Page 22 of Breakaway Goals

Morgan had heard the talk before the tournament started.

That this was only going to be a slightly different, no less physical example of the yearly and very pointless All Star game.

That nobody would want to play hard. That nobody would hit.

That the games would be just everyone skating around, shooting the puck like it was going out of style.

But he’d always known every minute on the ice was going to be hard fought.

Their last game against Canada had been that way, and this one was even tougher.

It was still 0-0, midway through the third. No matter how hard their team had pushed—or how hard the Canadians pushed, it was like they both kept running up against the same fucking wall.

“Shit,” Danny exclaimed as he climbed over the boards, sinking onto the bench. “They’re fucking all over us. I can’t even get a moment to breathe, nevermind to hold the puck. Forget about passing or shooting it.”

“I know,” Hayes said on Morgan’s other side.

He looked as frustrated as Danny sounded.

“We just gotta keep pushing and keep being patient,” Morgan said, even though he could hear the opposite in his own voice. “They’re gonna make a mistake, eventually.”

Danny made a grumbling noise, but Hayes nodded his agreement. “They’re not perfect,” he said. He met Morgan’s gaze, and they both nodded.

Hayes’ resolution and determination fueled his own.

They would get this done.

It was maybe their second to last shift, based on the four minutes left on the clock, and Morgan, despite Hayes’ confidence, couldn’t help but feel the pressure.

Even though it had seemed inevitable all game that they were going to go to overtime, he didn’t want that.

He wanted to finish the Canadians off now .

Their team was tired, he was tired, and in two days, they all had to go back to their regular NHL teams. Playing extra shifts wasn’t going to make any of that easier.

“Come on,” he barked at Monty and at Danny as they went over the boards. “Let’s get this shit done.”

Hayes nodded at him and took off towards the net where the US defenders were trying to dig the puck out from behind it to get it away from where Braun was poised, ready to deflect a shot if he needed to.

Danny headed over, helping him out, and managed to muscle the guys out of the way, flicking the puck towards Morgan, who caught it and then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hayes sliding open.

A lane opening up past the blue line. He passed it and then blocked one of the defenders from catching up with him, and that was all the time Hayes needed.

He took off so fast it was like Morgan barely blinked and there he was, already across the ice, more flying than skating, two defenders and one of the Canadian forwards behind him, scrambling to catch up and stop him somehow.

But Hayes wasn’t going to be stopped. Not now.

Morgan could see the determination in every stride, in the tenseness of his shoulders under his pads, in the way he angled himself, Binnington bracing for the shot.

But Hayes wasn’t going to waste this opportunity, and he slid to the left and then flicked the puck in barely a second before Binnington could react, launching it over his glove hand.

The arena erupted.

Morgan was pretty sure he was yelling, but he couldn’t hear it, not over the sheer wall of noise. He was the closest to Hayes and hit him at full speed, Hayes’ arms around him as they slid into the boards.

“You fucking did it,” Morgan yelled. “You fucking did, baby!”

Hayes smile was as wide as he’d ever seen it. “I fucking did!” he crowed back.

Danny hit them then, followed by pretty much the rest of the team, even though there was still just over three minutes on the clock.

“We gotta focus up,” Morgan said to the team when they finally all returned to the bench. “We can’t let Monty’s goal go to waste. Do not let them get around you. Do not let them get a free shot in, okay?”

But even that lecture didn’t seem to dim Hayes’ joy.

Or Morgan’s own.

They’d made that play. Danny had started it, with his aggressive move against the boards, then getting the puck to Morgan, who’d only had a split second before he knew he’d be passing it to Hayes.

Hayes, who’d made the most out of the single opportunity he’d been handed.

Morgan had told him and Danny that their chance was going to come around, if they could just keep fighting and keep being patient.

It had, and Hayes had grabbed it with both hands. They all had, maybe, but Hayes most of all. Hayes who’d started out this tournament worried and pressured but had come into his own. Glowing now, with Morgan’s gaze on him.

“Shit,” Morgan said, leaning towards Hayes, his glove in front of his mouth. “That was just . . .when I said we were here to make you look good, that’s exactly what I fucking meant.”

Hayes flushed, a deeper red than his already pink-from-exertion face.

“You’re so good, Monty,” Morgan said, because he couldn’t seem to stop running his mouth.

The look in Hayes’ eyes was tender. Goopy. Not the look of a teammate. But of a lover. Morgan didn’t hate it; he actually wanted to eat it all up, even though he’d known when they’d woken up this morning, wrapped up together, that there was no future here.

That no matter how much he wanted it, it just wasn’t there. This wasn’t a play he could make by muscling an opponent out of the way. A shot he could perfect by practicing long after everyone else had left the rink. It was immutable fate, and he couldn’t change it, even if he was dying to.

Even if Hayes looked at him like he was thinking the same things.

He’d thought maybe he’d finally need to talk about this tonight, but maybe talk was the last thing they needed.

Maybe to say it out loud would just make it worse.

Hayes nudged him and Morgan turned his attention back to the ice. There was a minute and a half left now, and the Canadians had just pulled Binnington.

“Reynolds, Monty, get out there,” Coach Blackburn barked. “Kill this.”

The Canadians pushed hard, but the clock finally ticked down to the last thirty seconds, then the last fifteen. Morgan knew what they needed and finally managed to steal the puck and clear it past the blue line, time finally running out.

They’d done it.

Morgan met Hayes’ eyes as he skated up to him, whooping the whole way.

And he knew, without a doubt, who he was passing the brand-new Four Nations trophy to, first.

Hayes felt like every molecule in his body had been electrified.

The celebration on the ice had sped by, but every so often a visceral perfect memory could cross his mind—the smile on Morgan’s face as he’d lifted the trophy, the look in his eyes as he’d handed it to Hayes first, the heft of it in his hands and the taste of silver on his tongue as he’d tipped his head back and drunk out of it.

He’d showered and changed, but even then he felt the sticky sweet slick of cheap champagne and cheaper beer over his skin.

They’d been at the bar for at least an hour and Hayes hadn’t had to buy himself a single drink, even though they were currently in Canada and Canadians in general weren’t really thrilled about how their tournament turned out.

He mentioned this to Danny who just smirked and said he probably wouldn’t have to buy a single drink for himself, ever again, no matter what country he was in.

The problem was that Hayes didn’t want to get drunk.

He wanted to float endlessly on this perfect, hazy river of uncomplicated happiness forever.

Tipsy but not drunk, realizing that nearly every time he looked over that Morgan was gazing at him, the look on his face making it clear exactly where they were going to end the night.

Hayes decided nobody could blame him for wanting to end it right now . Making up his mind, he set his beer down and, not giving a shit, walked right over to where Morgan was chatting with a few of their defensemen.

It wasn’t very subtle, but then 1) hockey players were a pretty obtuse bunch and 2) it wasn’t like Morgan had been particularly holding back.

“Hey,” he said to Morgan, “remember that thing I told you about?”

There had been no thing.

Morgan frowned, moving closer, his hand reaching up to steady Hayes even though he wasn’t unsteady at all. “What thing?”

“The thing,” Hayes said, nudging him.

Up until now, he’d been letting Morgan dictate this whole thing, but he was done doing that.

This was happening tonight, and it was happening now .

Hayes was practically a national fucking hero right now, so if he wanted to have Captain America fuck him?

That only seemed like fair and adequate compensation.

It only took Morgan a second. Then he was on it. “Oh yeah,” he said, nudging back. “The thing .”

“Yep,” Hayes said smugly. “The thing.”

Morgan turned to their teammates and didn’t even have the grace to look disappointed. “Hayes and I have something we need to take care of,” he said.

They just nodded, giving Hayes another round of backslaps and congratulations, before Hayes could finally drag Morgan towards the door.

“You don’t want to stay and celebrate?” Morgan asked, grinning at him like it was making his whole ego sing that Hayes couldn’t wait a second longer.

“No,” Hayes said succinctly. “I’ve waited long enough, don’t you think? Besides, it’s practically my party. If I want to leave it early, that’s my prerogative.”

Hayes grabbed his coat and handed Morgan his own.

Morgan’s smug grin only grew as he shrugged it on. “Yeah. I take it I’m invited to this private party you’re hosting, then?”

That something else was pressing hard and fast against his diaphragm, making it hard to even breathe as Morgan leaned in, using opening the door as an excuse to get even closer.

It shouldn’t have felt more intimate to gaze up at Morgan as they headed out onto the sidewalk and say, “The only person I’m inviting,” but it was.