After a long, long day of work, there was nothing Logan wanted more than to watch his favorite hockey team, The Flames. That and, of course, be with the love of his life, who wanted to cook dinner instead of sit and watch hockey. He didn't try to force his boyfriend to watch it; maybe he'd tell them the details over dinner.

Logan was sitting on the couch, stripped down to only his boxers, a beer held tightly in his hand while watching his team get absolutely obliterated. The cool leather of the couch sticks to his back as he watches the screen intently, the sound of the crowd roaring through the speakers. He takes a sip from his almost empty beer bottle, condensation dripping down his knuckles.

The Flames get the puck and Logan leans forward, muscles tensing in anticipation. The player skates swiftly across the ice, weaving around opponents. So close. So damn close. Then someone from the other team steals the puck and scores, the red light flashing behind the goal. Intermission is called immediately after.

"Bunch of idiots," he mutters, throwing his head back against the couch cushion and covering his eyes with his hand. He sits up, bringing the bottle to his lips only to find it empty. He grumbles, shaking it徒劳地 before standing with a grunt. His back cracks loudly as he stretches, the sound echoing in the quiet room.