“Everything is fine when you’re standing in the eye of the hurricane.”—Bridgit Mendler
In the Eye of the Hurricane (Everything is Fine)
Breathe, Vladimir told himself, knowing that he was choking on his fury, but he couldn’t get his lungs to cooperate any more than he could get the rest of his body to resist when Kevin coaxed him onto a gunnery in the medical room, as if he were injured. Mother of God, Vladimir almost wished that he was injured because it would at least be a rational explanation for Hitchcock not playing him on the power play and as little as possible at any other time, but, no, Coach just appeared to be in the middle of another annual post-season mental meltdown with the whole team as collateral damage again.
“Breathe.” Kevin, as he so often did, had reached inside Vladimir’s head, snatched the thought written across Vladimir’s brain, and spoken it so softly that Vladimir almost couldn’t pinpoint where his mind began and Kevin’s words began.
Vladimir took a shuddering breath, but far from being soothed by the influx of oxygen merely gained the energy to protest with a snide smirk, “Don’t really need to breathe. Not as if I’m winded from Hitch using me on the power play, or, you know, at all.”
Obviously deciding to occupy Vladimir’s mouth with something beside venting, Kevin bent down to grab a lime Gatorade from the mini-fridge beside the gunnery. Tossing it at Vladimir’s face, he grunted, “Shut up and drink, Vova.”
Vladimir caught the bottle before it could smash into his nose. With fingers quaking and clumsy from wrath, he twisted off the cap—indulging in a fantasy that he was wringing Hitch’s neck like the fat goose that he was instead—and, afraid that he would barf up his disgust with how he was being kept on the bench when he should be allowed to run free like a stallion and score, muttered, “Why?”
“It’ll replenish your electrolytes.” Kevin sat down beside Vladimir on the gunnery and nipped at the nape of his neck, teeth nicking at flesh in a way Vladimir could never find anything less than titillating. “Your sweat tastes as if it needs more electrolytes.”
“Bullshit, Shatty.” Emitting a noise that mingled pleasure at the touch of Kevin’s teeth on his bare skin with annoyance at Kevin’s comment, Vladimir rolled his eyes, but softened the impact of this gesture of scorn by coiling the hand that wasn’t holding onto the Gatorade Kevin had given him through the tangles of Kevin’s damp hair, locking Kevin against his neck, so Kevin would have tangible proof that Vladimir wanted him to keep nibbling. “Coach didn’t play me enough to work up a sweat, and, anyway, yelling at him rose my electrolytes more than Gatorade could.”
“Calm down.” Kevin flicked out his tongue and licked a path from Vladimir’s earlobe along his jawline to his pursed lips.
“I can’t calm down!” Vladimir exploded, hurling the Gatorade bottle at the wall with enough force that it was a minor miracle that it did not shatter on impact, and blinking back tears of anger that rose to his eyes, snapping at himself that he would not let Coach make him cry. “He’s not playing me again, we’re going to lose this game, and we’re going to blow another series lead as he lets the Hawks make us their bitches. I know I could make a difference and score the goals we need to win if he would just let me play, but he keeps me tied to the bench. Fuck him with a hockey stick.”
“Fuck him.” Kevin’s eyes were gleaming with a playfulness that Vladimir found entirely inappropriate to the occasion as he echoed the gist of Vladimir’s final, irate sentiment. “That idea has some merits, but I have an even better one.”
“Oh, really?” Vladimir arched an eyebrow, unsure whether Kevin was going to offer sympathy or mockery.
“For sure.” Kevin’s tongue broke through the barrier of Vladimir’s lips to explore the caverns of Vladimir’s cheeks as he wrapped an arm around Vladimir’s waist and tugged Vladimir against him, so that Vladimir could feel Kevin’s hard dick jamming against his backside. “How about I fuck you?”
Vladimir, spurred by Kevin’s erect penis pressing against his buttocks, considered playing hard-to-get, but, figuring that the fact Kevin could feel his own aroused cock given that he had an arm slung around Vladimir’s waist would make the game very short, instead shot a coy glance over his shoulder at Kevin. “After the game?”
“Of course.” Kevin cupped Vladimir’s chin between his palms. “Win or lose.”
Relaxing at Kevin’s promise of lovemaking, Vladimir reclined against Kevin’s chest, taking a deep breath, as he realized that, win or lose, Kevin would be kissing away his tears (whether of joy or anger that mattered less than the fact that Kevin was there to make it as if they had never existed), and rubbing raw parts of Vladimir that he never knew he had inside of him until Kevin brushed against them as he pounded into Vladimir, always able to be felt but never able to hurt. Vladimir’s storm would collide with Kevin’s calm, and it would be like being in the eye of the hurricane. Maybe once rebuilding rather than more destruction would follow the eye of the hurricane.
“You’re calmer now.” Kevin’s hand slid along the bow of Vladimir’s collarbone before drifting under his shirt to massage Vladimir’s stiffening nipples. “Good, because we’re going to win if not this game than this series, but you have to believe in that in order for it to happen. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy, Vova.”
“I don’t believe in fate, Shatty,” Vladimir lied, as he snaked fingers back to squeeze Kevin’s dick through his pants, relishing the faint moan he tore from Kevin’s lips.
“A self-fulfilling prophecy isn’t fate.” Kevin panted, pushing his cock against Vladimir’s palm. “It’s choice, Vova.”
“Like we chose to be together?” Vladimir flashed Kevin a half-moon smile.
“Nope.” Kevin tapped Vladimir on the nose. “That was destiny.”