rewind to 2024 with me for a sec.
it’s july, naturally humid and uncomfortably hot, sun beating down like it’s throwing a temper tantrum from all the way up there and punishing everyone by burning wifebeater tanlines into their shoulders. everyone’s up at cowboy’s grandparent’s farm for a barn bash. seriously, everyone, since bucket had sent come thru at 4 🚜 to a series of long dead groupchats and resurrected a bunch of guys who don’t even puck anymore, who’re going to queens for business since they couldn’t make it to the show.
sam’s there, propped up in the corner with his tank top tucked into his waistband ‘cos it’d gotten all sweaty and gross. he’s knocked back like, two beers and hit the preroll, so everything feels good, hazy in the way a day like this should. barkey’s yapping his ear off about how he’d been trying to get head from this single mom and her kid kept waking up, interrupting his nut procurement. so stupid, but funny, how this guy's so wise sometimes but other time, dumb as rocks. they all have their moments, sam guesses.
everything feels really good, but it’s kind of a sausage fest in here, he thinks, glancing around the place. not a single pair of tits in the vicinity, but a few guys he’d get head from if they offered. everyone’s chest is puffed up though, so nobody will, and that’s fine. guys are like, meh. back in bantam, sam had exchanged handies with cowboy a few times but they were kids, and it’s surprisingly less weird to jerk your bro off than sit on neighboring hotel beds and see who can bust the quickest while only watching pretty tame porn on your phone because the weird shit’s for when you’re in the privacy of your bedroom.
by 7, the gig’s kind of hit a standstill, split into two groups on opposite sides of the barn - guys who were drafted and their nhl hopeful glazers, and guys who gave up because they couldn’t tie their own skates. distantly, sam remembers what it was like to be on the left, and it wasn’t because he wasn’t good, mostly because he didn’t care. wouldn’t do hill sprints, wouldn’t stop eating junior bacon cheeseburgers, couldn’t really picture a life after 18 let alone one where he got picked 11th ova. he’s got it now though, and won’t let anyone forget that.
sam kinda wants to leave, because the air’s overwhelmingly stinky and the goofs and gafs are mid at best, but bucket’s standing in the corner, pouting about something, miller light in hand and condensation dripping down his wrist. sam comes over and throws his arm over beckett’s shoulder, knocking into him.
“what’s with the pout, quack?’
there was no way sam wasn’t calling him that after he was drafted to the ducks, but beckett hates it, rolls his eyes and takes three steps away so sam’s arm falls heavy at his side.
“serious, what’s your deal?,” sam says, voice clipped. he’s been like this for as long as sam’s known him, always kinda pissing on the good vibes because some chick won’t text him back or god forbid, unfriended him on snap. there’s bigger fish to fry, sam thinks. one summer left before he’s gotta lock in and start his big boy job. some girl from like, sarnia, should hardly touch his list of concerns.
lo and behold, beckett starts bellyaching about some chaeting going on with a skinny jeans wearing barista. “that’s fair,” sam says, dismissive. “they only hire twinks at pilot, part of the whole free trade deal.” he should be on bucket’s side here, go damn, what a skank, you can do better, but his eyes are glued to the opening door.
beckett’s asking if sam knows what a twink even is but he’s already moving away before the question registers, kinda gravitating to misa, who’s just walked in with zayne scampering behind him like a bitchy little chihuahua. misa looks… different, somehow, since he got the a on his tarp, or maybe he’s muscled up a little. anyway, he doesn’t look like how sam remembers, since they pretty much only bump shoulders when they’re in full kits. it was like, last summer when they’d ended up hanging one-on-one at marty’s cabin, playing madden while porter chased some tail across the lake. he was scrawny then, with babyfat somehow still clinging to his cheeks.
back then, sam’d never thought, y’know, that’s one of the dudes who he hopes would get on his knees for him. but now… misa’s wearing this linen button down that’s three open, gold chain swinging while he moves through the room, passing around fistbumps and claps on the back. he looks kind of soft, fluffy hair overgrown from the postseaon and flopping over his forehead, but also not soft, in the way his chest and arms fill out his shirt.
sam’s stomach growls, or something. he feels like, empty, hungry, a little dumb in the head from spending all day in the heat. when misa comes over to bump his knuckles, sam’s whole hand cups his fist. he jerks back, glaring down at his fingers for betraying common sense.
“bruh,” misa drawls, coming a step too close. “not really up for hand stuff right now.”
oh, and he’s got jokes. sam doesn’t remember him having jokes like that, being able to keep up with his own quick tongue. it feels like a little punch to the gut, and he wonders if it’s time to head home. it’s a bad sign, is all, when he starts taking shit a little too personally.
zanye comes over, gets right up between the two of them, looks at misa and goes, “is he bothering you, honey?”
usually, but especially now, sam’s got a short fuse for that kind of weird shit. it’s not like he’s a violent guy, but he’s down to chat.
“he’s into it,” sam says, as if he knows shit, as if he and misa are close, personal friends. it was s’posed to be in jest, but he’s fully gritting his teeth, grip so tight on his claw that the can starts to buckle in his hand.
zayne opens his mouth to chirp again, and something, maybe the shot of whatever he’d just downed, tells sam to straighten his spine, fix his posture so he’s got at least a few inches on the guy.
“oh, sorry,” zayne says, all wide-eyed and fake sweet. “didn’t realize you guys were having a moment.” then he makes this wet little kissy noise right beside misa’s cheek, close enough that misa jerks away, choking out a laugh, and that pretty much does it. does something that sam doesn’t have time to consider. he steps forward until the toes of his slides knock zayne’s new balances, smiling because he’s not gonna be the guy who starts something at cowboy’s barn bash, obviously, but he could absolutely be the guy who finishes whatever zayne’s about to start.
“keep talking,” he says. “see where it gets you.” those are fighting words, sam's pretty sure.
the barn’s packed shoulder-to-shoulder at this point, brainless country-rap shit rattling the walls and everyone shouting over each other like nothing’s about to happen, but sam can feel the air go thick in his throat anyway, suddenly real as fuck. nobody’s looking, not really. it’s just misa watching him with his mouth gone a little slack, and zayne, the piece of shit little twerp, staring at sam like he’s trying to decide what saying something more’s gonna get him.
zayne gives him this tiny little shove, both hands flat to sam’s chest like he’s moving a shopping cart out of the way, and it’s barely anything, honestly, but sam still rocks back half a step because he wasn’t expecting the little shit to actually touch him. zayne’s grinning when he drops his hands, pleased with himself in a way that makes sam wanna pick him up by the back of his shirt and hang him off one of the rafters. “loser,” he sneers, like they’re twelve, and this is middle school, and sam isn’t actively considering the implications of an assault charge on his impending nhl career.
“okay, jesus christ,” misa says, grabbing zayne by the shoulder. “can you both calm the fuck down?” sam grimaces, and in a hot flash, like delirium or something, he kinda wishes that misa’s hands were on him instead.
sam moves before misa’s even finished the sentence, shoulder-checking zayne hard enough that he stumbles back into some guy holding a solo cup and sends it sloshing down both their shirts. he comes right back, obviously, catches sam across the mouth with the heel of his hand and then hooks his opposite arm behind sam’s neck when he comes swinging for him, so they end up staggering sideways together, knocking into bodies until the room finally clocks what’s happening and peels back into a loose circle. somebody starts yelling fight fight fight like they’re at a fuckin’ hockey game, which is helpful, a little motivating, and at least 8 people have their phones out, cameras recording, less helpful.
sam recovers, gets both arms around zayne’s waist and damn near spears him before barks barrels in from the side, fucking voice of reason that he is, wrapping both arms around sam’s middle, trying to pull him back. “dickie, what the fuck are you doing, dumb fuck?” he shouts directly into sam’s ear, while zayne’s still reaching around misa trying to get another shot in.
“mind your business,” sam snaps, blood already slick on his bottom lip, and throws an elbow back just hard enough to make barkey loosen his grip. he twists free, shoves him off, then manages to catch zayne before he hits again and drives straight through him before anybody can get between them again.
they hit the floor ugly, zayne flat on his back with the wind knocked out of him and sam overtop, one knee planted beside his hip, fist cocked like he might actually be stupid enough to use it. for half a second, the whole barn goes weirdly quiet. then misa grabs sam by the wrist and yanks it down hard. “enough,” he says, sounds serious as hell, while zayne coughs beneath them.
later, when the water’s cooled, everyone’s off in their little postgame panel, whispering about who was wrong, which is apparently both of them. nobody’s wasting breath on deciding who won though, because it’s obvious, and sam’s kinda high on that.
everything feels fan-fucking-tastic. sam’s boys are crowded around him, shuffled up against the back wall, taking turns fistbumping him and simultaneously chiding him for how truly, spectacularly fucking idiotic that was. out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees zayne leave with a loser in a leafs hat.
barks presses a glass bottle into sam’s chest and he cracks it open, bigheaded, betting he looks kinda good, standing there with dirt on his shoulders and blood on his chin. he takes a swig, gripping the bottle by the neck.
“you should know better than that, samuel,” cowboy tells him, school principal voice on lock, grinning ‘cos it’s not that serious. “you’re a good boy.” sam just rolls his eyes and takes another sip.
they’ve moved onto a new topic by the time misa comes around, brows pressed together, looking pissed in a way that sam feel even better somehow. he just gives a nod, so casual, not even wondering if misa thought he’d looked tough.
“i know he’s annoying, but fuck, dickie,” he mumbles, pink all spreading up his cheeks. “his parents are loaded. if you so much as chipped his tooth, they’re gonna bury your ass.”
sam works his tongue between his teeth, licks at the blood there, and grins at him.
“it was kinda hot though, right?”
