Chapter Text
“Welcome to the 2018 Winter Olympics here, in Pyeongchang, South Korea! We hope that you have a pleasant and fulfilling time whilst you are here competing.
Please take full advantage of our Olympic Village and facilities here at the Alpensia Resort in the Pyeongchang Mountains, and to those who are not competing within the resort on the slopes, arrangements for your travel to your appropriate event locations have been all accounted for and you will find a schedule within this welcome pack.
If you wish to travel in your leisure time, please do not hesitate to contact an assistant and they will make the necessary arrangements for you. Please do not leave the resort by yourself as it is easy to become lost within a country you do not know.
On behalf of South Korea – Good Luck! Passion. Connected.”
“What a load of cheese, huh?” Mickey sniffed, waving the embossed paper in the air with a grimace at the flouncy way in which it wafted, as though made from tissue paper and not card.
“Shut up Mickey, I think it's nice,” Louie chuckled, glancing at it as Mickey placed the card down on the coffee table with a peculiar grimace. Louie nudged his shoulder, “The OC tomorrow is gonna be pretty fucking sweet bro.”
“You think walking around wavin' and being all cheerful while some nut off the team is hauling the flag around is sweet?” Mickey grouched, rubbing his nose a little, “Nah, not my cup of tea. Would rather watch it on TV man, drinking and fucking relaxing before we gotta go into battle.”
“Speaking of, what's it say about the ice?” Louie asked, leaning back against the plush sofa and looking around the vast foyer they were sitting in. He waved as a group of fellow countrymen wandered past towards a massive set of doors. They inclined their heads, noticing the similar uniform, but said nothing. Mickey leant forward and took out another card from within the welcome pack and scowled at it while Louie frowned and pursed his mouth at the retreating backs of his team. Skiers. He flipped them the bird for good measure, smiling brightly in case one of them happened to turn around and see.
“We're staying up here, but-” Mickey shifted forward and held the card up close, squinting ridiculously for a second before flicking it and frowning so hard the pinch between his eyebrows went white. “What the fuck? Whoa, our arenas are on the fucking coast bro, Gangneung Hockey Centre, in Gangneung and that's like, two and half fucking hours in a shuttle bus-”
“We got the super speed rail line dude, won't take that long,” Louie smiled, trying to sooth Mickey before he tore the card to bits with frustration he need not be feeling. Mickey rubbed his face while Louie ticked his head and looked thoughtful, “So it's like, near Seoul?”
“According to this it's close, yeah. Anyone competing on ice will be down there, so, kind of begs the question, why put us all up in the fucking mountains if half of us are travelling down there?” Mickey spat, hitting the card with the back of his hand just because, and then stuffed it back in the stylish packet before folding his arms and throwing himself backwards into the consuming cushions with his customary scowl. Louie found him amusing and nudged Mickey's bouncing knee with his foot.
“It's good to keep the teams together dude, you know, promote bonding and all that shit, it's nice. Just 'cause you're so stiff doesn't mean every fucker on the planet is too, well, except the skiers. Enjoy yourself man, yeah, we're competing with the big boys, but it don't mean you gotta act like you've got the coach's fist up your ass all the time,” he teased but Mickey didn't shift himself or the face he had, so Louie tapped his chest with his hand and stood up. “Come on, s'go find the guys and see what we're doing and where we're going and see if we can't get one of your sneaky smokes in, give you a nicotine hit before you hit something.”
“I ain't riled up man,” Mickey protested, hauling his duffel bag off the floor and pulling the handle out of his pull-along with venom, yanking it alongside Louie's as they left the sofa ridden area of the foyer.
Louie barked a laugh and ducked his head, “Fuck you, you ain't riled up, you're buzzing! Flight got you all jumpy and shit and 'cause we were behind schedule, no smoke break. You know, being here and all that, means we can't be slackin' and we gotta stick to his routines. And you, you're the worst for stressin' out, Nicholls nearly lost his fuckin' nose man.”
Mickey stopped and raised his eyebrows to his hairline, silencing Louie with a sharp look, “Hey, he shouldn't have been spewin' about planes and crashes at fuck o'clock in the morning when I was only allowed one cigarette and half a fucking coffee. He's lucky I punched him once.”
“Exactly my point, you're wound tighter than the wire-tie Coach put on the sandwiches baggies. You either gotta get laid real good or we go get you a sneaky pack of smokes and hide out on the slopes for a few hours while we can. We got a free night tonight so like fuck am I stayin' in my room.”
They started walking again, heading for the great set of doors every other athlete was beelining for. Mickey frowned and side-eyed his friend, “We got a free night? Coach told me we got a fuckin' sit down thing with the 'top dogs' of each division.”
“Huh, nah man, not what he told us. Mind you, you are like, Senlintsky's right hand man so, you gotta go to it because of that, maybe? I don't fuckin' know dude. Told you, your opinions would get you noticed and Cap really does listen to your whiny fuckin' spiels-”
“Hey! Fuck you, asshole!” Mickey huffed, no heat, but still he refused to smile.
“I feel for you though bro, bum deal, but hey, nice food right?” Louie never ceased to make Mickey's mood lift, always thinking of the good in every situation, and to keep face, Mickey had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop the smile from breaking out.
“Yeah, great,” he drawled, “Means I gotta do that sit down and shut up shit with the other mouths of the ice section of our team. Fuck, the curlers man, they just … they drain my life bar to absolute fucking zero. I can't even feel angry enough to smack the suckers for yabberin' at me. They're just fucking exhausting, you know?”
“Ha! I feel you man, they drone on and on and it's like, shut the fuck up already, I glazed over half a day ago. Bright side?” Louie grinned, dodging a pair of brightly dressed competitors running through the doorway. He frowned and then his face cleared abruptly, the leer back in place as they wandered down a long, warmly lit corridor with mosaic carpeting that hissed under the wheels of their suitcases. Mickey hated every fucking inch of it. “The skaters. Man, the speed skaters are pretty awesome and the figure skaters are all right, I mean, the dudes are friendly enough and buff but the ladies man, the ladies are lean and nice.”
Mickey sniffed and found the smile had broken loose once he caught Louie's wriggling eyebrows and lecherous smirk. “Christ man, you sure you don't wanna go instead? Feel like I'm withholding somethin' from you!” he chuckled, looking back towards the end of the corridor in order to hide that fact that his face fell – Louie had no idea he was gay gay, just thought he was Bi, and Mickey had felt no reason to change that. Louie probably wouldn't give two shits, and neither would his team mates because he was a cracking player and they cared little about what any of them got up to behind closed doors. But, when Louie got nasty in the locker rooms or trash-talked in the rink, Mickey was sent to clean up, and Louie had an unfortunate motor-mouth that ran without his brain's authority. He'd spat once or twice that Mickey would bend over the guy he was trash-talking to, would fuck him over in the literal sense and then bang his chick for the fun of it, and the result had been, when Mickey was let loose to finish the fight, a busted nose and a penalty for Mickey and filthy insults from the opposing team and never ending pot shots that, usually, fucked the game because Mickey couldn't concentrate through his rage and his team would back him no matter what. Nine out of ten, he'd leave the ice in order to save the play. If being Bi caused that much shit - and Louie wasn't the only one who used him like that to get a fight going - then telling the soft idiot he was full gay would no doubt fuck them all over, major.
“Nah bro, I know you got your eye on Carolina.”
“Who-alina?”
“The blonde bean pole from Cali man, you know?” Louie bumped his shoulder cheekily and Mickey just nodded and gave a grunted uh huh to shut him up. Carolina was a bitch and a snarky, pent up, ball-busting, rich-daddy, holidays to Peru every week, top of the bill kind of bitch at that. Mickey fucking hated her with a passion, and he hated that she was a she because God knew he'd imagined taking her down with a stick on the ice every single time she did a Lutz. Every single time.
“Milkovich! Fael!”
“Fuck,” Mickey muttered, forcing a smile when their Coach caught up to them from behind, slugging them both on the shoulders as he hopped backwards to keep level with them. His chipper attitude was rolling off of him in waves and, combined with his team uniform glaring at them, it made Mickey feel sick. If it weren't the fucking Olympics, he'd be high-tailing it back to the airport.
“Rooms are sorted. Just go to the desk up ahead, state your name and sport and country, obviously, then go unload. Fael, you have the night free but I want you to stay with your team, got that? Get drunk and I'll kick your lilly ass,” the man raised his brows and pointed at Louie sternly.
“Yes coach.”
“Milkovich,” Coach turned and walked at his side, his hand tight on the back of Mickey's neck. The man was a tank, a loving man away from the ice, but a tank nonetheless. “You've got a lovely evening with me and Senlintsky and the other team leaders. Just a general meeting over the organisation of the march for the OC and just simply to meet each other as you'll no doubt bump into one another around here. Suit's in your room, someone will come for you at 7pm, don't be fucking late boy, and no alcohol.”
“Coach,” Mickey agreed with a false smile, trying to hold his footing as the man shook him with a chuckle and released his neck.
“S'my boy! Listen, you haven't seen Roberts have you? Fucker disappeared earlier and I haven't seen him anywhere.”
Mickey shook his head and Louie shrugged with a face that said nah bro, I ain't seen him. “Sorry Coach, we got on the train after you guys. It was only me and Lou and a handful of the BST. Not seen anyone else,” Mickey said and sucked in his bottom lip, rolling his eyes to prevent a groan when his coach clapped his shoulder hard enough to make his knees wobble dangerously. Fucking tank.
“If you see the fucker, tell him his ass is grass,” the man grumbled into Mickey's ear.
“And you're the lawnmower. Got it, Coach.”
“7, Milkovich,” he warned, turning after one final stare that had Louie shrinking his lanky frame in on himself, then he was off down the corridor towards the foyer and the entrance beyond, in search.
“Jesus fuck, man,” Mickey sighed, rotating his shoulder, “He should fucking play for us, he'd smash anyone stupid enough to ram him. Fuck, ah.”
“He did, once, almost killed a guy. He's a good coach, brutal, but one of the best we've had bro. Hey, let's check into this wonderland man so I can go chill the fuck out and you can go suffer-”
Mickey side swiped Louie with his duffel bag, “Asshole.”
“Good evening, gentlemen, welcome to our Olympic Village. I see from your clothing that you are from Russia-”
“Uh, no, the USA Ma'am,” Louie cut in with a smile, ignoring Mickey's cursing.
“Oh, I am deeply apologetic. You wear such similar tracksuits, and your colours are the same. I am sorry,” the receptionist flushed cherry red with embarrassment so Louie beamed at her as Mickey forced a bright smile and waved her off. “Team USA – names and sport please?”
“Louie Fael, Ice Hockey, Ma'am,” Louie smiled again, clearly flirting as he leant on the bar of the desk with one arm. The whole display had Mickey trying not to fake heave, so he turned away while the blushing lady tapped the information into the system in search, and his eyes landed on something that pique his interest immediately.
“Sir, you told me your are Team UK, and there is no Callahan listed,” the male receptionist said, clear enough for Mickey to hear, but not loud enough, blending in with the hum and buzz of the busy desk. The tall redhead was tapping the bar impatiently, like he'd had to repeat himself a thousand times, and he looked tired and pissed off. Mickey liked him already, eyeing the fist clenching at the man's hip.
“No, I'm not Callahan and I'm not from the UK. I've told you this information like, fifteen times now. Shall I write it down because it's clearly too loud in here for your to hear me properly. Yeah, pen and paper, please,” the guy looked like he was about to deflate and slide to the floor. Even Mickey couldn't actually tell where he was from. Yeah, the dude was wearing red, white and blue, but how many other countries had that colour? The fact that he'd growled through his teeth and dangerously low, it made it rather hard for his accent to be defined with all the noise going on. Mickey glanced at him, at the shape of his thighs and the length of his body – Mickey found himself leaning back a little to get a good look at his ass, trying to determine how tall the guy was from the way he was leaning on the bar, swearing into his hands while the receptionist dug out a pen and a pad.
“Mick?” Louie called, not looking from the lady now grinning behind her computer.
“Shit,” he whispered, thinking he'd been caught staring, watching, ogling – but he hadn't. “Yeah?”
“Check in bro.”
“Mickey Milkovich. Shit, shit no, sorry,” Mickey closed his eyes and stepped closer to the bar, “Sorry, that's not my given name. Mikhaylo Milkovich, Ice Hockey.”
“Why do you have two names?” the lady asked as she typed in the information, trying to concentrate while Louie licked his bottom lip slowly. Mickey rolled his eyes and focussed on her even though his eyes itched to stare at the red-headed vision swearing to his right.
“Mickey is a nickname, I guess, or a name I go by, prefer, you know?”
“Oh yes, indeed. My name is a very complex one, but I like to be called Kura,” she wasn't looking at Mickey as she said this, but her screen intently, occasionally flicking her eyes to Louie who was still flirting.
“I'm – sweet jesus, hey, Sir? Excuse me?” it took Mickey a moment to realise that he was 'Sir' and he turned to see the redhead staring at him with a pained and desperate look on his chiselled face.
“The fuck you want?”
“Exceptionally rude,” he grinned, “Would you mind helping me here? The receptionist can't understand me very well because I talk, apparently, like my mouth doesn't want to work. Slow, and he thinks I'm drunk and is about two fucking seconds from calling my coach, the one he thinks I belong to, and security. You got a nice deep voice, he can't pretend to misunderstand you, and I fucking swear he's doing it on purpose for a kick. You look like you wouldn't stand for that kind of bullshit,” he smirked, eyeing Mickey's build like he approved of how threatening he came off. He was also American, that much was clear now he stood close enough, and his voice was smooth and captivating.
“Uh, sure, whatever man.”
“A real team player. Thanks man,” the guy smiled, “He's got my name, just can't grasp USA from UK. I don't have a fucking lisp either man, just a wide mouth-”
“He know your sport?” Mickey cut him off before his head began to fill with filth.
“Yeah, he knows that, just can't work out where I'm from by my accent. Jesus.”
“Not like natives compete for their own teams sometimes, right?” Mickey pointed out with a smirk and the guy actually flushed, looking at the bar awkwardly. “You a BS or skier? Man you look like one of the crazy fucking Luge guys.”
Red laughed, “Nah, not Bob Sleigh or Luge, that shits scary.”
“Yeah it is!” Mickey agreed, turning when the receptionist cleared his throat. “Hey, Sir? He's on my team, USA, United States of America, apple pie eaters, too many accents and states to be healthy. You know, underneath Canada, above Mexico. Big Ol' Uncle Sam. Got that?” he said as nicely as he could, giving the man his sweetest smile, though he probably looked like he was grimacing in pain. The receptionist looked thoughtful for a second, then he put his pen up and nodded, typing away quickly on the computer.
“Thanks man. See you around, I guess. Go Team USA right?”
“Fuck red, could you be any more sarcastic?” Mickey pushed off the bar with a chuckle, dipping to pick up his duffel bag as Louie pushed off from the bar with two packs in his hand.
“Hah, long day.”
“Tellin' me, man-”
“Milkovich! Get your ass up to your floor and sort yourself out boy. 7! Haul ass, you got just over an hour!” Mickey sighed and licked his lip before turning with another fake smile pasted on his face, nodding and saluting his coach as he waded through the crowd with Roberts tailing him. The guy looked miserable, no doubt had an ear chewing for vanishing like some stupid super hero.
“Coach Thompson? Oh, you're a hockey player? Nice,” red said, nodding to himself while smiling softly at Mickey who coughed and wandered around him in order to avoid that green gaze.
“Gotta go dude.”
“Obviously. I'd haul it if he was breathing down my neck,” the guy laughed, turning to keep his sight on Mickey, “Thanks again, for helping.”
“Yeah, sure, no worries,” and with a nod, Mickey turned fully into the crowd of competitors and caught up with Louie before he went through a set of doors that lead into another long corridor. Louie nudged him and wriggled his brows again, “Shut the fuck up, Lou, I helped him out. His receptionist wasn't listening as intently as ours was. Fucking flirty bastard, the hell man? You don't go anywhere without turning it on.”
“What can I say bro? Ladies love Louie. But-” Louie stopped to yank a door open, the cold air smashing them both in the face, “the men love Mickey.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, shut up Louie!” Mickey tried not to stomp along the walkway towards the hotels, but he was too tried to try all that much. Louie kept giggling just behind his left shoulder and Mickey was sorely being tested because he really wanted to smack the smile off his face.
“Hey, least you'll see him again real soon bro.”
“Fuckin' bro me one more time assface – wait, what do you mean?” Mickey turned to see Louie shrug.
“The meal br – Mick. You'll see him all suited and booted.”
“What the fuck for? Who is he exactly?” he tried to place the voice, the face, the hair, but all he came up with was the possibility that he was Johnson, the ski-jumper, or Lepkint, the speed skier, or even Barsen, the snow boarder. None of them were in the ice sector of Team USA.
Louie shoved his arm and snorted, “The hell man, you don't know who that piece was? Blind motherfucker, anyone with a pulse knows that face. I'm a ladies man, but I'd bend over for him in a second man, Jesus fuck I would-”
“Lou!” Mickey sighed, though his friends words struck a bell – he'd said something similar before, and about a guy, but Mickey couldn't quite find the name he knew he knew because goddamn, it was sitting right there, he knew it, but it couldn't say or see it. He pinched his nose and inhaled, focussing.
“I know, shut the fuck up.”
“Nah bro, explain yourself. Who would you fuck – oh my god, that was Gallagher?!” Mickey hissed, his heart rate pounding through his body because damn, from knowing what figure skaters looked like under their sparkly outfits – not his fault, accidentally wandering into the wrong changing area whilst sharing a rink in the summer – now had him seeing Gallagher in a whole other light because, fuck, the male skaters were hot and lean and seriously got his motor running. Knowing that the red vision with the coy smile and doe eyes and tall-as-a-building body, no doubt built like an Adonis under that baggy tracksuit, was a figure skater, a fluid and bendy and yet powerful man, well, Mickey was sure his body temperature was about to set off an avalanche because fuck, he felt as hot as fire.
“The newest face on the Figure Team. Record holding, jump smashing, body swaying Ian Gallagher. And you, Mickey, caught his eye.”
“Fuck, shit,” Mickey whispered hotly, eyeing where they were walking and finding nothing appealing about freezing temperatures and snow everywhere. Ian Gallagher. Jesus.
“Yeah, fuck shit. Damn bro, lucky son of a bitch. He's not only friendly, lovely and sweet, he's fucking stunning to watch, like some kind of poetry in motion that guy. Christ, I mainly watch the pairs and the women, but I've happily sat and watched him bust out a routine, s'a goddamn dream bro. The only other guy I've watched without getting bored is Jason Brown. You seen him? Fuck, bro, he can move. Jesus, I think I might be falling in love with the male figure skaters bro-”
“Oh god, Louie, shut up! Why would he be at this sit down bullshit?” Mickey rushed, desperate to get his mind off of men doing triple Salchow's and the splits, bending like nobody's business.
“In the running to carry the flag tomorrow. Also, being the newest and on par with Max and Jason, the guy is pretty important for scores.”
“How the fuck do you know all this stuff?”
“Unlike you, I make friends outside of my sport. I like the O-Games-”
“Seriously, you better mean these ones and not fucking bedroom shit.”
“- and, I take interest in the rest of our fucking team man, like, collectively. 'Sides, I take keen interest in anything skate related, 'cause you can learn a little more from them. How do you think I managed to dodge that ram Baker fucking came at me with last week? I watched Gallagher and Brown training in Canada, they did some come-at-me-bro shit and like, at the last fucking second man they twisted like I did with Baker, 'cept neither of them got hurt and Baker got a knee to his balls. The fucking asshole deserves black balls for tryin' to take me down when I wasn't looking.”
“You know he's gonna beat on you in training tomorrow mornin', right?” Mickey chuckled, remembering the look on Baker's face as he went down on the ice, howling threats as Louie sped off to the other side of the rink, hiding behind Senlintsky.
“Yeah, I'm expecting it bro, but if he gets outta hand, you got me right?” Louie looked a little worried, though he didn't really need to be. Mickey had seen first hand what Louie could dish out if he needed to, but as he wasn't on the offensive like Mickey, he tried to stay out of the fighting so he wasn't penalised or sent off, so he could score more. Louie wasn't a little guy either, three inches higher in the atmosphere than Mickey, and built like a wall, like all of them were, but Baker was bigger and had been playing for the team longer.
“Always Lou,” Mickey assured him with a grin, knowing that if push came to shove, he could take Baker but, ultimately, he'd be left busted up and out of the play. If Baker wanted to take Louie out, for protecting himself after foul play, then Mickey would do what he had to. Team or not, foul play was shitty.
“Thanks man, I love you,” Louie yanked him close and planted a wet kiss on Mickey's temple, something he groaned about, shoving the bumbling idiot away. Louie looked down at his pack and then looked around at the hotels, “Building with a flake on it... flake, flake. Shit man, it's pretty. Big too. We are on the fifth floor, in the red zone.”
“Best get up there then, before Coach appears again and fucking chews on me for dragging my feet,” Mickey grumbled, hauling his bag up higher and walking quickly towards the hotel lit up with ice-blue lighting and decorated with a massive snowflake on the roof. “Feel like I'm in fucking Lapland or some shit, waiting on Saint Nick to come flying outta somewhere, Ho-Ho-Hoing his ass off.”
“Right?” Louie smacked his shoulder with a laugh. “Wouldn't mind a few of these ladies dressed up as Elves though, right? Damn, look at her body Mick, look!”
Mickey snorted and looked at the woman in question, some brunette dressed in a ski-suit, dragging skis behind her with a strut that said she knew exactly how curvaceous and sexy she looked. Mickey gave his friend a wink and stuck his tongue between his teeth to save face, not at all interested, but the guy behind her, now his ass got a good staring at while Louie watched the woman saunter past. “Finland?”
“Guessing so. Ain't that where Lapland is?”
“Uh, yeah, think so,” Mickey mumbled, approaching the doors to their building, turning to see Louie standing and watching the Finnish skiers walking away with his mouth open. “Lou! Fucking H, move man.”
Louie whistled lowly and clicked his tongue, turning with a cherry red face and a filthy grin, “Damn though Mick, real fucking elves. Shit, I'd like to be the filling in that sandwi-”
“Fael, shut the fuck up man, seriously. Not been here a full hour yet and I've had enough of you,” Mickey threw his hands up and stomped into the building, scowling at all and everything in there as he trudged to the elevators and stabbed the button far too many times.
“Easy Milkovich, I'm sure the hosts don't wanna be paying for new access buttons because you're so fuckin' riled bro,” Louie snarked, ducking away from Mickey's fist with a laugh. “Chill bro. Chill.”
“I couldn't be more chill, bro, my feet are freezing and my dick's shot back up inside my body. It's like, -40 or some shit. I'm cold Lou, I need a shower and I need to game face myself for the next few hours to get through this bullshit dinner.” The doors pinged and slid open with a hiss and Mickey moved in as fast as he could, ignoring Louie as he stared in wonder at the décor in the box. It took less than a minute to get to their floor and as they turned out in to the corridor, Mickey groaned at the lighting and Louie laughed in delight.
“Literally zoned us man,” he chuckled, heading down the right-hand hall that was lit with red sconces while the left was a sickening purple. “I'm here, nice and close to the exits. Mick, look dude, I know we're all tired and shit, but try and get a little excited man, it's the fucking Winter Olympics bro, and we're competing and you know, if we play the way Thompson says, we're in the running for a fucking medal dude! Just, remember that yeah? Not some nationals bullshit here. So you gotta go sit and be nicey-nice for a few hours, smile a lot more than your face can take and beat on Olympic players in the rink, but who fucking cares, right? This shit is epic! Besides that, there's like, tail everywhere man, think of that if nothing else.”
Louie's enthusiasm and cheer made Mickey smile, genuinely, and Louie could see it was, he knew Mickey too well. Louie unlocked his door and, before Mickey could move, pulled him close and hugged him, kissed him hard on the mouth, goosed him and winked before shoving him backwards and locking the door so Mickey couldn't sock him for his games.
“Fucker!” Mickey yelled through the door and could swear he heard Louie laughing, so he kicked it and moved off down the doors until he found his number, seven away from Louie's, near to a massive window and set of sofas. The view was something else, but Mickey merely shrugged and dropped his bag in favour of finding his keycard in the pack he'd had under his arm, eager to get in a hot shower and out from under this red-light-district feeling he had standing in the hall. Opening the door, he could see the plush state of the room and smiled, kicking his suitcase in before the door shut on it. The room was enormous, one side a living area with a TV on the wall, stunning art and furniture, windows that overlooked the slopes – the bedroom on the other side of the arch in the centre wall had a queen-sized bed, layered with fleeces and sheets and Mickey moaned at the sight of it. He wanted nothing more than to curl up in that bed and sleep the Games away. He had a small kitchenette just inside the door with basics, expensive items, but basic all the same, and he assumed the door he could see if he bent enough, next to the bed, was the bathroom. He toed off his Nike's and dragged his bags into the mini-apartment and through to the bedroom, throwing himself face first into the pillows of the bed and he moaned loud – it was as soft a feathers.
“Fuck,” he groaned, snuggling into them, hugging the biggest one under him, humping it a little because Jesus, he had found heaven. “Fuck,” he spat when he hauled himself out of them, heading for the bathroom which, turned out, was a walk in closet filled with uniform in variations, his kit and pads and three suits with shoes in boxes on the floor. He sniffed and turned to look around the room, in search of the bathroom and smiled when he spotted another door that had been hidden behind the dividing wall. He marched to it, impressed as the closet door shut itself softly, and peeked inside the bathroom and immediately fell in love with the shower – floor to ceiling glass panels with some frosted swirls on them, a box shower head and room to swing his hockey stick, taps and knobs and baskets with toiletries and a towel heater just outside the door.
“Movin' in, fuck the game man,” he muttered in awe, stroking the glass lovingly. He glanced at the tub, a massive thing set in a raised section of the floor, all pristine white in coal slate. He knew he'd only need that if he took a battering, and he prayed he didn't need to use it at all. Everything in the room screamed money, care and pride – it was gorgeous. Mickey sighed and stripped off, carefully putting his tracksuit and team shirt on the counter, not wanting to mess up the room just yet, and it took him far too long to work out how the fuck to turn the shower on.
“Fuckin-” he growled as no knob or tap worked, “Turn on, bitch!” he yelled, his tired body protesting and making him feel like he wanted to cry and punch the tiles. The shower beeped when he shouted turn on again and erupted over him, soft and just a tiny touch too hot, but Mickey melted anyway, breathing out a long moan as he licked the roof of his mouth, bracing against the wall. “Sweet Jesus.”
It took him half an hour to wash, working out which knob did what, some taps changing the temperature, while others caused the pressure to change, one knob pulsating the flow, another merging soap with the water. He didn't want to leave, but when he did, he was pink and drowsy and as relaxed as he was after a good pounding, only smelling like cherry and vanilla, not sweat and come. He dried and dressed in the suit labelled for the night, smiling at himself in the mirror to practise enough to be sure he could pass as being fucking happy, and not in agony, and sighed when the door knocked. On the other side was an immaculately dressed man, looking like a butler, and he bowed deeply. He looked more like an up-scale pimp in the red glow of the hall, not that Mickey would say so, because that raised more questions than good.
“I am here, Mr Milkovich, to escort you to the restaurant for your meeting.”
“All right, thank you. Do I need to bring anything with me?” Mickey asked as he ran his hand through his hair one more time to make sure the gel kept the long top swept back from his face. He pocketed his keycard and tugged the sleeves of his grey jacket, and the butler-assistant beamed at him, giving him a once over with a tiny thumbs up.
“Just yourself, Sir.”
In the foyer of the building, Mickey ducked and flipped Louie the bird as the man wolf whistled at him from where he was sitting on yet another plush sofa, three of their team with him, all hooting and goading Mickey for being dressed like some kind of Bond.
“Knock 'em dead, Milky!” David laughed.
“You're the eye candy for the night, baby, woohoo! I'd take you home sugar, come sit on my lap eh?” Louie winked at him and Mickey ran over to him quickly, ignoring the look from his escort, and got the blond in a headlock from behind. “Mick, no, Mickey, no, I'm sorry. Tap out! Bitch, let go, fuck!”
“God, fuck each other already-”
“You shut up, Kenn,” Mickey laughed at David, winking at Seth who covered his face with a wail. Louie coughed when Mickey released him and squeaked as Mickey yanked his head back against the sofa and kissed him, stuffing his tongue into his shocked mouth before wandering off victorious.
“Gross, dude!” Louie yelled, “Nice to know you brushed your fuckin' teeth though, asshole.”
“You love it Lou, don't you fuckin' protest,” said Seth, amused and yet not. He couldn't work out what the hell was wrong with the two of them, kissing each other like some kind of game, but he didn't find it offensive or disgusting any more than he would if one of them was a chick. Best friends were strange creatures.
“Lets go,” Mickey said to his smiling escort, giving Louie both middle fingers as he backed out of the entrance and out into the freezing air. The shock of it had him gasping, jogging carefully to catch up and get in the golf-cart. “Cold, yeah?”
“Very. It will not take us long, so you can be happy knowing you will not freeze to death before your meeting, Sir,” the chap said with a smile, his accent chopping his words, zipping along the designated lane quickly, heading for the area beyond the hotels where shops and eateries popped up. It took five freezing cold minutes before the cart stopped outside a restaurant decked in winter-esque decorations and lighting, and Mickey dogged the escorts steps until they were waiting to be seated inside where it was luxurious and warm and soft violin music weaved through the air.
“Mr Milkovich, I will be back to collect you in a few hours. Enjoy your meal and your company. Good evening,” Mickey smiled as his escort bowed and left him to be taken to a table in the back, a huge thing with over 20 seats around it, some filled, others empty, all placed with swan-like napkins and a ton of silverware and glasses that had Mickey frowning.
“Your seat, Sir,” the waitress swung her arm out elegantly and beamed as Mickey nodded his thanks, and she left. His coach had bitched at him for not being late, but the fucker himself was not here, so Mickey smiled smugly and sat himself down, looking around and feeling so completely out of place. He looked down the table and noticed the skaters, both speed and figure, chatting away while the guy from the curling team sipped his water and eyed a fish tank in the wall.
“Milkovich?” Mickey's head snapped up and he swallowed tightly, trying his hardest not to look Ian up and down in his navy suit, but it was a difficult thing to do.
“Gallagher,” he greeted with a smile, standing to shake his extended hand. “Get accommodated eventually?”
Ian smiled and ducked his head, “Yeah. Tenth floor of the flaked building.”
“Oh yeah? I'm on the fifth. Red zoned, not sure if that's on purpose due to being hockey players, or if they got the name wrong and think we're fuckin' hookers.”
“Yeah? I'm sure that's stunning to see, the red, I mean,” Ian laughed and let go of his hand slowly, his gaze strong and making Mickey flush all too warm again. “I've been quarantined in the yellow, like we're in a biohazard area or something. Too bright man, it hurts my head.”
“No doubt. I prefer red, myself,” Mickey said quietly, almost running from the restaurant because hell, he wasn't flirting, no way. He was. By accident. It was Ian's fault for smiling and staring at Mickey and wearing that gaddamn suit that hugged him like Mickey wanted to.
“And I like blue,” Ian popped an eyebrow up and turned to look down the table as movement caught their attention. Jason was waving Ian over and Max was grinning, fingering a wine glass stem obscenely. “See you around, Milkovich,” Ian said, moving away with a lingering stare and all Mickey could do was nod dumbly and sit himself back down with a thump.
“Dude, you're early, what gives?” Mickey laughed as his Captain was ushered to the table, looking harried and flushed from the cold.
“Coach chewed on me enough that I got haulin' my ass. I didn't want to give him any more reason to chew me out tonight than he already has. But, in saying that, I got collected early enough I guess, so it's not all on me... Lookin' sharp, Bart,” Mickey said, laughing as his deliberate eye-fucking made Senlintsky flush red and fidget with irritation.
“Fuck off Mick,” he smiled, sitting opposite. “Ready to meet the rest of the ice team? Eat gorgeous food and curse the no alcohol rule to high heaven? Hey, had a smoke yet?”
“No, maybe, yes and no.”
“Same man,” Bart sighed, “Gonna be a long night huh? Still, you look pretty and I don't mind having you as a visual for the night. Shouldn't be too much really, just introductions, any rotas for rink training, though I'm sure we have separated arenas... fuck knows man, I just wanna eat and sleep and forget hockey for one night. Think I could bang Carolina?”
“The fuck dude?” Mickey choked on his water, “Ugh, Jesus, she's a bitch, go after her, see what you get. Don't ever ask me that again, right?”
“It's either her or you, man,” Bart sighed, teasing Mickey like the fucker he was and he got a kick in the shin for it. “Harsh Mick, you know I love your mouth, it's so plump and filthy.”
“Fuck. Off.” Mickey warned, grinning into his glass as Senlintsky winked at him and pinned him with a playful and completely dirty smile. Neither of them had done anything remotely sexual together, but Bart, from the second he learnt Mickey was Bi, had used it to tease him mercilessly, meaning to harm at all, but it still got Mickey's blood going. Bart was gorgeous, dark and suave and fucking brutal in game, sweet and kind when he wasn't busting your back or taunting the shit out of you with a deep voice that had girls melting in their panties. Still, Mickey would never bang him even if he could, Bart was his friend and just wasn't his type and he'd heard his Captain fucking women on tours before and the man was loud and whiny. It was all for fun. Camaraderie.
“Boys!” the Coach bellowed as he was lead through the tables and Mickey sighed at the people coming in behind. A long night indeed, and if Gallagher kept shooting him curious glances and tiny smiles like he had been, overhearing Bart, then Mickey was going to have a hell of a time concentrating on eating, let alone listening and answering.
“Seriously Mick, crawl under the table and get to work, I can't deal with this, need a distraction,” Bart urged him quietly through his teeth and Mickey bunched up his mouth and threw his napkin at him, trying not to laugh or kick him harder than before.
“Keep on, Senlintsky, you'll lose your side-kick I swear, or your cock,” Mickey hissed, hiding behind his glass as Bart laughed, then pouted and then put his hands up in surrender, causing Mickey to laugh at his ridiculous face, water going up his nose. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad? As Mickey glanced down the table to where Thompson was shaking hands with the skate coaches, Ian caught his eye and held it, letting his eyes roam Mickey's viewable portion of body, and bit his lip. No, the evening was going to be hell. Fucking figure skaters. Fucking Olympic bullshit. Fucking fitted, designer suits, goddamn it.