babybrini

At least you'd been living with a vet on your old team, so you don't have to deal will selling or leasing out your old living space, but finding a place to live in the Bay has been rough. You're not a rookie, so you can't just stake claim on a vet's guest house here; besides, most of them seem to already be taken, due to how many other young guys are on the team.

Maybe you can ask Sherwood, since he just got his long-term contract here? Either for real estate agent recommendations, or a pity couch-crash week. But you're not sure you're ready for the full "owning an entire house to yourself" responsibility, so you'd rather look at condos or apartments, and that might not really be the married guys' forte.

Thus you zero in on Sam Dickinson.

It's kind of intimidating to put yourself into the middle of all these guys who already know each other, but you find the opportunity between drills to skate up next to him and ask, "Hey, you live alone, right?"

"Serial killer question," he grins.

You snort. "Yeah, I need out of that hotel room or else I really will go serial killer mode. How'd you find your place? Help a dude out."

Sam nods, surprisingly sincere. "You free after scrim?"

Easy, just like that.

Something about his sudden intensity and genuineness gets you a little flustered. Bad sign. But you need a new place, like, yesterday, so you nod back.

You spend the rest of your ice time trying not to keep an eye out for Number 6. You do a pretty bad job at it.

//

You expect it to be a grueling process, but three minutes after sprawling across your hotel bed like he owns it, Sam says, "Oh, hey, this one's a steal!"

The listing he shows you is the most run-down, decrepit house you could ever imagine seeing in the Bay area. Upon further inspection, it's not even the full house, but renting a ten-by-ten room split with a current tenant.

"Bruh," you deadpan, and the both of you burst into giggles.

After that, it's less intimidating. Shoulder-to-shoulder on the hotel bed, the two of you end up way off track, trying to find the most ridiculous listings possible— including a literal castle, and the shed in someone's backyard— until your sides ache more from laughing than the day-long conditioning practice.

Eventually, you guys order delivery, and it's mid-slurp of his phad thai that Sam suggests, "Man, at this point just move in with me."

"What about my serial killer allegations?" you grin, not taking the suggestion seriously and knocking your knee against his amicably.

"I have an extra room, and it's not like you've got a lot of stuff to move," he shrugs. "At least that way you aren't biding your time in a hotel room."

Oh, he's serious.

The one thing you've picked up more than anything about Sam in the very few days you've been in San Jose is that he's funny. He finds a joke in every situation. No wonder you're so caught off-guard when he looks at you like this, dark blue eyes all non-judgemental and kind. Between that and the way your faces are barely a foot apart at best, you panic.

"I'm gay," you blurt, which is not something that you've ever like, said out loud to a teammate before.

Sam blinks at you, surprised, but doesn't leap from the bed and start exorcising you, at least.

So you babble on, "I mean, it just. Like, if I'm gonna be in your house, maybe that's something you should know, right? I'd feel like, weird or bad if you thought I was like, tricking you or something, or whatever the hell, like, I don't want you to—"

"Dude, it's chill," Sam interrupts. You can feel him shrug, because he's still just… right next to you.

Cool. Sweet.

"Okay." You nod. "Bet. Let's do this?"

"Let's do this!" he grins.

//

"Hey, Cat, can I talk to you?" Sam asks quietly.

Back in the living room, Misa and Toff start screaming over the game on the TV. Here in the kitchen, alone with Cat, he feels a little safer with a vulnerable topic.

"What's up, Sam?" Cat asks, pulling drinks from the fridge. She's found, over the years, that acting as casual as possible about these kinds of conversations makes hockey boys more comfortable with opening up about their feelings.

"Do you think it's possible to be, like." Sam sighs. "No, this is dumb. What the hell am I even saying?"

"Well, you haven't really said much of anything yet," Cat points out. She leans against the counter and crosses her arms. "Whatever it is, it won't leave this kitchen, okay?"

Sam nods, glances at the doorway to make sure no one is coming to check on them. "I think I might be, like, low-key homophobic sometimes?"

He can tell that she's trying to fight a smile, but she still answers him seriously. "Why's that?"

"You can't tell anyone," he repeats, and waits until she agrees. "Okay, so like. I've been living with Y/N for a while now, right? And it's great. But he's like… He brings guys home sometimes."

"Oh!" Cat's not surprised, exactly, that you're gay, but she's surprised that you're apparently open about it with Sam.

"No one else knows," he stresses. "Anyway, it's like. He told me before we moved in together that… y'know. And I was fine with it! I don't feel weird about it when we're in the locker room or sharing a hotel room or anything. He's so normal, it's really not ever a big deal."

"Except when he brings guys over?" Cat guesses.

"Yeah."

Oh boy. She needs to be very, very gentle about this. "Well, my first thought is that… Maybe you're not homophobic. Maybe you just don't like him having other guys around."

Sam blinks at her. "What, like, strangers in my apartment? It's, like, both of ours, not just—"

She can see it in his eyes when it clicks.

"Hmmm. Nah. No way. I don't… Nah," Sam blusters. "I mean— no. Definitely not."

But he's a little quiet for the rest of Toffoli Family Night, and even if Mike doesn't notice, Tyler does, giving Cat a sidelong are we going to talk about this later? look that she can only shake her head at.

//

You've been trying so, so hard to be normal about living with Sam. You're settling into your place with the Sharks, and slowly befriending the other guys, and it's actually been pretty nice to be able to bring guys home sometimes. Sure, maybe the guys you take home tend toward dark-eyed with some scruff around the jaw, but you're trying to not examine that too closely yet.

But then Sam starts getting a little weird about it. Won't say much to your dates (one-night stands, usually), finds excuses to be gone when you tell him you're going out for the night, things like that.

Maybe he's more uncomfortable with the gay thing than he wanted to tell you, back when you moved in with him.

Except, this is what you mean by Sam 'getting a little weird about it': an hour after your latest guy has left in an Uber, you're on the couch playing 'chel with Sam, and he's leaning so heavily against you that it's kind of impeding your ability to use your controller.

Clingy. That's the right word.

For the past two or three weeks, Sam gets clingy whenever you come home from dates or kick out a Grindr guy.

It's almost, like. Sweet? If you let yourself be delusional for a second, you could almost believe that he's jealous about you spending time with other people, but he doesn't ever get that way when you hang out with Mack or Graf.

Like you said. Weird.

You dig your elbow into his arm to try to shove him off. He only pushes all 200 pounds of himself against you harder.

"You're cheating," you complain.

"Do you think you're ever gonna like, tell the team?" he asks.

"Tell the team what? That you cheat at 'chel?"

"No, like. About being gay."

You freeze up, and he scores on you. "Umm. Like, no? Probably not. Why?"

"You don't ever wanna bring a boy to the family skate events and stuff?"

"Why's it matter, Dickie?" you ask, annoyed. "You already act like an asshole when I have a guy over. I don't need the whole team doing that in public, too."

This time, when you shove him, he goes. You can't help but notice how cold the apartment is when you aren't suffocating under his body heat anymore.

//

Misa starts dating this new girl, and she's pretty nice. An influencer type, not quite a puck bunny— pretty standard for California, you've found. She seems to enjoy getting to hang out with "the boys," and the first time the four of you go out, you find out that she's from a town over from your own hometown. The two of you hit it off immediately, yapping about rival high schools and the culture shock of California.

It's not until Sam and Misa wander off for more drinks that you realize you've been sitting with your legs crossed, leaning on your elbow, this certain sort of posture that you've taught yourself to stop doing in public, or around people. You can't help but wonder if that's why she became so comfortable around you.

You force yourself to relax your spine, to let your legs hang looser. When the other two come back, Sam sets a beer in front of you and casually drapes his arm across the back of your chair.

Misa's girlfriend smiles at you. You can't tell if it's a normal smile, or if she means something by it.

Either way, you're not surprised when Misa sends you and Sam a screenshot of a text later that reads, "it was sooo fun hanging out with sam and his bf :)) let's do it again soon?<3"

You are surprised that Sam only heart-reacts to the message and shoots back a "hell yeah."

No teasing, no jokes, no self-depreciating humor about being perceived like that. None of you correcting her about it. Maybe Misa did, somewhere past the screenshot.

//

Your first game-winner with the Sharks is a one-timer off an assist from Dickie, and during the celly you swear that for a second, he presses his mouth to your neck.

It wouldn't be the first time a teammate has kissed you over a goal, but when it's Sam— Sam who knows, Sam who drives you to the rink every day, Sam who puts his arm along the back of your chair whenever you guys go out for dinner, Sam who invited you to live with him even after knowing about you—

It's different, when he does it. Your skin burns for the last minute of the game, and then keeps burning all the way home.

"God, that shot was so nasty," Sam's still saying, even as he unlocks the front door. "Just disgusting, dude."

In an hour or so, you'll go out to meet the team at a club, everyone happy to celebrate a home win, ready to burn off the post-game adrenaline with alcohol and dancing.

"Had a hell of a pass for it," you grin back, giving him a small shove.

He catches your wrist before you can pull back. "Hey."

You swallow. You wonder if he can feel your pulse. Your neck burns where you're pretty sure he kissed you earlier. "Hey yourself."

"Can I say something crazy?"

"Sure."

"When we're done tonight— don't bring anyone home."

He's still holding your arm. You step closer, and his next exhale is shaky. You're not the only one nervous here; that's comforting.

"Why not?" you ask, even as your noses brush.

But you need to know, and he needs to tell you.