Holden hated talking puck with his dad. It had been fun when he was a kid, delighting in the fact that he actually had something to bond with his old man over. He couldn’t drink, so that didn't amount to much (admittedly, he did start earlier than usual, but even at eight, he knew that he had to look in a different direction if he wanted to find even footing with his pops). Honestly, even loving Holden’s mom stopped being something they had in common when Holden realised he’d love her forever but staying in his dad’s good favour was a temporary affair, even for the most perfect, beautiful woman in the world.
Hockey had been that one thing where they could meet in the middle. There was no divide between them when it came to hockey and he’d loved staying up late and watching old game videos way past his bedtime. His dad would even tuck him under his coat during a play-offs game so he could sneak Holden into a sports bar to watch another team lift the Stanley cup, both of them knowing that could be him someday.
Eventually though, hockey stopped being the thing that bridged the gap between him and his dad. They still talked about it but it was less of a conversation and more like an interrogation. Why had Holden missed that pass? Why hadn’t he worked on his backhand? Why had he compromised his own points by taking an assist rather than scoring himself? Soon, hockey just became a way for Bill Gold to measure his son against his peers, a means of benchmarking where he was falling short and going wrong.
And sure, his teammates could talk about the sport they all played just fine, but it was never like it was with Percy. Percy could recite stats off like machine gunfire. It was insane, and Holden had always fucking marvelled at how easy it was for Percy to remember the final score from a game that happened before either of them were even born. He’d never been jealous of a talent like that, just enthralled.
Getting even a scrap of that back made everything about Milano pale in comparison. For a split second, the crowds, the medals, the glory, even the Nutella fountain, all dimmed when placed side by side with his old nickname coming from Percy’s mouth.
Holden’s grin tried to stretch further, something warm settling in his ribcage when Percy called him Booster. Nobody had called him that in years. ‘Goldie’ was the go-to now, which made sense for anyone who’d spent five seconds in an NHL locker room. Low hanging fruit and all that. He’d heard a few people on Team USA refer to Percy as ‘Millzy’ but that one didn’t sound right. Percy didn’t really respond to nicknames all that much.
“Yeah, well, I knew I couldn’t have made the shot. You were our best hope,” he shrugged, still preening under Percy’s compliment.
He frowned, only a little bemused, when Percy quickly scolded him right after. He hadn’t expected to stay in the other man’s good graces for too long, but he’d thought he could bask in the glow of Percy’s praise for at least a few more minutes.
But then Percy was stepping forward and wiping at Holden’s chin with his thumb. At once, he froze. Not daring to move a muscle, just in case Percy realised what he was doing, got spooked and ran. Holden stayed exactly where he was as Percy ran his thumb along Holden’s skin, touching him for the first time since college.
You know, not including all the bodychecks in the years in between then and now.
He felt the other man’s thumb skim his bottom lip. His mouth parted slightly, without his own say-so.
“Fuck,” he breathed, the minute that Percy licked the Nutella from his thumb. It was the single most erotic thing Holden thought he’d ever seen in his life - and he’d fucked models.
His eyes dipped down to Percy’s mouth. He’d never been one for subtlety and the open way he was staring at his ex-friend told the other man everything he needed to know about Holden’s reaction to what he’d done. Pupils blown wide, he dragged his gaze from Percy’s lips to his thumb. A stubborn smudge of Nutella still resided there and before he could stop himself, Holden reached up and caught Percy’s wrist.
His fingertips pressed against the other man’s pulse point.
“You’ve still got a bit there,” he said huskily, lifting Percy’s hand closer to his own mouth. He still left enough distance between them to claim innocence (at a push), and he lifted his eyebrows, asking Percy the silent question, for permission.
