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Tom puts his hands behind his back. He doesn’t have to, it’s not part of the protocol, he doesn’t think, but he can’t help from fidgeting - running his fingers over his jeans, drumming a thumb against his thigh - otherwise. That’s not the first impression he wants to make.
Backstrom - Backie, it’s easier to think of him as Backie in this room, makes Tom less nervous - sits on the bed, feet planted on the floor, dressed in slacks and a sweater, calm and classy as usual. “Over there won’t work,” he says, with what Tom thinks is a hint of a smile. “Come here.”
Tom looks over at Lats and gets an unsure expression. Of course they should have knelt closer to Backie, who the fuck kneels three paces away? But it seemed rude to be standing while Backie was sitting? And first they had to get through all the explanations about how kneeling is recommended but not mandatory for alphas in the NHL and how they should speak up if they want to change something or whatever. Like either one of them’s going to complain about getting to kneel for one of the best omegas in the league. Tom's up for whatever Backie wants to throw at him, although the thought of Backie using the two of them when he’s in heat still makes him flush so hard his whole face feels like it’s burning.
Lats gives Tom another quick look before getting on his hands and knees and crawling towards Backie. Tom follows - it’s definitely the right idea. Feels better than the idea of standing up, less disrespectful. Thank God he’s got Lats and his year with the Preds. Tom doesn’t know how he’d figure this shit out on his own.
Backie puts one hand against Tom’s cheek, and the other under Lat’s chin, when they’re finally kneeling on each side of him. He gives them each a look before saying “Just so you know, I’m never going to have sex with either of you.”
Tom wants to look down, away, but he can’t. It would be too embarrassing. Warmth slowly floods his cheeks. He can’t see Lats very well but he’s pretty sure he can hear him swallowing.
“But I’m here for you,” Backie goes on, and slides his hand to the back of Tom’s neck. He can see Lats getting the same. “For everything else.”
Tom puts his head on Backie’s leg, closer to his knee than his groin, and concentrates on the heavy weight of Backie’s palm against his skin. He takes a deep breath, and then another, and hears Backie murmur a few words of praise. Tom’s face still feels hot, and his dick is still hard, but he can already feel himself start to get calmer. It’s good they’re doing this now, in the pre-season, when the wins and losses don’t matter as much. By the time they’re playing for real he’ll be more used to this, less prone to getting worked up just from being on his knees in front of an omega. Things will be so much easier to handle, not like his few playoff games last season, when he wanted to crawl out of his skin by the time he left the locker room.
He needs this. He went to a mixed school, not one of those Alpha Academies, or he'd never have made it to the NHL, but it's still... so much. He knows he can control himself around omegas - if only because they tested the fuck out of him at the combine, but fighting his instincts is still hard sometimes. NHL hockey is so much faster and more violent than anything he's experienced.
He takes a deep breath. He's so fucking lucky the Caps drafted him and Lats together. That they're investing in really developing them both, letting Backie do this for them. He’s so happy he doesn’t have to do this alone.