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Cliff Marleau was having a shit night.

He probably should have stayed at home, nursed a single light beer, and spent the night watching the reality television he pretended he hated. Alternatively, he could have gone to the gym in his building, and worked out his frustrations in a way that could only benefit his game. Instead, he had texted Brousseau who was the only guy he could actually stand on the team these days, and suggested they go get a drink. Maybe a few drinks. In a club where it was too loud to think, let alone talk.

They’d ended up at a smaller place near Boston Common, but Brousseau’s curfew from his wife was tighter than the team curfew, and he’d taken off sooner than Cliff was ready to.

It wasn’t like this was a date that lived in infamy in his mind every year - the end of his marriage had been a slow decline that coincided with the best years of his career taking off, rather than something that could be pinpointed to the day they signed the papers. This year though it had coincided with a text from his mom that Janie was getting remarried, to a nice boring dentist who was probably ten times better for her than Cliff had ever been. They had gotten married way too young, trying to make it work when he had to uproot his life for hockey and had wanted to bring her with, and he was grateful every day it hadn’t been a shotgun wedding because they’d been able to make a clean enough break. He even paid her spousal support without complaint; she’d put up with his shit for a solid two years in Boston before they’d realized neither of them were happy. She wanted the picket fence and a quiet life, and he hadn’t.

He wasn’t upset she was marrying fucking Dr. Davies exactly. He was just a little stir crazy.

A few years ago he would have hit on the brunette at the bar who was eyeing him up, but a few years ago he wouldn’t have felt like he was cradle robbing with somebody who was either an undergrad at Boston University or as good as. Getting old fucking sucked. Not that he was old old, but in hockey years he supposed he was ‘feeling his knees’. Or growing a conscience or…something.

The music was beginning to give him a headache, but the night was young, and he had zero desire to return to the silence of his condo.

After that, Cliff found himself at a small sports bar closer to Fenway, practically a dive, that suited his mood a lot better; getting himself laid could wait for next weekend when his mood wasn’t so fucking weird. He’d never been there before, but the vibe was right, and they had the Centaurs game on television where they were the late game facing Vancouver on the west coast. He didn’t even have a game tomorrow so he didn’t have to feel guilty about indulging in their shit beer as this place had certainly never heard of an IPA.

It was mostly old dudes who didn’t pay him much mind as they all watched the game on the assorted televisions, therefore it was a damn shock when a woman who was model-hot walked in to join them.

A woman he vaguely recognized.

“Vodka please Mikhail,” she said in accented English.

“Slumming it tonight?” Cliff hadn’t realized the bartender was Russian as well as they had mostly communicated in grunts and shrugs so far. He watched as the man grabbed a bottle from beneath the counter instead of the cheaper versions on the shelves; Cliff had no idea what it said, but he recognized cyrillic.

She took a sip, and closed her eyes in happiness, “The other bars don’t carry the good stuff like you do.”

When she turned, she seemed to focus right in on him in a corner booth. Cliff couldn’t place her name, but he could place her face and her body. She was Roz’s friend and situationship, or at least had been. They had met casually once or twice in the clubs back in the day, but she had also been one of the small crowd at the Hollander-Rozanov wedding two years back; you didn’t forget looks like that, especially one who wore a backless gown to a backyard gathering and got one of the grooms shitfaced.

“Cliff Marleau,” she said, sliding into the booth across from him.

“Uh, yeah.”

“And here’s the part where you try to remember my name.” She laughed at his panicked expression. “I won’t take it personally when you don’t.”

“You remember mine.”

“Ah, but you are a hockey player, and I know hockey players.”

Her accent was more muted than Roz’s, even now and after all these years in North America for him. They texted more than they talked these days, but he still struggled with idioms and figures of speech. Cliff didn’t give two shits; he couldn’t spell to save his life, was probably dyslexic if anybody had ever bothered to get him diagnosed, so he relied on autocorrect like his life depended on it.

She held out a hand which he shook in bemusement, “Svetlana.”

It was really a shame one of his very few friends had been balls deep in her at one point, she was really fucking gorgeous.

When Cliff didn’t seem inclined to say much, she turned her attention to the game, taking another slow sip of her vodka. The Centaurs were up 4-1, and Hollander had just scored a goal on the power play. He would never admit it, but it still made Cliff a little squishy inside to watch him and Roz celebrate together on the ice, seeing them so happy. It was also admittedly really fucking weird in the context of hockey instead of having a private dinner with them when they were all in the same city, but he was getting used to it.

“He’s starting to favour his right side,” Svetlana said critically. The broadcast went to the replay, and Cliff stared intently, trying to notice what she did, but he didn’t see it. Hollander’s play seemed as aces as usual, and well, he had just fucking scored on one of the best goaltenders in the league.

“Sure” he said, drawing out the word slowly.

He didn’t really appreciate the roll of her eyes. Cliff wasn’t stupid, but his hockey IQ was limited to his play and not scouting. He relied on the coaches and the video analysts to tell him what he needed to do, and he did it. While he had maintained his ‘A’ status on the Raiders all these years, he was best when it came to motivation and camaraderie. Those had suffered on the team though as well, as sometimes it felt like the Raiders had been held together by the sheer force of nature that was Ilya Rozanov. Players had come, and players had gone, but they hadn’t even made the playoffs since he’d chosen Ottawa in free agency.

As a friend, Cliff got it. As a former teammate, he was still a little pissed.

She pulled out her phone, shooting off a longwinded text. Cliff tried not to look, but the name was in cyrillic as well. “Roz?” he took a stab in the dark.

“Da. I mean, yes. He's the captain of that team, he needs to address his teammate’s weakness.”

“His husband, not just his teammate.”

Svetlana made a face. “There’s no such thing on the ice. If they can’t handle it, Ilya needs to give up the ‘C’.”

“So you are single then.”

Her gaze snapped up. “What do you mean?”

“As a divorced man,” Cliff shrugged, “let me tell you, you are a spouse first and always. Or you end up drinking in a sad little sports bar while your ex marries a fucking pediatric dentist.” That was more honesty than he’d intended, but the Sam Adams’ he had been putting back was making him as maudlin as the day was.

“Perhaps it’s best I’m more intent on conquering the world than a man then.”

“Which you could do with your pinky finger.”

“Naturally.”

Cliff was a little tipsy, and needing a distraction, and he had always been a good sport. “Allright, give it to me then. Tell me about my weak backhand or whatever my fatal flaw is these days, or maybe some insights on the entire team. We could use them, it’s been a disappointing season.”

“Few seasons Cliff Marleau.”

“Harsh.”

“But fair. I don’t mince words.” She tapped her finger on her chin, as if deciding if he was serious or not, before shrugging and continuing, “Your play has been critically fine this year, but…uninspired. It’s as if you’re mentally checked out and going through the motions. Technically you’re generally solid, but I think your core strength has gone to shit and a few pilates classes wouldn’t go amiss. I can recommend a studio near the arena. Your team is another story, it is a laundry list of coaching and training failures. Knight has lost his speed since his knee contusion, Lang’s stickhandling should have never made it out of the AHL, and Taton hasn’t been able to shoot top shelf in years, and that’s just your second line forwards. I can’t give you any goalie tips however, Gordon Lloyd doesn’t have the skill set. The only option you have there is a trade or sign somebody better in the off season, or you will lose the close games every single time.”

She paused, taking in his expression, “What?”

“Are you a scout or something?”

“Or something.”

Cliff was fairly sure he was staring at her with his mouth wide open, pretty fucking impressed with her acumen. Of course she could be full of it, but her confidence was off the charts, and Lang’s stickhandling was shit, even Marleau knew that. “Maybe, uh, send me that ‘laundry list’. I’d like to get within five feet of the cup again before retirement.”

“Speaking of…”

“If you make one age joke, let me just tell you, tonight is not the night.”

Svetlana laughed, “No, you’re doing good for your age.”

“Jesus woman, I should have just stayed home.”

The game on the television was entering the third period, but they were both only paying cursory attention to the play, partially because the Centaurs had it in the bag.

“You are 37?”

“Next month,” he admitted, not particularly caring to do the math of what that meant.

“So, soon. But not yet.”

“You’ll let me play another season or two before taking me out back to shoot me?”

“Three maybe. If you take those pilates classes I recommended. Proper training prevents injuries.”

“You don’t let up do you?”

“Not really,” she wasn’t apologetic about it, “listen, I know hockey. My dad’s name is Sergei Vetrov, and he was a big deal in Soviet hockey back in the day - though I don’t expect you to know the name - and I grew up in it. But, it’s my passion. I never wanted to play, I can barely skate, but I love to watch - and I get it.”

“Seriously, what do you do for a living?”

“Stripper.”

Cliff choked on his beer, and she couldn’t help but laugh, “Oh that was priceless. No, let’s just say I’m on the job hunt these days, fresh off my MBA from Harvard.”

This was the longest he’d probably talked to a woman that wasn’t a reporter or Raiders employee in over a year. Not because he was just trying to pick them up, but he wasn’t good at the talking side. He had a few solid lines, some compliments that never went amiss, but banter was beyond him. Unless they could talk about hockey, because he was okay with that. Or sex, but he was better at the practical application. He hadn’t had anything that lasted longer than a night in five years. Here he was though, in conversation with a woman with an MBA from fucking Harvard. Cliff felt even more self conscious, because he had squeaked out a high school diploma due to athletics only.

He cleared his throat, taking another more dignified sip of his beer to mask his discomfort, and then put his foot in his mouth as he was really good at doing.

“How’d you pay for that? Daddy’s money?”

“Expensive car money. I sold those for awhile, because I know those too, but it got boring fast. But,” she laughed, not really bothered by his question, “daddy does think I deserve everything I want in this world and will make sure I get it.”

“Looking for a job in hockey?”

“No. Never. It’s my passion, making it a job would ruin that.”

“Smart.”

The bar was getting a bit more full as the night went on, but it felt like in the booth it was just the two of them. Svetlana made eye contact with the bartender and waved her empty glass, and he waved an indication he’d be over as soon as he handed out beers by the handful to the rest of the patrons. “So Cliff Marleau,” she stretched his name out with pursed lips, turning her attention back on him in full, “what is your passion?”

A hick kid from Indiana who barely scraped by in school and had parents who relied on charity help to afford his hockey gear didn’t have passions. He got up, and he played hockey, and then he played more hockey because it was something that could give him success, and that had been his life and still basically was. He didn’t love it the way he knew some of the guys loved it, it was a job more than it was a passion, but he loved the life it had given him. He also liked being good at something, because there was nothing else he ever had been. If he had been less intimidated by Svetlana (and a bit her connection with Roz), or was enjoying his time less, he might have made a quip about his sexual prowess in relation to the question.

Instead, he deflected, muttering, “Hockey I suppose.”

“Don’t drown me in your enthusiasm. English is my second language and you’re the one who doesn’t understand what passion is.”

Maybe he should go back to that club near the Common, approach that girl who had been giving him the side eye. They could have a nice fulfilling night, with talk no deeper than what they both wanted in bed, and part in the morning after he made them both breakfast. With his luck though she’d have been some fucking English major though, wanting to know what his favourite novel was and analyze it critically. That though he could at least fake with fucking google, talk about ‘passion’ and other things personal was harder to pull out of his ass.

“Listen,” Cliff said, “you should have your vodka, find something to criticize about Rozanov’s play tonight so I can give him shit about it, and it’s probably best I settle my tab.”

Svetlana didn’t look like a woman who had ever been curtailed. It was the first time all night he had seen her look a bit taken aback. He just wasn’t very good at this, and she’d be bored quickly, Ms. Conquer the world MBA Soviet superstar father. There was a reason he didn’t attend many banquets or galas; he sent a cheque to the hockey foundation fundraiser Scott Hunter spoke at every year, but he stayed a mile away. He was just a simple guy who could shoot the shit in the locker room. He was also a very good shoulder to cry on if you didn’t expect anything but a few back slap hugs and the same three words of encouragement repeated over and over.

“It’s because I criticized your core strength isn’t it.”

“It’s because it’s late. And I’m…it’s been a long day.”

Svetlana seemed like she was appraising him, then she smiled and said, “No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“No, nyet, non. No. The Centaurs will have another boring win in two minutes, and the night is still young. And you don’t have a game for another two days.” Of course she knew the team schedule too. “We should…go for a walk.”

“A walk?”

“Are you just repeating what I’m saying?”

“Until it starts making some sense to me, yeah.”

“Come on Cliff Marleau,” she really liked to keep saying his full name, seeming like she was rolling it around in her mouth, “indulge me. I am not used to taking no for an answer.”

And he wasn’t used to giving it. Not to beautiful women who wanted to spend time with him. Right now though he was only stopping himself from running out of the bar because he was really fucking confused. The bartender poured her vodka while Cliff was trying to figure out what to say, but this time she shot it back in a single go which was pretty fucking hot in it’s own way, before tossing enough bills on the table to cover both their drinks.

She got to her feet, pulling her long black coat on, before looking at him expectantly.

Cliff was just stupid enough to stand up and pull on his own coat without argument, wordlessly following her out through the growing crowd. He didn’t miss the triumphant look on her face as she waved goodbye to Mikhail who was making his way back to his post.

The weather in Boston that night was cold, but no snow had managed to stick around despite a few flurries making the attempt the week before. Svetlana’s coat looked like it might have been more suitable for September, but she didn’t even shiver as she meandered down the sidewalk, Cliff trailing in her wake. He didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t even try. Her boots had sharp heels that clicked on the sidewalk, trailing high up her calves, and he couldn’t help but admire the shape of them.

“Where are we going?” Cliff asked, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Wherever,” she did a quick spin, but slowed her walk so they were side by side.

They strolled seemingly aimlessly. Cliff didn’t try to fill the silence because he didn’t know how to. Svetland seemed to be content to share companionable silence for the moment. It wasn’t long before they happened across Fenway which hadn’t been far from the bar. In the summer, this would be a bustling scene letting out after a Red Sox game. In the winter, it was subdued and quiet, a relative ghost town. Cliff tended to spend his summers here, not knowing what to do in Indiana outside of spending a week with his parents. After all these years with the Raiders, Boston had become home.

“You go to games?” Svetlana asked, looking at the statues outside the stadium.

Cliff shrugged, “Sometimes. But baseball is…”

“Slow,” she said decisively.

“Slow,” he couldn’t help but agree.

They were two very different sports. Hockey might be low scoring, but it was high action. When Cliff came to Red Sox games he found it hard to maintain his focus. He had been an elite athlete for enough years to intellectually understand the mastery of a shutout pitching performance, but as somebody in the stands he found it hard to stay awake for it. He did better with constant stimulation. He went to the occasional Celtics game when their schedules allowed, and that at least was more up his alley.

By default, they kept moving. There were open bars and restaurants they could have stopped at, but Svetlana seemed content to meander and Cliff followed in her wake.

“So Cliff Marleau,” again with the full name, “you are from Indiana, yes?” She knew her hockey players.

“Yes.”

“You have been with Boston since your rookie year?”

“Yes.”

“You are planning to stay forever?”

Cliff had never exactly contemplated the question in a true sense. He played a sport that could get him traded to Winnipeg without his consent. He also had no idea what his life looked like when hockey wasn’t open to him anymore. It was his whole life and the only thing he was good at, but playing only. He’d rather slit his wrists than coach and if any network tried to take him on as a commentator they’d void that contract after the first day. There was no life left for him in Indiana; though he loved his parents, he was a tourist there. He hadn’t really let himself picture a life after the Raiders, because he had no idea what to do with it.

“Probably” he hedged.

She just seemed amused, “You don’t like to talk about yourself do you Cliff Marleau?”

“I don’t like to talk. I like to fuck, a lot, but you are Rozy’s ex and that’s not exactly on the table here.”

If anything though, her smile ramped up a notch, “Why not?”

“You don’t double dip with a friend.” Also she was so fucking smart and beautiful as to be well out of his league.

“We were never together, you know that?” Svetlana paused, quirking an eyebrow. “We were friends, we sometimes fucked, but we were not involved. I love him but as a…I was about to say brother, but that is gross. He is my oldest friend, but nothing more, not anymore. He has no claim over me or who I fuck, and would never pretend to.” She also snorted, “But even if he was my ex, I would go on a feminist rant about self determination and choice.”

“Isn’t that weird?”

“What part?”

“The Russia part,” Cliff waved his hand. “Roz is bisexual.”

“Ah yes, I hadn’t noticed.”

“You know what I…” Cliff shook his head, “ok, fine, let me ask you the same thing. Are you planning on staying in Boston forever?”

“Maybe. Depends on what job I decide is right for me.”

They lapsed back into silence as they strolled. Cliff should just really fuck off back to his condo, but he was rather enamoured by her, and he had nothing to go home to. It was late, but not late enough that there weren’t people passing them occasionally on the streets.

“Russia is complicated,” Svetlana said finally addressing his earlier point, “it is home. My father and family are there and I love them but…it is Russia. They do bad things, they have bad policies. It is a delicate balance being Ilya’s friend as he is so famous, and so very much married to a man. I am lucky, I was born to an oligarch, and my father loves me above all else. I have money, a dual passport, and I can live elsewhere and visit, but despite Sergei Vetrov being who he is…there are always open windows in Russia.”

Even a man as dim as Cliff knew the word ‘defenestration’ solely from jokes about Russian politics.

“Is it safe?”

“For who?”

“I don’t know, you?”

“Ah, Russia is safe for nobody. I should probably not visit but…I love my family. It is not so simple. When Ilya’s father died he had nobody left and no reason to care, but I do. They are just people, my family who loves me too.”

“Every family is fucked in it’s own way.”

“Even yours?” she seemed genuinely curious

Cliff gave a bark of a laugh, “Not really, my family is ridiculously normal. The biggest drama they face is somebody screwing up the pasta salad at Thanksgiving.”

“That sounds lovely,” she said, wistful.

“It is? I guess. It’s boring too.”

“Boring is underrated,” it was a solemn pronouncement.

He supposed he took his family and their farm life for granted. He went back so infrequently these days, but he should do better. His parents had given so much to get him where he wanted in life, and he’d focused only on the financial repayment. His baby brother and his five children practically worshipped the ground Cliff walked on. The aunts and uncles who had always been such a part of their lives were so proud of him they could spit. He had tried to be cool MLHer so much in those early years he’d made it part of his persona. Janie still being the girl next door had made him want to go back even less.

“Maybe you’re right,” he admitted.

Svetlana grinned, “I always am.”

At that point, they had reached the Charles River esplanade in their strolling. It was late enough to be quiet, but still, couples and less savoury characters were wandering the waterfront. On his own, Cliff wouldn’t care, but it was just that late. Svetlana for her part didn’t seem too worried, staring out the waterfront as she took them down the walkway. Cliff felt on edge though, watching out for the dangers to protect her from.

“Why did you want to go home tonight?” Svetlana asked.

“What are you talking about?”

“At the bar, you cooled off so fast. I thought we were having a good talk.”

“Oh,” Cliff didn’t know now to answer, not wanting to admit he felt stupid in her presence, “I don’t know. Just a long day.”

“You’re a bad liar.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“Hey, it isn’t exactly my favourite day of the year,” Cliff said, a little annoyed, “it’s the anniversary of my divorce, and I literally just got the news my ex is getting remarried. To that pediatric dentist I mentioned. It was a long time ago, but some shit just fucking sucks no matter how you cut it, okay?”

“I didn’t know that.”

“No shit.”

“She cheat?”

“No.”

“You cheat?”

“No.”

She shrugged, “You can’t blame a girl for asking. MLH is…well, you know.”

Cliff found himself sharing more than he normally would, “Listen you were Roz’s friend, you know I’m a bit of a man whore, but I would have cut off my left nut before hurting Janie intentionally. We were just…too young. So young. Maybe if I’d taken over the family farm instead of playing hockey, but we were never going to work with me in the league. I guess it was as friendly as it could have been, but it still fucking sucked.”

The air along the waterfront was cold, and Cliff found himself drifting just a little bit closer to Svetlana, invading her personal space just a little. He could feel the warmth of her even if they didn’t touch at all.

“Your English is better than Roz’s,” Cliff said, trying to fill the silence.

“Ah, yes, and please rub that in for him. I have been in North America longer, at least on and off. My father, he played in the US before going back to the KHL and then government work.”

“Complicated life.”

Svetlana shrugged, “The second passport comes in handy.”

The silence felt fairly companionable this time as they walked, their elbows occasionally brushing against each other. Cliff gave a little start, but didn’t object when Svetlana threaded her arm through his, bringing them closer together. She didn’t make a big deal of it, and he let himself relax into walking alongside her.

“You were upset when Ilya left?” Svetlana asked.

Cliff shrugged, “I mean, I guess. I like being on winning hockey teams and he fucked that over pretty good. It’s the business of hockey though - trades and free agency happen every year.”

“Is it against your man code to admit you missed him?” Svetlana looked amused, “Remember, we were both at the wedding.”

“I’ll only admit it if you never tell that fucker.”

She raised her left hand, the one not currently tucked against him, “Pinky swear.”

“Then yeah, I wish he’d stayed. He was a little shit when I met him, but he was one of the few I could consider a friend on the team.”

He wasn’t sure exactly what he and Roz had been. He had tried to keep an eye out for the kid when he’d come to Boston, and it had evolved past the coworker stage, especially when they’d been given the A and the C in the same year. He’d considered him a friend more than a wingman, but he had never entirely been sure it had gone both ways.

“Must have come as a shock,” Svetlana said, “about Shane?”

Ah.

“Not exactly,” Cliff admitted, enjoying the slight look of surprise on her face.

Listen, he was never going to be a Mensa candidate, but when you practically lived in each other’s pockets for years, you got to know a man.

And Roz hadn’t been as subtle as he thought he was.

They had been each other’s wingmen at the clubs after the Janie years, and he knew it wasn’t only women that Ilya had danced with or gone home with some nights. He had lived through the Rozanov emotional fluctuations when Russia’s “gay propaganda" laws had been announced.

He had never pieced together the ‘Montreal girl’ thoughts early on, but then he had laid out Hollander on the ice. A clean hit, but a devastating one. Physically for Hollander, but also emotionally devastating to Ilya. The days that had come right after had been blindingly obvious, even for a man who liked to avoid seeing the team optometrist.

There had been a wall between them for months after that that had never been there before.

He wasn’t that dense.

He’d googled a lot of ‘how to be a good ally’ posts, but was pretty sure he’d fucked it up.

“I’d figured it out a few years before,” he said, “but never said anything. Didn’t think Roz was ready to share.”

Maybe he’d taken it personally at the beginning, but he wasn’t a douchebag. He wasn’t forcing anybody out of a closet they’d taken up residence in. It had cut a little bit, when he’d considered Rozanov his closest friend on the team. It had also cut because he considered himself a pretty tolerant guy. He’d been an enforcer off the ice more than he had been on it. He’d beat the shit out of the guy who’d made ‘chink’ comments about Hollander the year he and Roz had been drafted - and him a teammate no less. He’d worn the rainbow tape, he’d participated in every pride night with enthusiasm rather than obligation, and he’d never said a single fucking homophobic word nor allowed it in the locker room. He did whore around, but everything he did was safe, sane, and consensual.

He thought he’d done a good job of portraying the type of man he thought he was. Maybe he hadn’t done it well enough.

“I found out through social media like the rest of the world though,” Cliff shrugged, “at least officially.”

Maybe he sounded a little bitter. He was only human.

Svetlana only looked amused, “He fancied them spies. Though it was obvious to anybody with eyes to see.” She waved a hand, “Not that he told me for the longest time either. Officially. I alluded to it, we danced around it, but we never said, not really. I love that shit with every fiber of my being, but he’s dramatic and complicated.”

Cliff didn’t argue.

“However, Cliff Marleau,” again with the full name, “we are not just footnotes in their story.”

Sometimes Cliff thought he might be. There was nothing interesting about him but his hockey, though admittedly it was very good hockey. He was a perennial all-star, much as sometimes it did feel like he was living up to Svetlana’s criticism and going through the motions these days. He didn’t excite the crowds though, save the Boston die-hards.

He did rub his free hand over his face, “Dunno, this many years later and questions about Roz are often what I get when the team bothers to put me in front of the media.”

“But I don’t know why when you are so good at talking about yourself,” Svetlana’s voice was as dry as anything he’d ever heard.

“Oh f…” he bit his tongue, unable to continue.

She looked delighted, “You can’t tell me to fuck off can you?”

“Shut up,” he muttered, sure he was blushing now.

“Seriously? Won’t fuck me and won’t tell me to fuck off? And you call yourself an MLH player.”

“A not very good one with a weak core apparently.”

“Come on Cliff,” she tried to goad him, “it’s just a little curse. You can do it.”

“Go away.”

“I’ll try to help you phonetically. Ffffff…”

Cliff couldn’t stop himself from laughing as he pulled them to a stop, putting his hand over her mouth. Her eyes didn’t stop dancing above his hand, but she didn’t try to pull away. He may have let it linger for longer than he had intended, her breath hot on his palm.

When he finally pulled away, her smile was wide, “I usually require a bit more negotiation before we graduate to breath play.”

With that, Cliff’s brain short circuited.

He was picturing her naked and soft beneath him, her hair spread across the pillow as he slowly fucked into her. He was picturing his hand on her neck, just pressing, slowly and carefully - just enough to make it interesting. He was picturing his marks left behind, subtle enough that you’d have to be looking for it. He was picturing the little gasps she would try to make against the pressure. He was picturing the warmth of her pussy, the way he would…

…the way he would do none of that. Because of reasons. Reasons he was having a hard time remembering.

“Did I break you Cliff Marleau?” Svetlana asked quietly as he gaped at her, probably looking like a dead fish.

I’d like to break you in half, he thought.

“Of course not,” is what he said instead. “What were we talking about again?”

“Your inability to tell me to fuck off. Chivalry?”

“I guess. Sort of. I don’t know.”

“Articulate.”

“The idea of telling you to, uh, f off is getting more natural the more you talk.”

“But you can’t do it, can you?”

“Why are you so fixated on this?”

“Because you interest me. You are, by reputation and your own admission, a man whore. You swear like a sailor on the ice. You call yourself a dumb hockey player. But you have an ex wife you talk about with actual respect, you have no reputation for anything against anybody’s will, and you’re the staunchest ally in the MLH outside of Ottawa or New York. And, well, you can’t curse in front of me.”

“I can fucking curse in front of you,” he rolled his eyes.

“But you can’t….”

“It’s just being fucking polite. Not cursing at you. Jesus.”

“Does your politeness extend to the bedroom? Or could you talk about fucking even if you can’t talk about fucking off? Could you explicitly…”

Cliff put his hand back over her mouth, though this time she nipped at it with her teeth, making him give a quick hiss - but still, he kept it there. “I could spell out everything I wanted to do to you in detail. I could, and would, do whatever kink we agreed to ahead of time. I could share all the fucking filthy things I was thinking about your beautiful fucking body. And even if you called me a slut and tried to peace out before I’d even come once? I still wouldn’t tell you to fuck off.”

Still, he left his hand over her mouth for a moment, knowing that he had made it a them thing, rather than an abstract thing.

He slowly took his hand away, and Svetlana didn’t say anything for a minute, just looking up at up him. She looked thoughtful, “But what if that’s my kink?”

Cliff rolled his eyes, “Pretty sure fucking with people is your kink.”

“I don’t know, breath play really is growing on me tonight.”

In that moment, Cliff felt like he was at a crossroads. She had left a door wide open for him, and it was up to him if he was going to walk through it.

He thought he might not, at least not yet. It wasn’t even the Roz thing anymore, not really.

For once in Cliff Marleau’s life he thought he might like to talk with her a little longer.

This time it was him threading their arms together, as he started them walking again, though he began to angle them away from the river. It was late enough now there were so few people around and they were just asking for trouble. His physical size and her confidence didn’t do much against guns or knives. Svetlana seemed a little pensive, and he couldn’t help but notice the glances she kept occasionally throwing his way.

Then the glances became longer.

“What?” Cliff asked finally, self conscious.

“I was wondering how a farm boy from Indiana ended up with cheekbones like those.”

“Shut up.”

“Seriously, those things could cut glass.”

Cliff knew he was a good looking guy, but he had only ever really cared in so much as it helped him pull at the bars. At the same time, he was an MLH player - even the ugliest of league motherfuckers got pussy. Currently, those cheekbones were dusted in a blush, much as he was trying to hide it.

“Good thing I went for hockey instead of tractors then.”

“Was that a joke Cliff Marleau?” Svetlana looked delighted.

“Don’t get used to it. I can’t banter for shit.”

“How about bartering? You ever barter those cheekbones into anything useful?”

“I mean I might be turning 37, but I do okay…”

“I’m not talking about your sex life.” He looked lost, which Svetlana obviously clocked before she continued. “Endorsements, Cliff; people paying you to be pretty and famous to sell their products.”

“Oh, no. Not really. I did a little promotional thing with a local restaurant early on, but that’s been it I think except PR stuff for the league.”

Svetlana looked horrified, “Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

He didn’t understand why she seemed so taken aback. Not everybody needed to be the center of attention. Not everybody needed to pose in a wet t-shirt to sell orange soda, not everybody needed to whore themselves out for perfume, and not everybody needed to milk every last dollar out of the world around them. He had liked to party, and didn’t really feel the need to maintain the whole ‘image’ thing he would need for anything else.

“That is…” Svetlana still looked appalled, “you have a manager, yes?”

“A good one.”

“And an agent?”

“You think this pretty face is going toe to toe with the Raiders GM every time his contract comes up?”

“A financial advisor?”

“Yes, I have a whole team of people around me who take care of my image and my money, and I give them a decent cut to do so.”

She seemed to be choosing her words carefully, “Hockey won’t last forever. Many players have a hard time managing their finances and…”

“And that’s why I pay those very smart people to give me advice, and check in every once in a while to make sure they’re not cleaning me out.”

It hadn’t hurt to have Janie around for those first two years. Both of them were basically hicks overwhelmed by the money and the attention he was getting, and had realized rather immediately they needed professional advice. He might have gone down some stupid roads if it wasn’t for professionals and his ex-wife’s presence. It wasn’t that he didn’t have vices, but they weren’t expensive ones. He had maybe done a stupid sports car purchase after his first big contract, but it had rarely even left the garage.

“But…”

“I promise you, you won’t be reading any articles about me living in a homeless shelter in fifteen years.”

“Cliff Marleau, this is hurting me. You are physically hurting me. Call up your manager, call up Yuna Hollander, call up somebody yourself. We need to leverage those cheekbones.”

His uninterested shrug seemed to set her off even further, and she poked him in the side - hard - before she mumbled under her breath in Russian, in ways that did not sound particularly complimentary.

“All I’m hearing is you think I’m pretty,” Cliff laughed.

“Pretty stupid,” she still sounded perturbed.

It was sometimes still staggering the amount of money in his bank account, as a solid perennial All-Star who had managed to avoid career ending injuries. Most of the guys in hockey these days came from money, it was the only way to afford the fees and the life to get to the pros. The ones like him who had come from more humble origins tended to come at life in different ways, but very often it was seeking more, always more - as if the safety net they needed should encompass the GDP of an entire country.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want money. His agent made sure he was paid what he was worth every contract, and he never compromised.

But did he have to whore himself out for every last dollar? Meh, he was set for life and his family was set for life now, even if his knee blew out in their next game. He was never going to be a generational face of the league, and shilling out for Nike wasn’t going to change his life after hockey.

“I’ll have spousal support coming off the books soon,” Cliff offered, “if you’re worried about my money.”

“You are getting funnier as the night goes on Cliff Marleau.”

Maybe more comfortable. He no longer felt particularly judged, and she didn’t seem as uppity as the degree had made him worried she would be. He didn’t have to know who Plato was or anything, let alone what he believed about his philosophy.

“What does retirement look like for you then?” Svetlana continued.

“Fuck if I know,” he said honestly. “That’s a problem for future Cliff.” It was still so weird to hear the word ‘retirement’ as a man in his thirties who had been birthed by a man who would be a farmer until he died, but that was sports.

“Physically hurting me,” she sounded like she was almost crying the words.

He shrugged, “You’re in your thirties and don’t have a job.”

The laughter that burst out of her at that was entirely startled, and she looked surprisingly delighted at what amounted to a chirp. “Touche,” she admitted. “Maybe I can concede that it is acceptable to not have it all figured out. Maybe. Maybe you’re just chill enough to not falter when hockey is gone - at least if the money is there. But when the puck bunnies go…”

“The cheekbones will still be here,” Cliff grinned at her and winked.

“I see it now,” she said dryly, “why you were Ilyusha’s wingman for so many years.”

“Hey, he was the rookie below me to start, he was my wingman.”

Her look was scathing, “Whatever you need to tell yourself to sleep at night.”

They had started to veer away from the water, still arm in arm. Svetlana had started to shiver slightly, only in the way he could feel against his side. Cliff took stock of their surroundings, noticing a small bar on the next street that still seemed open, based on the lights and a few people milling around outside.

“Let me buy you a drink,” he angled them towards the establishment, “though the odds aren’t high on them having the ‘good stuff’.”

“I’m not a stereotype. I don’t only drink Russian vodka - I also like a good white wine,” she eyed the place slightly distastefully, “but I don’t think the odds are high of them having that here either.”

Cliff left her to approach the bar and pick her poison, and by the time she was joining him in the selected booth, it was with a beer for him and what looked like something with fruit juice for her. “Masks the taste of whatever cheap stuff they keep here,” she shrugged. He watched her hesitate for a moment before she slid in beside him, joining his side of the booth rather than the opposite. He couldn’t pretend to be disappointed not to lose the feeling of her warmth pressing against him.

“Let’s play a game,” Svetlana announced.

“What, darts?” Two men in the corner were having a rather spirited match, not helped at all by their inebriation. Cliff had no desire to approach because he didn’t want to have to figure out that retirement question from a dart to the eye.

“No, I feel like ‘never have I ever’ is more our speed.”

“Did I somehow flash back to the university years I never got to have?” Cliff said dryly. “We’re in our fucking thirties Svetlana.”

“I want to know you Cliff Marleau.” Still with the fucking full name.

“So just ask me a fucking question.”

“Yes, the man who would rather eat glass than talk about himself. Or put himself in a commercial for some reason.” She raised her eyes and batted her eyelashes in an overexaggerated affect, “Please.”

He rolled his eyes, but conceded, “Fine, for a bit.” One evening, and he had yet to learn to say no to anything.

When Svetlana made a move to get up again, likely to go get a bottle of something that would take the paint off the bartop, he put a hand on her shoulder. “Let me,” he said, lightly pushing her out of the booth so he could get out after her. She looked bemused, but didn’t argue, sliding back in as he took himself off to the bar. This time when he returned, it was her pinned against the wall by his bulk. She looked particularly confused by his choice of fodder for the game.

“Peanuts?” Cliff had set two bowls in front of them, rather than the alcohol for shots she had obviously thought he was getting.

“Yup,” he said quietly, “I’m keeping our options open for the night.” For once, he was the one who had her stumped.

Cliff only hesitated a second before letting his hand drift down to her thigh, making sure she was blocked from view before sliding it lightly up and down. She didn’t stop him. Those reasons he had been ruminating on earlier were entirely forgotten. “Maybe,” he said, “I want to keep breath play on the table.” It was both a euphemism and not. “If we pour that rotgut down our throats repeatedly…”

“Safe sane and consensual goes out the window,” Svetlana murmured, her breath hitching as his thumb caught on the edge of her skirt before he pulled his hand away.

Sane was already gone - he was fairly sure he was going to be fucking his ex-teammate’s ‘it’s complicated’ before the end of the night; safe and consensual though had to stay in the conversation.

“So…peanuts.”

“Peanuts.”

“Probably best,” Svetlana shrugged, pulling her bowl towards her, “I have a feeling there isn’t much you and I haven’t done.”

They both took a sip of their drinks, contemplating each other, as the bar faded around them. Cliff thought maybe he should just order an Uber right then and there, but the urge to get to know each other went both ways, even in the context of a stupid party game.

“Never have I ever…” Svetlana tapped her chin, “gotten divorced.”

Cliff rolled his eyes, but tossed two peanuts in his mouth. “You want to waste your first one on that?”

“I’m easing you in.”

“Never have I ever sucked Ilya Rozanov’s dick.”

Svetlana made a face, but took a bite of some peanuts. “Are you sure? You had a fairly homoerotic appearance at the clubs. I figured there was an ‘Eiffel tower’ involved there at some point. Maybe a night just the two of you in a hotel on a roadie. Something.”

He bit his lip against deigning to ask her what the fuck an ‘Eiffel tower’ was, figuring it was something best left to the mysteries of life. Or a google search later.

They traded back and forth a bit, but in the end their heart wasn’t really in the juvenile game. There were too many similarities in what they had done in life, but also in what they hadn’t. They couldn’t scandalize each other either, both having a varied and diverse sex life.

“Maybe we should just have a conversation,” Svetlana allowed with a laugh, eating a whole handful of peanuts just because they were there.

“That’s what this whole night has been. I haven’t talked this much to a woman since.…”

“Janie?”

“The team trainer,” Cliff shrugged, “last time I had to rehab my knee.”

“You dog.”

He made no apologies. “Glass houses over there.”

It was nice not to have performative outrage between them. Svetlana only laughed, draining the rest of her drink, and motioning for another. They’d ascertained enough that neither of them, save Cliff’s ill fated marriage, had a long history of commitment.

“Just to be clear,” Cliff said, “because I’m a dumb hockey player who needs things spelled out, you play for both teams like Roz does?”

Her stories and their little game had danced around it, but Cliff was pretty sure he could figure out that Svetlana hadn’t only had men in her bed. She had done everything but put an official label - or pronouns - on it. What she hadn’t made allusions to was any sort of real romantic history. Sexual sure, love and commitment, no. He was fairly sure Roz had been the only one of her lovers who had stayed in her life, but that was because their real connection was platonic love with a history neither of them were willing to entirely give up.

“No comment,” Svetlana said quietly. When the bartender dropped off another drink she swirled it around a little bit, and seemed to take stock of Cliff, before adding, “But I have a…dual passport. I think you know that’s nobody’s business.”

Cliff nodded, but didn’t make a joke about it. It had come up earlier, how difficult it was just being a friend to somebody who was queer, but still trying to maintain relationships in Russia. Svetlana might not be a public figure, but her father had been, and she wasn’t a fade into the background sort. He didn’t really know the ins and outs of the rules and the potential consequences, but he was actually surprised that she even took the chance even living an ocean away.

“Speaking of people who might have been a filling in a Hollanov sandwich,” Cliff raised his glass to her.

Svetlana barked out a laugh. “I’m not sure what is more surprising. The fact that you know what ‘Hollanov’ is, or you think those two would ever add a third into their bedroom. If you look up the definition of codependency in the dictionary….”

“I might be a senior citizen by hockey standards,” Cliff shrugged, “but I know what a ship name is. I might even know what RPF is. I might also be deeply disturbed by it…but I know what it is.”

“You contain multitudes Cliff Marleau.”

“I don’t know what that means, and I’m not going to pretend I do.”

She didn’t explain. What she did was sip at her drink slowly, but let herself slump against him. Cliff gave into the urge to toss an arm around her, to the point they were basically fucking cuddling in the booth of a Boston dive bar on an evening. They sat like that without speaking for a long time, settling into the point of being comfortable just breathing around one another. Svetlana let her head drift to his shoulder, and Cliff didn’t even question when his thumb began to drift up and down the expanse of her shoulder.

“How about you?” he said quietly, “ever actually reached the co-dependency stage?”

“No. I am a good serial monogamist, but have never had a problem walking away. If you can stand to lose something, I think it’s a fairly good sign it’s not meant to last.”

“I haven’t had anything past a weekend or a night in years,” Cliff admitted.

They felt secluded in their booth, shut off from the bullshit around them. It was a rougher, and drunker, crowd that were playing darts or drinking at the bar. Nobody paid them much attention, even with Cliff having a recognizable face in the city of Boston.

“I think,” Cliff said with a deep breath, “whether it’s a night, a weekend, or something had leads to more, I’d like it if you come back to my place tonight.”

“For sex?”

“No, to watch the most recent episode of Great British Bakeoff. Of course for sex. Neither of us are prudes.”

“What happened to your fears of double dipping?”

Cliff shrugged, “Roz wasn’t that good a friend anyway. I mean, did he even tell me he liked dick? Or more specifically premium All-Star dick? I owe that fucker nothing.”

He really was being facetious. He would never have done anything that encroached on his teammates territory, let alone one he had been even somewhat close with. But between Roz’s star crossed love with his husband, and what was obviously platonic love with benefits before that, and Svetlana’s casual approach to sex, he wasn’t going to use it as a reason not to explore things here. It was becoming frankly obvious Roz wouldn’t care, and Svetlana would have his testicles for Christmas ornaments if he pretended he did. Her decisions were hers to make. He was just really hoping it included one that involved coming home with him.

“You talk a big game.”

“I can back it up,” he said.

Svetlana snorted, “I have more game than you have in your pinky finger.”

“I have more dick on me than any strap-on or Red Sox fan you can find.”

“But do you know what to do with it?”

“Yes. But, let’s be frank, what I know to do with my tongue and my fingers matters more.”

“A manwhore who understands clitoral stimulation?”

“A manwhore who has never had a partner who didn’t come.”

She fanned herself, “Be still my heart.”

The peanut bowls were empty, and their drinks were done. They were cuddled in the booth of a dive bar, acting like they were the only two people in the universe, and that nobody around them was paying any attention to them. Cliff could feel the warmth of her against him, more so than he had all night. He could smell her shampoo, he could feel the softness of her skin under his thumb, and he could practically track her breathing.

“I can order the Uber,” he said, “or I can order two.”

“That would be a waste of money, wouldn’t it?” Svetlana’s tone was light, but her hand started to brush up and down his left inner thigh.

“I’m a pro athlete, I can afford it.”

“One with cheekbones of a Greek god who doesn’t explore endorsements. That’s questionable.”

“Would you let up?”

“Not until we at least have you on a flyer for a pizza joint. A condom brand. Anything.”

He shrugged, “Fifteen years in the clubs since Janie and not so much as a pregnancy scare. Maybe I should pursue some Durex money.”

“Maybe an online pharmacy? Don’t forget that magical birthday that’s approaching.”

“You aren’t exactly good for my ego.”

“If you aren’t going to take my pilates suggestion to keep that career going another three years, maybe we can work on your core strength on our own.”

Cliff looked her up and down, “Maybe I want to let you ride me instead. Your tits would be spectacular.”

“Maybe I figured we could get in more than one round.”

The silence between them was somehow charged and comfortable at the same time. Svetlana had her hand running along his thigh still, and his arm was loose around her and his touch along her skin was light. Nobody could see their touch from the outside, not that anybody would have paid too much attention to them even if they could. They were just a man and a woman exploring their options for the night, in the way many people who were still out this time of night were probably doing.

“I think Cliff Marleau,” she said finally, “I should save you a few dollars and share the Uber.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice.”

He had the app up on his phone without dislodging Svetlana from his side, clicking his address in Charlestown in and waiting for a match to a driver. Even with the late hour, it didn’t take long. Cliff had no regrets they had paid at the bar instead of an open tab.

They were even blessed with a town car, and a privacy window in it.

Cliff kept Svetlana’s fingers intertwined with his in the seat between them.

“Hard limits? Shit you don’t like?” He asked.

“Don’t call me a slut or a whore. I will retch if the word ‘daddy’ comes up. I’m not into any hardcore pain. No golden showers or whatever; no spitting. I also don’t particularly care for anal - at least taking. If you want your prostate milked I’m up to to it, but maybe not for a first time. No blindfolds, but light bondage is a maybe if I’m in the mood. Just check in every once in awhile and we can figure it out; ‘no’ is a hard limit, I’m not looking for you to fuck me past it.”

“Not super keen on anything seemingly non consensual even if it’s role play,” Cliff tossed out things he’d learned about himself over the years, “and yeah ‘Daddy’ will also kill my hard on faster than a cold shower. Since it’s you, you can tie me up if you want - I like it, but puck bunnies require a little vetting first taking my control away in my own house. You can leave marks, but nothing permanent. Condoms are non-negotiable no matter when we tested or what you’re on, but I have alternatives if you’ve got a latex allergy. Also, no kissing.”

“Seriously?”

“Nah, I’m just fucking with you.”

The town car was dim around them, the lights of Boston at night flickering around them as they drove by. Svetlana leaned closer to him, running her hand up and down his chest as she stretched her mouth up. Her lips were soft against him, opening slowly to duel her tongue with his. He cupped her jaw in his hand, deepening the kiss.

“Good,” she murmured when she pulled away, “because that was a decent effort Cliff Marleau.”

It seemed an eternity before the uber finally stopped at his place. His home was a converted penthouse on a cobblestone street not far from the Bunker Hill monument. He had bought it about fourteen years previously, and had never had the urge to move. Its crowning glory was its private roof deck with views of the Boston skyline and harbour where he spent a lot of his time. He had put some patio lights up there a few years ago as well. Pro hockey players didn’t usually need help to close the deal when they invited women over, but the aesthetic he could provide certainly didn’t hurt when he brought somebody home.

Cliff reveled in the feeling of Svetlana’s hand in his as they made their way to the front door, not letting go.

“Not bad,” she said when they made their way to his penthouse. “At least you have something to fall back on selling when your marketable years have passed you by.”

If it had been an hour ago, he would have countered. He would have offered to film a fucking advertisement for Baskin Robbins if it got her off his back, or he would have offered to let her whore him out to a local establishment of her own choosing. That time had passed though, and he had no interest in talking about anything that involved the word ‘sponsorship’ or ‘money’.

‘Cheekbones’, maybe, depending on the context.

Cliff didn’t respond to her comment on his home. He slowly angled his body against hers, pinning her up against the bare wall by the entrance. He gently let his hand rest on her throat as he kissed her, first gently - slow passes of his lips over hers that danced away - before deepening it, tongue fucking against hers, but never moving his hand.

“My bedroom is behind us,” he said softly as he let his lips move down her neck, nipping at the point where it met her shoulder.

Svetlana didn’t object when he hoisted her up, wrapping her legs tightly around his waist. Her skirt had ruched up around her thighs, his hands clenched on her bare skin to hold her aloft. She managed to shed her coat while her lips nipped at his ear, demonstrating her own core strength she’d been giving him grief about. They managed to bump into two walls before finally hitting the bedroom door properly, both too distracted in their efforts to get their hands on one another.

When he tossed her on the bed with a laugh, it was a glorious fucking sight. Her ‘fuck me’ boots were still on, and she was the hottest fucking thing he’d seen that year.

It was tempting to get her to leave them on, it was really fucking tempting, but he hadn’t been kidding when he had said he wanted her tits bouncing above him. He knelt over her, slowly pulling her leg up to rest over his shoulder, dragging his lips along her skin along the zipper as he undid it - repeating the process on the other side, sending both boots to form puddle on his floor. He said a quick prayer in memorial for the thought of her bent over the bed in them.

“Good?” Cliff murmured from where he had settled between her thighs. He pressed a kiss to the soft skin there on the left side, smelling the musk of her.

“Good,” Svetlana practically breathed the word.

Her skin was so fucking smooth, and she smelled so fucking good. He needed her naked, he needed her laid out and moaning his fucking name, and the lust hit him right in the fucking groin. The sexual tension that had been building since she walked into that little bar earlier that evening was culminating in the moment. Cliff jerked her a little violently, bringing her down the bed and against his mouth. He nudged his nose and his closed lips over the contour of her, before tonguing her over the scrap of her panties, slowly mingling the wetness of his mouth and her arousal.

Svetlana muttered a curse in Russian as she started to grind against his mouth, her right hand tangling in his hair.

He gave himself into it, his amusement and arousal making him vibrate to the point she could feel it against her. When she let out an unselfconscious moan, he took the opportunity to angle her underwear to the side, finding a better rhythm with his tongue as he added a finger to the mix. It was a slow movement as it slid into her, countering the rhythm he’d found.

“Cliff,” Svetlana gasped, pulling him tighter, almost smothering him.

And wouldn’t that be a way to go.

He managed to add a second finger, fucking her with it as he fucked against her with his tongue. He managed to curl them slightly as he braced his hand, hitting a spot that just made her gasp loudly, wordless this time and lost in the moment.

All to lead up to her bucking against him as her pussy clenched around his fingers, riding out her orgasm. He didn’t pull back, licking her slowly before pulling his mouth away.

Cliff let himself lay there between her thighs, coaxing the remains of her wet underwear down her legs as she lay there - panting, before tossing them on the ground without so much as a thought. They looked like one of those expensive scraps of fabric that cost more per limited square inch than his car, but he couldn’t bring himself to give a fuck when they weren’t going to do anything that required them for the rest of the night. He was breathing heavily himself, his dick impossibly fucking hard, and he tried to ignore the part where it desperately wanted attention as he slid up to lie beside her, kissing her softly on the mouth while he let his hand rest on her still clothed belly.

“Well done,” she sighed.

Cliff let out a bark of laughter, angling his face into her neck to nuzzle against the skin there. “Are you going to give me a performance review on this too?”

“10/10, would let him tongue me again.” Her hand waved lazily.

“How about fuck you?”

It was a point of pride that she still seemed rather blissed out and disinclined to begin the next round right away, though the dick straining against the material of his pants wouldn’t agree. He thought unsexy thoughts - Coach Leclaire in the showers, the smell of St. Simon’s jockstrap, the rat infestation at the area that had made the 2022 season miserable - to make the wait a little easier.

“Give me five,” Svetlana said, “and I’ll ride you like you wanted instead. These tits look really fucking amazing in this bra.”

“Bet they would look better out of it,” Cliff practically leered.

She laughed without any hint of inhibition, and the sound did something to him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had fun in the bedroom. Cliff did really, really, want to fuck but he was content there too, close against her, her skin glistening with the sweat of her quick orgasm. He thought he would even be okay with…not. Lending her his shirt, chatting in the kitchen with a nightcap like they had been doing it all evening. Leaving it for an hour, leaving it for another day, leaving it for…

Ok not another week, he was only human, and she was really fucking hot.

“I figure, I fuck the smugness that’s saturating your every pore right now out of you,” Svetlana finally said, her breath slowing, “and then we can maybe get some sleep.”

Cliff’s hand stilled where it had been rubbing slow circles over her stomach, “Sleep?”

“It’s what people do at night Cliff Marleau.”

“Back with the full name.”

“As I was saying, we will get some sleep. Then, you will show me every surface of this very expensive condo, and we will see if any are soft enough to continue to fuck on. Instead of feeding me whatever generic meal you normally feed your hookups, you will go and find us the best croissants and coffee you can find. Then, if you’re lucky - very very lucky - we will work on your core.”

“Please tell me you mean flatiron,” Cliff said, trying to picture the most core intensive sex position he could name off hand.

“Ah, no.”

“Missionary? Wheelbarrow?”

“Pilates class.”

“Don’t know that one,” Cliff groaned, rolling over and flopping onto his back.

“I have adopted you Cliff Marleau.”

“Does that mean I’ll be on billboards anytime soon?”

For a moment she looked confused, but laughed and shook her head, “No, I only care about your endorsements as a matter of principle. And maybe a teeny tiny bit for the money; there’s a flight with my name on it to the Maldives in the spring and I could use some company. This may be sacrilegious and against my reputation, but maybe maybe I don’t care your core so much for the Raiders’ sake, but for mine. I foresee a lot of athletic fucking in our future. I need you to keep up.”

“Priorities,” he couldn’t help but laugh.

“That orgasm you just have me was so good it has rearranged mine,” Svetlana said, but she sounded vaguely outraged at the notion.

Cliff couldn’t help but lean over and kiss her, laughing against her lips. It was so fucking ridiculous, neither of them quite sure how to lean into the potential emotion of this all. There was still a chance they’d decide to go their separate ways in the mornings, or a week from now, but right then he was having vague notions of more: an athletics class, a nice dinner, more walks, a trip, more trips, a WAG jacket.

A visit to bumfuck, Indiana.

Jesus fucking Christ, did men get dickmatized? Pussymatized? And he only had a few hours of conversation, and then eaten her out; by the time she fucking rode him what next, he’d be having visions of white dresses?

“I’m fucked,” Cliff muttered without context.

Svetlana finally seemed to find her energy, rolling over to straddle him. Her skirt was there in name only, and he could feel the wetness of her staining the slacks he still wore. She grasped his wrists, pinning him to the bed as she leaned down to kiss him, undulating slowly against his dick. She was so fucking beautiful, even with her tits still in her top. He found the right counter rhythm to her movements, and he let out a low groan he couldn’t stop at the friction of her, wanting nothing more than for them both to get really fucking naked really fucking fast.

“Yes,” she agreed, and her grin was wide.