Nolan shouldn’t be excited. He really shouldn’t. Most guys who have been in the league for a while don’t treat it like a big deal. It sucks, sometimes, depending on the team you get sent to and whoever got first star for them, but Nolan’s already been told that the Stars are pretty decent. Still, nobody ever seems to look forward to being chosen, but that hadn’t stopped a thrill of excitement from zipping up Nolan’s spine when the Stars team rep had called his name.

Mitch doesn't care that much about the sacrifice. Life's short, he gets to play hockey for a living, the mildly annoying parts are worth it.

Connor’s still not really sure how to handle having this kind of reputation, about it spreading past the O.

John cracks an eye open, and Thatcher is shucking off his jeans, kicking them underneath the desk. He’s wearing – well, John catches a glimpse of lace as Thatcher pulls his sweatpants back on. Tight, navy lace stretched out over his ass.

Zach thinks about all the teasing Dylan’s been doing lately, all the ways he’s taunted Zach with his dick. If he wants to get into Zach’s pants, he’s going to have to be more forward than that. Or they can keep playing this long-winded game of gay chicken. So Zach stands up, sheds his gear, and when he’s sure Dylan is looking, he drops his pants.

“I didn’t fuck Mitch,” Dylan hisses into Connor’s ear, squeezing Connor’s hips tightly. Connor’s right on the edge when Dylan presses his lips to Connor’s ear and whispers, viciously, “But I wanted to.”

Jack has a huge dick. Jack is a huge dick. Unfortunately, he's also the best lay of Connie's life.

“You kissed me the night before we got drafted,” Connor says, unbuckling Jack’s belt and making light work of yanking Jack’s jeans down to his knees. With Jack’s thighs and his penchant for tight fitting pants, it’s an impressive move. “Blew me in the men’s restroom right after dinner.” “Fuck you I did not,” Jack grunts as he lifts up his hips to help Connor strip off his boxers.

Tkachuk’s trade from Calgary to Edmonton happened midseason, so he just shows up in the locker room on a Tuesday morning in early December with no announcement. He looks greasy and tired and wears a wrinkled suit. Leon can’t help but think that there's something odd about Tkachuk’s arrival in Edmonton. With all the effort that Tkachuk puts into establishing himself as a pest on the ice, he’s remarkably un-pest like on dry land.

“Shut the door,” says Draisaitl. “’Course you’re bossy like this,” Matthew mutters. But he shuts the door and, after a minute of hesitation, flicks the latch shut too. “McDavid gave me the talk, you know why I’m here, so if you want me to go—”

There’s an honor system to it: don’t pick too far below your weight class unless you’ve got an excuse, or too far above unless you’re trying to make a statement; if you’re going to pass or whine about it too much, be prepared to pay for it next time; if you’re going to be a dick, the guy you’re picking better deserve it.

Leon hates Matthew Tkachuk. Doesn't he? So then why isn't he turning him away, despite his heat?

"Leon." Matthew says. He can't remember wanting someone like this before, never in his life, like without them he'd explode. Leon is six-plus feet of warm skin and Matthew wants to ruin him. "Leon," he says again. "I promise I'll still hate you in the morning."

Everybody knows about the bet.

Mitch breaks up with his girlfriend of two years on a Tuesday.

Connor would give up a lot to have his soulmate write back even just their name.

"Yeah, I think it's better that way than in front of a bunch of cameras. I mean, it's better to be a little bit low key about it."

When the PR team makes them do a couples quiz for the team's YouTube channel and Connor gets every question about him right, that's when Jack has to acknowledge to himself that, yeah, maybe they've become friends. or, Jack and Connor get drafted by the Seattle Kraken.

Jack feels the metal bite into his wrist. There’s more resistance than there should be, and with a growing sense of horror, Jack looks down to see that Saader has locked him into one of the cuffs belonging to a pair of hot pink, fuzzy handcuffs. The other is around the wrist of fucking Connor McDavid.

“Hey, boys,” Nail says loudly. “Look at lovebird potentials over there.” Someone hits pause on the game, and suddenly the room is quiet, everyone staring at Ryan and Connor. Ryan rolls his eyes. “Stop it,” he says. “Just because we’ve both got marks on our hands doesn’t mean we’re going to bond to each other.”

Obviously, everybody knows that there is no blessing without a curse, or a curse without a blessing. It’s the universe’s handy little trick to keep things balanced, so that nobody can ask for too much for free, so that nobody can curse their neighbor without also doing a little good. A matched set. It just that Connor’s starting to think that he really, really did not grasp this concept when he was six years old. ... Jack’s quiet for a long moment. “I’ve never seen a curse like this,” he says finally, and Connor shakes his head, blood draining from his face. “That’s because,” he says, horror settling low in his belly. “Jack, that’s because I’m the curse.”

It’s fair, Noah thinks, to say he’s become an expert on how to handle Jack.

Eric Bittle becomes the first openly gay professional hockey player when he's signed by the Seattle Schooners after graduating from Samwell. A series of stories that chronicle how he manages newfound fame, judgment, and a secret relationship with his former college captain.

Bitty knew about the hockey gods, of course. But he didn’t exactly believe in them. Hockey players could be quite superstitious indeed, making their own rituals in routines. Now he’s on a pro team. He’s in the big show. The Schooners have made the playoffs. And playoffs…are a different creature altogether. For even if you don’t really believe in the hockey gods... ...they believe in you.

This started with @whoacanada‘s wholly addictive NHL Bitty fics - one of which was an AU where Bitty didn’t go to the Seattle Schooners but the Pittsburgh Penguins. I hadn’t actually intended to write anything because (1) I don’t really write much these days and (2) I have weird, twitchy feelings about RPF (parts of which are completely hypocritical given I have read RPF before). If I had to attribute blame, though, it’s because of @itsybittle whose original reply was the one that made think of an actual story and sequence of events rather than just funny tags. In any case, here is a story about Eric Bittle and the Pittsburgh Penguins. I’m hoping you enjoy it and that none of the ‘you’ here involves anybody actually in this incredibly fictional (and no doubt out of character) depiction of real people (if it does, I apologise pre-emptively and would like to wish you luck in game 6!). PS. @itsybittle, hope you enjoy ;) PPS. yes, some of the Wilkes-Barre/Scranton Penguins mentioned are completely made up.

After the combine, Jack drives herself out to a strip mall north of Boston, parks in front of the little nail salon that nobody else knows that she knows about. When she has the choice, she keeps her nails like this—long, just this side of sharp, painted a deep red. ... (She fights for what she has. She has to.)

(2019) ... Jack isn't himself. He seems so miserable that Connor wants to smooth it out of his system, somehow, as if it's a physical thing. ... “If you... wanted something.” Connor asks. “Would you ask me for it?” “I’m working on it,” Jack says, so quietly that Connor almost misses it.

The text just says, hope you’re doing well, when Jack sees it in the preview screen. That’s why he opens it. A week past his surgery, the well wishes have slowed to a trickle, but he’s still getting a sporadic few messages per day. Some of them, like this one, are from numbers he’s forgotten to save over the years. So he opens it. Only. It’s not just a text message – there’s that, the text he already saw. But also, above that... a nude.

There's more than one reason that Jack wanted to go first.

“Does it hurt?” Conor asked quietly. And, shit, now he had to look. Scott forced his gaze down and saw them—spurs of bone splitting his knuckles. It wasn’t just swelling from the few punches he’d thrown. That was bone. This was happening.

"Being a star athlete changes you." And just when you think you're done, you become the face of an expansion team. Playing a winter sport in a desert. OR A (Dragon)Flower in the Desert

Being a star athlete changes you.

"How about," Connor says, real low and warm, dangerous and tempting. Jack's stomach drops straight through the floor. "I'll let you blow me, and we'll worry about labels later."

“Uh, so when you said you could help me, did you mean…” Connor thinks that he understood Leon alright, but making sure is probably a good idea. Leon looks a little sheepish. “Not to sound super cocky or whatever, but I’ve been told I’m pretty good in bed. I could show you a thing or two. If you want.”

"So you're gonna take me to prom, huh," Dylan says, testing the words out in his mouth. "Which one?" "Not McDowell's," Connor says, like he's given it a lot of thought. He probably has. Jesus. "Ideally we'll still be in the playoffs, so we won't have time." "Ideally," Dylan echoes, and takes another bite of burrito to calm himself. Whatever, it's not like prom's a huge deal to either of them. They could go as buddies. People do that. "What should I wear?" If anything, Connor just grins wider.

When Tom Wilson hits Brian Dumoulin a little high and knocks him out of the game, he knows he should apologize. Tom Wilson has a unique way of saying sorry.

The Flyers always have a way of making Kris lose control. Kris has been Sid's sub for years now, and he's seen it happen time and again. A night like tonight calls for some creativity in punishment.

It was just supposed to be a summer fling. An admittedly strange summer fling, because most casual hookups don’t come with ropes and gags and pet names. But still just a summer fling, because Kris Letang isn’t the kind of guy that wants a relationship. At least...he wasn’t that kind of guy. Now he’s not so sure.

Sex bonding for chemistry has never been fun for Kris. He’ll take a knot, but he’s not going to beg for it. He’s not going to roll over and make it easy. Kris may be an Omega, but he’s an alpha in bed. Lucky for him, he finally has a D partner that understands.

Once you play your first NHL game, your captain gets to take your virginity. That's the way it's always been. It's tradition. How can John say no to tradition? How can John say no to Sidney Crosby?

Pierre-Luc Dubois normally hates losing. He loses the hockey game, 7-2 against Pittsburgh, and that sucks. He loses his fight against Crosby, and that really sucks. He loses his dignity on the Pens' locker room floor, and... Maybe that doesn't suck as much as he thought it would.

70 days. If they do their job well, that's how long the Maple Leafs will be in the bubble for; far too long to neglect dynamic interactions. Hell, Mitch starts feeling antsy after a week if he doesn't have someone kneeling for him. The NHL hopes to bring in professionals, but until they can get approved, the Leafs are going to need to turn to teammates for their dynamic needs. This could go wrong in a hundred different ways. But then Mitch sees who he got paired with, sees their shared kinks - feminization - and thinks, maybe it could also go very, very right.

Coming to development camp is – it’s a lot, it’s everything. It’s exhausting and exhilarating in equal amounts, and it’s the best thing Lucas has ever been a part of. And then there’s the other thing. Well, things. The piercings.

He's Hank's. The whole team is.

The Washington Capitals part of the D/s AU.

“That was so good,” Willie tells him, and he gets that heat in his stomach again. "You're so good."

Just because Shea and Steve had spent the night together a couple, okay a bunch, of times didn’t mean that Shea could just… affect him like that. Steve had had plenty of casual-play arrangements with Doms around the country, and none of them could ever… Besides, Steve couldn’t kneel right now, not with his knee fucked up, and that meant he couldn't sub.

Paul didn't say anything before Borts was traded. Paul didn’t need to worry before then. Well. Paul’s a worrier; it’s not like he can just stop. Even though James is in Nashville, with Doms on his team to look after him, Paul can’t help but worry about him. It’s really not a surprise that he worries about the subs on his own team, too.

Brandon kneels because it’s what he’s supposed to do. It’s part of being a rookie, it’s part of belonging, it’s part of hockey. So he kneels. (In which Brandon Saad falls in love. Twice.)

"You can't skip a heat," Dicky says. "If you could I'd schedule mine for bye week and the offseason every time." "It's like, some pills to delay it, for game day, and then to make it happen faster, after," Miro tries to explain. "I took those once," Tyler calls from inside the trainer's room, where he's getting an ice pack strapped to his hip, "during the 2013 playoffs. They're a fucking trip, but they do the trick. Better make sure you've got an alpha who can handle it."