Chapter 1

The Storm tie a neat little bow on their first play off series in a 3-1 victory on home ice, so of course Derek Whitfield is cornered by reporters the moment he steps out of the locker room.

Whatever shower he must have taken in between stripping out of his jersey and putting on his sweats has done little to dull the flush of his cheeks or the adrenaline left over from a play-off game.

Winning is a good look on Whitfield.

Sandro has always thought so.

The lighting is bad, Whitfield's hair sticks to his forehead, and he keeps biting his lip in between words Sandro can't understand.

Nordic, which is a stupid language.

Nordic media then, which is stupid media too.

Nordic cameraperson unable to keep the camera steady, so it runs the length of Derek's chest before snapping back to his face when they must notice in their receiver.

Nordic media is not so bad, maybe.

It is a good view, and Sandro is alone in his house.

In four days, he will fly back to Valdoria.

It is just enough time to speak with his GM about their own failed play-off run, meet with the team's trainers and doctors for an adjusted summer workout plan that will give his twinged wrist time to heal up before the pre-season.

Not enough time for Giulia to stay, not with everything he has to finish before leaving for the summer.

And so he is alone.

And winning is a good look on Derek Whitfield.

Sandro's hand gropes along the couch cushion beside him until he finds the remote and pauses the program.

Derek's listening intensely to the reporter, head ducked down to hear her.

It makes his shoulders curl in, the material of his shirt loosening around his neck and collarbones.

Pretty.

Even like this, in bad lighting and still sweaty.

His freckles are harder to see, like this.

But Sandro knows they're there.

Whitfield's eyebrows are drawn down.

He is probably thinking about how to answer her question, which is probably about the rest of the play-offs.

He cannot sound too smug or overconfident, even though the Storm are predicted to have a deep run this year, maybe even go all the way.

He must measure his words, stay humble.

These are things Captain Whitfield must think about. Not Sandro.

Winning is a good look on Whitfield, but Sandro knows better ones.

Like the way he looks just after he's gotten off, when he's still panting from it and soft all over but softest in his eyes—just for Sandro.

Or like the look he gets when Sandro fucks into him after teasing him for ages, all scrunched up and pleading, cheeks red and big brown eyes wide like the stretch still surprises him.

Faithfully, like clockwork, Sandro's dick twitches and he palms himself through the cotton of his sweats absently.

Last time had been too rushed for his tastes.

Whitfield had arrived at his hotel room already worked up, desperate for it even if he wouldn't admit it.

They'd fucked right there in the hotel room's entryway, shoved up against the wall by the door.

It'd taken Sandro longer than usual to shake off the press, everyone interested in how he felt about their slim chances for the Cup this year.

And Derek had apparently used that time to stretch himself open, get himself ready for Sandro like coaxing Whitfield's entrance into taking his fingers while he ran his mouth over the length of him was a fucking chore for Sandro and not one of his favorite parts of—of whatever this is.

Sandro's cock is fully hard now, insistent, stiff at the memory of Derek's body against his.

The way it gave ground, sucked him in like he was just as eager for it as Sandro felt every time they met up.

He rolls his head back against the couch, fingers tapping against the waistband of his pants as he considers his options.

He is alone right now.

That could change, if he wanted it to.

There's no reason he should jerk off on his couch to old memories when he could drive into the city proper and find someone for the night.

For the moment.

But then again, that is so much work and Derek is right there in front of him, lips parted and frozen still.

And really, no one has to know that Alessandro Vieri jerks it to pictures of his biggest rival.

It's not like Sandro's going to tell anyone, including Whitfield, and it's not like it's the worst thing he's ever done either.

His fingers slip into his sweats and wrap around his cock, giving it a lazy stroke.

The tug is dry in a way that borders uncomfortable, but the pleasure is sweeter when it hurts slightly.

Derek thinks so at least.

Likes it when Sandro sucks at the buds of his nipples—goes crazy when he bites them.

Sandro lets his head thump against the back of the couch as he moans, rubbing his thumb over the tip of his cock and then down beneath the head.

This is what Derek likes, how Derek touches himself.

Sandro has watched enough to have it memorized, the way Derek grips his dick and spreads his legs so he can thrust up into his own palm.

It has been months since they saw each other.

He must be so tight now that it would be work to make Sandro fit.

It'd be so good to fuck into him, fill him to the brim.

Derek goes wild for it every time.

Arches his back into the press of Sandro's hips like it breaks his heart to be empty.

So good.

It's so good every time.

Alone in his house, Sandro raises his hips just enough to slip his sweatpants down his thighs so he can fuck his fist in earnest.

Too fast, like the last time he fucked Derek.

But the time before that—had been here.

In Sandro's house.

They'd gone slow, gone twice before Derek had collected his clothes from the floor of Sandro's bedroom and flown back to Ashford.

He'd eaten him out in between rounds, put a hand on the small of his back and pressed down to keep him still and good for him.

Derek had rubbed himself against the sheets of Sandro's bed until he'd come, hiding his face and noises in a pillow until Sandro had ripped it away from him.

But no, Whitfield is good for him always.

Sandro's cock pulses in his hand like it agrees, and the edge is right there, rushing closer.

He opens his eyes, just enough to see the television, Whitfield's face frozen in thought.

Stupid Nordic media with its bad cameras and worse lighting—Sandro wants to see Derek's freckles the way he gets to when they meet in person.

Wants to see Whitfield on his knees for him, wants to stick his cock down his throat and then bust right across his face, paint those freckles, those eyelashes, hear the way Derek gasps with a sore throat, the way he'd say "San," like it's a prayer, and—-

And Whitfield's tee shirt is too big for his frame.

It gapes across his collarbones, leaves small folds of fabric across his chest, and the Nordic camera lighting is stupid, is bad, but not so bad that Sandro cannot see the shadow of dark ink across the inside of the cotton hemmed collar, like a dirty smudge.

Except it's not, it's a last name written careful and small on the inside of the crew neck, a funny habit Sandro formed after years of sharing crowded locker rooms as a boy—makes it easier to make sure you've grabbed the right shirt, if it's marked, if it's yours—

Because it's Sandro's shirt, Sandro's Derek, and Sandro is hit by a lightning bolt of heat that has him coming all over his hand and sweats before he can blink.

It takes a few minutes afterwards for his brain to come back online.

When he does, he forces himself to stand—awkwardly, fumbling now to keep the mess as contained as possible, something he didn't even care about until years ago after meeting Derek.

Derek, who stole his shirt.

Months ago, probably after the last time they slept together.

Sandro hadn't noticed, but then of course he didn't.

Whitfield would have had access to his entire closet, and Sandro had been quite distracted at the time.

Defenseless to any and all theft.

Sandro turns off the faucet in his bathroom and wipes his hands dry on a towel before returning to the living room to grab his phone.

There is a warm and funny feeling sparking in his chest.

He loses two minutes to just staring at the television, phone held loosely between his fingers.

His shirt.

On his Derek, like the man missed him.

It is one thing to take a piece of clothing, accidental.

But it is another thing to wear it later when it is too big, when it doesn't fit you.

It means something then.

Sandro isn't sure what exactly it means.

But he's sure it's something. It must because the bonfire in Sandro's chest that roared to life at the sight of Whitfield wearing his shirt, post-game, flushed off of a victory, so pretty and so claimed, needs it to mean something.

To Whitfield.

He pulls up Derek's messages.

The last one was a week ago, from Derek.

An earnest-sounding sorry about the play-offs that had made Sandro's teeth hurt from clenching.

Captain Whitfield would never be too smug or too confident where other people can hear him.

But for Sandro, he is.

Sandro: are you eating enough?

It's not even five minutes before Derek reads the message, a texting bubble popping up and then away.

Then up again.

Sandro leans his elbows on his kitchen counter, necklace in his mouth as he watches and waits.

There have been many times over the last ten years that he has wished he could see what Whitfield types and then deletes.

What he wants to say and what he decides against saying.

It is inconvenient, how much Sandro wants to know about Derek Whitfield and how he thinks.

It's even more inconvenient how much Sandro cares what Derek Whitfield thinks about him.

Derek:

Yes, of course.

It's play-off hockey.

Sandro: saw interview after Nashville game.

Sandro: shirt too big ;)