “Come here,” and Harry remembers that voice—Roman, not laughing at him exactly, laughing with him, both of them delighted. Harry goes.

Connie sits up a few minutes later, sudden and abrupt. He doesn’t wake up like this on the road, snoozing his alarm two and three times until Harry wants to kill him. “What,” Connie says, not even a question, just a flat statement of fact.

“You’re naked in my bed,” Harry says helpfully.

“So’re you,” Connie retorts, and climbs over Roman’s legs to get out. “Excuse me, good morning.” Roman smirks at him and Connie goes red.

“I’m going to shower,” Connie says. “Don’t go away.”

And a good thing he says that too, because Harry’s skin is starting to feel itchy and he wants to bolt, badly. He’s crashed Roman and Connie’s party, he should let them get back to their stupid lovey-dovey shit.

“Who are you texting?” he asks Roman.

“My dog walker.” Roman puts his phone down. “Come here.” Harry goes. Roman puts his arm around him and Harry leans into him. “I may not be reading this right,but I don’t think this is an either or situation,” he rumbles into Harry’s hair.

“I wish I could remember more of last night,” Harry says.

Roman kisses his bare shoulder. “We’ve got all day,” he says.