The Invincible M.A.E. (harleymae) wrote,
The Invincible M.A.E.
harleymae

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How Not To Get Laid

Title: How Not To Get Laid
Author: Mae
Rating: PG-13 for swearing
Characters: Joe Thornton, Jim Fahey, Jonathan Cheechoo
Archive: http://tika.bravepages.com/hockey/slash/hownottogetlaid.html
Dedication: redden6. She knows why.
Disclaimer: It's all lies!
Author's Notes: Blame redden6. Because "[insert player here] has a boner so big it's going to take my eye out!" is the best line ever. Cheechoo's roommate is Milan Michalek, and Fahey's is Mark Smith, last I heard, anyway. :P This is written from Joe's POV.


HOW NOT TO GET LAID


"Cheech has a boner so big it's going to take my eye out!"

Well, that wakes me right up.

I sit up, rubbing my eyes and lean back against the fake wood headboard of the hotel bed and groan sleepily, groping around for the light switch to turn the bedside lamp on.

"What? What did you say?" Then, after some consideration, I add, "Who is this?"

"Cheech needs to get laid," the unidentified, but obviously drunken jackass clarifies. I hear muffled swearing in the background, and it sounds like some kind of scuffle is breaking out, along with grunts and laughter and yet more swearing.

"Why are you telling me this?" I grumble, still slapping around on the wall, trying to find the light switch.

"Because you're gonna help him get laid." More scuffling. More swearing. Louder grunting. Some actual cries of pain.

I smack the wall one last time. This is stupid. We have a game tomorrow and I need sleep.

"Fuck you... fuck you, whoever you are." I hang up and start sliding back under the covers.

I've barely let go of the phone receiver when the phone starts ringing again. I feel like unplugging the cord, but I can't see it in the dark and I've had so much luck with trying to turn the lights on. Fucker. I'm going to kill him.

Well, as soon as I find out who he is.

"Cheech is horny!" he declares, and now that I'm more awake, I can recognise pretty clearly the Boston accent coming across the line.

"Jimmy? Is that you? Quit calling me, you fucker." Idiot.

"No, no, no, you have to get him laid, cos' you have a way with the ladies, you could totally hook him-" Jim never finishes his sentence because it's cut off by a loud, soft "whump" sound, followed by a few more "whumps", as if he's being slowly bludgeoned to death with a pillow.

"Why don't you blow him then? And stop bothering me."

"Hahaha," he laughs stupidly, "Very funny, man. I'm trying to talk him out of his stupid 'no sex before game days' thing."

"Again, why don't you blow him? And why are you and Cheech in the same room anyway? Where's Milan and Smitty?"

"Milan ran away cos' Cheech was waving his dick in his face and--ahhhhhhh!!!" Jimmy screams and laughs at the same time, and I hear more muffled thumps, as if he's being hit, and Cheech yelling "I did not do that!"

After what must be a monumental struggle, all is quiet again, and this time I hear the relatively sober voice of Cheech. "Sorry about that, Joe. I'll make sure he doesn't call you again."

I sigh, feeling for the light switch again because I'm up now, and probably will be for a while. "It's okay. I'll kill him tomorrow."

Cheech chuckles and mumbles something to Jimmy that I can't quite make out. "If I don't kill him first."

I'm just about to hang up when I remember something that Jimmy said, and I become a little curious about it. "Hey Cheech? You really don't get laid before game days?"

"Uhh, yeah. If I do, I don't score." He pauses. "Goals. I don't score goals, I mean."

I laugh. "Well sorry, buddy, no sex for you. And get Jimmy out of the room, just to make sure."

"Fuck you," he replies, but I can hear the grin in his voice, and he hangs up, just as I finally turn the light on, bathing the bedside table and the head of my bed in a dim, orange glow.

"Did I hear that right?" a sleepy voice asks from across the room. "Cheech doesn't get laid before game days?"

"Yeah. He says he doesn't score goals if he does."

"Oh? Weird guy." The sound of stretching, the rustling of sheets and covers. I can see him, fuzzy and indistinct in the dim light, impossibly long as he stretches. "Good thing the same thing isn't true about you."

"Go to sleep," I order, tossing a pillow at his face, but he just bats it away and turns away from me onto his side, wriggling into a more comfortable position and in the process of doing that, he yanks the sheets out more than I did earlier tonight.

"Night, Joe," he mumbles, and I'm left to wonder about what I'll do to keep myself occupied before I can fall asleep.

"Night."
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