The Longest Week of my Whole Fucking Life

By: Tammy

Disclaimer: Dude, as if I owned anything.

Summary: The week of the trade.

Challenge: Zee challenge? Only 100 words per day.

Rating: R, because I say FUCK. oops.

AN: This was such a better fic when Sunday was Saturday. Trust me..flowed nicer. So if you want, you can read it out of order.


Arms encircle your waist from behind and a pair of lips press themselves against your shoulder. You smile knowingly and bring a hand up to your own lips and kiss it. The hand pulls itself away and you along with it, tugging on your shirt hem and pushing you to the bed. A low moan is emitted, and although youíd like to say itís the result of two perfect lips traveling up the smooth expanse of your stomach, itís really because your back and ribs are killing you. But itís okay because youíre Jason fucking Arnott and youíre in heaven.


You somehow manage to tear yourself away from the beautiful body lying in your sheets. You glance at yourself in the mirror and smirk knowing your coach wonít be too happy with your extracurricular activities when youíre supposed to be resting your sore ribs. Sleeping beautyís still sleeping and the cupboards are empty when you make a quick run to the local market. Youíre putting a carton of milk in your basket when your cell phone rings. Itís your brother. His voice is soft and deliberate so you know youíre screwed. Youíre Jason fucking Arnott and youíve just been traded.


You fly into Dallas, but you donít play (because of your sore back) and instead get stuck with a far worse fateótalking to ESPNís commentators. You tell them you were shocked; you tell them Randyís a 110% player; you tell them youíre glad to be in Dallas. You donít tell them about how you almost started crying in the dairy aisle; you donít tell them how hard it was to return to your apartment and break the news; you donít tell them sleeping beauty was Petr Sykora. You donít tell them that youíre Jason fucking Arnott and youíre gay.


You love giving press conferences. Almost as much as getting crosschecked in the back. Itís all worth it though, because when you get ďhomeĒ Petr calls you and tells you how handsome you looked. You could care a less because all that matters is hearing his voice. Even with the flu he still sounds sexy. He tells you about the game, how Joe seems to be fitting in. He tells you not to worry about trying to replace Joe. He tells you heíll be taping your first game. He tells you that youíre Jason fucking Arnott and he loves you.


You practice with the team again on Friday. Not your team, yet, the team. The coach seems almost giddy at the prospect of putting you on a wing with Mike Modano. You suppose you are too, except you keep thinking Petr is supposed to be your wing. One of the kids, Morrow, keeps feeding you pucks as you make your way through the drills, trying not to think about Petr for five minutes. Belfour nonchalantly keeps shooting pucks at you, so that helps. You realize at the end of practice that youíre Jason fucking Arnott and now youíre a Star.


Mike Modano helps you look for an apartment. He offers to set you up with a girl. You tell him youíre more interested in courtside basketball tickets. He laughs, and you laugh, and then you stop and stare at each other. He lets you test drive his brand new car (you pretend you like Beemers and he pretends he likes Vipers, because thatís the friendly thing to do) and when he hands you the keys he holds onto your hand for a bit too long. You realize youíre Jason fucking Arnott and youíre not the only homo on the team.


You play your ass off, but at the end of the game, the score is still 2-1. Youíre winded and the fans are upset, yet understanding, and every reporter in the locker room is clawing their way to talk to you. They ask you about Mike, they ask you about Joe, but they donít ask you about Petr. You drive back to your hotel room and want to crawl under the scratchy sheets that are not your own and never wake up. You hate the fact thereís no one there to hold you. Youíre Jason fucking Arnott and youíre homesick.


Itís your lucky day because this is your first road trip with your new team. You get to travel in a brand new charter plane to lovely San Jose. And you get to spend over an hour telling reporters how important this game is: a ďmust-winĒ game. At the hotel you realize youíre rooming with Randy and you blush when he gives you and Petr a three-hour time limit on the phone. You quickly dial the number burned into your memory and it dawns upon you: youíre Jason fucking Arnott and this has been the longest week of your life.

the end.