Chapter Text
The indulgence of the Stilinski family has always been hockey. Claudia and John met at a hockey game, when they joined sides to fight a Kings fan who was getting too rowdy. And from the time he was old enough that they weren’t risking permanent ear drum damage, they started bringing Stiles to games.
They’re a San Jose family. They’re a Sharks family.
That doesn’t really change when she dies. If anything, their team spirit actually becomes more intense. Both John and Stiles cling to the things that Claudia loved with the same fierceness with which they clung to her.
So when Stiles is 12 and Derek Hale is drafted number one pick overall to the SJ Sharks, Stiles is—a little obsessed.
Hale is an East Coast guy, grew up in New York, and he’s only 19 when he skates onto the ice at SAP Center for his first professional hockey game. Stiles falls in love with him the first time he sees him check a Duck into the glass.
There’s a Sharks corner of Stiles’ room. Flags, banners, old tickets, bobbleheads and keychains and other memorabilia from games. He also has a binder of player cards. His most prized possession is his 2008-2009 Derek Hale rookie card. For Christmas when Stiles is 15, his dad gets him a Hale jersey—number 22. It’s Stiles’ lucky number, obviously.
**
None of the public schools have hockey teams, but there’s a youth league in northern California that Stiles has been a part of his whole life. That’s another reason he gets to go to so many NHL games. Hockey is how he makes all of his friends growing up, how he gets strong, how he works out all that excess ADHD energy. He’s well aware he’s never going pro—his hand-eye coordination is middling at best and although he’s got good speed, it’s a pastime, not a career. Still, he loves every second he spends playing hockey, and he jumps at every opportunity he has to get on the ice.
So when he’s 17 and he’s selected from a group of volunteers to scrape the ice at the Shark Tank—a group of twelve youth hockey players and figure skaters—he doesn’t fucking hesitate. He’s skated at SAP a couple of times, and it has not yet lost its thrill. Plus skating during a game means he might actually interact with some of the players. Like walk right past them while they head into the locker room for a pep talk or a cheer or whatever they do back there.
Scott, the captain of their youth league team and Stiles’ best friend since diapers, tells him to bring his Hale rookie card and get him to sign it. Stiles considers it for a while, but in the end he decides that if he actually exchanges words with Derek Hale, being a huge nerd about his trading cards is not a great way to start.
**
There’s training. Stiles has to go to two whole hours of training before he’s qualified to drag a shovel across NHL ice. He thinks it’s pretty stupid, but then the moment comes and he’s actually grateful that he has all that muscle memory built in, because his brain is really focused on other stuff. Like how loud it is, how many people there are, how many professionals there are, just around.
The whole experience is fucking awesome. He gets to sit up against the glass with the other volunteers, gets swag like a T-shirt and a hoodie, and he passes right by the players when he goes onto the ice.
Derek Hale doesn’t even look at him. That’s a little—hurtful. But when Stiles thinks about it, it’s not exactly surprising. He’s a professional doing his job; he’s not trying to make friends. He’s focused on winning.
But then, after the game, all the volunteers get a chance to meet them.
The thing is—it’s not exactly a great game for San Jose. The Sharks’ best defense duo is benched with an injury, and the Canucks are on a fucking tear. Meeting them is exciting because they’re excited, and Stiles gets to bump fists with Maxim Lapierre, which is practically the highlight of the night, all things considered. Meeting the Sharks is also really fun—most of them are lighthearted and full of “we’ll get ’em next time”s. Except for Hale.
He shoves right past the volunteers and press and throng of other people, his face gloomy and dark. One of the players who’s stopped to talk to the pretty figure skater girls rolls his eyes and says, “Ignore him. He’s only in a good mood when the Canadians are eating shit.”
Stiles can relate to that.
**
Stiles goes to UCLA for college, and he hates the Kings so much he can’t even pretend to assimilate to the city’s hockey culture. He roots for the school’s team, even though they’re not exactly red hot, but he’s too busy with his studies to be a college athlete. Every once in a while, when the Ducks or the Kings play the Sharks, Stiles’ dad will come down south and they’ll go to a game. It’s fun to be some of the only teal in a sea of rivals.
It’s a total accident that he ends up in the same bar as some hockey players just after his 21st birthday. (At least, Stiles thinks it’s an accident until Lydia tells him otherwise. But that’s later.)
The Sharks are killing the Pacific Division, and they won a game against the Kings that Stiles was at the night before. He thought that was going to be the highlight of his birthday week, but then a group of real life NHL players—from the Kings and the Sharks—are at a table at the bar Lydia brings him to.
“I can’t just go talk to them,” Stiles protests.
Jackson—Lydia’s incredibly annoying (but sometimes useful) boyfriend, who happens to be on the UCLA hockey team—rolls his eyes. “You can,” he says. “They have egos the size of planets—and that’s coming from me. I’m sure some of them will cream their jeans about it.”
“That was really gay,” Danny—Jackson’s best friend and the reason Stiles survived the first two years of college—tells him. “And I agree,” he says to Stiles, smirking. “You definitely can go talk to them, and Derek Hale will definitely be interested in you.”
Stiles’ mouth flops open. “Who’s talking about Derek Hale?”
“Well,” Lydia says, elongating the vowel, “he is the first openly queer NHL player. Although I’m sure you could tempt the non-openly queer ones too.”
Stiles grins at her. “Thanks.”
“The real problem,” Lydia says, “is that you don’t look very available.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, you look like you’re with Danny.” She gestures between them, how they’re standing close to each other.
It’s a crowded night at the bar, so the closeness isn’t meaningful as much as because they’re comfortable with each other, and it’s easier to be pressed up against your friends than total strangers. Lydia is the only one of them who managed to grab a stool, so the boys are all standing while they wait and watch to see if a table opens up.
“Sorry,” Danny says with a shrug. “Should I wear a sign that says not his boyfriend? Hey, what if I want to hit on Derek Hale?”
“You don’t even like the Sharks,” Stiles says automatically. “I’m just saying. You root for the fucking Bruins—the Boston Bruins—and I’d have more respect for you if you at least assimilated to a West Coast team.”
“Instead of having this conversation for the hundredth time,” Lydia interrupts, “let’s go get another drink.”
She puts her arm in Stiles’, pulling him toward a different part of the bar, where there’s fewer patrons and more bartenders. It also happens to be closer to the table with the hockey players.
“Stand like this,” she says, positioning him so that he’s leaning against the bar, angled toward the professional athletes. She rolls up the sleeves of his T-shirt so that the fabric is hugging his biceps, and he feels silly about it but he’s not opposed to her help. Even if all he does is get to look at some hockey players tonight, he’ll remember her suggestions for the future. “Don’t think about it like he’s a celebrity or something. He’s just a hot guy in a bar and you’re trying to get his attention.”
“I’m not really good at that either,” Stiles points out. “I tend to attract people by accident. Completely unintentionally.”
Lydia sighs, nodding. “That’s true. It’s part of your charm.”
A bartender approaches, and Lydia orders another round for the four of them. Stiles, unable to resist, looks over at the guy he’s had a crush on since he was twelve years old and thinks about how…human he seems. In the hockey gear, on the skates, with all that padding, he seems like some kind of god. But right now, he’s just a guy in normal clothes—a black, long sleeve T-shirt, dark wash blue jeans, and boots—and he’s got a couple days’ worth of dark stubble that Stiles wants to feel under his lips. Still just as excruciatingly hot as he is in the hockey getup, but without the kind of celebrity air that separates a Ryan Gosling from a normal hottie.
“In theory,” Lydia says, “if we stand here long enough, someone from their table will come order more drinks.”
“I like that theory,” Stiles says. “I don’t think I can talk to him, you know. Like if he actually came over here, I think I’d pass out or run away.”
“You would not,” Lydia chastises, “because you’re an adult and not a sixteen-year-old virgin. Danny’s just as hot as he is, and you slept with him a lot.”
Stiles scoffs. “Bite your tongue—Danny is attractive, but he’s no number one draft pick.”
“If hockey prowess does it for you, you should’ve gone to an NCAA school. Plenty of queer hockey players there, I bet.”
“Hale is the tenth-highest points scorer in the league this season,” Stiles informs her. “The whole league. They’re going to the playoffs this year because of him.”
“You should mention that in your foreplay. I’m sure it’ll work on him.”
The bartender returns with their drinks and Lydia grabs the whiskey sours that Jackson and Danny are drinking.
“You stay right here,” Lydia says, “and stay just like that until I return. Okay?”
Stiles blinks at her. “What am I supposed to do? Just stare at the floor?”
“Stare at the hunky professional athletes,” she suggests. “Make some eye contact with him. That typically comes before the talking part. Which usually precedes the sex.”
“Not always,” Stiles says.
“Not always,” she allows, and she winks before she pushes back through the mass of people to get to the other side of the bar.
Eye contact. Eye contact with Derek Hale…
It’s happened before. Stiles is confident Derek would never remember. But he remembers. He remembers being a kid up against the glass during a warm up, remembers a grinning rookie Hale tapping his stick and waving at each of the kids while they shouted and screamed with joy. And he remembers being a teenager, and Derek giving all the skating volunteers perfunctory fistbumps while wearing his trademark charming smile, all shiny white teeth and perfectly trimmed beard.
This is definitely different.
For one thing, they’re not in a stadium, not on the ice. For another, Lydia was right—Stiles isn’t a teenage virgin anymore. And he certainly doesn’t believe that Derek is a god. Just, like, a very good hockey player. And an annoyingly sexy guy. Like, some higher power was really giving with both hands the day they made Derek Hale. Still, some of the shininess of Derek being who he is has kind of faded with time.
Not that Stiles isn’t still super fucking intimidated by the mere thought—
He can feel the back of his neck heat when he looks back at Derek and finds green eyes on his. Oh god. It’s a fluke, surely. Derek is gonna look away, eyes just passing over the room. Right?
Only he doesn’t. He looks right at Stiles, head tilting just barely, and Stiles gets so overwhelmed he has to drop his gaze. He takes a sip of his own drink and looks back through the crowd, searching for Lydia’s red hair. He needs to be more realistic; there are definitely some hot people in this bar who he can flirt with, so even if he doesn’t get laid tonight he can probably still make out with somebody in a dimly lit room, and that’s always a good time.
His curiosity gets the better of him and his eyes fall back on Derek’s table, on Derek.
“Looks like you have an admirer,” Lydia says as she returns to his side, picking up her cocktail. “I’m sure he’s not an idiot—he can read a signal. Do your little smile thing that you do.”
“I don’t do a smile thing!”
“Shut up,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I’ve seen you do the thing. Where you eye fuck someone and then smile like you’re just cute, goofy Stiles. It’s your version of the come hither look and it’s incredibly effective.”
“It’s not intentional,” Stiles insists.
“Huh. Well, you should—oh! There’s Kira!”
Lydia goes again, this time taking her drink with her, and Stiles leans against the bar as he sighs. Isn’t this supposed to be his birthday celebration?
He forgets about Derek Hale for a little while then, because Scott has arrived along with Kira, and they have some bro-ing down to do after spending the last few weeks getting into the spring quarter. Stiles’ programming class has been more intense than he expected, and Scott’s been working hard on his own grades to make sure he gets into a competitive vet school. Also, the UCLA hockey team just kicked USC’s butts. Stiles is the last of them to turn 21, so their entire friend group can actually (legally) hang out in bars now. There are many good reasons to celebrate.
“Dude!” Scott says, almost an hour after his arrival. “Did you know Derek Hale is over there?!”
Stiles laughs, nodding. “Yeah, Scotty, I noticed.”
“You have to go say something! We have to go say something!”
“Say what?” Stiles asks. “I see your 2014 hat trick against the Oilers in my dreams?”
“That would be a good place to start,” Scott says. “You should tell him about the rookie card!”
“So I can seem like a pathetic kid?” Stiles scoffs. “Yeah, great idea.”
“I think it’s cute,” Kira tells him. “Very sweet.”
“Sweet,” Lydia agrees, “but not sexy.”
“Sexy?” Scott says, screwing up his face. “Why would we want to be sexy in front of Derek Hale?”
“Oh, Scott,” Kira says, patting his chest. “Let’s go get another drink.”
Lydia nudges Stiles in the shoulder with her glass. “Go on. Do your smile.”
“It’s not gonna work,” Stiles insists. “I can’t flirt if I’m thinking about it.”
“So don’t think about flirting,” Lydia says. “Think about…” She looks him up and down, then looks over at Danny and back at him. “Think about when we were dancing at that bar in San Diego over the summer. I saw you do the smile then.”
Danny laughs gently. “Oh, that smile.”
“Does everybody know about this smile?” Stiles asks.
“Only the people you’ve tried to sleep with,” Lydia says, and it’s a very small comfort.
“You know,” Jackson says, “I think you can skip the longing glances. Lover boy’s on his way over.”
Stiles’ heart thuds faster in his chest, a chill shooting down his spine. It’s half excitement, half terror. “Shut up,” he says weakly. “He is not.”
“Scott’s a really good wingman when he’s clueless,” Danny observes. “Don’t tell him I’m a Boston fan. It seems rude.”
“Stiles!” Scott says, grabbing him by the shoulder. “Dude—Derek, this is Stiles, my best friend and, like, your biggest fan.”
“Scott,” Stiles laughs as casually as he can, trying not to think about the beefy, broad, and gorgeous athlete standing mere inches from him. “Don’t embarrass me—I’m a very, very normal fan. Of hockey. Uh—hi.” He sticks his hand out, because it feels like the appropriate thing to do, and Derek Hale sticks his hand out and Stiles’ whole body tingles with that first touch, that handshake, the simplest touch in the fucking world.
Whoa.
“I’m Stiles,” he manages to say, even though he’s rapidly becoming lost in the forest green of Derek’s eyes. “Sorry he pulled you away from your, uh, friends.”
“No need to be sorry,” Derek says, and his voice is different than it sounds when he’s doing those post-game pressers. Stiles isn’t sure if that’s because he’s not in front of cameras or—some other reason.
Scott introduces the rest of the group too, and Derek is politely encouraging about UCLA’s recent win. He nods at Stiles and asks, “You’re not on the team?”
“Ah, no—college athletics was not in the cards for me. I played a little youth hockey.”
“He was the fastest guy on our team growing up,” Scott brags for him. “He also broke the most bones.”
“Thanks, Scotty,” Stiles says as everyone laughs. “Really.”
“You guys local?” Derek asks.
“To San Jose,” Scott says. “Seriously, Stiles was there for, like, every home game of your rookie season.”
Derek smiles at him then, and the full force of it is—breathtaking. Genuinely. As in it makes Stiles feel breathless.
“I only go to games down here if the Sharks are playing,” Stiles assures him, even though the words feel a little stupid coming out of his mouth. What does Derek care if he goes to other hockey games?
“Good,” Derek says. “I’d hate to think we lost a lifelong fan.”
Oh, man. Oh, lord. He is so handsome up close.
Stiles has had several drinks already. But Derek says, “Can I buy you a beer?” And yeah, he could use another one.
So he lets Derek Hale buy him a beer. He lets Derek Hale lean in close and smile at him with that million dollar face. He lets Derek Hale tilt his head and ask, “What are you studying?”
Stiles knows how to do this. The talking and the flirting part. The fact that he’s talking to one of his hockey heroes is—beside the point. Isn’t it?
“Computer science,” he says. “With a minor in English Lit. Just in case.”
“How well rounded of you,” Derek says, the compliment clear in his voice. “I never bothered with college.”
Stiles bites his tongue so he doesn’t say, I know. Because that would be creepy. “I think getting drafted to the NHL is probably better than a diploma.”
“Why’d you come down to LA for school? Lots of great colleges up north.”
“I got a good scholarship,” Stiles says with a shrug. “And my best friend got in here too, so. It worked out.”
Derek has asked him a couple questions. He knows it’s his turn—he’s supposed to ask something, inquire politely, share the getting-to-know-a-stranger-at-a-bar experience. But his mind is blank. All he can think about is Derek tearing his helmet off at the end of the first period last night, mouth open around what looked like a nasty word while he shoved the Kings player nearest him.
“What was the fight about?” Stiles asks, unable to stop himself. (He’s going to blame the beer, if anyone asks.)
Derek raises an eyebrow. “The fight?”
“With Lahey last night,” he clarifies. “At the end of the first, you guys went at each other, but I didn’t—I didn’t notice anything on the ice.”
“Were you there?” Derek asks.
“Yeah,” Stiles says. “The ESPN clip said you were fighting about his check on Boyd, but that seems kinda unlikely. And he’s here with you, like, right there, so it seems like you might be friends. So I’m just, you know. Curious.”
Derek smiles, an almost cheeky expression. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Now you have to tell me,” Stiles points out.
“We are friends,” Derek says. “I was being an idiot—but not for the reasons you think.”
“What am I thinking?” Stiles asks.
Derek’s eyes bore straight into his. “You really want me to guess?”
He looks away, taking a sip of his beer. It’s both cooling and a convenient excuse for catching his breath. “Why were you an idiot for fighting Lahey?”
“He goads me on sometimes,” Derek says. “When we play each other.”
“Even though you’re friends?”
“Especially because we’re friends,” Derek laughs. “He thinks—” He scoffs, shaking his head. “He thinks I get more press when I take my helmet off on the ice, so he tries to pick fights. And he doesn’t get a penalty if I take my own helmet off, so—he says shit on the ice and most of the time I ignore it. He was just being a dick for the fun of it.”
“To get you more press,” Stiles says with a smirk. “That’s funny. I’m glad you tripped him, though. For whatever he said. He probably deserved worse.”
Derek smirks. “You don’t like the Kings at all, huh?”
“My home team loyalty precludes me from rooting for any other California hockey team. It’s the rules.”
“You root for non-California teams?”
Stiles laughs, shaking his head. “No. I like the Milwaukee Bucks, but that’s college hoops. And the only exception to my otherwise very nativist perspective on sports.”
“You have a college vocabulary,” Derek tells him.
“Shit,” Stiles says, “sorry, I—I get wordy when I’m drinking. And when I’m not drinking, I guess.”
“It’s nice,” Derek says. “Plenty of the guys I hang out with make fun of me for reading on the plane. It’s actually refreshing to talk to someone who makes me—curious.”
Stiles can feel the back of his neck heating. “I’m gonna decide to take that as a compliment,” he says as lightheartedly as he can manage.
“It’s intended as one,” Derek assures him. “Can I ask you something?”
“Uh, yeah. Shoot.”
“Your redheaded friend—Lydia?”
“Yeah.”
“She’s with Whittemore, right? And he and the other guy—they’re d-men on your school team.”
“Him and Danny,” Stiles says with a nod. “Yeah, Lydia and Jackson have been together since orientation freshman year. And although I hate to admit it, Danny and Jackson are the reason Bruins hockey—UCLA Bruins hockey—has been so fucking good lately. Don’t get me started on Boston.”
“You and Danny,” Derek says, gesturing vaguely with his drink. “You’re not together, right?”
“Me and Danny,” Stiles echoes. “You mean, like—together together? Ha, no, no, we’re buds. Same major. We keep each other afloat in lab and check each other’s work. Definitely not together.”
Stiles figures it’s not worth mentioning that he and Danny have engaged in casual sex here and there over the past two years. It’s not really the question Derek asked, anyway, and it might not give off the best impression.
“I’m very single,” Stiles adds. “Extremely single. But not in a depressing way.”
Derek nods. “Good. I figured you wouldn’t just walk away from your boyfriend, but—some people do things differently.”
“I’m pretty traditional,” Stiles says. “Except for the whole bi thing.”
“Guess it depends on how you look at tradition,” Derek says. “Many cultures had flexible perspectives on gender and sexuality before being colonized by the English and French.”
Stiles has a sudden and very visceral image of Derek Hale curled up in a big seat on a jet with a gender and sexuality textbook on his lap. Or maybe it’s something from a Tumblr bookclub. Or a Huffington Post article.
“Now who’s got the college vocab?” Stiles teases. “If you’d gone to college, what would you have done? Like, your major?”
“I liked history in school,” Derek says. “When I talked to my parents about it, the plan was European History, maybe some religious studies. But if I did it now, I think I’d go for something like anthropology. More nuanced.”
“You seem like a pretty nuanced guy,” Stiles says.
Derek tilts his head. “Not what you expected?”
Stiles isn’t really sure that he had any expectations about what Derek was like in real life, nothing concrete. But, there is one thing. “Not exactly,” he admits. “Just like—you seem really intense on the ice. You walked past me after a game once and you were, like, scary.”
“We must’ve lost,” Derek says astutely.
“You did,” Stiles says. “But you were great in that game anyway. You scored the only Sharks point all night.”
“I was probably very gracious about that,” Derek drones sarcastically.
“You’re definitely in a better mood when you’ve won,” Stiles acknowledges, “but who isn’t, right? I mean, Jackson’s a prick even when he’s won sometimes, so. Speaking of winning—I had high hopes for a hat trick last night.”
Derek laughs. “Me too. Their defense finally got it together at the end there.” He gestures at Stiles again, his smile twitching a little. “Are you guys out tonight celebrating the UCLA win?”
“Among other things,” Stiles says. “It was my birthday on Wednesday.”
“Happy birthday,” Derek says. “Is it polite to ask which birthday it was?”
“The big two one,” Stiles says. “Which is why we had to come to a bar, obviously.”
Stiles can see him doing the math in his head, so he’s not surprised when Derek says, “You were—what? Twelve when I was drafted?”
“Don’t do the age comparison,” Stiles chastises. “It’ll make you feel creepy and make me feel like a teenager. Which I’m not.”
“Do you have my jersey?”
Stiles’ mouth falls open, blush spreading. “That is—that is so egotistical of you,” he teases. “That is just like a forward, you know. Jones is the best goalie in the conference, and the Burns-Vlasic team up is the reason you’re probably going to the playoffs this year. Defense makes your team what it is.”
Derek grins. “You do have my jersey,” he says. “Bet you have some trading cards too. Twelve-year-olds always want trading cards—did you keep any of them?”
Stiles tries very hard not to think about that sleeve of Sharks cards he has in his desk back at his dad’s house. But something must show on his face because Derek laughs, a friendly hand coming out to grab onto his arm, just at the elbow. It’s a casual, easy touch, but it’s also an obvious sign of interest. Stiles knows what a touch like that means.
It means Derek Hale wants to kiss him.
Fuck yeah.
“I’ll sign them for you,” Derek says. “If you promise not to sell them on eBay.”
“Then what would be the point of the signature?” Stiles quips, resisting the urge to stick his tongue out.
“You want another drink?”
Stiles looks down at his nearly empty glass and then back up at Derek. He’s like 93% sure Derek wants to kiss him. They did the eye contact thing. Derek offered to buy him a drink. Derek asked him questions, laughed at things he said—those are flirting things, aren’t they?
“Sure,” Stiles agrees.
He’s not really in a rush. And he’s sure he could talk to Derek about hockey all night long.
**
Later, when they’re making out in a dark hallway, Stiles wonders what kind of horrible suffering he must have experienced in a past life to deserve a reward like this. He must’ve been a martyr. Maybe one of those Buddhist monks.
Stiles has thought about touching Derek Hale, about kissing him. He spent many creative hours during his formative year imagining what it would be like.
Reality is better.
He didn’t imagine—couldn’t properly imagine—how careful it would be. Tender. How warm and firm and comforting Derek’s hands would be on his neck, his back, stroking down his sides, pulling him closer. It feels more like a flirtatious, co-ed makeout session than the stuff of his wildest fantasies.
But that’s a good thing. Because his wildest fantasies usually include a place to be alone, and they don’t exactly have that right now.
They could, though.
“Do you wanna get outta here?” Stiles asks after the third time Derek politely shifts his hips away.
Derek smirks a little, eyes looking back and forth between his. His arms are slung low around Stiles, while Stiles has one hand on the back of Derek’s neck and the other tucked in the back pocket of his jeans.
“It’s your birthday,” Derek says. “You’re with your friends.”
“They fully expect me to bail,” Stiles assures him. “Lydia’s been trying to help me get your attention all night.”
“Yeah?” Derek asks, amusement clear in his voice. “Have you been trying to seduce me?”
“You were the one buying me drinks.”
“Let’s call it a mutual seduction, then,” Derek suggests. “Where do you wanna go?”
Stiles shares an apartment with Scott, and normally he wouldn’t be shy about bringing a hookup back there, but this is Derek Hale. “You have a hotel room, don’t you? I’m picturing a really big bed and maybe a rainforest showerhead.”
Derek chuckles, nodding. “I have a hotel room. I’ll order a car.”
Oh, man. Stiles can’t help ribbing him, “Uber Black only for Mr. NHL.”
Derek rolls his eyes but kisses him again, deep and intense, before pulling his phone out of his pocket.
“You wanna meet the guys before we go?” Derek asks oh-so-casually. “Boyd’ll give me shit if I don’t say goodbye, but you don’t have to.”
“Do I wanna meet a dozen NHL players including the captain of my favorite team?” Stiles asks. “Obviously yes.”
“I’m gonna be captain one day,” Derek tells him.
It makes Stiles’ stomach twist, makes the blood rushing in his body feel thick and heavy. It feels like Derek is bragging—like Derek is showing off for him. Trying to impress him.
“I know you are,” Stiles assures him. “Will you remember me, then? When you’ve got the C?”
“I think I’m gonna have a hard time forgetting you,” Derek says, leaning in again, his nose brushing against Stiles’. Stiles wonders if his heart is beating hard enough for Derek to feel it against his own chest. “Wanna gimme more to remember?”
“God, yes.”
Their goodbyes (and introductions) are pretty brief. Stiles gets to shake hands with people he admires a hell of a lot, and he manages not to say anything incredibly embarrassing. They rib Derek a little bit—Boyd says something about him finally being social for once, and Pavelski tells him not to miss the bus to the airport in the morning. When they say goodbye to Stiles’ friends, they do little more than wink and wave him out the door. Scott looks kind of stunned, Danny gives him a thumbs up, and Lydia blows him a kiss.
And then he’s in the back of a sleek, sexy black car and Derek Hale has a palm on the back of his neck, obvious, unsubtle. Oh, man. This is the best night of his fucking life.
**
“I don’t really do this,” Derek says when they’re in his room, hands shoving under clothes. They’re almost to the huge king-sized bed but they’re still a couple paces away, stalled in the middle of the room while they devour each other.
“Do what?” Stiles asks, busy unbuttoning Derek’s jeans.
“Just—hook up with random people I meet in bars.”
“Lucky me,” Stiles says with a grin. After another lingering kiss, he tells Derek, “We don’t have to do anything. We can just—I don’t know. Talk.”
“I like talking to you,” Derek says, “but I really want you to suck my dick.”
Stiles’ jaw drops open in surprise, not because he’s opposed to the request but because he couldn’t really imagine Derek saying those words. Only now he’s never going to stop imagining it.
“Yeah,” Stiles agrees breathily. “I want to.”
“Bed?”
“Bed.”
Stiles has imagined a naked Derek Hale. Also, he was December in a sexy NHL calendar a couple of years ago, so Stiles has seen him shirtless—for a while there, he had the image of a sweaty, shirtless Derek Hale burned into the back of his eyelids. But the real thing is better.
Derek gets mostly undressed before he plays in the middle of the bed, propping himself up on his elbows, one knee bent up as if he’s shy. He’s hairy, dark and curly body hair starting on his chest and trailing down over his stomach. Stiles wants to lick him, touch him, rut against him. But he stands there, frozen at the end of the bed, still in his undone jeans; and watches while Derek arches his hips, shoving down his boxer briefs.
“Fuck,” Stiles says. His mouth is already watering, and he’s not even up close and personal yet. But he can see from here that Derek is uncut and already pretty hard, easily seven or eight inches long. “Jesus, you’re not fucking real.”
“You like it?”
Stiles’ eyes catch on Derek’s lap as he strokes himself, pulling his foreskin back and rutting into his fist. “Fuck,” he says again, and forgets about his own clothes as he trips toward the bed, crawling up the mattress to get his hands on Derek’s thighs. “Did I mention that I have really good control over my gag reflex?”
“Open,” Derek says.
Stiles’ jaw unhinges automatically, eyes looking up at Derek’s. His pupils are blown, gaze dark and hot. Derek’s left hand, the hand not on his own dick, comes up to Stiles’ face, two fingers pushing onto his tongue. Flushed with arousal, he closes his mouth around the digits, suckling them gently.
He’s not incredibly surprised when Derek’s fingers push in deeper, feeling at the back of his tongue. It’s a test, a provocation, a calling of his bluff. And Stiles breathes through it, hums around him, thrilling at the salty skin and the knowledge that this is making Derek hard.
“Fuck,” Derek growls, ripping his hand out of Stiles’ mouth and moving it to the back of his neck, gripping him firmly. The pressure makes Stiles’ brain feel all fuzzy, makes his spine all tingly. “Show me,” he says, already guiding Stiles toward his dick.
Not to brag or anything, but Stiles is pretty good with his mouth. He’s patient and attentive and he drools like there’s no tomorrow, so when he licks up the length of Derek’s cock, looking up at him through his eyelashes, he already knows he’s going to blow Derek’s mind. The fiery desire in Derek’s eyes is unnecessary, but deeply gratifying, confirmation. As is the way Derek groans when Stiles swallows him down.
“Yeah,” Derek moans, hand flexing on the back of Stiles’ neck as he bobs his head, fucking his mouth with Derek’s dick. “Fuck, that’s—that’s good.”
Stiles knows—he can tell from the way Derek is gripping him, the way his cock pulses on his tongue, precome leaking into his throat, and the subtle trembling of his thighs. He probably wants to fuck Stiles’ mouth, is probably holding himself back. So polite, Stiles thinks to himself, more than a little bit insane about the whole thing. He wouldn’t mind if Derek were a little less polite.
Derek pulls him off after only another minute, hand in his hair. “You’re gonna kill me.”
Beaming, Stiles crawls up his body and kisses him. “I’ll be gentle,” he teases, pressing a line of kisses along Derek’s jaw, down his throat. “You wanna come in my mouth?”
“I wanna touch you,” Derek says, hands warm and insistent on his body, skating over his waistband. “Lemme see you.”
He’s on his back then, Derek naked on top of him and dragging his jeans and boxers down in one confident move. He tries to help but he’s pretty superfluous, and he just kicks the fabric off as best he can while Derek lunges at him again, capturing his mouth in a deep, dramatic kiss.
He gasps into Derek’s mouth as he gets a hand on him, shuddering at the feeling of Derek stroking him. “Oh my god,” he moans around Derek’s tongue. People say Derek Hale has soft hands—they have no fucking idea.
Derek breaks the kiss abruptly, voice harsh when he asks, “Can I fuck you?”
Stiles had a feeling that’s where they were gonna end up. He’s not an idiot—he felt Derek’s gaze on his ass, felt Derek’s hand on it too. And they’re pretty much equal in height but Derek is…broad. Big. Definitely has major top vibes. So Stiles isn’t surprised, and he’s quickly talking himself into the idea. He’s sure it would be really good. Derek seems like he knows what he’s doing; he’s probably had a lot of practice.
“Something else, then,” Derek says with a smirk, when clearly Stiles has been spending too long thinking about it.
“No, I—I’m not saying no,” Stiles says. “I just—you’re pretty big and I actually don’t have a ton of experience bottoming, so I might be—it could take a while.”
Derek’s smile grows, hand moving on Stiles’ dick, stroking him slowly, almost lazily. Stiles’ breath catches, hips rolling into the touch helplessly. “Pretty big, huh? Seemed like you were handling it alright,” Derek says, eyes falling to his mouth. “You worried I can’t be patient? I can. I won’t hurt you.”
Holy fuck does Stiles feel seduced. He’s really not all that nervous anymore.
“I trust you,” Stiles says, and he means it.
They go back to kissing, a little more frantically now, hands dragging across skin. When Derek encourages him to turn over, he does, and he watches with quiet amusement as Derek retrieves lube and a condom from his luggage. (It occurs to Stiles that it’s probably not rare for professional athletes to travel with the necessary supplies for sex. That’s gotta be one of the best perks of the job—everybody wants to sleep with you.)
Stiles doesn’t bottom a lot because the guys he ends up sleeping with usually just want him to top, but he’s not opposed to the experience. The few times he did it with Danny, it was a little awkward at first but then it was awesome, and Stiles is really very sure that it’ll be even better with Derek. So he doesn’t let the gentle lick of embarrassment in his gut stop him from spreading his legs and moaning into a pillow as Derek opens him up on his fingers.
It’s nothing like sleeping with other people at school. The people he hooks up with around campus are—well. They’re just not Derek. And Derek is everything Stiles didn’t realize he liked in a partner: confident, unashamed, vocally encouraging. When Stiles fools around at school, it’s rushed, maybe kind of shy, involves frantic hands and limited talking. But now Derek is nuzzling against the back of his neck, his shoulder, and muttering dirty encouragements, touching him slowly, patiently, like he has all the time in the world. All of it means that Stiles stays pretty hard the whole time, even though there’s so many different sensations that he can hardly tell what’s happening, what Derek is doing to him. He just knows he feels really good, and he wants more.
“Lemme put it on you,” Stiles insists when they rearrange so he’s on his back again, a fancy, fluffed pillow under his hips.
Derek hands him the condom and shuffles forward on his knees, bottom lip caught between his teeth as he holds himself still, watching Stiles rip open the packet and roll the condom onto his length. “You sure you’re ready?” he asks, eyes finding Stiles’.
“You fingered me for ages,” Stiles all but whines, already wiggling himself further down the bed, knees pulled up. “Fuck me or I’ll hold you down and fuck myself.”
Something animalistic and fevered flashes across Derek’s face. “I’m tempted to see you do that,” Derek says, but he stays where he is between Stiles’ legs, hand stroking himself. “But I’m slightly more tempted by this. You. Underneath me.”
“C’mere,” Stiles encourages, legs pulling Derek even closer.
It’s really—a lot. Derek pushing inside of him makes his breath stick in his throat, makes his brain go staticky. They’re meant to be kissing but they’re really just breathing against each other, lips brushing without pursing, more focused on other parts of their bodies.
“Okay?” Derek breathes.
Stiles isn’t sure he can form words at the moment, so he goes for a nod, hands squeezing where they’re holding onto Derek’s shoulders. The truth is that it’s more than okay; it’s already better and more intense than any sex he’s ever had, and maybe that’s just because of who it’s with but the why doesn’t really matter. What matters is that Derek’s dick is sending sparks up his spine, heat simmering all the way to his fingertips, his toes, making his heart hammer in his chest.
“Oh fuck,” Stiles sighs, back arching as Derek sets a purposeful, delicious pace.
He’s careful but intense, holding Stiles’ thighs up and open, core flexing as he keeps himself balanced. It’s so stupidly hot, such a ridiculous display of his strength, his obscenely perfect body, Stiles feels all lightheaded just by the vision of him. He’s got this look of fierce determination on his face, like he’s single-mindedly focused on the rhythm of his cock. It reminds Stiles so much of how he looks during a face-off.
Stiles can’t resist the urge to touch himself, trying to get a little relief. Maybe it’s too soon, too fast, but he doesn’t care—he’s all wound up, desperate and excited. He feels like their foreplay lasted hours, the way they were flirting at the bar, the way Derek pulled him away and kissed him with such obvious want. It’s certainly been the hottest experience of his life, and he hasn’t even come yet.
But he can feel it, not so distant, waiting on the edges, ready to bowl him over. It gets closer when he looks at Derek, how wrecked he looks, like he’s barely holding it together. They’re both breathing hard, clinging to each other with eager, trembling hands, and the entire moment feels—completely life-changing.
“Stiles,” Derek groans. “Is it—are you close?”
“Yeah,” Stiles confesses breathily. He’s been mostly holding back the stupid noises that his body wants to make in response to each of Derek’s devastating thrusts, but the closer he gets the less he can stop himself from whining in the back of his throat as he fucks into his own hand, Derek’s dick sending wave after wave of pleasure through him, radiating from his core all the way to the tip of his head, his toes.
“Lemme,” Derek grunts, and Stiles almost comes right then and there as Derek knocks his hand away from his dick and replaces it with his own.
“Oh my god,” Stiles sighs, hands digging a fierce grip into Derek’s meaty biceps. Derek’s hand pulls in wet, twisting strokes, like he’s dragging Stiles’ orgasm from the base of his dick, thumbing over the dripping slit at the head. “Oh fuck, that’s—yeah, that’s—oh my god, Derek.”
“Come for me,” Derek says—demands.
And Stiles is helpless but to follow his instructions. He shakes apart, overwhelmed by the feeling of Derek inside him, filling him, lighting him up from the inside out, and the perfect grip of Derek’s hand, drawing his pleasure out like a hook in his gut. He keeps his legs firmly around Derek, selfish, needy, and beams at the ceiling when Derek shudders against him, hips stuttering to a grinding halt as he spills deep inside Stiles, mouth open around a wordless, broken sound.
It’s easily the sexiest thing that Stiles has ever seen, ever felt. He understands now why people make sex tapes—he’d want to relive this over and over again if he could.
Derek kisses him, hot and frantic, and Stiles hums around the welcome feeling of Derek’s tongue in his mouth, a post-coital claiming that he’s enthusiastically into.
“Holy fuck,” Stiles says as Derek rolls over, disposing of the condom.
Derek chuckles, low and deep. His voice sounds like sex. It occurs to Stiles that he’s never going to be able to watch another post-game interview of Derek’s without thinking about getting fucked into the mattress.
Stiles watches as Derek gets out of bed, strolling casually—and nakedly—to the kitchenette on the other side of the room. It’s just as sleek and fancy as the rest of the hotel room, with real glasses and a nice sink; there’s maybe an ice maker or something because Stiles can hear the clinking of ice into a glass before being filled with water. He manages to sit up, only vaguely embarrassed by the sticky wetness underneath him. (It’s good they fucked on top of the covers—it’s also good the bed is huge and they could still both fit comfortably in the two-thirds unsullied by their sexual activities.)
“Drink,” Derek says, handing him a glass as he returns to the bedside.
“Very chivalrous,” Stiles tells him and takes a sip. God, 5-star hotel water is really good. Or maybe all water after getting fucked by an NHL All Star is just really good. The clock on the bedside table when he sets down the glass catches his attention. “Sorry to rush out on you, but I should probably go before the trains stop running.”
“I’d rather you stayed,” Derek says. “You can sleep here. We can keep—talking.”
He really is chivalrous. And he also maybe wants to keep having sex.
Stiles grins at him, nods. “Alright. Cool.”
**
Stiles falls asleep at some point after 3 AM. He’s heavy and exhausted and the bed is so comfortable—he just figures Derek will shake him awake when he needs to leave.
But waking is a little gentler than that. There’s an alarm, quiet and careful at first, that gets louder as Stiles rouses into consciousness. He’s confused for a second, wondering what the sound is, and then he remembers where he is, and realizes it must be Derek’s.
“Sorry,” Derek mutters when Stiles rolls over. “Bus leaves at nine, and I still need to shower and pack my stuff.”
“S’all good,” Stiles says, half into the pillow. He nuzzles into it for a second and then opens his eyes properly.
Even in the dim light of the room, with the curtains closed, Derek is so fucking stunning that it makes Stiles feel a little woozy. His hair is unkempt, eyes bleary with sleep, and he’s got this gentle, casual smile on his face, like he’s happy to see Stiles.
“Wow,” Stiles says. It occurs to him that this is a once-in-a-lifetime experience. He might as well—since he’s here—speak his mind. “You’re, like, unfairly gorgeous.” He’s probably never gonna see Derek again, so he doesn’t really have to be embarrassed.
Derek shoves a pillow at him, covering his face. “You gonna shower with me?”
Stiles laughs. “Yeah, definitely.”
Which is how he ends up having another orgasm with Derek Hale, in his stupidly big, extravagant shower. He’s pretty sure he’s got a permanent grin on his face now; he’s gonna think about this whole experience constantly for at least the next week, and every time he sees Derek on TV for the rest of his life he’s gonna think: I had sex with him!
Stiles sits on the bed and looks at the bus-to-metro schedule for the area while Derek packs up his stuff. Derek glances at his phone screen and says, “I’ll order you a car.”
“That’s okay,” Stiles dismisses, “I’ve lived here for three years, I can get myself home.”
“I’ll order you a car,” Derek says again, firmly. He stands there for a moment, shifting his weight. His bag is packed at his feet, his backpack perched atop it. Stiles gets to his feet too, feeling like this is the moment where they say goodbye, nice to meet you, thanks for the memories. Then Derek asks, “Can I have your number?”
Stiles can’t help it—he’s so surprised that he laughs. But he quickly fixes his face and says, “Yeah, man, of course.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Don’t be stupid,” Stiles says, already stepping forward to close some of the distance between them. He unlocks his phone again with a swipe and Derek takes the device when he offers it. “I’d like to—it’d be cool to see you again. If you want.”
Derek smiles down at his phone while he puts in his number. “We play Anaheim in ten days.”
Stiles grins to himself. Ten days. He’s gonna see Derek again in ten days. “I’ll be around.”
“I get tickets,” Derek says. He’s typing, and Stiles can see him in the messaging app, presumably texting himself. “If you wanna bring a couple friends to the game. Just lemme know how many you need.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Stiles says.
“Their goalie’s shit,” Derek tells him with a grin. “It’s gonna be brutal. You won’t wanna miss it.”
“Don’t jinx it, man,” Stiles chastises. “Overconfidence is the enemy.”
“M’not sure about that,” Derek says. “Being overly confident is why I’m here right now. With you.”
Stiles can feel his cheeks heating, warmth spreading across his face, down his neck. Fuck, but Derek is really charming.
Derek gives him back his phone and kisses him, short and chaste.
They leave the hotel room together, ride down in the elevator together. Derek orders him a car and waits with him; they talk about one of Stiles’ classes the whole time. Derek opens the door for him when the car arrives, and even though they don’t kiss again, Stiles knows—can feel it in his gaze—that Derek wants to. They squeeze hands instead, and Derek says, “See you in Anaheim.”