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They’re out late, at some dive bar in Winnipeg, celebrating after a hard-fought overtime win. Half the guys were already back at the hotel, getting their much-needed rest, the other half drinking like they didn’t have a game in two days, ordering yet another round and ignoring Spurge’s warnings to take it easy.
Brock clinks his glass with those still sitting at the bar, smiling dopily as someone whoops and yells out, “Cheers, boys!” He throws the shot back easily, giggling as he swallows, getting closer to drunk than tipsy. But who gives a shit about the hangover tomorrow, when victory tastes so sweet tonight?
He accepts the beer Hartman thrusts into his hand, then glances around the mostly-empty bar. It’s late, so there’s not too many locals still milling about, their team really the only patronage left in the place. His slightly fuzzed-over vision lands on someone sitting alone in the far corner of a booth, and his feet move without thinking.
“Hey, man,” Brock drawls, slipping in beside Quinn, nudging him with his shoulder. Quinn says nothing back, lips pressed into a thin line as he stares at the nearly-empty pint of beer in front of him. “You good?”
“I’m fine,” he says flatly.
“You sure?” Brock asks, trying not to laugh. “You look miserable, man. Like you just saw a ghost!”
Quinn pales, and throws back the rest of his beer, wincing at the tepid foam.
Brock grabs his shoulder and shakes it a little. “C’mon man, we won! Lighten up! Come join us!”
“That’s okay.” Quinn looks like he’s going to say something more, but doesn’t, wordlessly slumping back against the booth instead.
Brock lowers his voice, leaning in closer. “You sure you’re okay, man?” Quinn nods, but Brock keeps talking, his brain-to-mouth filter gone. “You can tell me, y’know. Whatever it is. We’re bros now, right? We’re a team. You can trust me. I’m all ears.”
Brock knows he’s laying it on thick, but he really does want Quinn to trust him, to trust them. It didn’t matter that he’d only been with them for two weeks. They were teammates now. Trust should come easily.
Chewing on his lip, Quinn finally looks up at Brock, very clearly contemplating something. Brock sits and waits with a stupid little smile, trying to put on his best active listening face despite feeling very, very drunk.
Quinn sighs, leaning even closer. “Can you keep a secret?”
———
It turns out that Brock can’t keep a secret.
Two weeks later, back at home, he accidentally lets it slip in the middle of their sewer ball match.
Brock kicks the ball up into the rafters, laughing as Moose and Hartman run after it. Looking around, he tries to spot a ladder or something to help them find a way to get it down. Instead he notices Quinn out of the corner of his eye, leaning back against a wall farthest from the game, his legs outstretched in front of him as he stares at nothing, eyes wide and unblinking.
“What’s his deal?” Matt asks quietly, sidling up next to Brock. “Why does he always look like… that?”
Brock frowns, something possessive running unwarranted through his veins. Quinn had only been with them for less than a month and he already wanted to bite Matt’s head off for merely suggesting something rude about him.
“He can see ghosts,” he blurts out.
Matt stares at him, eyebrows raised.
“What?” Brock asks, cheeks flushing in embarrassment. “He can! He told me so!”
“He can see ghosts,” Matt repeats slowly. “Sure.”
“He can!” Brock says too loudly, making Kirill and Zuccy’s heads turn. He fakes a smile at them and grabs Matt’s arm, pulling him out of earshot. “You have to believe me.”
“Uh, no I don’t.” Matt is looking at him funny, and Brock’s stomach sinks.
“Bolds—”
“So is he, like, crazy?”
“Bolds!”
“What?” Matt asks, trying not to laugh. “Is that why they traded him? Because he’s literally insane?”
“That’s not— He’s not—”
“Got it!” Hartman yells, tossing the ball back down to the ground, instantly resuming their game. Matt gives Brock one last look before he runs back over to join, laughing as Dani immediately kicks the ball under a work truck.
———
Matt doesn’t believe it, at first.
He didn’t know much about Quinn Hughes before he joined their team, other than that he was a good enough player to be made a captain so young. Brock had taken to him instantly, always by his side and trying to include him in team stuff. He seemed like a nice enough guy, if just a little quiet and eccentric.
Whatever Quinn had told Brock, Matt figured Brock had just misheard or misunderstood him. “Seeing ghosts” probably meant something different up in Canada, some slang that hadn’t made its way down to the states yet. Like, battling your inner demons, or outrunning your past, or something. Ghosts weren’t real, obviously.
But Matt found himself watching Quinn more since Brock had said it, trying to decipher it for himself. Quinn did stare off into space a lot, in the middle of games and practices and on nights out. At first, Matt thought that maybe Quinn was just ignoring them, or was uninterested in being around them, regretting the trade. But the longer Quinn played with them, the more Matt realized that must just be what his face looks like when playing hockey, and he shrugged it off. They all had their little quirks. Best not to dwell on one guy’s habits too much.
———
Matt undresses quickly and rushes to the showers, trying to outrace the media and not let tonight’s loss sting too bad. They were officially on a losing streak, three games gone by without a win, but he knew they’d turn it around. They always did.
By the time he’s done, with a towel slung around his hips and his hair dripping water down his back, the locker room is mostly empty. He’d spent more time in the shower than intended, scrubbing his sweat away until his fingers were pruned, until the scalding spray burned his skin a concerning shade of red.
He hurriedly pulls on his street clothes, wanting to get home and in bed as soon as possible. Looking around one more time, he hesitates, eyes lingering on the only other person left in the room.
Quinn sits slumped back in his stall, still only half-undressed, eyes fixed to a spot on the floor. He’d been out of it all game, looking more haunted than usual, for lack of a better word. Matt’s seen the jokes about Quinn online, about how he’s seeing ghosts when he zones out on the bench, how the ghosts assist him during games, how dead and eerie he always looked in Vancouver.
With a sigh, he walks across the locker room.
“Hey, man,” he says quietly, stopping a few feet before Quinn’s stall. “You good?”
Quinn startles, looking up. His hair is helmet-matted and rumpled, his face still shiny with sweat. He blinks up at Matt, then resumes methodically removing his gear, his arms moving almost robotically.
“Yeah,” he grunts, glancing around the empty room, jaw clenched. “Tough game.”
“Yeah,” Matt agrees, standing there awkwardly, thumbs tucked into his jean pockets. “It happens. We’ll get the next one.”
Quinn hums under his breath, eyes nervously scanning around like a skittish cat. It makes goosebumps spread along Matt’s arms and a shiver run down his spine. He looks over his shoulder slowly, expecting someone to be standing there, hiding in the corner, or curled up in a stall, or about to pop out of the laundry cart.
But they’re the only two there. Something akin to concern makes him take a half-step closer and kneel down until he’s more eye-level with Quinn. “Dude, are you sure you’re okay?” he asks, lowering his voice. “You’re kinda freaking me out.”
Quinn lets out a humorless laugh. He starts to put on his regular clothes, deciding to forgo a shower, and Matt wrinkles his nose only a little, trying not to let it show too clearly on his face.
“Fabes already told you, right?” Quinn asks, pulling on his sweatshirt, drawing the hood up over his messy, sweat-damp hair. “About the ghosts?”
Matt stares, too stunned to speak, then bursts out laughing, unable to help it. So that’s all this was? A stupid prank between Brock and their new guy to scare Matt, for whatever fucking reason?
“Ha ha. Very funny.” Matt stands up and wipes his clammy palms on his pants. He’ll have to ask Fleury or Gus to help him come up with a good scheme to get them back. “Have a good night—”
“I mean it.”
The words are said so seriously that Matt’s smile, or his grimace, whatever the fuck his mouth is doing in response to this idiocy, falls, the stupid blush on his cheeks spreading down his neck in embarrassment. Quinn doesn’t look like he’s joking, but, like, c’mon, right? What an awful prank. What kind of fool does he take Matt for? He chose the wrong guy to pick on.
“Ghosts aren’t real.”
Quinn sighs, shoulders hitching in a shrug. “Well—”
“You know you sound crazy, right?” Matt interrupts him, crossing his arms tight against his chest. He was tired and sore and wanted to go home. “I mean, ghosts, dude? Really? C’mon.”
“I know how it sounds.” Quinn looks tired and sore too. This prank made no sense. “But I really can see them, I swear.”
“Prove it.”
Quinn looks up at him with furrowed brows. “What?”
“I said, prove it.” Matt hates how bitchy he always sounds whenever he’s tired and mad after a loss, but he can’t help it. He’s totally getting Faber back for this later.
“How?”
“I dunno, man. You’re the one who’s claiming you can see ghosts. Figure it out.”
Quinn sighs and looks over Matt’s shoulder, eyes scanning the locker room intently. His gaze stops near Faber’s stall, that glazed-over, zoned out look returning. A whole minute goes by where he just watches the spot closely, barely moving, and Matt’s about to walk away and leave his creepy ass alone, until Quinn’s eyes widen.
“You and Fabes…” he starts, looking up at Matt.
Matt scoffs. “Me and Fabes what?” he bites back.
A knowing smile creeps over Quinn’s face, unsettling Matt to his core.
“What?” Matt turns around again, desperately trying to see what damning evidence Quinn could possibly decipher from just looking at Brock’s stall, panic rising up from his gut. But there was nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that could possibly hint at… “Look, man, this isn’t funny.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
They just stare at each other. Matt doesn’t know what to do, what to say. He’s frozen in place by the weight of Quinn’s gaze, by the deep sense of shame suddenly rushing through his veins.
“How did you…” Matt trails off, unable to even finish the sentence. His throat feels tight, and his chest feels even tighter, fear gripping his airways.
Quinn nods at the empty stall. “They told me.”
Matt vehemently shakes his head, bottom lip wobbling. “No. That’s impossible. That’s…”
“Crazy, I know.” Quinn’s smile isn’t unkind. It morphs into something pitiful, and Matt hates it.
A long-buried memory from a few years ago, when they were young and dumb and not thinking straight in the locker room, forces itself unbidden up and out of the dark recesses of his mind. Matt can still feel how Brock’s large hands felt, warm and calloused, on his bare skin, gripping his shoulders tight. He can still picture his smile, so big and so bright, gleaming wide at their overtime win. He can still feel the press of his lips against his own, clumsy and chapped, how their teeth clinked together, awkward and unpracticed. He can still feel the arousal that had licked up his spine, stoking the embers smoking in his belly, and the feverish blush that had scalded a path from his ears down to his sternum. He still feels the regret of pushing Brock away, can still picture the hurt on Brock’s face. He still feels the threatening dread of sin and the weight of their media training, afraid of a humiliating, disgraceful scandal. He’s still terrified of admitting the feelings to himself that he’d already realized a long time ago.
“You can’t tell anyone,” Matt blurts out, voice shaky.
“I won’t.”
Matt wants to throw up. “I mean it, dude, you can’t—”
“I won’t,” Quinn repeats. “I promise.”
———
On the plane ride to Buffalo, Matt stares out the window, idly daydreaming about nothing in particular. It was a short flight. They’d be landing soon.
Feeling something brush against his leg, he startles, pausing his roadie playlist. Quinn is sitting next to him, and he’s been quiet the whole flight, napping since takeoff. But now he’s staring down at his lap, hands clenched against his bouncing thighs, taking shallow breaths, a sheen of sweat visible at his hairline.
“You good, man?” Matt asks quietly. He didn’t mind flying, but knew that some guys did, despite how often they traveled every season.
Quinn nods wordlessly, eyes squeezing shut.
“You sure?”
Quinn takes a deep breath, holding it in too long. His knuckles are white. He shakes his head no.
Matt sighs. If he didn’t know better, he’d think Quinn was just having a panic attack. But he did know better, now, thanks to Faber.
“Um…” he starts, leaning in closer, whispering into Quinn’s ear. “Are they here, too? On the plane?”
Quinn nods. “They’re everywhere,” he mumbles, voice strained.
Matt frowns. “How does that even work?”
“I dunno.” Quinn runs a shaky hand through his hair, mussing it up further. He looks like shit, tired and worn out. “Does it matter?”
“Do they, like…” Matt feels silly, talking about this hypothetical pseudoscience shit. He still doesn’t believe him, not really. It felt like a big, stupid inside joke that got blown way out of proportion. But he’ll play along, since he doesn’t really know what else to talk to Quinn about, yet, and since he still doesn’t know how to explain why Quinn knows about the thing between him and Brock. “Do they, like, talk to you? What do they say? What do they look like?”
“Look, man,” Quinn sighs. “Sorry, but can we not talk about it right now?”
“Sure. Sorry.” Matt feels the telltale sign of embarrassment flushing along his cheeks. He’s been doing that a lot, lately.
He presses play on his phone, letting his music drown out everything around him. He glances over at Quinn, who still looks absolutely miserable, and sighs, taking one of his earbuds out.
He nudges Quinn’s shoulder, offering it out to him. “Here.”
Quinn looks at him, then down at his hand, and back up again.
Matt sighs again and brushes Quinn’s long hair aside, shoving it in his ear for him. “Maybe this will help.”
Quinn settles back, his own cheeks flushing pink. “Thanks.”
Matt turns his music up loud, louder than he would normally listen to it, hoping to drown out whatever ghosts Quinn was haunted by today. Matt still doesn’t know how it all works, but it doesn’t matter, not really. If he can help, he’ll help, in whatever small ways he can. That’s what teams are for.
Barely twenty minutes go by before Quinn’s head hits Matt’s shoulder, his hair tickling Matt’s chin as he snores softly. Matt stays as still as possible, barely even breathing, not wanting to jostle him awake, and tries to ignore the forlorn little glances Brock keeps giving them from across the aisle.
———
It was always nice to be back home again after a roadie.
Usually.
Brock glares as Kirill skates up to Quinn for the umpteenth time that practice, saying something Brock can’t hear with a wide, fanged smile that makes Quinn actually laugh, out loud. They’ve been weirdly jovial all morning, all smiles and giggles, and Brock has never felt more jealous in his entire life.
Kirill and Quinn’s chemistry had been instant. Their passes were magnetic. They always found each other first during cellys. When they were on the ice together, they were beasts making magic happen. It was scary. It was cool.
And Brock hated it.
He was happy for their team, obviously. Quinn was an amazing addition to the roster. And he and Quinn were shaping up to be a pretty unstoppable d-pair, meshing and flowing well, despite looking like complete opposites, like a zippy golden retriever playing with a moody black cat. Quinn had already taken him under his wing, a little, teaching him things nobody else had about his unique skating and passing style.
It was good. Fine. Fun, even, most days.
But he still can’t help but wonder what Kirill had that he doesn’t.
Maybe it was because they lived together. Well, not together together, but Quinn had moved into Kirill’s apartment building shortly after moving here. Brock still kicks himself for not thinking of that first. They could’ve been neighbors, or even roommates, for fuck’s sake. He could’ve been the one cooking Quinn meals and staying up late watching movies with him and doing who knows what else those two got up to together. Kirill made it look so easy, taking care of Quinn and making him happy. Jealousy seethed under Brock’s skin, seeing them together. That should be him—
Kirill says something with a smirk, nudging Quinn with his gloved hand, and Quinn laughs again, eyes crinkling as he clutches his stomach. Brock groans and goes to take a sip of his water, but he squeezes the bottle too hard in his anger, spilling half of it down his front, and he curses under his breath as he tosses it aside.
“He knows, by the way.”
Brock looks over at Matt, doing some puck handling drills by himself in the corner. “Who?”
Matt skates closer, passing the puck to Brock. “Quinn.”
The puck misses, shooting right past Brock into the boards. He furrows his brow in confusion. “Knows what?”
Matt sighs, shoulders slumping, giving him an incredulous look. “About, y’know…” He gestures vaguely between them. “Us.”
Brock blinks, trying to figure out what the fuck Matt could be talking about. He wasn’t making any sense.
But then he notices the pink tinge to Matt’s cheeks, different from how ruddy he gets after games and practices. Brock’s stomach flips.
“You mean like… The…”
The kiss, he can’t bring himself to say. Their secret, totally-platonic, not at all regretful, spur-of-the-moment kiss. The kiss that Brock tried not to think about. The kiss that he thinks about all the damn time.
“Yeah.”
Brock almost drops his stick, grip slackening in shock. He waits for Matt to say Sike! at any second, but the punchline never comes.
“Shit,” Brock mumbles. “How the fuck did he—”
“The ghosts told him,” Matt says. “Apparently.”
Brock looks over his shoulder at Quinn, still smiling at Kirill.
“So you believe him now?” Brock asks quietly. “About the ghosts?”
“I mean, no, but…” Matt rolls his eyes. Brock should not be sounding so excited over that. “How else would he know about it?”
Brock nods. “What else do you think he knows?” he asks, trying not to panic. “Like, do the ghosts just… tell him stuff? Holy shit, do you think they see everything? Like, everything, everything? Are they there every game? Do they follow us home? Or travel with us? How much do you think they’ve told him? And—”
A puck suddenly hits Matt in the ass, and they both turn around, glaring at Kirill as he laughs and skates closer, with Quinn two paces behind him.
“What you guys talking about?” he asks, spraying ice on Brock as he stops.
“Nothing,” Matt says too quickly, at the same time Brock says, “Hockey,” too loudly.
Kirill blinks. “You talking so intense for just nothing.”
Before Matt can backtrack and come up with a half-baked lie, Quinn turns to Brock, a small, lopsided smile on his face.
“What about hockey?” he asks, head tilted to the side, sounding actually, genuinely interested.
Brock flounders, giving Matt a helpless sideways glance. Matt racks his brain for literally anything related to hockey. “Power plays,” he says, at the same time Brock mumbles out, “Lines.”
Quinn’s smile slowly falls, while Kirill bursts out laughing. “Why you being so weird?”
“We’re not being weird,” Matt says. He wants to punch Brock right in the teeth for getting him involved in this mess. Maybe they could’ve had a normal godforsaken practice for once, if Brock could just stop looking at Quinn like he wanted to eat him alive every second of every day.
Quinn hums. “You guys are being a little weird.”
Matt wants to scream. Great. The guy who claims he can see ghosts is telling them they’re being weird. Fucking awesome.
The silence drags for an eternal minute as the four of them all just look at each other. The awkward tension makes Matt want to curl up in a hole in the ground and fucking die in it.
“Okay,” Kirill says, always unintentionally cute with his thick accent. “Have fun with secrets. We go now.”
Matt groans. What the fuck was his life anymore. “Kirill, no, that’s not—”
“Weird Americans. Can never just say what thinking.” Kirill throws them a smile, before turning to Quinn. “Want to work on passing again?”
Quinn nods, and Brock tenses. Matt closes his eyes, already knowing what’s coming next—
“Quinn can see ghosts!”
God fucking dammit, Faber. Seriously.
Quinn freezes. Kirill freezes. Matt wants to crumple to the ice and take Brock down with him.
Kirill glances between Brock and Quinn, then shrugs. “Yes. I know.”
Brock’s jaw literally drops. “What?! Who told you?”
Kirill blinks. “Quinny did,” he says, pointing one finger at Quinn.
———
Kirill liked Quinn from the second they met.
The trade happened so fast, like one second it was announced, and the next Quinn was playing his first game with them. He and Kirill clicked instantly, something igniting in his bones that he hadn’t really felt since being partnered with Zuccy when he first started.
To call Quinn an amazing player would be to completely undersell him. There was just something about him that brought a spark back to their team, a much needed breath of fresh air to get them moving again. He played with them like he’d already been with them for years, and it made Kirill excited.
It was all a whirlwind, at first. Kirill told Quinn about a vacancy in his apartment building, and a few days later, he was helping Quinn move in with what few things he’d brought with him from Vancouver. Practices were fun again, learning how to play with someone new. Games were electric, with Quinn already playing ride or die for his new team. Kirill loved every minute of it.
Late at night, when they were home after games and nights out, Kirill often found himself in Quinn’s apartment, or with Quinn at his. They watched movies, and sat reading in comfortable silence, and chatted about hockey, of course, because what else was there to talk about? They carpooled, because Quinn said it was easier. They ate meals together, because Quinn said it was comforting. They watched other teams’ games together, because Quinn said it was fun.
Kirill couldn’t agree more.
———
Kirill drives them home in silence. They were bound to lose at home eventually after getting Quinn. Losses happened. You couldn’t win them all, no matter how much you wanted to. No matter how hard you tried. It sucks, but that’s hockey.
Kirill fiddles with the radio at a stop light, drumming his fingers in time to the beat against the steering wheel. He throws another worried sideways glance at Quinn, who’s done nothing but stare wordlessly out the window at the city lights passing by for the whole ride. Kirill’s not exactly worried, but…
“You okay?” he asks. Just in case.
“Yeah, man,” Quinn sighs around a yawn. “Just tired.”
Kirill hums. There was really nothing more to say, was there?
He pulls into the parking garage, but Quinn makes no move to get out. He just sits slumped over, staring off at nothing, looking completely and utterly defeated.
“We here, Quinny,” Kirill says softly, resting a gentle hand on Quinn’s shoulder. “Home.”
When they’re in the elevator, Quinn only presses the button for Kirill’s floor. Kirill takes it as the unsubtle invitation it is.
They ride up in silence. He unlocks his door and holds it open to let Quinn in through first.
Quinn makes a beeline for Kirill’s couch, not even bothering to change out of his pre-game clothes, and curls up against the arm, hugging a throw pillow tight to his chest. Kirill sits next to him and gently pulls his legs into his lap. It’s easy. It’s simple. It doesn’t have to be anything it’s not.
“This building is nice,” Quinn mumbles into the cushion, eyes closing, words half-slurred against the fabric. “It’s quiet. I like it.”
Kirill hums, not knowing what to say. It’s late and he’s tired, so the part of his brain that understands English is lagging. He gives Quinn’s legs a squeeze, feeling up his lithe, toned muscles, and Quinn quietly moans, relaxing into his touch, the tension in his body slowly melting away.
Kirill clears his throat, and gives Quinn a half-hearted massage, just to keep his hands busy, and to keep making Quinn sound like that. “I’m glad you move here.”
“Me too,” Quinn says quietly around a yawn. “I know it sounds stupid, but… it already kinda feels like home.”
Kirill smiles to himself, grabbing his green flannel blanket from the back of the couch to drape over them. “Not stupid. Is nice, you being here.”
Quinn smiles, eyes still closed. “Can I tell you something?”
“Sure,” Kirill says. “Anything.”
———
Kirill doesn’t question it.
He grew up in a village full of babushkas and their stories, of spirits and folktales and whatnot. Quinn being able to see ghosts didn’t phase him. His door was always open for some quiet, if that’s what Quinn needed.
———
“What is wrong with you?” Matt whispers, tone harsh.
“Nothing,” Brock says back, all whiny and petulant like a damn child.
“You’re literally pouting, dude.”
“I’m not pouting. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Matt scoffs. Unbelievable. “Seriously, man! We’re literally on our way to Italy! What the hell could be more important than that?”
“I just…” Brock looks around the plane nervously. Most of the guys were asleep and had headphones in, but he lowers his voice even more, just in case. “I thought I was special, y’know?”
“Oh my god,” Matt says, rolling his eyes. “You’re mad because he told someone else about the stupid ghosts? Seriously?”
“Shh,” Brock hushes, glancing three aisles down at Quinn, who was fast asleep in his window seat. Brock’s frown deepens. “But… yeah.”
“Jesus, Fabes. C’mon, man.”
“What?”
“Get over it! Who cares!” Matt cannot believe they’re even having this conversation. “Be happy he even told you at all, if you care so much!”
“But he said it was a secret—”
“Fabes.” Matt stares at Brock until he shuts up and slumps back in his seat, stopping whatever pitiful thing was about to come out of his mouth. “Enough. Focus on the gold. Then you can worry about…” He trails off, not even knowing what to call it. “Other stuff.”
Brock’s eyes glance over at Quinn again. There’s something hungry in them and Matt has to look away. His stomach hurts a little. It’s probably nothing. Pre-Olympics nerves, maybe. That’s it. It’s totally not because Brock used to look at him like that too, once.
———
Brock sits on his shitty bed in the Olympic village, scrolling through Insta, bored. They won against Sweden, thanks to Quinn, their overtime hero. The entire team celebrated, but not too hard, because they weren’t done yet. They couldn’t lose focus now.
There’s a knock on the door, and Brock begrudgingly gets up, tossing his phone aside. He rolls his eyes and opens it with a huff, ready to curse Matt out for forgetting his keycard yet again—
“Hey.”
“Uh…” Brock says eloquently, brain short-circuiting. “Hey?”
Quinn stands there, his hands shoved in his pockets. Brock’s hand is clammy on the doorknob.
Quinn clears his throat, glancing nervously around the hallway. “Can I come in?”
Brock immediately moves aside, letting Quinn in. It feels like his heart is beating up into his throat.
“What’s up?” he asks, trying and failing to sound nonchalant, voice cracking like he’s a goddamn pubescent teen again. He sits on the too-small bed, ears growing hot as Quinn sits next to him.
“Just wanted to hang for awhile, if that’s okay,” Quinn says with a shrug.
Brock nods. “For sure, man. Whatever you want.”
“Where’s Bolds?” Quinn asks quietly, eyeing up the other bed, empty except for Matt’s suitcase spilling out on top of it.
“Uh, he’s just out with some of the guys, I think.” Brock deflates a little. “Why?”
“No reason. Just wondering.” Quinn scoots even closer, and Brock holds his breath as their knees and thighs press together, warm even through the fabric of their pants.
They’ve gotten closer in the three months that Quinn’s been with them. Everyone says Brock has blossomed and grown into something new now that he plays with Quinn, and he couldn’t be happier about that. He takes pride in it, even, liking his place under Quinn’s wing.
Quinn doesn’t say anything, just looks around the room that’s probably a carbon copy of his. Brock doesn’t know what to say, either, and becomes suddenly hyperaware of every inch of his body, overthinking how his lungs fill with air, the way his tongue rests in his mouth, every blink feeling manual and forced.
He tries to think of literally any topic to bring up, just to kill the awkward silence, but blanks. His head is an empty void, a cave of echoing nothingness. All he can focus on is how the hem of Quinn’s pants are ridden up just enough to show off a thin strip of bare ankle, and his mind fucking melts. His heart races, his palms are sweaty, his pants suddenly feel two sizes too tight, and his face is probably a stupid shade of red.
He’s just nervous, he convinces himself. That’s it. They don’t ever really have time to just hang out like this. That’s more Quinn and Kirill’s thing, since they practically live together. It’s nice, being able to just take a moment with one another, even if Brock is making it fucking awkward by not saying anything.
Brock clears his throat, about to just blurt out the first word that comes to mind in the hopes it sparks a conversation, but then he notices that Quinn is staring at his crotch. Very openly. Unblinkingly, and not in disgust, with the faintest pink tinge to his cheeks, as his fingers play with a stray thread on his Team USA sweater. Almost like…
Holy shit, Brock thinks. Is he coming on to me?
“Look, I—” Quinn says quietly, at the same time Brock breathes out, “Do you—”
They both pause, looking at each other with wide eyes.
“Sorry,” they say at the same time again, and Brock can’t help but let out a nervous laugh, flushing harder when Quinn gives him a small smile and presses their shoulders closer together.
“What were you gonna say?”
Quinn swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Brock kind of wants to bite it and send him back to Kirill with a claiming bruise front and center on his throat.
“This is gonna sound pretty stupid, but… They’re getting loud again.”
“Oh.” Brock frowns. “The ghosts?”
“Yeah.” Quinn’s hand rests gingerly on Brock’s thigh, dangerously close to the growing tent in his pants, and Brock tenses, holding his breath. “I was wondering if you’d wanna…”
“Yeah?” he breathes out. Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. What the actual fuck was happening?
Quinn’s fingers trail up, brushing along the edge of his zipper, and Brock’s head hits the wall, teeth clacking as his jaw clenches.
“It helped, sometimes, in Vancouver… when Petey would…”
The name lingers, bitter in the air, and Brock nods, overenthusiastic like a damn dog. He didn’t really get what Quinn was implying, exactly, but he didn’t care. He’d do anything Quinn wanted to.
“Yeah, okay. Whatever you need.” Brock can’t feel his legs. He can’t breathe. The only thing he can hear is his heartbeat whooshing in his ears. He doesn’t know what he’s agreeing to but finds he doesn’t care, and distantly wonders when he got so damn easy.
Quinn wordlessly unzips Brock’s pants, and Brock lifts his hips in some semblance of help. He pulls them down with his boxers in one go, just enough to free his hard length, the fabric bunching up around his thick thighs.
Brock gasps as the cool air hits his throbbing cock, already leaking pathetically and flushed as red as his face most likely is. He stares as Quinn shimmies down the bed and bends over, a moan ripping out from low in his throat as Quinn grabs him by the base and sucks on the tip, tongue teasing at the slit.
“Holy fuck, Quinn,” Brock chokes out, fingers tangling in Quinn’s hair, holding on for dear life. This is not what he was expecting to happen, but goddamn if it wasn’t a wet dream come true.
Quinn hums, and Brock covers his mouth with his other hand, smothering down his whine, trying to be mindful of the paper-thin walls and neighboring athletes.
Brock doesn’t last long. It’s over embarrassingly quick. Quinn’s mouth is hot and wet and tight, and Brock can’t help how his hips buck up into it, chasing a high that makes him see stars.
Quinn looks dazed afterwards, but not haunted, which Brock supposes was the entire point. He doesn’t get time to ask, since as soon as Quinn spits into a tissue, he slumps against Brock’s side, eyes already closed. Brock pulls his pants back up and sits there, stunned, like his soul was just sucked out of his dick. Quinn’s breathing slows, and Brock accepts his fate of taking an unscheduled afternoon nap. As gently as he can, he lies back and maneuvers Quinn until he’s resting against his chest, then pulls the blanket up around them, relaxing into the warmth of Quinn’s weight on top of him.
Drifting in the place between life and sleep, Brock swears he hears the door open, but it’s unimportant background noise compared to the comforting sound of Quinn’s soft snores.
———
Matt pushes his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose, sinking back further down into his seat. Everything hurt. His head is pounding, his stomach is roiling, his mouth is dry as hell, and his eyeballs sting. It’s the worst hangover of his entire life, but he really regrets nothing. They fucking won gold! Against Canada! He’d take a million hangovers if it meant winning on the biggest stage of his life.
He braves pulling his phone out of his pocket, turning the brightness down as low as possible, every bit of light hitting his retinas feeling like a paper cut right to his brain. He has hundreds of unanswered texts and calls from friends and family and their teammates that he hasn’t exactly had time to respond to, thanks to their days-long bender between Milan and Miami. He quickly answers the most important ones first, a strong sense of pride beaming in his chest.
He scrolls through his photos next, laughing at all the silly selfies and blurred photos of the other guys, all drunk and goofily unflattering. They’re pretty embarrassing, but they’ll be funny to look back on in the future, fond memories of a legendary game and a hard-fought victory.
There’s a few videos, too, and he puts his headphones in before clicking play on the first one.
It’s blurry, at first, nothing but shifting shapes in a dark room, before the camera settles on three guys on a couch in a back room of the strip club they were at, illuminated by the color-changing strobe lights, the only noise coming from the booming bass of the shitty club music. His eyes go wide as he recognizes it as Quinn in the middle, with Brock and himself sitting on either side of him. His heart jumps up into his throat, and he angles his phone down, away from any potential eyes around him.
He watches, unblinking, as Brock chugs from a fancy-looking bottle of champagne, his arm slung around Quinn’s shoulders, his fingers twisted in the back of Quinn’s hair. He forcibly turns Quinn to face him, and their lips meet in a sloppy kiss. He eagerly tongues the champagne from his mouth into Quinn’s, and it spills down in rivulets along their chins, as Quinn swallows what he can.
The video cuts off there, and Matt swipes to the next one, cheeks flushing feverishly as he watches himself do the same thing Brock just did. He swigs from his own bottle as Brock’s grip in Quinn’s hair turns him to face Matt instead, and he lazily kisses champagne into Quinn’s mouth, Quinn’s hand coming up to cup the back of his neck, deepening it, sucking on his tongue and biting at his lips.
Matt swipes to the next, and the next, and the next, almost in a trance. It’s more of the same thing, a dozen videos of them kissing expensive alcohol into Quinn’s mouth, until the bottles are empty and carelessly pushed aside. In the last video, Brock leans around Quinn and aggressively grasps the front of Matt’s shirt, yanking him forward, forcing Matt to brace himself on Quinn’s toned thighs for balance, dangerously close to tipping over. Brock hungrily makes out with him, one big hand twisted in his collar and the other grasping his chin, pushing and pulling Matt where he wants him. Quinn does nothing but sit there between them and grin wide, very clearly wasted and giddy as fuck, almost like he was enjoying the view.
It’s lewd and messy and so fucking hot that Matt has to adjust himself in his pants, hoping it looks like he’s just stretching his legs and not like he’s hiding a very obvious boner. Running a shaky hand through his hair, his mind races, panic setting in the more he overthinks about what he just saw. He has no memory of those videos. He doesn’t even know who was filming them. Was it one of the guys? A random stranger? Did he give his phone to a damn stripper, for fuck’s sake?
Matt gnaws on his lip, contemplating what to do. He kind of wants to show them to Quinn and Brock, just to see what they’d say, just to see what it would lead to. But the two of them are scattered around the plane, chatting with some of the other guys. It’d be weird to show them now. Rude, even, to interrupt their conversations. He has half a mind to send them to Kirill, just to rub it in and make him jealous, but as his thumb hovers over the screen, he can’t get himself to do it. He’s not that mean. It’s not Kirill’s fault he’s not here with them.
Matt deletes all the videos at once, not bothering to replay them. They’re seared into his brain now, anyway. If he can’t remember anything that happened in them, Quinn and Brock most likely couldn’t, either. Best to surrender them to the void where erased memories from blackout nights go to die. Besides, there were already enough embarrassing photos and videos out there of the entire team from the last few days. He shudders to think about what would happen if these ones somehow got leaked.
———
Kirill already knows who it is when he hears a knock on his hotel room door.
It happens a lot on their road games. He opens the door to Quinn, all haggard and scruffy and dark eye bags. It’s almost routine at this point.
He looks tired, like he hasn’t slept in days. Long times on the ice will do that to anyone, but this is something deeper, more than just the typical end-of-season exhaustion and fatigue.
Kirill opens the door wider, frowning as Quinn walks by him without saying anything, his hands over his ears. He heads straight for the mini fridge in the corner of the room, and rustles through it, grabbing all the shooters stocked there in one hand.
“Quinn?”
Quinn grunts curtly in response, and uncaps two of the little bottles of vodka. He pours them both in his mouth at once, grimacing as he swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing, then tosses them to the ground. He starts to open another, but Kirill rushes over and puts his hand over his before he can, stopping him.
“Quinn,” Kirill says, worry laced in his voice. “What is wrong?”
Quinn scowls, looking down at the floor. “I can’t sleep.”
Kirill had gathered that, glancing over at the alarm clock on the nightstand that flashed 2AM.
“They’re so loud,” Quinn mumbles, whiny, voice strained. “I just wanna sleep.”
Kirill eyes the bottles still clenched in Quinn’s fist. “And this will help?”
“I dunno. Sometimes it does.” Quinn rubs a shaky hand over his face. “I already drank all mine and the front desk said I couldn’t have any more.” His words are starting to slur together, the smell of alcohol strong on his breath.
Oh. So this is all he’s here for, Kirill thinks.
After the Olympics, Brock, Matt, and Quinn all grew closer, their bond suddenly that much stronger once they came home. Kirill wasn’t dumb. He knew what they probably did there, on those crappy village beds, in between games and practices. He could see the way Brock and Matt looked at him, almost guiltily, a gleaming glint in their eyes whenever they were with Quinn and he wasn’t. He brushed it off, trying not to care. He was happy to be whatever Quinn wanted him to be.
Quinn came to him for peace and quiet, and he was happy to offer that. It was enough. He usually went to Brock and Matt for the other stuff, especially on roadies. Apparently the ghosts were always louder on road trips, for some reason. Quinn never really explained it, and Kirill didn’t ask. It was like there was an unspoken arrangement between them, and that was fine. Kirill was a pretty simple guy — he didn’t need to put a name to what they had. If Quinn wanted all three of them, who was he to stop him?
“So you came here to drink mine?”
“Please, Kirill,” Quinn whines, shiny eyes pleading. “They’re getting harder to ignore. They’re so loud, and I’m so tired, and I just can’t—”
“Shh. Okay, Quinny. Is okay.” Kirill takes the bottles from Quinn’s grasp and hands him one, which he drinks in two swallows.
Quinn sways, stumbling over his own feet, and Kirill urges him to sit on the edge of the hotel bed with a gentle hand on the small of his back. Kirill sits next to him, and Quinn slumps against his shoulder, eyes screwed shut, looking seconds away from crying.
“I just wanna sleep,” he mumbles, nosing against Kirill’s neck. “Tell the ghosts to shut the fuck up.”
Kirill bites back a smile. He looks around the room, feeling only a little silly as he says, “Hello, ghosts. Please shut up so my friend can sleep. Thank you.”
Quinn giggles, shoulders shaking as he curls in on himself, falling into Kirill’s lap.
“Did that help?”
“No,” Quinn gasps, clutching at his chest. “They didn’t like that at all.”
Kirill frowns, wordlessly handing Quinn another bottle.
“At least the ghosts in Minny are nicer. These Florida ones suck!” He yells out the last word, chucking the empty bottle to the middle of the room, giggling harder as it bounces and rolls along the floor.
“What do ghosts tell you?” Kirill asks, intrigued. Quinn never really elaborated about the ghosts. Every time they tried to push, he usually clammed up, ignoring their questions or changing the subject.
“I dunno,” Quinn slurs, vaguely waving his hand around. He squints, blurry eyes glaring across the room. “Lots of shit. Constantly. But they all talk over each other so I can’t understand them and it’s always so fucking loud. There’s like a dozen here, right now. My room had more. Some of them followed me here. I tell them to leave me alone, but they don’t listen. They never fucking listen. It fucking sucks sometimes.”
And by sometimes, Kirill knows he means all the time. Most of the team knew about the ghosts by now. People online always posted jokes about Quinn seeing ghosts, but they didn’t know the truth behind it. He always looks haunted, they said. But it was true.
Kirill tries to picture that many people standing in his hotel room, all talking over each other. It was bad enough having to focus on multiple reporters all speaking during post-game conferences and intermission reports, so Kirill couldn’t imagine going through that all the time, everywhere, with no breaks. No wonder Quinn could never get enough sleep. No wonder he always looked so zoned out. No wonder he always sought them out for a little relief.
“Sorry,” Kirill says softly, not knowing what else to say. Quinn nuzzles against his tummy, burying his face into the fabric of his hoodie.
“It’s okay,” Quinn mumbles, muffled. “I’m used to it.”
Kirill’s hands find their way into Quinn’s hair, combing through the matted strands, Quinn grunting as his blunt fingernails scratch at his scalp. “How you normally make them go away?”
“I just try to ignore them. But tonight it’s not working.”
It was rare for Quinn to come to him for the things he usually wanted from Brock and Matt. But sometimes, when Quinn found his way into Kirill’s bed late at night, they indulged, in kisses and touches and sweet relief, but Quinn was too out of it for that, tonight.
“How can I help?”
“Can you just…” Quinn sticks his hands up under Kirill’s shirt, snuggling into his warmth. “Talk?”
“About what?”
“Anything.” Quinn yawns, curling up and pressing as close as possible to Kirill, fingers splayed out on his stomach, knees drawn up by his hip. “Your voice is nice. Could listen to it forever.”
Kirill breathes in deep and keeps gently petting at Quinn’s head, trying to think of what to say, the compliment settling nicely against his heart.
“We play good game today. Was nice to win.”
Quinn hums in wordless agreement. He nudges his head against Kirill’s hand like a kitten, and it’s so cute that Kirill almost coos.
Kirill keeps talking, thinking out loud about anything and everything that comes to mind, trying not to picture the ghosts standing there in the room with them. At one point he switches from English to Russian, because it’s late and it’s easier. He talks about his village, and his family, and about how he wants Quinn to meet them, and how he wishes he could take him home and show him off, as a teammate and a friend and something more.
“I like playing with you,” he says softly. “You are very good. Even on days you don’t think so. You fit right in with us. You work so hard.”
His fingers trail down the back of Quinn’s shirt, absently thumbing at his chain as his breaths slow, soft snores grumbling from his throat.
“I like you.” He’s glad Quinn is asleep as he says it. He’s glad he can’t see the ghosts standing over them. He’s glad his words are safe here, in the dark, hidden in his native tongue. “I worry you won’t stay with us for long. But I want you to stay with us. With me. Forever. Even if that means I have to share you.”
———
Chest heaving, Matt pushes himself up onto his elbows as Brock looks through the peephole. Catching his breath, he runs a shaky hand through his hair, waiting for Brock to come back to bed.
In the locker room after the Ottawa game, Brock had slipped something into Matt’s hand with a wink and a whispered string of numbers, before heading off to the showers. Matt glared at him with an eyebrow up in confusion, ready to ask him what the fuck his problem was. But when he looked down at the little plastic keycard that lay flat in his palm, he swallowed thick, cheeks reddening.
Oh, was all he could think.
Matt wandered in around midnight, closing the door behind him with a soft, electronic click. Brock was there to greet him in an instant, like he’d been doing nothing but pacing and waiting for him. They locked eyes, and something in Matt fucking snapped. He surged forward, cupping Brock’s jaw, and Brock settled his big hands around his waist, pulling him closer until their bodies were flush, their lips crashing together like moths drawn to a flame, years of built-up tension cracking.
Brock had pushed him to the bed, and he went easily, letting Brock manhandle him, thick arms caging him in. He could barely breathe as Brock devoured him, like a man starved, fiery and volatile and desperate. Brock tore his shirt off, carelessly flinging it behind him, and Matt moaned as his hands found his chest, stupidly sensitive as their hips rutted together.
But then a knock at the door broke them apart, all but ruining the moment.
“Who is it?” Matt whispers. Goosebumps erupt over his arms, the air chilly now that he doesn’t have Brock on top of him.
Brock turns and silently mouths out, “It’s Quinn.”
Oh. That was it? The knot in Matt’s stomach that had formed over potentially getting caught melts away. If it was just Quinn…
“So open it.”
“What?” Brock’s eyes go wide.
“What?” Matt says, shrugging. “It’s just Quinn.”
Matt’s known Brock long enough to know the look he’s giving him is asking, “Are you sure?” Matt nods, flashing what he hopes is a reassuring smile. They’ll be fine.
“Hey, man,” Brock says, voice cracking, when he opens the door. He goes to lean on the doorframe, but his elbow slips, so he crosses his arms instead, ears turning red. “What’s, uh— What’s up?”
Matt rolls his eyes. Way to play it cool, Faber.
“Ghosts?” Matt asks from the bed.
Quinn nods, glancing between them. Brock’s glasses are askew, his hair all mussed up, and his lips are spit-slick and swollen. Matt lays shirtless on the bed, all sweaty and breathless, amongst crumpled blankets and tossed-aside pillows. It’s exactly what it looks like.
“Sorry. Am I, uh… interrupting something?”
“No! Not at all, man! We were just— Come in, if you want. It’s all good.”
Matt shuffles up to lean against the headboard, freeing up space for Brock to sit on the edge of the bed. Quinn stops in the middle of the room.
Matt can still feel the spark coiling between him and Brock, intensifying now that they were only inches apart again. He wants to reach out and touch and pick up where they left off before they were interrupted. He wants to kiss Brock silly and bite him and make him moan. He wants to take Brock apart completely and he wants Brock to do the same to him.
But he also wants to do it to Quinn, too. He wants to watch Brock kiss Quinn and he wants to kiss Quinn and he wants Quinn to watch them kiss. He doesn’t know when that started, when the jealousy of seeing them together turned into an equal-opportunity lust. He had seen red when he walked in on them in bed together in the Olympic village, the air still musty with the lingering smell of sex, jealous out of his mind. He’d convinced himself that it was fine, he was fine, that it didn’t hurt seeing Brock move on to someone else. He tried not to care. He tried to move on himself.
But watching those damn videos had broken that façade up into a million tiny pieces, and he had to face the realization that he still wanted Brock. Carnally, biblically, sinfully. It just made him realize he also wanted Quinn in the same way.
“Are you sure I’m not…” Quinn shifts from foot to foot. “I cant just go and find Kirill instead—”
“No!” Matt and Brock both exclaim at once.
Quinn goes still. Something flashes in his eyes, conflicted and hurt.
“I don’t want to— If you guys are, y’know… together—”
Brock shakes his head. “We’re nothing!” he says too quickly. Matt’s heart sinks a little.
“Well, we’re not nothing…” he mutters under his breath. Sure, they weren’t something, but they weren’t nothing, either. They were a little thing in between, a barely-there springtime bud of something, just sprouted, but with roots that went deeper than the eye could see.
Quinn hesitates, mouth opening and closing like he wants to say more, but can’t get the words out. Brock scoots closer to Matt and pats the empty space beside him, an open invitation to join them.
It takes a few seconds, but Quinn finally does. Brock smiles, and Matt smiles, but Quinn still looks nervous as hell about something. Brock gently nudges him in the shin with his foot, a wordless, gentle encouragement.
Quinn sighs, fingers tangling together, picking at the skin of his thumb. “I don’t want to hurt anyone. Not again.”
Brock flashes Matt a look. It all clicks for Matt, suddenly. Something must have happened with Quinn’s old team. Not that they’d know what, since he talked even less about his time in Vancouver than he did about the ghosts. And that was saying something, because he barely elaborated about anything with the ghosts. They all knew Minnesota was a fresh start for Quinn, and the team respected his silence on the trade as a whole, but they still didn’t know exactly what he’d been running so hard from.
“I don’t want to come between you guys, if— if you are a thing.” Quinn takes a deep breath, and Brock notices blood pooling around his nail where he’s ripping his skin off. “And I don’t want to hurt Kirill, either. I— I’ve been using you guys a lot, lately, and I… I know I’ve been selfish, and I’m sorry, and—”
“Hey, no, Quinn—” Brock says, pushing his hand into Quinn’s. He holds him tight, and Quinn looks away, down at the floor. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not—”
“Kirill’s a pretty chill dude.” Brock rushes the words out, as quickly as he can. “I don’t think he cares. If he did, he’d have said something by now. If you want to be with us and him, who cares, right? We want you, and he wants you, so what’s the big deal? Whatever happened…” in Vancouver, he can’t even bring himself to say, “…there, it’s not like that here. We’re good, okay? We’re cool.”
Matt nods. He’s still so hard that it’s fucking with his brain. He can’t remember how to open his mouth and form sentences, but he agrees with everything Brock is saying.
Quinn doesn’t say anything, right away. He’s very clearly overthinking, chewing at the inside of his cheek, squeezing Brock’s hand so hard his knuckles are white.
But Brock doesn’t let him think for too long. He leans in, and cradles his jaw, slow enough that Quinn can pull away if he wants to. Quinn looks at him with hurt and hope in his eyes, and lets Brock kiss him, slow and gentle, lips brushing in a soft caress. It’s sweet, and it’s tender, and Matt feels something fond fluttering in his chest, stupid fucking butterflies tickling his insides.
He doesn’t know how, but it escalates to him sitting in the middle of Brock and Quinn as they all take turns making out with each other, hands roaming, clothes shed, making these disgusting wet noises with their tongues, pathetic little moans punching out of their throats. They probably look like they’re in a bad porno, but Matt doesn’t care. It’s so hot he’s dizzy with it.
Matt pulls away to catch his breath, tracing featherlight paths along the planes of Quinn’s stomach. “How does this even help you, by the way?” he asks, openly drinking in the sight of all the skin before him. “With the ghosts?”
“Trust me, it helps,” he murmurs into the skin of Brock’s shoulder. “It’s just, like, a distraction. Helps me forget they’re there.”
“How many are here right now?” Brock asks, panting. His glasses fell off a while ago, lost somewhere in the haphazard pile of clothing on the floor, and he squints, like that’ll help him see what Quinn could see.
Quinn glances around the room, for no longer than a second. “A few. Like, six.”
“And they just… watch?” Matt asks, gasping as Quinn runs a hand over his bulge.
“I guess. I try not to think about it, honestly. So you shouldn’t either.”
“Holy shit,” Brock gasps, voice all gravelly and deep, cock twitching in his boxers where it’s pressed against Matt’s hip. “That’s kinda hot.”
“Jesus, Fabes,” Matt mutters. “You’re so fucking easy, dude.”
Quinn laughs at that, and Matt smiles, feeling on top of the whole goddamned world. Everything he wants right now is in this room, and he gets to have it.
Later, when they’re all spent and cleaned up, Matt is the only one who still lies awake. Brock and Quinn are curled up on either side of him, breathing into his neck, arms flung around his bare waist and chest. It’s the most comfortable he’s felt in a long time, like the puzzle pieces of his life have finally slotted together.
On a whim, he reaches around Quinn to grab his phone from the nightstand, and snaps a low-quality selfie of the three of them, illuminated only by the light of his screen. Feeling uncharacteristically brave, he takes a deep breath, and with shaky fingers, texts it to Kirill. He doesn’t do it to be mean. He just wants to see if they were right, about Kirill being chill about it.
Matt 4:37AM
[Attachment: 1 Photo]
Matt’s eyes droop, blinks getting heavier the longer he stares at his phone waiting for a reply. He’s about to say screw it and just check in the morning, but then a message finally comes through, and he smiles, suddenly wide awake.
Kirill 4:53AM
Cute ;)
Do I get to join next time?