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Travis is drunk. Wine drunk, and wine makes him handsy. Handsy and happy. He finishes the glass of fancy rose in his hand. His childhood friends would have given him shit for drinking something pink, but his teammates are too busy
with their own legal neurotoxins to hassle him. Giroux and Simmonds are seated at a table, laughing, leaning on each other, reminiscing. Simmonds will be traded by Monday, it’s almost certain. The thought makes him feel empty, foreboding, like a fishing line pulling towards the bottom of a dark murky lake, something nasty at the end of it. Bought and sold and traded, no say and no option, grin and bear it and feel your body falling apart beneath you. He pushes the dark eddy of his own mind back down, grabs another glass from the bartender, and lets his eyes find Nolan. It’s not hard, he’s like a magnet, sour comments and bright eyes lurking, never too far away, often looking at him first. Staring like he’s laying a curse.Nolan is sitting in the corner with a beer, jacket over his shoulders but not fully on. Like he’s a bat or something. He’s on his phone. Probably talking to his parents, he’s a real homeloving sort of boy, though he doesn’t telegraph it. The dj is switching the vibe up, it’s a song his ex loved to make out to. Travis listens to it still. White Gloves. Chill ass song. It’s 1:25 am and he takes a second to relish the way the song quiets the room, slows their hectic joy to a livable pace.Travis sneaks up behind Nolan and puts the jacket over his head. Nolan hisses “fuck you bitch” under his breath and grabs his wrist, serpent-quick.
Travis flips it into a fireman’s hold, feeling the warmth of Nolan’s wrist, he can even feel his pulse. “Come on winner boy. Come on champ. Let’s dance.” Nolan curses at him again, but he goes easily enough. The lights are very low, the hotel is winding it down, trusting that biology will take over, remind them how tired they are, kick them out gently. He’s not ready to go just yet. He wants to look a little longer. Nolan’s hair is getting really long, and the way it shadows his face and brushes his thick shoulders makes Travis a little dizzy. Everyone else is busy, slow dancing or drunkenly swaying alone. They have their hands on each other’s shoulders, rocking slowly, jokingly. Nolan is looking right at him. Like he can see inside. it should be uncomfortable, but instead Travis smiles dopily. He knows he looks drunk, relaxed. He leans closer. “you think Johnson’s feeling it? you think he’s sore?” He’s breathing down Nolan’s neck now, he can smell the clean on his hair, a little sweat, a little beer, he’s hormone dizzy, it’s different from drunk dizzy. “He’s gonna need a massage on that shoulder “ Nolan chuckles into his ear, squeezing Travis’ shoulder for emphasis.Travis does it then, slides his hand under the jacket, covering the action like a pickpocket. he lets his hand rest on Nolan’s ribs, waiting for him to pull away, waiting for the house of cards to tumble. Nolan smiles, and the house stands. God he loves his smile. demon-blue eyes crinkling, always a little reluctance till his red lips part to show teeth. “you gonna check like that in the playoffs?” Travis mutters into Nolan’s neck, almost, almost touching it. He’s afraid. Nolan turns so they are fully in the dark, around a corner, and pushes closer, angling to let Travis’ mouth brush his neck. The song ends, and Nolan puts both hands on Travis’ waist. “it’s time for bed bud, you’re white girl wasted. Come on.” Nolan breaks the embrace and guides him to the door, but he doesn’t take his hands off him till they reach the lobby.