The body of the email just says, “don’t fuck seguin” because Jonny doesn’t know what capital letters are and he’s a controlling asshole even when he’s miles away, and attached to it is a spreadsheet that Patrick reluctantly opens. It’s color-coded with tabs and he’s not sure whether he wants to punch Jonny in the mouth or laugh in his face. Calling him in the middle of the airport is a really bad fucking idea and Patrick knows something about those, so he settles for sending Jonny a message. YOU SENT ME A JERK-OFF SCHEDULE FOR SWITZERLAND?!

Sidney groans, because this is ridiculous. “I think I’m having an allergic reaction,” he says.

AKA the one with the phone sex. In which Kaner finds out Jonny wants to fuck him and is pretty okay with that turn of events. Phone sex, picnic baskets, crazy eyes, hockey and insanity ensue.

Ringing the changes on phone sex.

“Sid, need you to pay attention to me,” Alex says firmly. “You have bond crisis. You sick, Sid. Very sick. Need somebody to touch you to stop you being sick.” “I didn’t know you could get sick from being lonely,” Crosby mumbles. Zhenya makes a noise that sounds like he’s been punched. “I guess it makes sense, though.”

Patrick doesn’t think before he takes the screenshot.

"The last snap is Dylan’s dimly lit bed, one long skinny leg stretched toward the end of the bed and one bent at the knee. Call me when you’re home. Connor doesn’t drop everything, but he also doesn’t put his dishes in the dishwasher." In which Connor and Dylan talk on the phone.

Connor McDavid is not the next, next one. He's the only one. For Dylan and his super chaffed dick. (A story about awkward relationship conversation, feelings and the sheer amount of blackmail material Alex DeBrincat has on McJesus and Baby Stromer.)

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.

“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.

nice hatty, the text says. No capitalization, no emojis, nothing. Jack doesn’t even have the number saved in his phone. Originally that was out of pettiness, but what it actually means is Jack has Connor McDavid’s number memorized without even having tried. Apparently that’s what happens after a year and change of seeing it pop up on his lockscreen. It’s not even like McDavid texts him that often. Once they’d gone three months without speaking. Which is fine. They’re not really friends, exactly. They are sort of coworkers, and they have eaten each other’s cum, but they’re not, like, friends.

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.

Patrick's text says: sometimes all I can think about is rubbing my dick all over your tits. It's not meant for Jonny, but maybe he wishes it were.