A/N: After what feels like a lifetime, here is the second last (!) chapter of Slap Shot. As always, special thanks to Riveriver who is dragging my melodramatic ass over the finish line. Thank you to:
Rocklesson86: I am using your review to justify, like, a whole entire third of this chapter. Appreciate you!
Blue and Gold: Thanks for another thoughtful review! Jessica/Seth are my hill to die on & the thought of more J/S content floating around in the universe sparks a fire in my cold, dead heart.
Writhing: if FFN had tags this would absolutely be labelled idiots to lovers. I will cancel my plans for a heinous ending and give you the HEA you so desire
Lalaland972: Hello, my old friend! I am glad you are enjoying the chaos (of the fic, not my life) & appreciate the concern. I'll be fine, and if not...more angst!
One of the best things about Seth is his ability to know when to leave things alone.
For every ounce of sensitivity and sweetness he has to his name, he also possesses an uncannily accurate sense of when to gracefully retreat. It's not that we don't talk about things - we talk plenty, even if the majority of our conversations take place between the hours of eleven p.m. and three a.m., between patrol trade-offs and day shifts and timetables that never quite seem to align. Seth doesn't have to say the words aloud for me to know that he'd take on less hours, fight fewer vampires, or even give up the pack lifestyle if he thought that was what I wanted -
And, truthfully, I have no idea what I want.
Seth knows that. He doesn't push.
Instead, we while away the hours talking about everything and nothing, which is almost more revealing than the actual heart-to-hearts we've had.
For example, I never knew Seth possessed the capacity to monologue for the entire length of a South Park episode on whether the Oregon Trail promoted communism; he'd even dialled Brady's cell and put the call on speakerphone to try and prove me wrong.
(Once Brady had gotten past the whole it's the middle of the night, why are you calling me? part of the conversation, his persuasive skills really shone.
If only the Quileute Tribal School had a debating team.)
After that, Collin and Brady had ended up weaselling their way into attending one of our Friday date nights on the premise of adjudicating a debate, only to end up embroiled in the totally hypothetical scenario of whose wedding we'd attend if they were scheduled for the same weekend - Sam and Emily (Collin vouching for the event having the peninsula's best catering) versus Kim and Jared (since Seth pointed out Jared would insist on a ten-minute ceremony followed by a kegger). Unsurprisingly, the argument goes nowhere but downhill, meaning that Collin and Brady are kindly evicted from my apartment shortly before the stroke of twelve, tupperware container of pizza in tow, with the scheduling crisis no closer to being solved.
On the other hand, it solidifies my belief that fights are the best foreplay.
Peace and quiet never lasts.
Neither do my pleasant dreams of a tropical Hawaiian vacation, featuring plenty of sunshine and minimal clothing; they are cruelly and brutally chased away by the cold press of a nose against my neck, cool fingers tracing slowly down the ridges of my spine.
"Hi," Seth whispers, carefully folding his long limbs around my relaxed frame. "I missed you."
"It's been six hours," I grumble, burying my face deeper into the pillow. "Can you miss me in the morning?"
"I miss you all the time," he says, burying his face in my hair. "Can I make it up to you?"
My half-asleep brain clamours for the last vestiges of rest, stringing together flashes of sandy shores and tan lines, but it's impossible for my nerves to relax with him beside me; I may as well have drunk an entire pot of coffee with the way my skin is buzzing, set alight by the hard press of his body against mine, firm hands massaging away the tension in my shoulders, his fingers fanning possessively over the sides of my ribcage. His mouth ghosts over the shell of my ear, his teeth grazing my earlobe with the lightest touch.
"Let me show you what I've been looking forward to," he coaxes, fingertips tracing soft circles over the swell of my breasts, rolling my nipples between his fingers. "And then you can get back to that sexy dream of yours."
"What gave it away?" I whisper, arching my back to press my hips against his.
"You smell divine," he hums appreciatively, grinding his hips against my ass. "That's the second-best thing to come home to."
"What's the first?"
Seth grins wickedly, wrapping one hand around my hair, balling it in his fist. "Getting my hands on you. You've been taking your pills?"
"Yeah," I breathe, not needing a replay of last month's dramas.
He throws one thick thigh over my hips, pressing me harder against the mattress, dwarfed under his bulk. Slowly, torturously slowly, his hands inch further down my spine, index finger tracing all the way down to the dimples of my hips, kneading the softness of my ass. I don't have to look over my shoulder to know exactly what he is doing - I can hear the stretch of the elastic as he tugs my pyjama pants lower, can feel the bump of his fist as he strokes himself behind me, the stickiness of his precum against my bare skin.
"I can't stop thinking about you," he says huskily, dragging the head of his cock through my wetness. "Thinking about how I'm the only one that gets to have you like this, gets that pretty mouth of yours on me."
He draws his hips back when I try and lean into his touch, laughing softly at my disappointed groan.
"You'd better be careful," I say instead, wriggling my hair loose to peer over one shoulder, taking a better look at his dark eyes, his perfectly parted lips. "Those thoughts are going to get you into trouble."
His mouth quirks into a smirk as he bumps teasingly against my clit, letting me feel the weight of him for only a second. "Would it be bad if I said it already has?"
"Would it be worse if I said I found that extremely hot?"
"You don't even need to say it," Seth breathes, his voice rough with desire. "I can feel how much you love that. Look at you, all needy thinking about my friends."
"I'm not - "
Seth drops his hips lower, nudging his cock against me, pressing his thumbs into the dip of my waist.
"You like it, don't you?" he hums contemplatively, sucking a spot on the curve of my neck. "I think about how beautiful you look on your back, your legs spread for me, the sound you make when I push into you. When the patrol takes me past the shoulder, I think about having you in the back of Brady's car, begging me to let you come."
I whimper, moving restlessly underneath him. "Don't act all innocent, mister possessive."
He grins even wider, edging ever so slightly inside me. "Oh believe me, I take great pleasure in reminding the boys that you're mine. That they can think about you as much as they want, imagine you on your knees when they jerk off, but I'm the only one that gets to fuck you - "
Seth presses his hips forward, sinking down until his hips are flush against mine, reaching deeper than my fingers can.
"I'm the one that knows what you feel like wrapped around me, knows how to make you pant my name with just a finger," he continues, setting an excruciatingly slow pace, hands digging into my flesh. "I'm the one that gets to come home to you, and there's no way in hell I'm taking that for granted."
"Seth, I love you, but if you don't quit teasing me you're losing your privileges," I snipe, squeezing down on him.
He huffs, finally rolling his hips in that sinful way he's perfected with plenty of practice, planting his forearms either side of my head. It's enough to make the pressure in my chest build, for my breathing to come in shallow pants that stutter with every stroke.
For a moment I'm lost in the feeling, the exquisite drag coiling me tighter and tighter, the staccato groans escaping Seth's throat making me burn in a way that only he can.
He drops his mouth to my shoulder, rolling the freckled skin between his teeth, and it hits me.
"I want you," I breathe, the revelation hitting me like a truck.
"You've got me," he murmurs, biting gently on the spot he's been working over. "And I hate to break it to you, but I'm all out of dick."
As if to hammer home the point, he angles his hips a little higher, letting me feel every inch of him.
"Not like that," I murmur, struggling to string the words together. "I want to tell people that we're together. Like, everyone."
"Please do," Seth grins, peppering kisses over my shoulder blade.
" And I want - I want you to move in after you graduate."
"I can do that," he grunts, working himself closer to the precipice.
"I'm in this for real," I whisper, already seeing the future in my mind. "Marry you someday for real."
He snakes his hand underneath my hips, his fingertips circling the bite mark on my thigh, still raw and sensitive and white-hot to the touch, his tongue laving across the darkening spot on my shoulder. Seth presses every inch of his skin to mine as I tremble through my peak, choking out his name amidst a flurry of garbled vowels, noises that hardly register as my own.
His body stills a little while after mine, slipping down onto the mattress beside me.
Seth doesn't need to say a word.
Except -
"See, that's exactly the kind of thing I think about on patrol," he sighs happily, tucking his bicep under my head like a pillow. "Heartwarming and raunchy."
The days slowly tick by, February melting into March, then April, winter crawling towards a whimpering end that sees the usual swelling crowds of patrons dwindling to couples, families, occasional stragglers.
They all know the rink is closing.
Somehow, they all know better than to discuss that with me.
Every x-marked box on the fireman calendar that hangs in the manager's office feels like a punch to the gut. It's a little stupid, the way I'm starting to get nostalgic over every last inch of the building, hesitating to box up or tear down anything that remotely strikes a chord. The family business has been the niggling thorn in my side since I had to step up in high school, but I've grown oddly attached over the years, coming to appreciate the sorely neglected rink through new eyes. I can hardly take two steps without remembering people who used to work here, birthday parties and hockey games and seasonal events that consumed so many of my waking hours, memories slipping into the recesses of time.
Saying goodbye is an awfully dramatic affair.
Paige expresses her grief in a cold, clinical fashion, typing meticulous itemised lists in twelve-point Helvetica for every square inch of the premises. Her four-page list for the back-of-house handover covers everything from detail cleaning every microscopic section of the hardware - a task that I gladly delegate to Lauren, who has uncharacteristically opted to work overtime in the weeks leading up to our closing - to erasing any lingering traces of the past seventeen years of operation. It takes Paige eight double-sided pages to enumerate the detritus immediately visible in the customer areas, with the specific caveat that these lists are not exhaustive, and additional tasks may be added as necessary.
All in all, the artefacts of my childhood can be boiled down to twelve impersonal sheets of printer paper; things to be destroyed and covered and erased from the history of the rink, neat and impersonal for its next life in the hands of a stranger.
It takes me the better part of a morning to take down the front desk, preserving the most impersonal things for the new tenants: a boxy computer almost as old as Paige; stock-standard stationery ordered from a mail-away catalogue; old pamphlet holders that would probably be filled by all the clinics and activities and events that a flourishing business could surely afford. Little else is saved from the progressive purge that sweeps the building, bins steadily being filled with papers and posters and traces of life, before.
I'm in the middle of debating whether to keep or toss the handmade poster from our final beer league season - a chaotic collage of previous promotional materials salvaged from the manager's office, cut and arranged and glued over the course of an almost-expired bottle of merlot; Angela had xeroxed it into life, splurging on full-colour to highlight the oddities collected - when the door clatters open, punctuated by the tinkling ring of a bell.
Note to self: backhand that piece of garbage into the dumpster.
"We're closed," I say tiredly, not looking up from the desk. "Reopening in two weeks, new management."
"I quite like the old management," a familiar voice declares - quite possibly the only voice I could tolerate hearing right now, actually - and he's already grinning when my head snaps up, infuriatingly attractive in his uniform of a t-shirt and jeans. "Thought you could use some company," Seth explains, sliding a coffee across the counter.
"Is this your spidey senses talking?" I query, taking a deep swig of the offensively strong blend.
He laughs, tugging teasingly on my ponytail. "Nope. Standard boyfriend senses. How're you holding up?"
"That's a banned topic of conversation. Keep or throw?" I ask, tapping my fingernail on the poster.
"Keep," he says instantly, already moving to roll it up. "How else are we going to remember where we met?"
"True," I say, feeling the telltale flip-flop start back up in my stomach.
Seth, being the gentleman he is, doesn't comment on my sudden change in demeanour, continuing to chatter aloud in his standard playful tone.
"I borrowed Leah's camera. I thought we could take some pictures before you take everything down. Emily's already volunteered to turn it into one of her famous scrapbooks," he says gently, taking the lens cap off. "Shall we start with your best customer service smile?"
He chortles as I stand behind the cash register, plastering on a scowl as if he has personally cursed me and my entire bloodline. He snaps a few shots around the lobby, capturing Mom's hand-lettered price board, the collection of framed action shots from over the years, the fare evader wall of shame beside the entry. Seth is content to follow me around as I box up the lobby, alternating between capturing me working and cataloguing the various points of interest, watching where I linger. He's observant, taking great pains to record the little things, zooming in on the child-size handprints stamped into the faded paint in the hallway, the shitty paintings I attempted of various NHL mascots on the kids' bathroom door.
"Can I commission a painting?" he wonders aloud, leaning in to take a closer look. "Collin's head on Gritty's body?"
"Horrifying," I comment, dropping another stack of framed photos into a cardboard box. "Remind me when it's his birthday. I'll make the resemblance uncanny."
Seth's head snaps up a moment before I hear the voices, the footsteps heading down the hallway.
"You know, I'm not that bad," Collin calls as he approaches, grinning at Seth's markedly unimpressed expression. "But I do like hot dogs, so I guess me and Gritty have that in common."
Brady trails after him, contemplating Collin with exaggerated seriousness. "You do have the I missed the last five haircuts look. Jess, make sure you label the painting, I'm going to have a hard time spotting the difference."
"Hey," Collin protests weakly, slugging Brady in the shoulder. "What it is, shit on Collin day?"
"That's every day," Seth says earnestly, lifting the camera to take a lightning-fast picture of the pair. "Ugh, you're right about his hair."
"Did you get his resting bitch face?" Brady asks innocently, leaning over to peer at the display. "Perfect. I wanna frame that. Emily's photo wall was starting to get too pretty."
"I hate all of you," Collin groans. "Jess, help me out here. Tell me I can skate over Seth's fingers."
I hum, pretending to think about it. "I would, but I just carted the accident report forms to the dumpster, and it hasn't been emptied in days. You can skate, but I'm kicking you out if you draw blood."
Collin whoops, gesturing rudely at Seth. "I knew you were the fun one. I'll be good, I promise."
Brady ducks his head, leaning across to stage-whisper into my ear. "Don't believe him. Collin's a walking liability."
I roll my eyes. "You're all hopeless. Seth, can you get skates sorted? I need to run upstairs for mine."
Seth nods, curling his hand around the back of my neck to pull me closer for a kiss. He's never been the PDA type - he stiffens like a plank of plywood at the mere thought of public affection, and blushes almost instantly if our hands brush.
Somehow, today is different.
Today, Seth kisses me insistently, his fingers snagging in the curls at the nape of my neck, tugging until my head tips back, until he can slot his mouth over mine just the way he likes. Today, he takes his time, kissing me until my heart thrums in my ears.
"Okay, geez, alright," Collin groans when Seth finally lets me go, the tips of his ears flushed pink. "We get it. You're in love and it is disgusting."
The boys are sprawled out on the benches by the time I find my neglected skates in the manager's office, boxed up with the rest of my things. They're discussing something very intently, a conversation that apparently involves multiple rounds of rock-paper-scissors, but by the time I've taken the stairs down to the rink, it seems to be over.
"This is strictly a lovebird-free zone," Brady announces when he spots me, still lacing up his skates. "It's going to be Collin and Seth versus us, bestie."
Seth wrinkles his nose. "I hate that word."
"Tough," Brady laughs, gently nudging me in the ribs. "I bet we'll be a great team."
Collin huffs, knotting his laces. "Damn it, Seth, I was looking forward to hitting you. What's the rule on friendly fire?"
Three pairs of eyes swivel in my direction.
"Uh, I don't think there is one. Normal people don't do that. Besides, Col, you've got bigger things to worry about. Can you even skate?" I ask, taking Seth's hoodie from his outstretched hand.
"He's fantastic," Brady says dryly. "Could smoke a baby deer any day of the week."
"That's just mean," Collin complains, promptly falling on his ass moments after stepping onto the ice.
Seth flips the puck over in his hand, choking back a laugh. "You've got good reflexes. Give it ten minutes and you'll be fine."
Infuriatingly, Seth is bang on the money; stupid werewolves and their ridiculous athletic abilities. In no time at all, the three of them are chasing each other around the ice, weaving and carving around each other in their bid to be the fastest, the best. The ice beneath their skates more closely resembles a rough powder, like the first fall of snow of the season, thoroughly scored and scraped and ground into messy lumps. They pay no mind to the rapidly deteriorating ice, whooping and bickering as they roughly crowd each other into the boards, delivering hits that would condemn a lesser being to the Forks Hospital Emergency Department.
It's been a long while since I've been on my skates for the sheer fun of it, cruising lazy loops around the neutral zone, enjoying the slow burn in my calves, my thighs. The biting frost is electrifying, waking up every nerve in my body, lifting some of the dreariness that has been hanging over me for weeks. Even when my fingers start to tingle, when sweat beads along the length of my spine, I feel nothing but alive.
Hockey is fucking awesome.
Seth's gaze slides to mine the moment I shudder to a stop. "You ready?"
"Ready to kick your ass," I call back, snagging a stick from the penalty box. "First to three?"
"Deal. Loser buys dinner," he agrees, slapping the back of Collin's leg with his stick, grinning at the high-pitched ouch it produces. "Brady, come take the face off."
Seth and Brady tap sticks once, twice, thrice, and then it is on, Seth sending the puck shooting across the neutral zone. Collin is first to the boards, scooping the puck and charging for the blue line, his skates scraping across the ice in lightning-fast strides. He is quick, but he is clumsy, his motions unpractised, and the moment Collin drops the pass, Brady swoops in, twisting around Seth's desperate poke-check and breaking free of the scrum.
Brady charges towards our goal, pumping his legs to stay ahead of Seth, who knows his play style like the back of his hand. Even so, Seth knows nothing of mine, not anticipating Brady's pivot, his backhand that sends the puck skittering around the boards to my waiting stick. Collin hesitates for a moment, probably apprehensive about Seth's reaction if he even breathes in my direction, and it's all I need to lunge forward, driving the puck deep into the net.
Seth's mouth drops open as Brady cheers, dropping his stick to spin me around in a ridiculous, over-the-top bear hug. Like everything Brady does, the hug is fast and chaotic and dizzying, and by the time my skates are back on the ice my brain feels like mush.
"Nice going, Stans," Collin calls, tapping his stick noisily on the ice. "That'll make your crushing loss easier to take."
"In your dreams," I taunt, hip-and-shouldering Seth on my way back to the centre circle. "Two more until Thai!"
(In the end, victory is ceded to Seth and Collin, though Seth is chivalrous enough to pick Japanese take-out, which is delicious enough to cushion our totally unfair loss.
Stupid athletic werewolves.)
A/N: Not pictured: the gang working out their dynamics
Collin: *Screams*
Seth: *Screams louder to assert dominance*
Brady: Should we do something?
Jess, observing: No, I want to see who wins this.