Connor honestly doesn’t mean to snoop.

Connor won't be able to go back from knowing the way this sounds. He'll remember all the whines and groans that Dylan made, how desperate he felt. Connor wonders what tomorrow is going to be like, for all of them. For Dylan, maybe, especially.

Dylan’s breathing too hard when Zach picks up. He says, “Hey, I miss you.” “Not for sex reasons, obviously,” Zach says. “What is going on there?”

“Bet me I can’t sleep with ten prospects before the draft,” Dylan says.

Sometimes he wakes up sucking on his fingers, rutting his hips into the bed. He’ll be right on the edge of coming, the wet head of his dick trapped between his hips and the sheets, but he can’t, he can’t, not without – not without something pushed up inside, something stretching him open.

John’s fingers press inside, cool against Dylan’s tongue, the inside of his cheek. John’s skin tastes like beer, and Dylan doesn’t know why he’s letting this happen, but he just – is. John’s other hand is on his forehead now, and Dylan slowly wraps his lips around the fingers in his mouth.

He wouldn’t know how to explain in any way that would make sense. Sometimes a monster fucks me in my dreams, and it leaves bruises. Sometimes I think I like it too much. That would definitely go over well.

“I didn’t even have my dick out, what’re you freaking about,” Tom says, which is probably not the best way to ease his roommate into his sexual proclivities.

Nicklas drapes his towel over his shoulder. “Looking for a ride?” “It’s nap time,” Alex says with a shrug. “So we should nap.”

Brady only realizes how sore he is when Kevin slaps his chest, both of them coming off the ice after practice.

“It feels really good,” Leddy says, almost sheepish. They’re all eating lunch at Nick’s house after training, and Leddy still keeps looking around like someone could overhear. “It's a fucking trip, like - tentacle, eggs, but. It's good. I don't know.”

Jack has already secured Dylan to the bed when Connor walks in. Jack slipped him an extra key card after practice. It’s the perfect entrance.

im gonna puke, he texts Zach, keeping an eye on the entrance to the kitchen. does he not wanna fuck you, Zach replies immediately, followed by, have you seen his dick yet

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.

ohnny sort of wants to ask, like — hey, Monny, are you hooking up? just to hear the answer. Just to be entirely certain that he's not making it up, or drawing the wrong conclusions. Sean's never told him what he gets up to in Toronto.

He feels something touch his foot, his ankle, but when he looks down nothing is there. It’s tadpole season, and in the shallows, around the reeds, they skitter about beneath the surface.

Sean’s thought about it before. Lance - or anyone, really - just pushing him down and taking. How he’d just let it happen. How he’d want to just let it happen. But he shouldn’t, and he can’t ask, and so instead he thinks about someone easing his shorts down over his ass and pushing two slippery, anonymous fingers inside him while he sleeps.