I was hiding under your porch because I love you.

Eddie finally wins a game in October, against the Blues. He goes in because Smith gets hurt, but it still counts. Eddie goes out after with some of the guys, everyone amped up for a seven goal home win.

They're traveling tomorrow, they've got a game the day after, which he's maybe possibly starting, so Eddie takes it easy. He has one beer and lets their praise and back slaps and head pats wash over him. It feels good in a way he doesn't think about too carefully.

Eddie's been pretending, hiding what he is, for a long time now. He's not going to drop to his knees the second a teammate praises him, he's not going to melt down when a coach chews him out. But he can't turn everything off.

He buys the next round, because he wouldn't have gotten that win without their run support, and gets a glass of water for himself while he's up at the bar.

Someone puts their hand on the small of his back and Eddie startles, but it's just Jagr, leaning in next to him as he catches the bartender's eye. Jagr looks over and grins at him, bright and careless, and oh, Eddie has a type. He smiles back.

The bartender is putting a half dozen shot glasses on a tray, pouring something clear into them. Someone else pushes their way to the bar, and Jagr takes a step closer to Eddie.

"Here," he says, putting one of them in front of Eddie. He picks up another, holds it out. "Skål!"

"Oh," Eddie says, hesitating.

"Come on," Jagr says. "For the win."

Eddie shakes his head but he picks up the glass, taps it against Jagr's. Jagr's smile gets wider.

Eddie tosses the shot back. It burns all the way down and he gasps, swallows a cough.

"Good boy," Jagr says, low and easy, and Eddie feels it all the way down his spine. It's a bolt of something that burns hotter than the vodka he just drank and so full of longing it brings tears to his eyes.

And, fuck, Jagr sees it. "Holy shit," he says. "Really?"

Eddie would deny it, but Jagr reaches out and lays his palm against the side of Eddie's neck, brushes his thumb over the hollow of Eddie's throat. Eddie's heartbeat stutters and he nods helplessly.

Jagr's grip tightens for a moment, then he drops his hand and gives the front of Eddie's shirt a tug. "Come on," he says, and pulls him away from the bar.

Eddie's heart is beating like crazy and the noise of the crowd seems very far away. He follow Jagr blindly, all the way to the back, up a flight of stairs. Jagr knocks on a door labeled "Manager's Office" and sticks his head in. He says something, and then the door opens wide and a guy in a button down shirt comes out. The manager shakes Jagr's hand and goes off down the hall, with one incurious glance at Eddie.

Eddie almost laughs, because Jagr just kicked the manager out of his own office so they can -- but Jagr is nudging him into the room, locking the door behind them both, and the laughter dries up in his throat.

Jagr turns around and faces him. He's smiling again, and it's lazy and pleased and interested. "You fake it pretty well, kid," he says. "I had no idea."

Eddie's shoulders curl in automatically and he drops his eyes, looking up at Jagr through his lashes. "Thanks," he says, barely more than a whisper. His knees feel weak, like his legs are going to fold up under him any minute.

Jagr steps closer, into Eddie's space. He puts one hand on Eddie's hip and nudges him backward until he hits the edge of the manager's desk.

"Sit," Jagr says, and Eddie sits down on the edge, hitching himself back enough to spread his legs.

Jagr stands between his spread thighs, his hand still on Eddie's hip. "When was the last time you knelt for someone?" he asks.

"Florida?" The last time he knelt for real, anyway.

"No one here to tell you you're doing a good job?" Jagr asks.

Eddie shakes his head.

"Then I have to do it," Jagr says. "You deserve it."

Eddie drags in a sharp breath. For a moment he's torn between want and a crushing sense of doubt -- this season has been so bad for him --

Jagr grips the back of his neck and gives him a tiny shake. "You were good for us today," he says, and his voice is firm, confident, unquestionable.

The doubt goes quiet and Eddie sighs.

"You were good for us today," Jagr says again. "You came in cold and made the stops we need. You won. You deserve a reward."

Jagr leaves his left hand on the back of Eddie's neck, and with his right hand, he palms Eddie's cock through his jeans.

Eddie jerks. He's hard, and it's almost a surprise to realize it. Jagr pops the button on Eddie's jeans, unzips his fly, and eases his cock out. He runs his hand down the length of it and Eddie lets out a deep, shaky breath.

Jagr makes an approving sound, slides his hand back down to rub his thumb over the head of Eddie's cock. Eddie reaches out with both hands and grabs onto Jagr's waist, just to keep his balance. He ducks his head and watches Jagr's first move over his cock.

Jagr starts talking again, about how he knows how hard Eddie works, about how Eddie stays cheerful even after a bad game or a bad practice and helps keep the mood in the locker room positive. About how Eddie has an amazing smile.

The words, the tone of Jagr's voice are like a touch, sliding warm and soft over his skin, down the length of his spine. Jagr's hand on the back of his neck is the only thing keeping him grounded.

"Come on, kid," Jagr says. "Let go."

He comes like his body was just waiting for permission, a rush of pleasure like a wave crashing over him.

"Good boy," Jagr says, and Eddie's cock jerks again, another shiver of heat running through him.

Eddie slumps forward and rests his forehead on Jagr's shoulder, trying to catch his breath. He feels amazingly calm and steady, like all these sharp edges he hadn't known he'd been carrying around had been smoothed and realigned. Jagr runs a hand down his back.

"I could--" Eddie says, still breathless. He slides one hand down over Jagr's hip, hesitating just before the line of Jagr's cock.

Jagr takes a step back. Eddie lets his hand drop and bites his lip, tries not too look disappointed.

Jagr shakes his head, but he's smiling, rueful and a little hungry around the edges. "Not here," he says. "Call us a taxi."

And Eddie does.

*

Later that night, almost in the morning, Eddie is sprawled across Jaromir's bed, deeply asleep, covered in bites and bruises, still smiling even with his eyes closed. Jaromir picks up his phone and texts Luongo.

WHEN YOU SAID BE NICE TO EDDIE...