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The answer isn’t yes, that first time Tom Wilson tries to fight for him and Leno offers to suck his dick about it.
But he doesn’t say no, either.
So, that’s something.
They play the Ducks for the last time that season in January, a rematch they’re all kinda building up a little both in their heads and in the room. It’s a bit of a revenge game, really, for Leno’s fucked up arm and the week he spent unable to look at a screen without feeling sick, for the galling shoot-out loss, for their insulted honor at the hands of Trouba and his refusal to answer the bell when Willy rang it.
Leno decides early on, like right after the December game, that he's not worried about the Ducks rematch in January. He does as he’s told, focuses on getting better, getting back on the ice, playing good hockey, really good hockey, doing his job.
He's not thinking about Tom, sitting on the couch with his arm around him, not thinking about Tom saying next time we play them I’m putting his head into the boards. Leno does better when he doesn't think about shit like that, so he doesn't think about shit like that. He thinks a little bit about the way Tom’s mouth had gone kinda slack when Leno offered to suck his dick, and he thinks a little bit about how else he might be able to knock Tom off balance, and if he thinks about those things in the shower with his hand on himself, well, whatever, he’s 20 and horny and Tom’s hot, so. It’s whatever.
Mainly, though, Leno thinks about the important shit, like a point streak, and a wild card spot, and sending Gabe dick pics when he knows he's on the team plane, and sending Will those weird photo montages of him and Celebrini set to slowed down love songs.
He thinks about getting a cleaning service and replacing the shirts he fucked up trying to do his own laundry and he googles why is my smoke alarm beeping when nothing is on fire and he even changes a lightbulb. He eats a lot of takeout and spends a lot of time playing princesses with the bigger Strome girls while Stromer and his wife nap with the baby, in return for lasagna and cookies.
He doesn't think about I'll put his head into the boards or are you or are you not one of my boys or if someone fucks with you I fuck with them and he wonders if maybe Sourdy would like to split an apartment next season.
Or this season. Whatever.
Leno's not thinking about any of that until Willy leaves the ice in the game against the Hawks, and doesn't come back.
He's in the locker room at first intermission though, sitting very carefully, leg stretched out in front of him, grinning at them, and he's day-to-day.
“Nothing major,” he says. “Looked worse than it is.”
Tom's out for the Ducks game, and Leno doesn’t really think about that either, about having to face Trouba again without Tom on the ice with him. Tom’s there in the room, anyway, in an obnoxiously loud check suit that Leno thinks is kinda great, actually, and not thinking about that takes up most of his brain until a big hand grabs him on his way to the tunnel before the game.
“Keep your head up,” Tom says, and slaps him roughly on the side of the helmet, and then checks the straps. “And keep your fucking gloves on.”
Leno scowls, ‘cos he didn’t need to be told that. He’s not going to fight Trouba himself, that’s not how it works. Tom laughs at him, knocks his fist against the healed shoulder, rough and so fucking gentle, and then shoves him down the tunnel as Dewey comes out of the room behind them.
Tom grabs Dewey too, makes him duck down to bring their heads together, and the look on his face is so serious Leno can’t quite bring himself to look at it.
The Ducks score a few minutes into the first, and as soon as play resumes, Dewey makes a beeline for Trouba and drops his gloves.He doesn't ask him if he wants to go, doesn't tell him to answer the bell, just throws his gloves off and fucking goes for it.
Like he's Tom Wilson.
Brandon Duhaime is not Tom Wilson, and he loses his helmet and gets wrestled to the ice and doesn't get any really decent hits in, but the boys are howling and banging their sticks on the ice and however shitty a fight it is, everyone knows it was for Leno.
It fills him with the same sort of shivery hot cold awkward awful awesome feeling he got a month ago, when Dewey said Willy tried to get him to go. Doggy isn't Tom, but he's definitely Tom-by-proxy, as he sits in the box for five, tonguing the split in his lip, smug as fuck.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Leno says to him, when he gets back to the bench after his next shift.
Dewey grins, a little bloody, fucking feral. “Willy told me you’d say that. He said sometimes you forget how hockey works, because you’re very young, and very stupid.”
Leno can imagine that’s exactly what Tom said. “Yeah, fuck you very much, old man.”
“You’re welcome, baby.”
Dewey is bleeding for him. This team is willing to bleed for him. Happy to, even, thrilled. Planned on it.
Leno knows what you do with loyalty like that. You fucking earn it.
He earns it that night, for sure, a goal for himself and a fucking beauty of an assist for Sourds, for his first ever hatty, first Caps rookie hatrick since Ovi. It's a barn-stormer of a game, they’re flashy and slick and chippy and it’s just fucking gorgeous stupid Washington Capitals hockey. Sourdy says we’re the best team in the league and the numbers might not hold that up but Leno agrees with him anyway.
They go out that night, every single one of them, even the old marrieds, even Stromer, who’s brother is in town and is so fucking tired all the time right now with the new baby that he looks like he might fall asleep at the bar.
“You don't need to be here,” Sourdy says to him, almost a little anxious. “You can go see your brother, I don't mind, I swear.”
Stromer looks at him like he's a particularly entertaining toddler, and smiles. “I just saw him for Christmas. You only get your first hattrick once. And anyway, he's at mine helping Tayler with the girls, I'll see him in the morning. Nowhere I'd rather be, kid, I promise.”
Leno doesn't mind that Sourdy is kid too, even though he's like, years older than him. It's not a big deal, really, this bunch of weirdos has more than enough annoying patronizing love to go around. Sourdy is legal to drink, anyway, and more than willing to make sure Leno gets his share even if he’s underage, so any slight resentment he might have at having to share being the baby, at being beaten to the punch on the rookie hattrick front, dissolves instantly as the tray of shots comes round.
Ovi makes a big show of turning his back as Leno takes three for himself, and then turns back to check they’re vodka, just as Tom slides into the booth next to him.
There’s not much space, so they’re pressed together straight away, and the closeness of the contact and the force of it settles Leno so much more than the shots do, sinks steady into his skin like hot water in the post-game showers. It washes away all the post-game jitters, the overtired itchy adrenaline that makes him want to- whatever.
“Good game, baby,” Tom says, low and a little mocking. “Well done not getting murdered.”
The sleeve of his suit has a blue gatorade stain on it from the bottle he’d tipped over Sourdy, ‘cos he can look as sharp as he likes, but he’s a fucking mess, really, and Leno feels savage pleasure in knowing exactly what his life will look like when he grows up.
“Yeah yeah,” Leno says, knocks a shot back, knocks his knee against Tom’s. “Might have gone a little differently, but someone sent their attack dog out on the ice, so-”
Dewey appears then, like he always does when someone’s talking about him, some weird fucking sixth sense that lets him plant his ass right in the middle of the action every single time. He lands on the edge of the table right where Leno’s sitting, all wild limbs and messy hair, barking - obviously - and lays a big sloppy kiss on the side of Leno’s face, mostly tongue, like the fucking dog he is.
“Nobody puts baby in the corner,” he crows. Most of the way to wasted already, bruise coming up lurid and telling, lip still bleeding ‘cos he can’t stop fucking with it.
Leno shoves him, but not hard enough to knock him off the table, ‘cos they don’t need anyone else on IR, and gets a hard shove back for his trouble before someone else catches Dewey’s eye, and off he goes.
Tom reaches over as soon as Dewey’s gone, pulls the cuff of his suit down over his hand and scrubs the bloody smear of saliva off Leno’s face with a slightly savage expression. He’s very close, and it twists something up in Leno’s gut, the way Tom does every now and then, better than vodka.
He reaches out for another shot anyway, says, “thanks Ma,” with as much sarcasm as he can possibly manage, and knocks back the vodka with Tom’s slightly judgemental eyes heavy on him.
“Lenny,” Tom says, and he’s using his I’ll be your Captain one day kiddo voice, the one he pretends he doesn’t have. “If you so much as think of offering to suck his dick for fighting for you, I will personally end your season.”
There are two ways to respond to that, really, or maybe three - he could say yes sir, Mr Wilson sir, or he could say that’s lockerroom cancer shit right there, Willy, watch it, or he could say-
“How’d you know I didn’t already?”
Tom grabs him by the chin then, huge bear paw wrapped around his jaw like he can just put Leno wherever he wants, pulls him round until they’re face to face, looks at him like he’s trying to read the last hour or two in his broken nose and chapped lips and stupid fucking freckles. Leno tries to outstare him and fails straight away.
“Nope,” Tom says, after a long moment. “No, you didn’t offer. We all know what he’s packing, you’d be wrecked, and your face is just normal levels of fucked up, so-”
“You think he’d say yes?”
That’s an interesting thought. The Caps don’t play the Rangers til the end of the season, so he’s unlikely to see Gabe til then, and even though the Sharks are coming in a week or so, Leno doesn’t much fancy the risk of Will turning him down in order to stare lovingly at Celebrini’s perfectly repaired teeth, or whatever it is they do while chastely holding hands and watching girl movies. Non-puck-bunny options are relatively thin on the ground, and puck bunnies are great, but sometimes a guy just wants to suck a dick.
Tom glares at him like he actually can read his mind, and slaps him lightly around the back of the head like he’s a badly behaved puppy.
“He better fucking not,” he says, and turns to scowl at the back of Dewey’s head, like he’s committed some sort of egregious crime. “We don’t mess with the rookies, it’s a whole fucking rule.”
It’s a stupid fucking rule and also it’s a lie. Leno takes another shot, spills most of it, decides maybe not too many more, and swings round in the booth til he’s right up in Tom’s face, teeth bared like a perfect mirror.
“Where the fuck was that rule when you made me and Sourdy do shots of hot sauce and sing Beyonce in our underwear and pay for your fucking stupid expensive steak dinners?!”
Tom shoves him, again, and Leno shoves back, falls against him and lets Tom take his weight.
“First,” Tom says, and wraps an arm around him, shaking him a little, still so fucking careful of the shoulder, “You fucking loved that, because you’re an attention whore.”
Point. Leno reaches for another shot, and Tom slaps his hand away, passes him a beer instead, doesn’t let go of him.
“Second,” he continues, “that was your Rookie Dinner. The whole point of that is to fuck with the rookies. As far as I’m aware there’s no like, secret NHL ritual where you actually fuck the rookies.”
Pity.
The beer was probably a good shout.
“Alright,” Leno says, and leans a little further into Tom. “I solemnly promise not to offer to suck Dewey’s dick.”
Tom laughs, just a little. “Wasn’t a good enough fight to deserve it, anyway,” he points out, which is reasonable. “He got his shit rocked and he looked like an idiot.”
“It’s the thought that counts,” Leno tells him, and Tom laughs again.
They stay there for a moment, tucked together, this thing between them, as Leno finishes his beer and Tom minesweeps the dregs of the shot tray, and then a yell goes up from across the bar and they’re hauled into the chaos by the rest of their team, some sort of honor challenge against Chychy’s ability to play darts, or something, and off they go.
It’s a late night, big night, bigger than they’ve done for most of the season for all that the Caps is a team of lunatics it’s also a team of grownups, mostly, apart from Leno and Sourdy, so while there’s plenty of we’ll go out for one or two and lots of dinners, messy nights in bars and clubs are few and far between.
Leno’s good at big nights out, good at circulating a room, working a party. He’s had lots of practice, and though he’s not as good as Smitty, he’s definitely good enough for this team. It's not hard work here. The Caps aren’t cliquey the way other teams he’s been on are - everyone has their own little circle of folk they’re closest to, but they don’t bunch together, it’s all big and messy and sprawling, tangled and stupid and loud and mixed together.
He fucking loves them. He’d read Stromer’s Player’s Tribune article when it had come out, just as he joined the team, and had read it again, and again, and tried to see the way he might fit there, the ways he might be able to make the Caps give him the same love and loyalty they give Stromer, and he’s not-
–he’s not an idiot, he knows how this goes. Guys get traded all the time, even rookies. But they wouldn’t give him up for Quinn freaking Hughes, and they fight for him, and he’s gonna earn that, for sure.
By the time they're getting to the end of the night, everyone is loose and kinda sloppy, even with morning skate on the books for the next day. It's optional, sure, but this is a team that wants to win.
The bar sounds the bell for last call. Ovi sends Chychy up for a last round of shots, and Tom slides in next to Leno where he's sitting, watching the chaos around the pool table.
Beau is not very good at all, and Big Mac Sauce is unexpectedly brilliant.
“Kid,” Tom says, and Leno can tell straight away that Tom's drunker than he usually gets, loose and a little slightly over earnest. “Baby.”
“Willy,” Leno says, and he's drunk too, is aware of it by the way the words feel in his mouth.
“I'm sorry I wasn't there,” Tom says, “tonight. I was gonna fight him for you, Lenny, I swear.”
It's absolutely the truth, Leno knows that, knows it in his bones and in his gut, where that hot twisty feeling has sparked up again, someone fucks with you, I fuck with them.
“I know,” Leno tells him, hooks a foot around his ankle, pulls them closer together, just a little. They're pretty close already. Tom's got a scrape still healing on one cheek. “I was gonna offer to suck your dick about it.”
Tom lets out a low groan, puts his head down on the table in front of them and knocks his forehead against the wood once, as if he's trying to beat some sense into himself. Leno laughs, is a little surprised at the low sound of it, and Tom sits up.
He looks pained, amused, sort of frustrated, sighs, scrubs his hands through his hair, and stands up.
“I'm putting you in a cab, kid,” he says, fingers firm and strong on the back of Leno's neck. “Go home, eat something, drink a Gatorade. Two.”
Leno makes a face. “I know how to manage myself, Willy, I went to college.”
Tom rolls his eyes. “Sure,” he says. “I bet you do.”
It's on the tip of his tongue, to say something filthy, but Tom cuts him off.
“Don't, baby,” he sighs, and drags Leno up from the table. “Look, if you make it to skate tomorrow, I'll buy you lunch after, and we can talk about it.”
Ominous. Promising.
Tom puts him in the Uber, and Leno pulls his phone out. There's a bunch of messages about the game, four in the muted thread with John, a few shitty memes in his chat with Smitty and Gabo, too. He sends a bunch of emojis to that last one, ignores everything else, and leans back against the headrest.
It's not a long drive. His phone buzzes in his lap as the car pulls up outside his building.
Gabo: you up?
Leno gets out of the car, grinning down at the message. The world is spinning a little, and Tom Wilson is taking him out for lunch tomorrow to talk, and he has this, golden and nostalgic, another sort of loyalty he more than earned.
Me: call in five.