And then everything's the rush of game day, the hurry up and wait scheduling, and Dan doesn't see Marc again until the locker room, Marc grinning up at big, blond Nordic God Ulf. Dan just ducks his head, focuses on his stick like taping it is the most important thing he's ever done, so he's startled when Marc drops down next to him.
"Ignoring me?" Marc asks. It's supposed to sound light, Dan thinks, sardonic like Marc always is, but it doesn't.
"Why would I?" Dan asks, which isn't really an answer.
Marc shrugs, scoots over until they're pressed together, hip to shoulder, and Dan doesn't flinch away, even with the room half full, because he's afraid if he does he's not going to be able to take it back.
"I missed you," he says, finally, so low that Dan can barely hear it, and no matter how much they say it, it never stops hurting. But Dan still misses Marc with Marc right beside him.
"I'm here now," he says, and hopes it's even close to enough.
*
Detroit kicks their ass. The team walks back defeated into the locker room, and Dan should be trudging right with them, but he played well tonight, really well, better than most of them, and his priorities have gotten fucked up, because right now he'd rather play for the team when they're hurting than watch them win without him.
He's in Pazuhniak's spot by default, across the room from where Marc gets undressed. Fyodorov and Larsson bookend him where Stevens and Dan used to sit. Locker room politics, and it doesn't burn like it did, the idea of it now a reality, Larsson managing to coax a laugh out of Marc, which Dan knows is hellishly difficult when Marc's sulking over a loss. It doesn't burn. It just sticks in his throat.
Marc finds him that night, knocks on his door and barrels right in when Dan opens it, wraps his arms around him before Dan's even managed to close the door behind him. Dan shuts it, wraps an arm around Marc's back, curves a hand over the back of his head.
"I fucking hate you," Marc whispers against his chest, and Dan's eyes burn.
"I'm sorry," he whispers into the crown of Marc's head, "I'm sorry," and Marc clutches at the back of his shirt, face pressed into the hollow of Dan's throat. Then he looks up, the set of his jaw determined.
"You are staying," he says, like it's his choice to make. Like it's either of their choice to make.
"I'll try," Dan promises, and Marc shakes his head like Dan's being stupid.
"You are," he says, sounding sure. "You have to."
Because neither of them can do it again. Dan knows that. Feels frayed at the edges, and dragging Marc down on the bed beside him, curving his hand around Marc's wrist and just holding, keeping him there, still isn't enough.
Marc falls asleep against him after about an hour, but Dan's wide awake, rubbing his thumb against the slow thud of Marc's pulse. After another hour slips by he reluctantly wakes Marc, sends him off to his own room while he's still rubbing his eyes sleepily like a child.
*
The next morning Marc moves to sit with him on the plane, goes rooting through his bag for glasses he can't find, and Dan thinks of how many spares are probably scattered around Marc's place, knows there are two sitting on Dan's bureau, but he has none in his bag and he hasn't for awhile.
Marc deals with take-off with his jaw clenched and his nails cutting into Dan's arm, which is penance enough, Dan supposes.
They land in Tampa, a stretch of sun and sand. The plan's Tampa, then Sunrise, then back home for Toronto's cruellest month. The air's hot, more humid than Houston's, than it was in California where Marc burned easy and the freckles stayed behind.
They have lunch set up in the hotel conference room, and Marc trails behind Dan like a duckling at the buffet line, Larsson heading up the back like a large blond shadow. He joins them when they sit, and Dan does his best not to glare him into submission, because Marc would notice, and because he seems like a perfectly nice guy, really. It's mostly the former, though. Dan isn't proud.
Marc follows him after, too, right up to Dan's door. "You can't join me at nap time," Dan says.
"We watched a movie instead," Marc says, easy. "Waste of energy, but no game tonight, so forgivable."
"You're a brat," Dan says, and then lets Marc follow him in, strips down to his boxers and tugs Marc in after he does the same. They've never really been able to do this—there's no way they would have actually gotten sleep if they were sharing a bed when it was new, and they were both professional enough to use the nap time as it was intended. There'd been no real need for naps during summer, and they probably would have seen it as a waste of the time they'd actually assembled. But Dan's alarm is set for an hour and a half, and Marc's still going to be there when he wakes up, he'll be there in the gym with him, more likely harassing Dan than joining him, and he'll be there at dinner, and he'll probably find himself at Dan's door tonight. And that isn't enough, not yet, but it will be.
Marc is there when Dan wakes up, sleeps through Dan's alarm, and Dan lets him have it because it looks like he needs it. Rubs his thumb over Marc's cheekbone after half an hour, and Marc opens his eyes, observes him, impassive.
"Salut," Dan says, and Marc wrinkles his nose at it like he always does, wrinkles it further when Dan leans in to kiss the crease of a frown on his forehead.
"We're going to fix this," Dan promises, and Marc closes his eyes, says, "Okay."
"And then we're going to win the Stanley Cup," Dan adds, and kisses the quirk of Marc's smile.
*
Marc follows him to the gym and distracts him more than he spots him while Dan's trying to lift weights. Follows him to dinner and reluctantly cedes to putting vegetables on his plate when Dan pointedly looks at the mess of carbs and more carbs. Finds his way to Dan's room that night and they turn the TV loud enough to block out any other sounds they might make.
Marc lights up Tampa the next day, scores the game's only two goals. Dan assists on one of them totally by accident, caught on a weird shift change and then getting Marc barrelling into his chest, knocking the breath right out of him. Keewatin gets a shutout and Marc wears the idiotic jester's hat they always give to the MVP, low over his forehead so it flattens down the curls he has when his hair's wet, beaming like a damned fool.
Dan's beaming back, a win and a point and Marc lit up in front of him. On his way out the door Coach Walters stops him, looks him up and down with an evaluating look that wipes the grin right off Dan's face.
"It's good to have you back, Riley," he says finally.
"Good to be back," Dan says, and he's never meant anything more.
vi. intangibles
Dan fucking loves the Leafs.
It's not like he forgot that, hardly could, surrounded by the Marlies, who he was fond of, but still feeling homesick to the core, even when he was in Toronto. He loves the team, and he knew he loved the team, but that's nothing like remembering he loves his teammates.
He loves Buchanan, who still holds idol status with him, will probably always hold idol status with him, but also invites him for another family dinner when they get home, cooks up burgers and dogs, letting Dan man the grill until it's evident that Dan's probably going to burn the shit out of everything, then gently takes over.
Loves Tremblay, who practically barrels Dan over when he gets his first goal of the season with the Leafs. Even loves Pazuhniak, who's sidelined but is still hanging around the room, and finally drags Dan out, pointing out practically every halfway pretty girl and trying to gauge Dan's interest, until Dan finally shrugs and accedes to a nice, non threatening looking girl, who ends up being a U of T student in Sarah's program, so they have plenty to talk about before Dan cuts out to go to Marc's apartment.
He loves these guys, and he loves this team, which is having a good year, a great stretch right now, one he's so happy about being a part of he could break down and cry.
Dan even likes Larsson, once he gets to know him. The clean cut good looks, wide white grin are all a front for a fact that Dan realises in short order: him and Marc are scarily si
milar a lot of the time. As soon as Dan realises that, any remaining tension disappears.
Larsson's quieter than Marc, more laid back, but some of the things that come out of his mouth, cutting and insightful and downright mean, have him and Marc giggling together like school children and Dan laughing reluctantly, more amused by their sheer delight with themselves than anything.
Unlike Marc, he's liked in the room, possibly because the only time he pulls out those remarks are when it's the three of them, and presumably whenever him and Marc have wandered off to be smug and pretentious together. Things are still a little fragile between Dan and Marc, might be for awhile, but he doesn't begrudge that time, spends it with guys he feels like he's getting newly acquainted with, Buchanan conscripting him into family dinners, Tremblay belatedly getting into The Office and finding a willing enough viewing partner in Dan, who definitely prefers it to whatever Marc and Larsson are watching.
Getting back on the roster feels like coming home, and Dan's stupefied with good fortune. They're playing well together, pulling out the wins, and Dan starts packing reading glasses for Marc again, though it's a toss up whether he's sitting with Marc reading beside him, or shoulder to shoulder with Tremblay, catching up on episodes, while Marc and Larsson dissect whatever book or movie they've most recently devoured.
Things are good. Things are almost disconcertingly good. It obviously couldn't last.
A month in, Larsson walks in on them. They're still somewhat dressed, Marc in his jeans, Dan in his boxers and a t-shirt, but Marc's straddling Dan's hips, and it's a pretty unmistakable picture.
"Augh," Larsson says, covering his eyes with his hands, and then walks into the door frame when he backs out of the room, a faint, "fuck, ow," following as the door shuts behind him
Marc starts laughing, but that's the furthest thing from what Dan feels like doing
"How the fuck did he get in here?" Dan asks.
"He had an extra key card," Marc says. "We were going to watch something later."
He's still smiling. "Get off me," Dan says. "Fuck. Why didn't we bolt the door?"
Marc doesn't move. "Dan, it is not something to worry about."
"Bullshit," Dan says. "Marc, get off."
Marc sighs, put upon, but gets off him. Dan pulls on his jeans, jerky. "We have to find him," he says.
"Why?" Marc asks.
Dan gives him a blank look
"He is not going to tell anyone," Marc says.
"And you know that how?" Dan asks.
Marc blows out an exasperated breath. "I just know," he says. "Let me talk to him. Someone should see if he concussed himself on the door."
"This isn't funny, Marc," Dan says, sharper than he means to, but Marc is either unwilling or unable to grasp the seriousness. It's one thing for their families to know, even close friends, but teammates are another thing entirely. "Who knows how he'll react."
"He will not say anything," Marc says flatly, no longer amused. Now he just looks mad at Dan, which is kind of rich, considering he's the one who gave Larsson an extra key to his room and then clearly forgot that fact. Or maybe he didn't forget, just didn't care.
"I will find him," Marc says, grabbing his shirt off the floor, pulling it on with a tug. They were all supposed to be napping. Maybe Dan should have followed the rules instead of his dick. That thought haunts him, and he barely sleeps that night, thinking about Larsson telling Buch, or Coach, or fucking management, about the fallout that's bound to occur.
Larsson corners him at breakfast the next morning. "I'm not a homophobe," he tells Dan.
"Okay," Dan says, cautious.
"Could not be less of one," Larsson adds. "I'm kind of offended you thought I might be one."
"You covered your eyes and walked into a door," Dan points out.
Larsson grimaces. "Stop reminding me. Marc's like a brother to me," he says, waving a hand. "I avoid sexualizing him. But I already knew."
Dan goes cold. "What?" he asks
"He was the most pathetic person in the world when you were with the Marlies," Larsson says, and then when Dan's jaw tightens, "the pathos root of the word, not the common usage."
"I have no idea what the difference is," Dan says honestly. It's really sad that he's now constantly around not only one but two people who speak English as a second language and speak it so much better than him.
Larsson smiles at him. It's a little mocking around the edges. Dan finds it charming from Marc, less so from Larsson. "Tragic," he says. "Regardless, it's a non-issue."
"Is it," Dan says flatly.
Larsson raises a shoulder in a lazy shrug. "I fuck men," he says, casual, and Dan looks around to see if anyone's overheard, because you can't just say that. "I don't discriminate."
"Does Marc know that?" Dan asks.
"Yes," Larsson says. "He felt it was private, however. Which is why I'm the one telling you. Stop panicking at him, he panicked at me half the night in turn, and I need my beauty sleep."
He really, really does not, and Dan bets he knows it.
"Larsson fucks dudes?" Dan asks Marc after breakfast.
Marc looks around, the same knee-jerk reaction Dan had, but it wasn't like Dan was going to say it if they were liable to be overheard.
"Ulf fucks everyone," Marc says. "He does not discriminate."
"It freaks me out how much you sound like each other," Dan says.
Marc smiles at him, a small one around the corner of his mouth. Still tense, then.
"You couldn't have told me?" Dan asks. "I probably would have slept better."
"No," Marc says flatly. "I did not have the right to tell."
Dan thinks of the nights he'd come in after curfew, not sober, stinking like the places he went. No matter how angry Marc was by the end of it, he was the only one who knew, and he lied to people's faces in order to keep it that way.
"You're a good friend," Dan tells him.
Marc gives him a look that lets him know just how obvious he thought that statement was, and Dan laughs and flicks his forehead.
"Hands off the prime merchandise, Riley," Larsson calls over, and Dan gives him the finger without looking at him.
"He's not a good friend," Dan adds.
"He is alright," Marc says, "He watches films with me. We have a book club. Sarah wants to join."
"I watched movies with you," Dan protests. "I read Camus."
"Because you wanted to have sex with me," Marc says lowly, and Dan flicks him again. Marc flicks him right back. It's not even true; Dan was already reading Camus before that sun-drenched trip. Dan was a sucker for Marc from the start.
"I regret it now," Dan says.
"You regret nothing," Marc says confidently, and it is sadly true.
*
That night, Marc shows up at his door in pyjama bottoms, a too large shirt Dan is pretty sure belongs to him, unless Marc has suddenly gotten into the Jays. "Let me in," he says, and Dan scoots to the side, watches Marc crawl into bed, make himself comfortable.
"Whatcha doing?" Dan asks, still by the door.
"I am watching a film with Ulf," Marc announces.
This is clearly not the case. "Okay?" Dan asks.
"At least he will say so if asked," Marc adds.
"I take it back, he's a good friend," Dan says, and sits down where Marc is impatiently indicating.
"See?" Marc says. He sounds smug, but Dan's fine with that if it means he's smug tucked under Dan's arm.
They need to be more careful; they were lucky it ended up being Larsson catching them and not someone like Pazuhniak or Tremblay, who are incapable of keeping quiet about anything. It's not they aren't around each other constantly, on the road and off it. They don't have the limited bursts of time they did when Dan was on the Marlies, but habits are hard to break, and Dan's not safe from being sent down again, especially once Pazuhniak fully heals, so they're hoarding all the time they can get, greedy.
They need to be more careful, but with Larsson covering for them and
Marc already sleepy-eyed beside him, Dan figures it can wait.
Pazuhniak comes back, but Dan's been playing well, throwing his weight around, racking up penalties, but not usually stupid ones, and in the end, it's Fyodorov that goes down to the Marlies instead of Dan, and Dan feels guilty for the rush of gratitude and relief that flows through him. Fyodorov's never done anything to him, beyond the incident where he cut Marc's face in training camp, and Dan's fond of Marc's face, it's a nice face, a great face, but he's also sure it was an accident.
Still, if it's Fyodorov or him, he's glad it's Fyodorov, and the fourth line's gelling well. It's usually a throw your weight around sort of deal, but Larsson uses psychological warfare, flirts outrageously with opponents, and it's a toss up whether they bristle or blush, but either way they're distracted when Dan comes in to crush them to the boards. It's ingenious.
They're doing well, and so is the rest of the team, Buchanan getting a late career rush with a little help from the spitfire centring him. Marc dropped the point streak, it was inevitable, unless he was to set all time records as well as annual ones, but he's still producing, and the Leafs surge towards the playoffs for a second straight year, something that would have been almost unthinkable when Dan was drafted, a pipe dream.
Buchanan's inviting him home more and more, and it's funny, talking to the Buchanan kids about high school courses Dan still remembers intimately, but going out to the solarium with Buchanan and his wife Kelly, sipping wine and talking about the season, neighbourhood politics, since they live in the neighbourhood Dan grew up in, NDP through and through, as left wing as they come, though some neighbour of the Buchanans has been loudly right wing in their direction, which Kelly is exasperated with. Kelly complains, and Dan nods, and Buch nods, and he's never felt more grown up.
"Look, Riley," Buch tells him, one night, an unseasonably warm one, when they've headed out to the patio, brushing melting snow off the chairs. "You're going to be a good leader. You've got the shit that will make you captain, if you can stay on the roster." Kelly kicks him, and he winces. "No offence."
You Could Make a Life Page 8
