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“I get it, man,” Shaun says. “Apolo fucked you over and you don’t wanna go through that again.” He takes a long drag off the blunt he and JR have been passing back and forth for the better part of five minutes and holds the smoke in his chest for a few seconds to better facilitate his high. Shaun exhales, coughs once, then says, “But not moving on is just as bad as if you stayed with the cheatin’ bastard.”

“So me not moving on is just as bad as staying with a man who fucked around on me with half the US hockey team?” JR questions sarcastically when Shaun passes him the blunt.

“I thought that was obvious, John Robert,” Shaun shrugs. For some reason Shaun likes to use JR’s full name when he’s really really high.

“Yeah, I guess,” JR nods before raising the blunt to his lips and partaking in the strange little ritual he and Shaun have developed. Their events at the Sochi Games are over and so are the random drug tests so, as in Vancouver, JR and Shaun celebrate with an eighth of the finest Chronic they can find, a pack of grape Swishers, and a cheapy Bic lighter.

“Hey,” Shaun smiles. “remember the first time we smoked up together?”

JR nods, descending into a fit of dopey giggles. He chokes off his laughter and tokes up again, then passes the blunt back to Shaun who does the same. “Yeah, I remember,” JR smiles. ”I spent twenty minutes pacing the floor muttering ‘I’m high, you’re high! We’re all going to jail!’ then we went outside and ate snow.”

“Ah, memories,” Shaun smiles back, letting out a lungful of smoke, “That snow was pretty good, though. And I say that as a man who’s eaten his fair share of snow.”

“Didn’t I stab someone with a plastic fork?” JR asks, head cocked to the side like a confused bird. “I think I remember that, but I’m not sure if it actually happened.”

“It was a spork and it was just Lago,” Shaun answers. “You didn’t even really stab him; it was more of a scratch. But he totally deserved it, scratch or not. He was being a douche.”

“He’s Scotty Lago,” JR smirks, taking a hit off the blunt when it finds it’s way back into his hand. “When is he not being a douche?”

“I know right!?” Shaun exclaims. “That guy’s such a douche his middle name is Vagisil.”

“Vaginas,” JR says, suddenly very serious, “Now there’s something truly horrifying.”

“Word up, bro.” Shaun nods in agreement, gestures until JR passes him the blunt again. “It’s kind of sad when you think about it. Like, as a baby your sexuality is neutral, right? Then you’re born. Exactly how terrifying is a vagina that after only seeing one you say to yourself ‘You know what… I ain’t touchin’ one of those things ever again!’ It’s insanity.”

“Complete and utter insanity,” JR confirms. “Speaking of insanity… I thought we were talking about my disastrous love life.”

“I bet you a C-note I can fix all your problems before you can count to ten,” Shaun says adamantly, stubbing out what’s left of the blunt under the heel of his left shoe after taking in a rather large puff.

“You’re on!” JR says. “This is gonna be easy money.”

Suddenly, Shaun has one hand on the back of JR’s neck and the other fisted up into the collar of the younger man’s Ralph Lauren designer TEAM USA sweater, pulling him in close.

“Start counting,” Shaun whispers and kisses him.