"What the fuck was that?"

Antoine stares at the ground while his co-captain rants and raves, pacing the locker room with an air of barely controlled rage. The lecture is directed at the entire team, gathered in silent rows before him with shame-heavy heads, but Antoine knows the words are meant for him. He keeps his head down and sucks at a water bottle, trying to disappear into his locker. After a lengthy speech about hustling back to get on D and driving the net Paul allows the team to leave, hopefully sending them home a little more thoughtful and determined than when they arrived this afternoon. He tries to blend into the crowd and file out with the rest of his teammates, but as he's approaching the door he feels a tap on the shoulder, and he looks back guiltily into Paul's hard brown eyes. The young guard nods to him, then directs him towards the trainer's room with an angry jerk of his head. The trainer's room. Which has locking doors. And which is completely empty.

This can't be good.

"Sit down," Paul barks, chewing his gum furiously. "Just, sit your ass down and don't say anything." Antoine obliges, settling meekly on the weight bench. Paul stands over him silently for a few minutes, fists opening and closing as he fumes, breathing deeply, trying to get himself under control. Antoine anticipates with growing dread the tirade he knows awaits him. When it comes, it startles him with its softness, its quiet intensity.

"What's going on out there, 'Toine?" Paul asks, a note of helplessness lurking in his tone. Antoine feels his face flush with shame. He has no answer for him. Paul sighs; all the anger seems to drain from him with the exhalation, leaving only weariness in its wake. He sits down heavily beside the struggling forward, draping an arm across his shoulders. "What?" he asks again, pressing his forehead to the side of Antoine's face. "Talk to me."

Antoine studies his hands, searching for an answer within their scarred, callused depths. "I'm not feeling it," he whispers, hating how weak the words sound. "The ball feels wrong leaving my hands, I got no fucking D..."

"You're trying too hard," Paul cuts in, the words buzzing warmly against Antoine's cheek. "You know how to do this. You've done this your whole life. Don't force the shot, don't worry about the score or the series or anything else, just let the ball find the net. Like you've done a hundred million times."

"Most times weren't the Conference Semis, and we weren't down two--no, three now, three to nothing." Antoine feels his mouth curl in a bitter smirk. "Most times, it wasn't New Jersey trying to tear out our throats."

"It was last year," Paul reminds him.

"Yeah, and we lost." Antoine sighs, letting his eyes drift closed, letting the warmth of Paul's breath against his cheek comfort him. "I'm sorry," he mutters, and feels the younger man startle slightly at the words. "I know how much I'm fucking this up. Believe me, I know, you don't have to tell me. I know how bad I'm playing, I know how disappointed you are--"

"Hey," Paul interrupts, pulling away slightly to level him with a serious look. "Lay off, okay? No, I'm serious, just shut up," he commands as Antoine tries to protest. "You don't know what you're talking about, so shut up, okay?"

He frames Antoine's face in his hands, sighing as the troubled young man refuses to meet his eyes. "'Toine," he sighs, tilting the other man's face up until he's forced to look at him. "Gimme a little credit, please? I'm not disappointed in you. Okay? We all fall down sometimes. You think I never had a bad game?" He pauses, perhaps waiting for a response, but Antoine remains silent. "You just gotta put it behind you. Monday we got another game, another shot at this thing. We gotta go out there fresh, okay? We can do this. We can turn this thing around. I know it."

"It's never been done," Antoine replies doubtfully. And Paul just smiles.

"Well, that's why we're gonna do it. 'Cause we fresh like that. Right?" He pokes Antoine in the ribs, grinning as the younger man laughs reluctantly. "Right? That's right. That's what I thought." He presses a kiss to Antoine's cheek. "You feel better?"

"Yeah," he admits. He turns his head slightly, catching Paul's mouth against his own. The young guard smiles, pressing hungrily into the contact, one hand moving from Antoine's jaw to the back of his neck as he parts the other man's lips with his tongue. Antoine's hands find Paul's hips and half-lift, half-drag the other man into his lap. He groans in approval as Paul's strong legs wrap around his waist, pressing their groins together. Paul pulls away from the kiss and laughs a little breathlessly, shaking his head at Antoine's look of distress.

"We shouldn't be doing this here," he admonishes, nevertheless moaning when Antoine begins to nibble at his collarbone. "'Toine, no, really, we shouldn't...we should go home..."

"I don't want to go home," Antoine mumbles, sucking hotly at Paul's neck while he arches and groans. "Home is far, far away."

"It's--god, no, you have to stop that--it's a five minute cab ride," Paul objects.

"Exactly," Antoine replies. He pulls back long enough to drag Paul's jersey over his head, then goes back to attacking his neck and shoulders, trailing tiny nibbling kisses over his soft skin. "Five minutes is forever," he mumbles. Paul opens his mouth to reply, but instead he lets out a small, surprised yelp as Antoine's tongue slides across his nipple. He glares down at the other man, who is now sucking lightly at the nipple and looking totally unrepentant.

"That was mean," Paul gasps, trying to sound stern, but Antoine ruins it by wagging his brows comically and making him laugh. "Loser," he quips affectionately.

"Well, if you're going to be like that..." Antoine starts to stand up, but Paul growls and pushes him back down on the bench. Antoine smiles sweetly at Paul's annoyance. "Going to be nice?" he asks.

"More than," Paul assures him, pulling the other man's jersey off. He stands up to slide off his shorts and boxers, then tugs at Antoine's remaining clothes, stripping him with quick efficiency. He glances down and grins, seeing Antoine's already hard, then glances down farther and laughs.

"Oh man, those shoes are just too sexy," he giggles. "With the knee-high socks? God damn." He straddles Antoine's hips again, laughing, trying to kiss away his pout.

"You really don't want to get laid ever again, do you?" Antoine fires back. But it's an empty threat, because Paul's kissing his neck and writhing against him, rubbing their cocks together, and he couldn't push him away right now if he wanted to. And he really, really doesn't want to. Paul wraps a hand around both of them, pumping slowly, and with a little groan Antoine adds one of his own hands, the other braced on the bench behind him. He licks tenderly at Paul's neck, then changes from licking to biting as he feels the younger man's legs begin to tremble and tighten around his waist. Paul comes with a little gasp, kissing him hotly as he shakes, swallowing Antoine's groans when he follows him.

"Fuck," Paul murmurs lazily, running a hand over his short, sweat-soaked hair. "We really need to shower. Think everyone's gone yet?"

"Probably," Antoine muses. He accepts Paul's helping hand up, standing and shaking the tiredness from his arms, then hunts through the dark for his clothes. He glances at Paul from the corners of his eyes as he dresses, and tries to make his tone innocent. "You know, if everyone else is gone...and we both need a shower...I've always wond--" Paul stops him cold with a scowl and a look that could kill. "Don't even think about it."

"But--"

"No."

"What if we win Monday's game?"

"Nope."

"Paul..." He makes his voice as thin and whiny as possible, knowing how much it annoys the other man. And it works.

"Fine," Paul relents, and Antoine smiles. "But not Monday's game. The series. We win the series, and you go back to averaging 20 a night, and we can do whatever you want in the damn showers."

"20 a night, and the series, is that all?" Antoine asks with a wink. "Piece of cake."