Chapter 1
To absolutely no one's surprise, Jack isn't really one for after parties— or parties in general, really— but for whatever reason, he's made an exception tonight.
Well, he knows why he made an exception.
After the Monarchs shut out Erie earlier that evening (an incredible 6-0 victory in which Jack had put up half the points himself), his entire team threatened to bring the party to
his
house if he didn't show at Max's, and there was truly nothing more horrifying than
that
concept.
Tons of people, walking around his house with their sticky shoes, spilling various liquids on his well-kept floors and counters, maybe even, god forbid, sneaking off to fuck someone in one of his bedrooms...
No. That was simply not going to work for him.
So, after showering and stopping by his house quickly to change, he sucked it up and hauled his exhausted, overworked body to Max's.
As he approaches the door, already well within earshot of the music blasting from inside, he tries to arrange his features into a more neutral expression instead of the stiff, awkward one he knows he's sporting now.
Like he's walking up the steps to a guillotine instead of his best friend's house.
Ben informed him before at a different, miserable party that Jack sometimes has these please-someone-kill-me-with-a-gun eyes that are sort of a buzzkill for people trying to have a good time.
He sighs, shaking his head a bit.
Everything was fine.
He promised to make an appearance, not stay until the sun rose, after all.
And there was no chance in hell he would do that on a regular night, but especially not tonight, when he was expecting company later.
The smile comes easily to his face at the thought of that company— when exactly the company would arrive, what the company would be wearing, if the company would let him try that thing he'd been wanting to try tonight...
God, it's been almost three weeks since Jack has seen Alexei, and he honestly doesn't care if all they do tonight is fall asleep together on the couch.
That's how he knows it's real between them.
When the sex is as mindblowing as it is, the best he's ever had by far, but something as simple as being in each other's presence is better still.
He's so fucking lucky.
"No
fucking
way, Cameron, you fucking showed!" Max's voice brings him back to himself.
Back to where he's standing, in the middle of a crowded living room.
The volume of the cheering around him is frankly overstimulating as fuck, but he forces himself to smile.
Everyone's just excited.
Last he checked, it wasn't a crime to be excited at a 6-0 victory.
"Hey, Lafleur," Max calls, pointing as he makes his way over to Jack with a blinding grin, "you owe me fifty fucking dollars!" Then to Jack, "We were just kidding about coming to your house, you know.
You didn't have to freak out!
Could have stayed at home all alone, just how you like!"
Jack rolls his eyes good-naturedly.
"Yeah, well.
You're lucky tonight."
"Oh, I
know
how lucky we are to have you,
capitaine
Fucking beautiful playing tonight.
Legendary.
Pulled off a hat trick like it was nothing!
Even the other team was drooling watching you skate circles around them."
As usual when met with excessive praise, Jack shuts up like a clam.
Luckily, Max is already too drunk to really notice his awkwardness and pulls him to the kitchen, insisting he deserves a drink for his performance on the ice.
While he's trying to work out the least obnoxious way to re-explain that his strict macrofiber diet doesn't allow for indulgences like alcohol, Max surprises him.
"And listen," Max slurs a bit, "I know you are a fucking freak about food and drinking and whatever the fuck."
Lovely.
Jack doesn't even know where to begin with
introduction.
"But a couple of the other guys are doing dry January right now, god knows
why,
and the last thing I will ever be known as is an ungracious host!
I got some beer, the boring non-alcoholic kind.
It's in the fridge, nice and cold."
Well.
That was... nice.
"I really shouldn't—" Jack starts, but Max cuts him off impatiently.
"Ah ah!
Is no worse than a ginger ale, yes?
And you drink those sometimes."
"Sometimes," he allows.
"On special occasions."
Max throws up his hands, exasperated.
"If this doesn't count as a fucking special occasion, Cameron, I dont' know what the fuck does!
Drink it, don't drink it, I don't care.
Just get something cold to sip on and join us in the living room.
I want you on my team for pool!"
With that, he exits, leaving Jack to decide for himself what to do.
Technically, his diet doesn't allow for any drinks outside of water and black coffee, but.
Well, Max was maybe right about this being a special occasion.
And at the very least, having something to hold while he tries to make conversation won't go amiss.
He isn't going to die from drinking a non-alcoholic beer or two.
He sighs, opens the fridge, and grabs a drink.
Ben Sterling arrives at the party fashionably late, which, according to the Jack Camerons of the world, should be punishable by death, but to all of his already-drunk teammates, is exactly on time.
"Sorry!" he huffs, hurrying inside.
"Sorry, bed-time took longer than usual.
Kick and Merrick were fighting over a hair tie, can you believe that?
A fucking hair tie!
Not even a cute one, just a plain, old black one they both have millions of—"
Ben cuts himself off at the sound of something he hears so rarely, he's almost sure he's imagining it.
He scans the room, looking for the source, and sure enough, his eyes land on his target.
There, nestled in between two of his teammates on the couch, is Jack Cameron.
Laughing.
Out loud.
Audibly.
Like, he's
actually
fucking laughing, not the fake laughs he forces out to make other people more comfortable.
In fact, he's laughing so hard, he looks like he might cry, and Ben would be delighted by the sight of it if he weren't so fucking
concerned.
Jack Cameron doesn't laugh at parties.
Jack Cameron barely laughs when he's actually happy, and he's
never
happy at parties.
So what gives?
"Uh, hey.
Hey guys," he says in response to his teammates' raucous greeting, but his eyes haven't left Jack.
He's approaching him now, like how one might approach a rare, near-extinct animal seen seldom in the wild.
Jack looks over, catches sight of him, and lights up.
"Hayyyd!
You made it!"
"Uhh yeah!
Hey, buddy.
You, uh, you doing okay?"
"Oh he's doing
great
," someone snickers from across the room.
"Jesus, never thought I'd live to see the day Cameron let loose."
Alarm bells are well and truly ringing inside Ben's head now.
Tonight of all nights was not one that Jack would indulge in drinking.
For one thing, Ben literally saw his car parked out front, and for another, he knows with certainty that Jack was planning to stay for as little time as possible because in a matter of hours he will have a big, intimidating Koslovian hockey player knocking at his door who drove all the way from Kingston after his game.
Well, Fedorov probably has his own key by now, but still.
Semantics.
Jack didn't come here to get fucked up.
"You are idiots," Max shouts, clearly wasted and laughing loudly.
"These drinks I gave him are not even alcoholic.
Our
is high off of
vibes
It's a great fucking night!"
Jack tilts back his head and gives a happy little whoop.
Ben has seen enough.
"Come on, bud.
Let's uh.
Let's go to the kitchen, yeah?
Really quick."
Maybe Ben can figure out what's actually going on someplace a little quieter, with fewer prying eyes.
Jack stands and stumbles a bit, letting out a sound that can only be classified as a giggle.
Jesus Christ.