sleight of hand, twist of fate

Mike’s not even in the first vision Jeff gets.

It happens while Jeff’s on the bus back to the Soo, head pressed against the glass of the window, watching the passing headlights. He has his headphones on, listening to a song that his sister left on his MP3 player, something by Kelly Clarkson? It’s a ballad, the lyrics floating in one ear and then out the other, too late in the night to do anything but let the sounds wash over him. His eyes fall closed, and maybe he drifts a little, but--

There’s a phone pressed to his ear. He can hear the distant ring. He blinks once, twice, to get his bearings. He’s standing in the middle of a beautiful kitchen, the kind you see in the home furnishing catalogs that end up on his billet family’s doorstep. Shiny stainless steel. Granite countertops. Smooth, clean tile. Sunlight pouring in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. White sand just past the deck, stretching out to the ocean. A small dog with curly hair pads over to a water bowl, drinks from it. There’s a ball of irritation in the pit of Jeff’s stomach, an annoyance that the person he’s calling won’t pick up, combined with a deep-seated worry.

The dog barks. Jeff turns--

He jerks awake when an elbow collides with his tricep. “Shit, sorry,” Herns -- Jeff’s seatmate -- says, apologetic, a wry smile crossing his face. The bus shakes slightly when they hit a pothole. The Kelly Clarkson has switched over to something more alt-rock. Lots of guitar and drums.

Jeff shrugs. “It’s cool,” he says, sitting up straight, pulling off his headphones, trying to shake the last bit of sleep from himself. Jeff doesn’t often remember his dreams, but this one sticks with him. If he closes his eyes, he can smell the ocean, feel the itch on his jaw where he needs to shave.

Something of his discomfort must show on his face, because Herns says, “End of the season getting to you, huh?”

The Greyhounds are sitting on the bubble, only a couple more games left in the season to see whether or not they managed to claw their way to a playoff spot. Jeff says, “Probably.”

At least they’ll be at home for the next games. The season will draw to a close. Playoffs after that, if they’re lucky, and then-- then Jeff has the draft to worry about. Maybe that’s why he’s dreaming of beach houses. And people who won’t pick up their phones. Some weird manifestation of his anxiety. His sister, Christine, is the sort of person who likes keeping a dream journal and Jeff’s picked up on some of her various decoding methods via osmosis.

Herns pats him on the shoulder. “Me, too. But it’s almost over.”

“Sure,” Jeff says, and then he puts his headphones back on.

---

The next one, Mike’s definitely in it.

Jeff gets it while he’s in the locker room, lacing up his skates. There’s 80’s hair metal playing over the speakers, trying to get the team pumped for the game. His teammates are laughing at something, a story about someone’s weekend probably. Jeff’s just trying to focus on what he needs to do. Last game of the season. There’s a lot on the line here. He thinks about the stick in his hand. The flick he needs to pot one in the top-left corner. The feel of the ice beneath his skates. The way--

He’s in a darkened club, sitting at a booth. There’s some sort of dance music playing, a few decibels too loud for comfort. Empty bottles are strewn on the table in front of him. He does feel drunk, buzzed, everything slowed down and drawn out.

“Carts. Cartsy,” a voice yells into his ear.

Jeff turns, and there’s Mike Richards, smirking at him. His hair is a little longer, a little curlier. There are more angles to his face. Mike’s hand grips the back of Jeff’s neck. The touch makes Jeff shiver, a spike of anticipation that runs through his body.

Mike says, “Come on. Let’s go home.” There’s a promise in his voice that sounds downright filthy.

Jeff nods and tries to--

A stick taps his skate. “You alright there, Carts?”

Jeff looks up to see Mo, one of the vets, looming over him. “Yeah,” Jeff says. He tightens his fingers around his laces. The echo of the dance music thuds in his chest in a way that even the Guns and Roses can’t mask.

“Don’t zone out on us for this game, man,” Mo says. “We’re going to need you for it.”

“Right,” Jeff says, and he pushes it out of his mind

They win the game -- Jeff manages an assist on the power play -- securing their place in the playoffs as the eighth seed, facing off against the first seed Kitchener Rangers. Mike’s team.

That night, alone in his billet room, Jeff thinks about the press of Mike’s hand to his neck. His own reaction to it. He’s known Mike for a few years now. Played together on the U18 team last year. At the OHL top prospect game this year. They’d bonded fast and intense, the way people do on national teams at international tournaments, but Jeff talks to Mike more than any of their other teammates, whether it’s about bad action movies or good music or whether or not university is in the cards after they graduate from high school.

Mike’s touched him before. Jeff’s touched all his teammates before. But it’s never felt like that. Mike’s just a friend, just a teammate, like so many other teammates that he’s had over the years. It’s nothing then. Just a weird figment of his subconscious. He’ll see Mike in a few weeks and it will be fine.

---

They have a week before the playoffs start. Jeff also gets two more visions. The first happens in the weight room, while he’s resting between sets. He wipes the sweat from his forehead, lifts his water bottle to his lips, when--

“Shit,” Mike says. “We’re out of milk.” He straightens, pulling out the mostly-empty jug, shutting the refrigerator door as he does so. Jeff’s in a different kitchen this time. Smaller, cheaper, windowless. More like an apartment than a house.

“That’s your fault,” Jeff says from where he’s sitting at the kitchen table. He takes a bite of his bagel, chews slowly.

Mike scowls as he pours the remaining milk over his bowl of Cheerios. “I guess I’m going to the store after practice,” he says. “You want anything?”

Jeff shrugs. “Nah,” he says.

Mike smiles then, a sudden shift in his expression. He comes over to Jeff, leans over to press a kiss against Jeff’s hair. It’s a brief kiss, filled with affection. An easy, comfortable touch.

Jeff snorts. “Talking about groceries is what does it for you?”

Mike shrugs in return. “Fuck you, too. I just felt like it.” He reaches for the bowl of--

“Hey, Carts. You done with these yet?” It’s Dales, gesturing to the weights that Jeff was just using.

Jeff swallows. “Nope,” he says. He shakes out his shoulders, his arms, and doesn’t think of the warm smile on Mike’s face, the easy domesticity of their time together. It’s one thing to think about fucking someone. It’s another to want to like-- shack up with them and talk about who has to buy milk. Jeff’s not opposed or anything like that, but it’s not something he considered happening anytime soon, much less as something he would want with Mike Richards of all people. Brains are really fucking weird.

The next one is on the ice during practice, catching his breath after a rough scrimmage. First game of the playoffs tomorrow, Some of the other guys are laughing at something behind Jeff, and when he turns--

Jeff is still in the same spot on the Greyhounds’ home ice, but a game has just ended. Jeff can feel it the exhaustion of his body, the sweat collecting underneath his pads. The Rangers are skating off, a swarm of blue jerseys. Jeff can see Mike’s name and number near the back of the pack, his hair sweaty, helmet tucked under one arm. Jeff looks up. The scoreboard reads 4-0, Rangers.

Mike turns his head, meets Jeff’s eyes across the ice. There’s a tiny grin on Mike’s face, and Jeff knows there’s going to be a whole lot of shit coming his way in--

“Heads up!” Herns calls out, and Jeff ducks just as a puck goes flying past him.

He flexes his fingers, his hands in his gloves. The same ones he was wearing in his-- dream? Vision? And okay, Jeff’s not a genius, but he knows that this is-- this is not normal and weird. It’s gone past wanting to fuck Mike, or like, wanting to be married to him. Jeff doesn’t want to lose at hockey to him. And who the hell knows what that phone call thing was about.

“You alright?” Herns asks. He slides up to Jeff’s side, and nudges at Jeff’s head with one gloved hand. “Didn’t nail you right in the head?”

Jeff shoves him away. “Your shot isn’t that good,” he says and he reminds himself that he can worry about this later, after they play the Rangers and win. No matter what sort of weird hallucinations Jeff’s brain is conjuring up.

---

They lose the first game to the Rangers 3-0. Dales gets crunched into the boards and has to sit out the rest of the series, and Jeff is too busy worrying about them losing their fucking captain to think about his-- whatever until after the final buzzer sounds and they’re scoreless. Mike doesn’t take off his helmet as he shuffles off the ice with his team, doesn’t even turn to look in Jeff’s direction. And even through the frustration of not being able to even get one goal, Jeff is viciously glad that they didn’t lose by more points than they did.

Mike hunts him down outside the locker room afterwards, though. He’s standing in the hallway outside the locker room, hair damp from his shower. “Hey, want to grab something to eat after the game tomorrow?” Maybe it should be different, knowing what Jeff knows now, but this is still Mike -- the same stupid kid that Jeff’s always known.

“Sure,” Jeff says.

“After we kick your asses,” Mike says.

“You wish,” Jeff says, and Mike laughs. It’s a stupid laugh, but it does turn Mike’s smug smirk into something softer and gentler.

Jeff holds out his fist for Mike to bump, and Mike does.

That night, Jeff dreams of a bed, morning light filtering in through the windows, Mike’s head tucked underneath his own. Mike shifts, curls in closer to Jeff’s body, the broad set of his shoulders pressed up against Jeff’s own. Mike murmurs something soft and indistinct. His hair smells like his shampoo, the scent of it warm and familiar. Jeff could wake him up, but he doesn’t want to move. He just-- there’s a warmth in the center of his chest, spreading outward, almost frightening in its intensity. There are words that he could say, but he’s not sure Mike even needs to hear them to know they’re there. He closes his eyes, and lets himself drift--

Only to be awoken by the blare of his alarm clock. Jeff fumbles with the snooze button and blinks his eyes open. While he’s still shaking the sleep off, there’s the phantom feeling of his bed being too cold, too empty, missing the presence of another body. It fades as he gets up, takes a morning shower, eats his breakfast. It’s gone by the time he hits the ice for game two. He even faces off against Mike a few times, gets chirped about his haircut, but Jeff just laughs at him.

But then they get to the end of the third period, and the score is 4-0, and Jeff feels his stomach sink. On the other side of the rink, Mike takes off his helmet, pours some water over his sweaty head. He turns to meet Jeff’s eyes.

Jeff looks up to make sure he isn’t imagining all this, but the scoreboard reads 4-0, same as it did before. And maybe it’s deja vu, a glitch in his memory making Jeff remember things that never happened. That would explain this one, but not the rest of his-- the rest of the things he saw.

Mike grins, that fucking asshole, and Jeff doesn’t want to deal with this bullshit.

After they’ve all showered and changed, Jeff takes Mike to a quiet burger place that always smells like cooking grease and salty fries. Mike runs his mouth a bit, clearly still a bit high from the win. Jeff lets him, mostly grunting and saying one-word answers in response. Mike also stuffs his mouth full of burger in a way that’s definitely unattractive, though Jeff knows he’s doing something similar, eating and eating and eating because hockey makes everyone feel like they’re starving afterwards. Jeff wonders if he’ll see things like this, later, just the two of them sharing meals and talking shit. If he could have seen this exact moment, too.

“So,” Mike says, waving a ketchup-dipped fry in Jeff’s face, “you’ve been quiet.”

Jeff shrugs. He steals one of Mike’s fries. “You ever think about like, destiny?”

Mike’s eyebrows climb up his forehead. “Hitting the philosophy books, eh?” he asks, smirking.

Jeff punches his shoulder, and Mike laughs. “No,” Jeff says. “Just-- do we really have any choice in what happens?” He thinks about the goal Mike netted in the third period. If Jeff had seen himself going left instead of right, maybe-- maybe he could have stopped that vision from coming true, leaving the score at 3-0. Maybe he can stop this whole thing and decide he’s never going to fuck Mike Richards or like-- fall in love with him. This isn’t like that Greek story about the guy who ended up marrying his mom and gouging his own eyes out. Deciding he’s not going to ever fuck Mike Richards probably doesn’t mean Jeff is going to trip and fall on Mike’s dick. Probably.

Mike chews his burger, becoming thoughtful. He does that sometimes, goes from being any other hockey asshole to being someone who’s actually kind of smart. “My dad says that everything happens for a reason, and I guess that’s kind of like destiny, but I always figured that meant that things happen because they need to, not because they were always going to, you know?”

“What’s the difference?” Jeff asks, because Mike’s taking this seriously, but he also sounds like he’s full of shit.

“Maybe there isn’t one,” Mike says with a half hearted shrug, and then he’s back in asshole hockey player mode. “What brought this on, Cartsy? Worried about the draft?”

“Fuck off,” Jeff mutters.

“Come on, you know you’ll go high in the selection. Big guy like you with your soft hands,” Mike continues. He reaches out, brushes a thumb over Jeff’s knuckles to make a point. It’s-- it shouldn’t be anything special, but Jeff’s skin tingles where Mike’s hand touches his own. And Jeff can see exactly how easy it would be to want him, to want more, to fall headfirst into that hazy, half-certain future Jeff’s seen.

Jeff’s looked at guys before, but only out of the corner of his eyes. It’s been easy enough to ignore, because there have been plenty of girls around, too. Girls who smile at him and who will pull him into bathrooms at house parties to kiss him without Jeff having to do much work at all. But Mike-- Mike’s kind of a sure thing, too. Jeff doesn’t know what to do about that, though. He doesn’t know what to do about any of it.

---

It’s another three days until their next game against Kitchener, but one of those days is going to be another long bus ride. None of the extra time helps Jeff figure out what he should do.

He wakes up on the first morning, stumbles out of bed and falls face first into another vision. It’s a blowjob. Not the first Jeff’s experienced, but definitely the first he’s experienced giving rather than receiving.

The first thing Jeff notices is the stretch, his lips forced open, mouth fuller than it ever has been before. Then the taste and texture, salty and a little slick. Heat and hardness pressing against his tongue. And then the smell, sharp, as he breathes as best he can through his nose, dark and musky without any sort of deodorant or cologne to cover it up.

“Shit, Jeff,” Mike gasps. His voice is strangled. A hand flails out, settling in Jeff’s hair. His thighs are tense underneath Jeff’s hands. Jeff fucking loves Mike like this, so blissed out on sex that he can’t hide jack shit from anyone. Not that he does with Jeff, not--

Jeff blinks, and he’s standing in the middle of his billet bedroom, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Mike isn’t here, because of course Mike isn’t here. Mike’s on a bus back to Kitchener, probably. And Jeff-- Jeff doesn’t want to admit this to himself, but he does kind of miss him. Just his tiny smiles, his rolling eyes, the easy way he goes with Jeff’s suggestions, even when he obviously thinks they’re stupid. Jeff’s morning wood gets a bit more insistent at the half-fake memory of his mouth on Mike’s dick, the sensations, the feelings in the vision still lingering. He tries to push it aside, to let them fade, and it even sort of works.

Jeff makes his way into the bathroom and takes a moment to stare at himself in the mirror. His face is splotchy with acne. His hair is still a mess. He knows what Mike looks like in the future, but he hasn’t gotten a good look at himself yet. Does he get any taller? Does he finally manage to grow decent facial hair? Does he start balding prematurely? Why couldn’t his visions tell him anything useful?

It turns out that Jeff should know better than to wish for things. His next vision hits after they’ve dropped the third game of the series, a close 2-1 loss that leaves Jeff simmering with frustration and unwilling to look Mike in the eye. He’s in the visitors’ locker room, shedding his pads, and then--

“What the fuck do you know?” Mike hisses. He’s got a thicker beard than Jeff’s ever seen on him, a cap pulled low over his eyes, hair long enough to escape from underneath it. They’re standing in a hotel hallway, an ugly patterned carpet underneath Jeff’s bare feet. Anyone could walk by and see them like this, but it took long enough to force this conversation out of Mike. Jeff is going to take what he can get.

“Mike--” Jeff says, his throat is tight. “I don’t know because you won’t fucking tell me.”

Mike grimaces and turns away. “We’re not like that anymore,” he says.

For Jeff, that feels a little like getting sliced open, all of his ugly, painful emotions leaking out of him all at once. “But we’re still friends, right? Fuck the rest of the bullshit, I still fucking--”

“Stop staring into space, Carts, it’s freaking the rookies out!” Checky yells.

Jeff finishes undoing the straps of his pads and starts grabbing the things for the shower. He focuses on how the locker room reeks of sweat and exhaustion and the terrible stink of failure. One game away from being swept out of the playoffs. He focuses on the tile under his feet and the bright, sterile fluorescents. Not on the way his chest still feels tight and painful and awful or the way his hands clench and unclench as he makes his way to the showers.

Mike texts him asking if he wants to meet up before the Greyhounds’ curfew, but Jeff’s still too raw to look at Mike’s face, even if it’s softer and clean-shaven this time around. Even if he’s never actually broken Jeff’s heart. So Jeff says he’s too tired, and then he goes back to the hotel room to sleep. He was checked into the boards during the second period, got a few nice bruises out of it, but he’s pretty sure that’s not why everything hurts.

---

They drop the next game, too. Jeff went for a mad dash in the third period to net at least one goal against the Rangers, but it wasn’t enough, and the Greyhounds went down 3-1. Swept out of the playoffs as was probably expected. He glares at Mike every time they face off, and Mike glares back, shows off his mouthguard in a mockery of a smile.

There’s no time afterwards to stick around. The bus back to Sault Ste. Marie leaves that night. As luck or fate may have it, Jeff runs into Mike in the hallway.

Jeff frowns at him, shakes his head at him, because this is the last conversation he wants to have right now. He feels bruised all over, raw and tender from the memory of Mike being so far away, of Mike hurting so bad and Jeff not being able to help him.

In the present day, Mike pauses for a moment, studies Jeff’s face. One corner of his lips twitches upwards, and all he says is, “I’ll see you at the draft combine, eh?”

Jeff nods. Mike takes off with the rest of his team, presumably to celebrate their win. Jeff doesn’t like to let the bitterness sit, but--

The call of seagulls fills the air. There’s sand sticking to Jeff’s legs, to Jeff’s feet. The sun is peeking over the water on the far end of the horizon, casting the sky in oranges and blues and pinks. He turns to his right, holds out one hand. Mike passes over the bottle without saying anything. His expression is soft, open, exposed in a way that he doesn’t let himself be often, in a way that Jeff is pretty sure only a handful of people on earth have seen.

Jeff puts the bottle to his lips and drinks, feels the burn of the alcohol down his throat.

They don’t say anything, because nothing needs to be said, but Jeff does hook his pinky finger around Mike’s in the sand, just because it’s there and he wants to.

Mike glances over at him, lips quirked upwards, and Jeff leans forward to--

He gets nudged in the shoulder by Mo as he walks by. “Stop thinking so hard, bud,” Mo says. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

Jeff shoves him away and follows the rest of the team to the bus. He closes his eyes as soon as he can. He tries to sink back into the vision he just saw: the ocean waves lapping at his feet, the taste of sea salt in the air, the twist of Mike’s smile, and the quiet, uncomplicated happiness that came with it. But it’s already faded. The moment is already gone.

---

Jeff goes home to London at the end of the school year. Mike and the Rangers go to the Memorial Cup and win it all. Jeff texts him a congratulations and gets a simple thanks in response. Life at home is pretty quiet. He trains in preparation of the combine. He gets a few more visions of Mike. A large black dog begging for food at the kitchen table. Making out in shared hotel rooms. An icy glare from across the locker room. Jeff has no idea what to do with any of them, so he does what he’s been doing, which is nothing.

Soon enough, the draft combine is on them. It’s not much of a trip for Jeff, just to Toronto. It’s pretty much the way Jeff expected it to be: a mix of controlled chaos. A ton of people, both prospects and scouts. Being told where and when to go by harried-looking staff members.

He catches glimpses of Mike between tests and interviews, but they’ve been sorted into different groups, and they don’t have a whole lot of time to talk. There’s a lot of teams interested in Jeff. He’s not projected to go high enough in the first round to mean he’s off the table for anyone, and there’s lots of talk about how deep this year’s draft class is. He’s sure Mike’s in a similar boat.

It seems absurd to think that they’ll end up on the same team, no matter what Jeff’s visions tell him. He hopes he can get through the whole combine without another one, but during a bathroom break, he has has one while standing in front of the urinal, which is just--

“I miss you,” Jeff says. His mouth feels dry with nerves. It takes everything he has to force the words out. He drums his fingers on the countertops of his kitchen, the home furnishing catalog one.

There’s a pause on the other end of the phone. A hesitation. “Look, I can’t--” Mike says. “I’m sorry.” He hangs up.

“Fuck,” Jeff spits out. He sighs heavily, his chest tight and angry, and resists the urge to throw--

But he’s just staring at the bland off-white walls of a campus bathroom. Jeff shakes it off as best he can. He closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths. He’ll see Mike at the end of the day. They have plans to grab dinner together with some of the other guys, probably bitch about the physical tests (seriously, fuck the Wingate), talk about team interviews. Jeff will sit across from Mike and listen to him talk, and he’ll think to himself, this is the boy who is going to break my heart. But that’s only if Jeff-- if Jeff lets him.

---

Dinner happens at an Italian place. Jeff is starving, and he thinks that maybe they all deserve a little bit of carb-loading after all the shit they’ve been through today. It’s a rowdy bunch, a crowd of eighteen-year-old hockey players all itching for their shot at the big show. Not important enough to be wined and dined by their prospective teams. Jeff ends up sitting between Berns and Getzy, who he knows from national teams, and across from Mike, who he also knows from national teams.

“How are you holding up?” Mike asks. He drags one hand through his hair, pushing it out of his eyes.

“Fine,” Jeff says. He’s always been more than content to let some of the louder guys hold the bulk of the conversation.

Mike just squints at him, like he’s not sure he believes it, but that’s fine. Jeff listens in on a story about this stupid prank Getzy’s team pulled on him. Jeff glances over at Mike out of the corner of his eyes every once in awhile. He wishes-- he wishes he knew how to feel about Mike, when he’s still reeling from all the leftover feelings tangling together: desire, happiness, fury, longing. It’s a lot to put on this Mike, who hasn’t yet done anything to deserve it.

Jeff didn’t think he was being obvious about it, but Mike’s way more perceptive than he lets on. After dinner, Mike pulls him aside on their walk back to the hotel. “Hey,” he says, frowning. “Seriously, are you okay? You’ve been kind of weird all night.”

It’s spring, almost summer. The days are getting longer, and there’s still some light left in the sky. Mike’s face is cast half in shadow, hiding some of the softness of his features. Jeff can see the echoes of the man he will be one day, now-Mike blending into future-Mike. Jeff wants to kiss him. He doesn’t know why. It could be his now-feelings or his future-feelings, but in this moment, they’re the same thing. “Yeah, but I’ll be fine,” Jeff says, and he hopes he’s telling the truth.

---

Not long after that, Jeff is packing his bags to go to Nashville. His family fusses over him. They may even be more excited about it than he is. Jeff gets another vision, just of him and Mike playing two-touch in a hallway with their teammates. It’s simple, even boring. Jeff’s thankful. The visions are too scattered, to vague and insubstantial, for Jeff to really make out any sort of pattern in which ones he gets when. Maybe this one is a sign that Jeff really has managed to change the future already, made a future where he and Mike are nothing more than friends and teammates.

He tells himself that’s what he wants, and maybe he even believes it.

Which is why he’s pretty annoyed when right after the plane takes off and--

Jeff is fucking Mike on a bed-- their bed, the one they share. Mike is on his knees, forehead pressed against the mattress, and Jeff folds himself right over him, bites at Mike’s collarbone as he grinds his cock deeper into Mike’s ass. Mike’s skin tastes like soap and sweat in a way that leaves Jeff feeling lightheaded.

Mike curses, just spits out a bunch of filth into the sheets about how much he loves Jeff’s dick. He reaches back, digs his fingers into Jeff’s hips, a spark of pain-pleasure that Jeff isn’t expecting.

“Christ,” Jeff mutters into Mike’s shoulder.

Mike laughs at that, a warm, bright sound. “Fuck me harder, asshole.” He pushes his hips back, trying to get Jeff deeper.

Jeff can’t bite back his groan, doesn’t even want to. “Bossy,” Jeff says, but he still pulls back so that he can rearrange--

The captain announces that the seatbelt sign is turned off, and Jeff shifts, tries to get his legs in a position where he won’t cramp and angle his crotch in a way that won’t make it obvious that he’s hard. He breathes in the stale, recycled air and tries to calm his heart rate down. As a teenage boy, this isn’t the first inconvenient erection he’s had, and it probably won’t be the last.

But he’s still not happy about any of it. Not the way the universe is still sending him these visions, not in the way that nothing seems to have changed. Maybe this is just insanity of some sort. Jeff is just experiencing hallucinations. That one time, when he saw the outcome of the playoff game-- that was just a fluke. His mind playing tricks on him.

At some point, he’s going to have to make a decision, though. He’s not sure what that decision is or how it’s going to be, but he can feel it coming. He’s not going to be able to avoid it forever.

---

Jeff doesn’t get his roommate assignment until he shows up at registration. Nathan Horton, who Jeff’s played against and with a few times. Horty’s a winger, and he’s played on enough hockey teams to be a good roommate. Not too loud, understands importance of establishing bathroom routines early in the relationship, is planning on sneaking out in the middle of the night to his girlfriend’s room, so he won’t be around much.

There’s prospects flying in from around the world, and they’re all trickling in a little bit at a time. The first round of the draft is happening tomorrow, and the hotel buzzes with a tension and energy that only seems to intensify as the night goes on.

Mike shows up right after dinner, looking a little exhausted around the eyes, but still smiling broadly. “I’m rooming with Eric Staal,” Mike says when Jeff catches him in the hotel lobby. He has a suitcase trailing behind him, a duffel slung over one shoulder.

“Fun,” Jeff says. He pulls Mike into a bro-hug, and Mike laughs.

“How are the nerves?” Mike asks when they get onto the elevator.

Jeff shrugs. “They’re good,” he says. Mike’s physical presence sets him a bit on edge, though. It’s easier to deal with all the -- whatevers -- when they’re apart, when Mike’s not a real person with the real potential to mean anything to Jeff.

They spend the rest of the elevator ride in silence. Mike’s floor is a few below Jeff’s, so when the door opens for him, he turns. “See you tomorrow,” he says. His smile is a little crooked and a little awkward. It looks like the one he’s going to wear when they talk about groceries.

“Yeah,” Jeff says.

---

Jeff doesn’t see Mike the next morning. Horty is just as absent as he promised to be. Jeff gets a good night’s sleep, and if he dreams, he doesn’t remember them when he wakes up. Breakfast is with his family, Christine rolling her eyes at him half the time, and then it’s time for the draft itself. Jeff sits on the aisle seat, next to his parents in the nicest suit he owns, waiting for his name to be called.

Philadelphia takes him at number eleven.

After the pictures and the handshakes on stage, he’s led to the back room, where numbers one through ten are already waiting, shifting uncomfortably in their jerseys. Jeff joins them. Horty’s already there, as is Staal. Jeff gets some congratulations, some back-pats, but then he’s left alone. They’re all going to be stuck here until the first round is over.

Mike comes in at number twenty-four. He’s wearing a Flyers jersey. Jeff doesn’t throw up in his mouth, but his stomach does roll over uncomfortably, and he does have some trouble breathing. The other guys buy Jeff a little time by crowding around Mike the same way they’ve crowded every new person who steps back here, a mix of elation and relief. It doesn’t take long for them to get bored of Mike, the same way they’ve become bored with everyone else. Once they all clear out, Mike heads straight to Jeff.

“Hey, Carts,” Mike says. “What are the odds, eh?” He holds out a fist for Jeff to bump.

Jeff bumps it, but he knows the expression on his face must look terrible or something, because Mike frowns, his eyebrows drawing together. “Right,” Jeff says.

Mike says, “It’s not going to be a problem that we’re--”

Jeff shakes his head. The motion feels awkward and jerky. “No,” he says. “It’s just-- I’ll tell you later, okay?”

A slight tension that Jeff hadn’t even noticed was there relaxes from Mike’s shoulders. “Sure,” Mike says. “Later.” The expression on his face means that he’s definitely not letting Jeff out of it this time.

Thankfully, number twenty-five -- Anthony Stewart -- chooses that moment to make his way backstage, and the conversation moves on without them.

Jeff tucks himself into the corner so that he doesn’t have to say anything. It’s-- this doesn’t have to mean anything the way the way the playoff game didn’t have to mean anything. Either of them could get traded at any time. Either of them could get stuck on the Phantoms, never making it to the NHL.

But that’s ridiculous. Mike’s good enough to make it, and Jeff-- Jeff’s not going to pretend like he isn’t good enough to make it either. Their futures are linked together, whether Jeff likes it or not. From the visions, all Jeff knows about their relationship is that it’s good for a while, but then it gets bad. He doesn’t know when it starts or when it ends. He doesn’t know why it starts or why it ends.

There’s a lot of things about the future Jeff doesn’t know, but he does know that he needs to tell Mike about it. Whatever decision he makes, he can’t make it alone.

---

There’s dinner with the Flyers’ picks and all their families in a restaurant so fancy that their menus tell them what they’re going to eat instead of letting them pick. Mike and Jeff get shoved together, unsurprisingly. Jeff could try to explain what’s going on in his head, but he’s not going to tell Mike he’s had visions of giving him a blowjob in front of either of their moms.

“It’s just-- it’s really fu--freaking surreal,” Mike says. “We’ve actually been drafted.” He’s a little tipsy from the wine that came with dinner, even if they aren’t legal to drink in the States. It makes his eyes shine, makes his smile sloppy and dorky. Jeff probably shouldn’t be attracted to it, but he is.

“Yeah,” Jeff says. “It’s pretty weird.” He’d thought about it for years, as he made his way up through midget, into the O, and now he’s here. And now Mike’s here, too.

Mike nudges his side, and it’s comfortable, affectionate. Jeff nudges him back.

Their families drop them off at the hotel with instructions not to get too wild, but it’s not really a concern. There’s a bit of partying now that the first day is over, but plenty of people are too exhausted to do a whole lot.

“Hey,” Jeff says to Mike. “Can we talk?”

Mike glances over at him and nods. “Sure,” he says. He seems to know it’s serious, because he’s not doing the hockey asshole thing at all.

Horty’s still out with his girlfriend, probably celebrating going third. Jeff only cares inasmuch as it means that their hotel room is empty.

“So,” Mike says, once Jeff shuts the door behind them. “What’s going on?”

“Uh--” Jeff says, because he has no idea where to start.

“This isn’t about me being drafted to the same team as you, is it?” Mike asks. He bites his bottom lip and then licks it, leaves it red and shining. Jeff can’t look away

“No,” Jeff says, “yes-- maybe?” He’s not drunk, but he is a little buzzed from the wine, and it’s making him careless.

“What’s that supposed to--” Mike starts to say. Jeff kisses him to shut him up.

At first, Mike is stunned and still, but then he opens his mouth and presses into it, kissing Jeff back. He curls one hand into Jeff’s hair, pulling him in closer. Jeff almost topples over on top of him, but they crash into a hotel wall first. Mike laughs against Jeff’s lips, tugs at Jeff’s hair in a way that makes every nerve ending in Jeff’s body buzz. It’s different than what Jeff saw in his visions, sloppier and unpracticed.

It doesn’t take long for Jeff to start getting a crick in his neck in this position, though, so he pulls back. Mike’s breathing hard, his eyes dark and a little hooded. He looks young, and the expression on his face is open and honest. Jeff just wants to kiss him again and again.

Mike says, “Seriously, that’s why you were weird about it?” He smiles then, broad and happy and a little bit shy. It makes Jeff’s chest hurt, because Mike has no idea what’s coming.

“A little,” Jeff says. He swallows around the lump in his throat. “But there’s this other thing, and it probably sounds a little crazy…”

Mike raises one eyebrow at him.

“I’ve been like, seeing things. Things that are probably about the future.”

“O--okay,” Mike says. He stands up straighter and pushes away from the wall, back in thoughtful business mode. Jeff tries not to find it charming, but he does. “What sort of things?”

“About the two of us, together.”

That gets a frown from Mike. “Together how? Like playing on the same team?”

Jeff sits down on the bed, digs his fingers into the sheets to stabilize himself. “Yeah, but also like-- together-together. Like living together and stuff. I thought that maybe… I don’t know, that it was just some sort of brain glitch or something, but then we ended up drafted by the same team, and--”

Mike nods at that, stepping a little closer. “Pretty weird superpower you’ve got there, Jeff,” he says. He’s almost kind of smiling again. “All it tells you is that you get into my pants someday.”

“Fuck you. I didn’t ask for it,” Jeff says.

Mike laughs a little at that, softly, almost under his breath. He looks happy, his eyes bright. “We move in together. Sounds like we get pretty serious.” He sits down on the bed next to Jeff, knocking their knees together.

Jeff grits his teeth. He almost doesn’t want to say it out loud, doesn’t want to make it true. “There’s like this other thing I’ve seen, about afterwards--”

Mike doesn’t say anything at that, just looks at Jeff with quieter, serious eyes.

“--like, after we break up,” Jeff says. “I think-- I think it gets messy.” He doesn’t know how to put it in words, the pain and the frustration and the anger. He’s afraid of it, of feeling that much about anyone. He looks at Mike now. His hair cut short. His features soft and boyish and round. It seems ridiculous to think that Mike will ever have the power to really hurt Jeff, but Jeff also knows how happy they can be, how good it gets. Of course it hurts to lose that.

“Breakups usually are,” Mike says, nodding. He takes a breath. “That’s what got you thinking about destiny, eh?”

Jeff shrugs. “If we do this,” he says, voice barely louder than a whisper, “if we do this, I just wanted you to know.” He wants Mike to be able to make his own decisions. Jeff has the sinking feeling that he made up his own mind the second he kissed Mike. He didn’t realize he was doing it, but he did it anyway.

“Hey,” Mike says. He leans against Jeff’s side, wraps one arm around Jeff’s shoulders. He smells familiar, a scent that triggers Jeff’s sense memory of things that haven’t happened yet. It’s like being homesick for a place you’ve never been to. “Everything happens for a reason, right? Even this.”

Mike sounds so calm about it, so steady, that Jeff wants to trust in it. “It all just gets so fucked up,” he mumbles into Mike’s hair.

“Then we’ll deal with it when we get there,” Mike promises. He cups Jeff’s cheek and kisses him again. Jeff kisses back.

---

They fall asleep curled up on Jeff’s bed, facing each other, legs tangled together. The lights are dimmed, but Jeff has a moment to study Mike’s face, slack with sleep, a light snore through his nostrils. He thinks of the moments he’s seen. The ones he wants to keep. The ones he wishes he could forget. This is one of the ones he wants to keep, he thinks. And maybe that’s all he can do, collect these moments while he can, hold onto them while it’s still possible. He presses a kiss to Mike’s nose, sees Mike’s face wrinkle involuntarily. It’s cute. Jeff closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

As he drifts off, the ghostly echo of a phone ringing, never answered, chases him to sleep.

FIN.