scribblinlenore: (Girl Sleeping)
[personal profile] scribblinlenore
Title: Hockey Garters
Fandom: Hockey RPF
Pairing: Sid/Geno
Rating: Explicit
Word count: ~5,000
Summary: Hockey garters can be sexy, Sidney realizes, especially when Geno is taking his off.

Notes: This story is for the prostitution/sex work square of my Kink Bingo card. Big thank you to [personal profile] mindyfromohio for the speedy beta.



Hockey Garters
By Lenore

Sid has been to a strip club exactly three times in his life, never entirely voluntarily. Call it a hazard of the profession. The first time had been his rookie year. Colby had sworn they were just going for a quick drink at this bar he knew, insisting that, yes, Sid did have to come along because if you didn't celebrate your first NHL game, what were you going to celebrate?

In retrospect, the place had seemed suspiciously out of the way. There was no sign outside, just a plain metal door with a keypad. The guys had snickered and darted glances Sid's way as Colby punched in the code. Sid probably should have realized something was up when Colby held the door open and motioned him ahead.

He'd stepped inside, pushed through a heavy velvet curtain, and suddenly there were boobs everywhere, as far as the eye could see. There were big boobs and—even bigger boobs, jiggling and bouncing and all very, very naked. Sid liked boobs just fine, really he did, but this—well, the guys practically laughed themselves sick at how much he blushed.

The second time he went to a strip club—no one talked about the second time. Sid tried never even to think about it. Honestly, lap dances should be against the law.

Last time had been Jordy's bachelor party. The guys had apparently been going for classiness when they'd planned the thing, as classy as an evening of tequila shots and strippers could get anyway. The club had wood paneled walls and leather seats, and the dancers seemed to be trying to make their performances artistic. There had been a lot of feathers involved anyway.

The problem with strip clubs, Sid had always found, was that there was nowhere safe to look. When the actual stripping wasn't completely embarrassing, it was boring, and what if the dancers noticed that he was bored? That seemed rude. He couldn't look at the other guys, because they were usually enjoying themselves a lot, and there were things (many, many things) that he just didn't want to know about his teammates. Staring at the drink in his hand made him go cross-eyed if he did it for too long.

At least at Jordy's party there had been several stages with different performances going on at the same time. Sid found the least embarrassing one, focused on a point just beyond the dancer's shoulder, and tried to keep an attentive expression on his face. The performer was wearing white lacy underthings with a wisp of a garter belt and sheer stockings, giving her an almost innocent look. She sat on a chair, arched her back and stretched out her leg, slowly, toe pointed like she was doing ballet. She flung her shoe—with a very pointy heel that was really rather dangerous in Sid's opinion—into the crowd, flicked the catch of her garter, and teasingly slid the stocking down and off. That also went sailing into the crowd.

It got more embarrassing after that, so Sid switched his focus to another stage and promptly forgot all about the dancer and her garter.

Or at least he thought he had.




Sid loves winning, but even more than that he loves well-played hockey. Tonight's victory definitely does not fall into that category. He leaves the ice with a scowl, replaying in his head sloppy passes, stupid penalties, too many missed opportunities. Yelling at his team isn't his style, but everyone knows what it means when he throws his gloves the moment he hits the locker room. They go quiet and give him a wide berth.

He answers the media's questions as quickly as he can and strides off to the showers when they're finished with him. His mood hasn't improved by the time he returns to his stall to get dressed.

"Sid," Geno says in a calming tone. "We win tonight. Play better next game. Not need to be mad."

Sid rounds on him, ready to snap that they'd better play better or they won't win next time, but the words fall away. For whatever inexplicable reason, his brain chooses this moment to serve up a picture of that dancer in the garter and to note that Geno is striking very much the same pose, sitting with his leg stretched out in front of him to take off his hockey socks. Sid stares as Geno's fingers undo the catch of the—okay, yes, it is a garter, but a hockey garter, a necessary piece of gear. Only now it seems like something else, something that belongs on a stage or behind closed doors. Geno slides his socks down his legs. Technically that's stripping, Sid thinks in a daze.

He blinks. Tries to swallow, but there's no spit left in his mouth.

"Sid? Okay?" Geno watches him, eyebrows drawn together in that way he does when he's concerned.

"Yeah. No. I mean, you're right," he tells Geno, forcing a smile. "We'll play better next time."

Geno appears confused by Sid's sudden mood shift, but he claps him on the shoulder and wanders off to the shower. Sid pulls on his clothes, packs up and gets the hell out of there. On the ride home he tries to forget all about—whatever that was, but he can't. He keeps going over it in his head, wondering what the fuck. He's only seen Geno undress a million times before. Why had it suddenly struck him as something—he'd voluntarily go to a strip club to see? Honestly, Sid doesn't even make sense to himself sometimes.

Routine is the cure for pretty much everything, he's always found. So when he gets home, he follows his usual after-game schedule with meticulous care. He eats dinner cobbled together from leftovers Nathalie tucked into the fridge the last time she was over, watches an hour of SportsCenter, changes into a T-shirt and boxers, gets into bed, and jerks off before he goes to sleep. If you want your body to take care of you, then you have to take care of it, Sid has long believed. Orgasms are as important as proper nutrition or a well-designed workout. His regular masturbation schedule is every morning in the shower and every night before bed.

It never takes much to get him going, a few pulls of his hand, the memory of the last time he had sex replaying in his head. If he wants to come quickly, he thinks about a particularly exciting hockey play. Tonight it's all going according to plan. He's got his hand slicked and curled around his dick. He's remembering Brittany or maybe her name was Bethany—the dark-haired girl in the red dress, the last person he picked up, the one who liked to dig her heels into his back and made high, breathy noises the whole time he was fucking her.

He's getting close, very close when abruptly the movie screen in his head changes reels, and there's Geno. It isn't the same scene from earlier in the locker room. Geno has on a dress shirt, crisp and dark blue; Sid always admires that shirt when he wears it. Geno is undoing the cuffs, slowly, deliberately, before moving to the buttons down the front, easing each one open, taking his time, teasing. This isn't anything Sid has ever seen, obviously. It's pure fantasy. A fantasy that he is having about Geno.

"Fuck," he says out loud.

He can't get off to that—fuck, he really, really can't. But it's too late. He's already spurting over his fingers, the after-image of half-naked Geno lingering behind his eyes. He cleans up with a tissue and flops back against the mattress.

This isn't going to be a problem. He's not going to let it.




Sid heads to Consol the next day honestly believing that he's over it. There are unspoken rules in the locker room. Chief among them is that you don't stare at your teammates when they're undressing, and he's sure that not fantasizing about your teammates stripping for you would be a rule too if anyone had ever stopped to consider the matter. Rules exist for a reason. Sid is a big believer in them.

Only now that he's started watching Geno, he can't seem to stop, no matter what the rules say.

It's okay when they're on the ice practicing drills. It's Sid's job to watch then, his captainly responsibility to notice, to critique. He can think about Geno's body without guilt, free to admire what it can do, the strength in Geno's legs and how fast he covers the ice, his soft hands and quick wrists that send the puck flying into the net with breathtaking precision.

If only Sid could live his entire life on the ice, everything would be so much easier.

After practice Geno wanders around the locker room half dressed, chirping Duper about his passing and making Nealer laugh at some joke that Sid doesn't quite catch. Sid hasn't stopped thinking about Geno's body, but there's nothing captainly about it now. Geno's lanky enough that you wouldn't pick him out as a hockey player at first glance, but Sid knows how deceptively strong he is. He likes that. Likes the contrasts of Geno's body, his long legs and round ass, his thin chest and broad shoulders. He likes how big and capable Geno's hands look as they strip away his Underarmour and—

Sid turns away abruptly and flees into the showers, his face burning.

He dawdles, hoping that everyone will be gone when he comes back, but Geno is still there, dressed, his hair damp. He's sitting on the bench near Sid's stall, waiting.

"Guys go for drink. You come?" he asks hopefully.

"Um, well—" Sid was planning to go home. That's his routine. "Yeah. Okay. One drink."

Geno bounds up, grinning, and Sid can't regret anything.

There's a sports bar they always go to when they want a quiet evening. The bartender greets them with a nod, and they find the rest of the guys in the usual banquette at the back. Duper and Tanger get up and head over to the bar to bring back the next round. Geno slides in beside Sid, sitting close enough that their thighs touch. They've done this many times before, and Sid doesn't know why it feels different now, why he's so aware of Geno, why he holds his breath every time their elbows brush. When Duper sets a beer down in front of him, he downs a big, nervous swallow.

Geno tips back his shot of vodka and darts a conspiratorial smile at Sid. Heat curls in Sid's stomach, and he gulps more of his beer. A waitress circles over bringing more shots. Geno does another, and Sid stares helplessly at the way Geno's shirtsleeve draws up when he lifts his arm, revealing the fine bones of his wrist and pale, naked skin. Sid flushes deeply and quickly finishes the rest of his beer.

That should be his cue to leave. He said one drink.

"I buy next round, yes?" Geno fixes a look on him, lingering and expectant and what does that mean? Does it mean anything?

Sid drinks the next beer more slowly, eventually relaxing into the familiar warmth of Geno at his side. They don't really talk much. Geno seems content to drink his vodka and look at Sid like he's the only person in the room. That's incredibly distracting, so Sid has no idea what Duper's talking about when he calls out from across the table, "Right, Sid?"

Sid blinks. "Um—what?"

Duper rolls his eyes, gives up on Sid, and turns to Tanger. "Right?"

"I should probably go," Sid tells Geno. He doesn't know why he's suddenly whispering. It just seems like the thing to do. Whatever this is—if it's anything at all—it's just between them.

"Sid stay," Geno says firmly, and then his lips quirk into a smile. "Buy next round."

Sid makes a face at him, but he doesn't leave, and he does get the next round. He and Geno clink glasses, and Geno says something in Russian that Sid thinks means "cheers." Sid's not much of a drinker, and now that he's on his third beer he's taking tiny sips, not loving the way the bitter taste lingers, leaving a film on his tongue and teeth. He does like that Geno is still watching him, intent and fond, and he wonders if that's new or if it's always been there and he just hadn't been looking before so he hadn't noticed.

He still has no clue what any of it means.

"Geno," he starts but then he has no idea where to go from there. It's not as if he can just come out and ask: Hey, what do you think it means that I keep staring at you when we're in the locker room and imagining that you're taking off your clothes just for me?

That thought makes heat coil in his stomach. His traitorous brain starts to serve up images to go along with it: Geno pulling his sweater up over his head, dropping it to the floor, undoing the buttons of his shirt, his gaze hotly fastened on Sid as he slips it off his shoulders.

"I have to go," Sid blurts out in a panic.

"Sid," Geno says with a calming touch to his arm. "Everything okay. Not worry."

Sid's voice drops low. "I really need to go, okay, Geno?"

Geno's gaze lingers for a moment, serious and considering, and then he scoots out of the banquette.

Sid scrambles up and stalls awkwardly, feeling stupid. "I, uh, I'll see you tomorrow."

The drive home takes twenty minutes, but that's not long enough for either his arousal or his confusion to fade. Was Geno flirting with him? Or was that just wishful thinking on Sid's part? He has never been particularly good at figuring out when someone was into him, and it's even more confusing with Geno. They've been into each other in a hockey sense since pretty much the first moment they met. How is he supposed to tell the difference between that and Geno being into him in a sex sense? The last thing he wants is get it wrong and hurt their friendship or mess up anything hockey-related.

Nothing can stop him, though, from hurrying inside once he gets home, pushing his pants down his thighs, and wrapping his hand around his cock. He brings himself off to memories of how Geno felt, warm and solid and pressed so close, to pictures of how Geno would look if he really did take off his clothes just for Sid. He comes so hard he sees flashes of color behind his eyes.

When his brain finally restarts, one thing is perfectly clear: he is totally into Geno in a sex sense.




One of the many reasons that Sid loves playing hockey is that everything is always so clear. He knows what the objective is, and he always has a well-defined game plan for achieving it. If only he could say the same about the rest of his life. He heads into the locker room the next day for practice filled with uncertainty about how to act around Geno.

He has the vague idea that he should apologize, but he can't decide if he should be sorry for what he did or what he didn't do, for what he wants or for not realizing it sooner. This is why he prefers hockey to feelings. Hockey is so much easier.

At least, Geno doesn't seem to think that anything is weird between them. He nods hello to Sid as he always does and nudges him with his elbow whenever he wants to get his attention and does nothing to suggest that he thinks Sid is a ridiculous, socially awkward drama queen for running out on him last night. Practice feels good, and when Sid and Geno leave the ice, they share a satisfied smile.

Hockey makes everything better, and that reminds Sid of what's really important: the team, the next game, winning. His feelings are—whatever they are, but he's not going to do anything to jeopardize what they have on the ice together. He feels calmed by this realization, more like himself again.

This sense of self-control lasts until the next day, when Geno scores a hat trick to win the game that night.

The third goal flies cleanly into the net just as the last seconds tick off the clock. That's fucking perfect hockey, hot and amazing, and Sid is the first to clamber over the boards, piling onto Geno in celebration. Geno is grinning wildly, and so is Sid, and he never wants to let go, never wants this moment to end.

In the locker room, after they've finished talking to the media, the team continues its congratulations, slapping Geno on the shoulder and grinning like maniacs. Sid stays close at Geno's side, because he's just so happy, and he wants to bask in the good feeling. Geno wears an enormous smile as he accepts fist bumps and good-natured chirps about expecting four goals from him next time.

Eventually the other guys drift away, and Sid and Geno are left standing together. Geno slants a look at Sid, and his expression turns suddenly serious. He holds Sid's gaze and slowly eases his shirt up his chest, strips it off, and lets it drop with deliberate emphasis.

Sid stares, his mouth falling open as he finally gets it. Geno is completely aware that Sid has been looking, and he's been letting him. That's just as hot and amazing as the hat trick was, and, oh fuck, Sid is getting hard, right there in the middle of the locker room surrounded by his entire team. He turns and bolts for the shower, flustered and impossibly turned on.

The water is cold enough to take his breath away, but he twists the faucet, making it even colder. The only other option is jerking off, and that's just rude in a communal shower. He stays under the freezing spray for quite some time.

By the time he finally gets himself together and heads back out to his stall, the guys are organizing post-game drinks in Geno's honor.

"Sid!" Duper booms out. "Get your ass in gear. Geno needs celebratory shots. Right, Geno?"

"I'm kind of tired," Sid stammers out, his gaze sliding over to Geno.

"Am tired too," Geno says quickly.

Duper opens his mouth to insist, but he must see how determined they are because he just rolls his eyes. "Fine. We'll celebrate without you. Tanger wants shots, don't you, Tanger?"

The answer is loud and emphatic, and Duper wanders off to go round up the rest of the guys.

"Go home now?" Geno asks.

Sid nods. "Yeah, I'm, uh, yeah." His mouth is so dry he can hardly get the words out, which is ridiculous. This is Geno. "But you could still go out and celebrate. You deserve it. You were really, really amazing." His voice drops, low and wanting. He knows he's giving himself away, but he can't help it. He doesn't want Geno to go anywhere but home with him.

Geno watches him closely. "Quiet evening good. Maybe I come to Sid's, we watch movie?"

"Yeah?" Sid's voice lilts up hopefully. "Yeah. That's—yeah. Let's go."

On the way out to the parking lot, Geno rests his hand at the small of Sid's back, and Sid feels so conscious of it, the heat and weight of the touch. They stop when they get to Sid's car. "So, um, do you want—" he trails off awkwardly.

"Have my car," Geno tells him with a little smile. "Meet you there."

Sid spends the drive to his house biting at his bottom lip and trying not to freak out, which is really hard to manage when he's about to have sex with Geno. He's pretty sure about that, anyway. Oh God, what if Geno really just wants to watch a movie?

This sliver of doubt is enough to make him cautious and almost painfully polite when they get to his house. "Come in," he invites Geno and leads him to the kitchen. "Can I get you a snack? Something to drink?" He hovers by the refrigerator

"What you have?"

Sid takes a look. "There's blue Gatorade or—uh, you like blue Gatorade, right?"

"Sid know how to throw party," Geno says, with a teasing smile.

That's familiar, and familiar is good. Sid relaxes a little. "All the blue Gatorade you can drink." He smiles as he reaches for glasses in the cabinet. Even if they're not going to have sex, it's okay. He's just glad Geno is here.

Although he really hopes they have sex.

They settle in the den, and Sid does his best to ignore the nervous flutter in his stomach at having Geno so close, their knees touching, arms brushing. "What do you want to watch?" His voice only cracks a little. That's almost suave for him.

"Scary Movie 2?" Geno suggests, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

Sid shakes his head sadly. "I blame Max."

Geno grins shamelessly. An explosion of heat goes off deep in Sid's body.

He finds the movie on Netflix and starts it. Geno settles back against the cushions, sipping his Gatorade, looking perfectly relaxed. Sid sits tensely, trying to pay attention to what's happening on screen and failing utterly. He keeps darting glances at Geno out of the side of his eye, waiting for something to happen. When nothing does, he goes over it in his head, analyzing, trying to decide if Geno is expecting him to do something first.

After a bit, Geno asks, "Okay to take off shoes?"

"Oh yeah, sure thing," Sid says, nodding. "Make yourself comfortable."

Geno slips off his shoes. Sid has honestly never considered that anything having to do with feet could be that arousing. When the dancer at that club kicked off her shoes, his only thought had been that the heel could put someone's eye out. But with Geno, Sid is suddenly, intensely aware that he's slightly more naked than he was before. When Geno stretches out his long legs, slow and sensuous, Sid stares, holding his breath.

"What are you doing?" he asks in a quiet voice, because he just really needs to know.

Geno angles toward him. "Sid like to watch, yes?"

Sid feels his cheeks pink. "Are you making fun of me?"

"No." Geno gives him a solemn look. "Not make fun."

"Are you mad?" Sid doesn't think so, but it seems like a good idea to double check.

Geno shakes his head. "Not mad."

That makes Sid brave enough to meet his eye. "Are you—" He scoots closer. "Can I—" He doesn't wait for an answer, because he just can't wait any more. He fumbles a kiss onto Geno's mouth.

Geno makes a small, pleased sound, surges forward, and kisses back. It's sloppy and hungry, and how had Sid taken so long to realize that Geno wanted this too? He's beginning to think it was kind of obvious.

"Sid," Geno murmurs, kissing under his chin and along his jaw.

"I've been going crazy," Sid says, tilting his head so Geno can kiss his throat. "Why didn't you say something?"

Geno shakes his head. "Not sure what you want. Never look at me before, and then when you start, not do anything about it, so I try a little, and you run away. I come home with you, and you play good host. Sid very confusing."

"I'm not—" Okay, yeah, Sid can see how he might have been giving off mixed signals even if hadn't meant to. Geno has him there.

Maybe the trick to feelings, he thinks, is to treat them more like hockey: to be clear about his objective and go for it. He shifts so that he's straddling Geno's lap and kisses him again, more urgently. "I want to have sex with you. I mean, not just that. I really want us to be, you know, together."

Geno nods. "Understand now. Kiss more."

Sid nods and presses their mouths together, glad that he and Geno are finally on the same page. Geno murmurs something in Russian against Sid's lips, and whatever it is sounds dirty and hot. Sid loops his arms around Geno's neck, rocks his hips and moans out loud when he feels that Geno is just as hard as he is. Geno strokes his hands along Sid's back and down over his ass, pulling him closer, kissing more greedily.

It's good—God, so good. There's one thing that would make it even better. "I want you to come upstairs and take your clothes off for me," Sid says, almost in a whisper.

Geno groans and clutches at Sid's shoulders. "Want that too," he says, sounding wrecked.

They head up to Sid's room, but the trip isn't a straight line of progress since they have to stop and kiss every few steps.

When they get to the bedroom, Geno pulls Sid close. "Take off clothes. Get on bed." He mouths the words wetly against Sid's throat.

"But—"

Geno lifts his head and gives Sid a look that's quietly insistent. Sid shivers with want. He ditches his clothes—he's always open to coaching—and perches at the end of the bed, feeling a little exposed and incredibly turned on.

Geno nods in approval. He lifts one arm and starts to undo the cuff of his dress shirt, just like in Sid's fantasy. He doesn't take his eyes off Sid as he nimbly works free the rest of the buttons. Sid can't help the noise he makes when Geno slips off his shirt and tosses it to the floor. Sid's already so hard, and he wants, needs to—

"Touch self," Geno says coaxingly.

Sid scrambles to get his hand around his cock, and he bites his lip at how good it feels. He stares, breathing heavily, as Geno slowly lifts his undershirt, pulls it off and lets it fly. This startles a laugh out of Sid, and Geno smiles. His hands settle onto his belt. Sid has never imagined that unbuckling could be drawn out for so long, hot and torturous. When Geno pulls off the belt at last, it's a slow, loop-by-loop tease.

"This what Sid want?" Geno asks, his voice silky and arousing.

"Geno," Sid moans, gripping his cock tighter.

Please, that's what Sid means, but Geno still takes his time, keeps teasing, strokes his fingers up and down his fly before pushing down the zipper and stepping out of his trousers. He's hard too, and he palms his dick, rubbing himself through the cotton of his boxer briefs.

"Fuck," Sid blurts out. "Fuck, please."

"Yes," Geno says, sounding pleased.

He pushes down his underwear and kicks it away, and then he lunges, spilling Sid back onto the bed and crawling on top of him. He kisses Sid, smiles at him, and then kisses him some more.

"What you want?" Geno asks, rubbing affectionate circles over Sid's chest.

"You," Sid answers promptly, without needing to think about it.

Geno's eyes go darker, and he kisses Sid again and again, murmuring things in Russian that sound very promising. He strings kisses along Sid's throat and starts working his way down Sid's body, exploring with his hands and mouth. Sid's a little ticklish around the ribs, which makes Geno smile, and he has a fading bruise on his side that Geno kisses tenderly. When he starts to tongue the lines of Sid's abdominal muscles, Sid can't stop trembling.

"Please." He's more than willing to beg if that will get him Geno's mouth around his dick.

Geno lifts his head with a slow, sly smile as if he's going to tease, draw this out longer. Sid makes an insistent noise, trying to spur him on, and somehow that works. Geno bends down again, and then all Sid can think is so good, so good. Geno holds him down with one hand on his hip, curls the other hand around his cock, and works him with fist and mouth. Sid was already so turned on, and now he's falling apart, fingers gripping Geno's shoulders, thighs trembling, a steady stream of the most ridiculous noises spilling out of him.

Geno hums appreciatively, a low rumble around Sid's cock, and that's it, as much as he can handle. He pushes at Geno's shoulder, trying to let him know: now, I'm going to, have to—. Geno just hums more contentedly and doesn't pull away. Sid squeezes his eyes tightly shut and comes in Geno's mouth.

It takes Sid a moment—okay, maybe a few moments—to get it together enough to think about reciprocating. He pulls Geno close for a kiss and says, "Do you want—I can—with my mouth."

Geno groans, presses his face against Sid's neck, and ruts against his hip once, twice, and comes.

"Or that's good too." Sid smiles crookedly.

Geno goes slack, his cheek against Sid's shoulder, his breath coming in warm puffs against Sid's skin. Sid reaches for tissues on the nightstand and does the best clean up job he can. He's too lazy and content to get up and go to the bathroom for a washcloth. Geno settles onto his side and nudges at Sid until they're spooned together.

Sid almost never sleeps with the people he has sex with. Even when it's a relationship and not a one-time thing, he finds the closeness of another body, the hot press of someone else's skin oppressive and not the least bit restful. But with Geno—Sid likes being close.

"Why you start looking?" Geno asks softly, his lips brushing the back of Sid's neck.

Sid's eyes are already half-lidded, his thoughts fuzzy, and all he can offer is, "Hockey garters."

Geno stills, and his voice is low and husky when he says, "Maybe you ask nice, I wear just for you." He tightens his arm across Sid's chest. "But now we sleep."

Sid's eyes are wide open. "How am I supposed to do that when I'm thinking about—" It's a really good thought, but not the kind that makes him want to go to sleep.

Geno kisses his shoulder. "Close eyes."

Sid does, not that he expects it to lead to anything. But he's underestimating how easy it is to relax with Geno pressed close, so warm and familiar and loved, Sid realizes. He places his hand over Geno's where it rests on his chest and falls asleep.


Inspired by this amazing photo (and I really wish I had a version with Geno):


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