PepperJack, but not the cheese

---

The Olympic Village lounge was buzzing with the low hum of Team Canada players unwinding after practice. Mack sat on the edge of one of the couches, elbows on his knees, jaw tight. His stomach had been rolling since lunch—something in the pasta or maybe just nerves and jet lag hitting him hard. Sweat prickled at the back of his neck. Every time he swallowed, acid burned higher in his throat.

He could feel it building. A wet, heavy gurgle deep in his gut that made his face go pale. He clenched his jaw harder, breathing slow through his nose while a couple of the guys laughed at something on a phone nearby. *Don’t do it here. Not in front of them.*

His stomach lurched sharply. Mack shot up fast, muttering something about needing the bathroom, and walked out as steadily as he could, one hand hovering near his mouth just in case. The hallway felt too long. By the time he pushed open the bathroom door and locked himself in a stall, his mouth was already flooding with thick saliva.

He dropped to his knees in front of the toilet, barely getting his team Canada sweats pulled down in time. His stomach cramped hard and he retched once—dry and painful—before it all came up.

“Fuck…” he gasped.

The first wave was brutal. Hot, chunky vomit surged out of him in a thick rush, splattering loudly into the bowl. He gripped the sides of the toilet, knuckles white, as his back arched and another powerful heave ripped through him. This one was even wetter, mostly undigested food and bile pouring out in heavy, splashing bursts. The smell hit him immediately—sharp and sour—and it only made him gag harder.

Mack’s eyes watered. He was breathing fast between heaves, strings of spit and vomit dangling from his lips. “Will…” he whispered brokenly, missing his boyfriend so fucking bad it hurt. Will always knew how to rub his back, hold his hair, whisper filthy-sweet things while he was like this. Without him it felt lonelier, more humiliating in the best-worst way.

Another deep, guttural retch tore out of him. Thick yellow bile and chunks splattered messily, some of it catching on the rim and dripping down. His abs clenched painfully tight with every wave. He kept throwing up for what felt like forever—long, graphic, noisy heaves that echoed off the tiles—until there was nothing left but bitter strings of spit and dry gagging.

When it finally eased, Mack slumped against the stall wall, flushed and shaky, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His cock was half-hard in his sweats from the intensity of it all, the way his body had completely betrayed him. He closed his eyes and thought of Will—how good it would feel if he were here right now, seeing him like this, taking care of him after.

---

Mack stayed slumped against the stall for a few long minutes, breathing hard, convinced the worst was over. His stomach still felt raw and heavy, but the violent cramps had eased into a dull ache. He wiped his mouth and chin with toilet paper, flushed the mess away, and rinsed his face at the sink. His reflection looked wrecked—pale, sweaty, eyes red-rimmed—but he figured he could make it back to the hotel room without another incident.

“Fuck this,” he muttered, pulling his Team Canada hoodie tighter around himself. He just wanted to lie down, text Will some pathetic “miss you” message, and maybe jerk off thinking about him.

He stepped out into the quiet hallway, shoes squeaking softly on the polished floor. The lounge was just behind him, the muffled sounds of the guys still laughing and talking filtering through the door. Mack kept one hand pressed lightly to his bloated stomach as he walked, trying to breathe steady. Ten more steps and he’d turn the corner toward the elevators.

Then it hit him again.

A sudden, deep gurgle rolled through his gut like a warning. His mouth flooded with hot, thick saliva. His steps faltered. “No… not now—”

Before he could even turn back toward the bathroom, his stomach clenched violently. Mack’s eyes widened in panic as a massive wave surged up his throat. He tried to swallow it down, but it was useless. The vomit exploded out of him in a loud, wet burst—thick, chunky streams of bile and undigested bits splattering heavily onto the hallway floor right between his shoes.

“Uuuuurghhh—!”

The first heave was so forceful it splattered up onto his sweatpants and the bottom of his hoodie. Hot, sour vomit kept pouring out in powerful, uncontrollable surges, loud and messy, puddling across the tiles in a wide, chunky mess. The smell was immediate and nauseating—sharp acid mixed with the remnants of team lunch. Mack’s knees buckled slightly as another brutal retch tore through him. This one was even thicker, ropey strands of yellow bile and half-digested pasta slapping wetly onto the growing puddle, some of it splashing back onto his sneakers.

He was gasping, drooling, trying desperately to stay quiet, but the noises were obscene—wet gurgles, heavy splashes, and broken moans echoing down the hallway. His abs contracted hard with every wave, making his whole body jerk forward. A long string of spit and vomit swung from his lower lip as he coughed and retched again, more liquid gushing out in a noisy torrent that splattered loudly against the floor.

Just as the worst wave was ripping through him, the lounge door swung open behind him.

Sidney Crosby stepped out, phone in hand, clearly heading somewhere. He froze mid-step when he saw Mack hunched over in the middle of the hallway, violently throwing up everywhere.

“Mack? Shit—” Sid’s voice was low and surprised.

Mack couldn’t stop. Another deep, guttural heave doubled him over completely. A fresh rush of chunky, yellowish vomit exploded from his mouth, landing with a heavy wet smack right in front of Sid’s shoes. Some of it even splattered onto the captain’s pant leg. Mack’s face burned with humiliation, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes as he kept puking—long, graphic, uncontrollable waves that left the floor a slippery disaster of bile and chunks. His cock twitched traitorously in his sweats again, the intensity and the fact that fucking Sidney Crosby was watching making everything feel ten times worse and better at the same time.

He finally gasped for air between heaves, strings of thick saliva and vomit still dangling from his chin, dripping onto the mess. “Sorry… fuck, I— I thought I was done…” His voice was hoarse and wrecked.

Sid stood there for a second, taking in the sight of the young star bent over, covered in his own puke, the huge puddle spreading across the hallway floor. Then he stepped closer carefully, avoiding the worst of it, and put a steady hand on Mack’s back.

“Easy. Breathe through it. You’re alright, kid.”

Mack shuddered under the touch, another weak retch bringing up a final mouthful of bitter bile that dribbled pathetically down his front. He was shaking, embarrassed, horny, and missing Will so fucking bad it ached. Will would’ve been on his knees beside him, whispering filthy praise while rubbing his stomach through it.

Sidney stayed close, voice calm. “Let’s get you cleaned up before the whole team sees this.”

---

Sidney didn’t hesitate. He slid a strong arm around Mack’s waist, supporting most of his weight as the younger player trembled and dry-heaved again. “Come on, kid. My room’s closer. You’re not making it back like this.”

Mack could barely walk. His legs felt like jelly, stomach still churning violently. Every few steps another wet “hurrk—” bubbled up from his throat as thick strings of bile dripped from his lips onto his already ruined hoodie. The smell of his own vomit clung to him—sour, sharp, clinging to the fabric and his skin. Sid basically carried him the last stretch, Mack’s head lolling against the captain’s shoulder as they slipped into Sid’s private hotel room.

The door clicked shut. Mack’s knees buckled near the bathroom and Sid lowered him carefully to the floor, right in front of the toilet. But Mack was too out of it to aim properly. As soon as his ass hit the cold tile, his stomach clenched again.

“Euuuhhh—hurrrk!”

A thick, watery wave of yellowish bile and leftover chunks exploded from his mouth, splattering across the toilet seat and the floor. Some of it ran down his chin in heavy rivulets, soaking the front of his hoodie completely. Mack retched loudly, helplessly, the sound wet and guttural as another surge poured out—splashing messily, some of it even landing on Sid’s shoes again.

“Fuck… sorry…” Mack gasped, voice wrecked.

“Shh. Just let it out,” Sid murmured, already pulling Mack’s vomit-soaked hoodie up and over his head. He stripped him efficiently—ripping the sticky fabric down his arms, then yanking the sweats and boxers down his legs in one go. Mack’s half-hard cock twitched against his thigh as the cool air hit his skin, the humiliation burning hot in his gut. Sid didn’t comment, just wiped the worst of the mess off Mack’s chest and stomach with a damp towel, his big hands surprisingly gentle as they cleaned puke off his abs and thighs.

Mack shivered, naked and shaky on the bathroom floor. “Will… miss him so bad right now…”

Sid grabbed a clean Team Canada t-shirt and loose shorts from his bag, helping Mack step into them. The fabric felt too warm against his clammy skin. Then Sid pressed a bottle of cold water into his hands. “Small sips, alright?”

Mack nodded vaguely, but the second the water touched his lips he chugged desperately—gulping half the bottle in seconds, throat working visibly.

“Whoa—easy.” Sid tried to pull it away, but it was too late.

Mack’s eyes widened. His stomach rebelled instantly. “Euuuhhh… hurrrk—!”

He barely leaned forward in time. A huge, forceful gush of watery vomit mixed with the fresh water came roaring back up, splattering loudly into the toilet bowl and all over the rim. The heaves kept coming—short, nasty, uncontrollable “hurrk… hurrk… euuuhhh” sounds every couple of seconds as thin, bitter streams poured from his open mouth. His abs tightened visibly under the clean shirt with every retch, body jerking. Drool and bile strung from his lips, dripping onto his lap and the floor.

Sid rubbed firm circles on his back, one hand steady between his shoulder blades. “There you go. Get it all up. You’re alright.”

Mack kept making those pathetic, nauseous noises—every two or three seconds another wet “hurrrk!” followed by a weak dribble of bile down his chin. His cock was fully hard now in the loose shorts, straining against the fabric from the intensity, the care, and the complete loss of control. He felt disgusting and exposed and weirdly safe with Sid’s hand on him.

Finally the dry heaves slowed. Mack slumped back against Sid’s chest, breathing ragged, face flushed and sweaty. A thin trail of spit still hung from his bottom lip.

Sid wiped his mouth gently with a fresh cloth. “Better?”

Mack just groaned softly, eyes half-closed, still feeling like he might hurl again any second. “Think I’m empty… maybe.”

---

Sid helped Mack shuffle from the bathroom to the bed, one arm still looped around his waist. The younger player was dead weight now—flushed, exhausted, and still faintly nauseous. Sid pulled the blankets back and eased him down, tucking the covers around Mack’s body with surprising gentleness. He brushed a few damp strands of hair off Mack’s forehead, then set another bottle of water and a small trash bin right beside the bed.

“Try to rest. I’ll stay until you’re settled,” Sid said quietly, sitting on the edge of the mattress, one hand resting lightly on Mack’s blanket-covered stomach.

Mack’s eyes were half-lidded, his breathing still shaky. He looked small in the big hotel bed, wearing Sid’s borrowed clothes. His phone suddenly buzzed on the nightstand—Will’s name lighting up the screen.

“Shit… Will…” Mack mumbled, too weak and out of it to reach for it himself. He waved a clumsy hand toward Sid. “You… answer it. Tell him I’m… alive.”

Sid raised an eyebrow but picked up the phone and answered on the third ring. “Hello?”

There was a long pause on the other end.

“Uh… hello? Mr. Crosby?” Will’s voice came through, sounding completely thrown. “This is… Will. I’m calling for Mack? Did I dial the wrong—wait, why are you answering his phone?”

Sid glanced down at Mack, who had curled onto his side under the blankets, one arm pressed against his still-unsettled stomach. “He’s okay. Just a rough night with his stomach. He’s in bed right now. Asked me to pick up.”

Will’s confusion was audible. “Sidney Crosby is… tucking my boyfriend into bed right now? Jesus Christ. Is he that sick? Put him on, please.”

Sid handed the phone over. Mack took it weakly, pressing it to his ear.

“Hey babe…” His voice was hoarse, cracked from all the puking. “Miss you. Threw up everywhere. Sid had to basically carry me… cleaned me up and everything.”

Will let out a stunned little laugh mixed with worry. “Okay, that’s… a lot. Tell Captain Canada I said thanks for not letting you drown in your own puke, I guess? You sound like shit, Mack. You okay?”