*
The games keep coming, and Marc proves his streak isn't a fluke. He isn't as hot as he's been before, this isn't going to be a banner year by any means, but the change is significant, and every reporter is jumping on it, because it's impossible not to notice the difference, and the timing of it. Leafs fans are already grumbling about how little they got in return for Marc, the losing streak Toronto's on is stubbornly sticking around, and it seems like the entire city of Montreal is going around smug with good fortune.
Dan proves his streak isn't a fluke either, because his line is shit. It's hard to play effectively when linemates can't even meet each other's eyes, Dan already knew that from playing with Vargas, but in Toronto the fourth line mismatch was the least of the team's problems. The Habs are doing great, had already been solid and are playing hot now, and Dan is far from the only one noticing that he's playing like shit, that when the fourth line's on there's going to misreads and giveaways and goals against. Only one, if they're lucky, but Dan hasn't really been lucky lately.
The one decent piece of news is that Marc's agent is a pretty good apartment hunter, or at least handed off his duty to a pretty good apartment hunter, and they get installed in a gorgeous place in Old Montreal, half the price and twice the size of their place in Toronto. Marc goes on a furniture buying frenzy, working a whole theme that Dan peaceably ignores the nuances of, trying to memorise which TV channels are English while Marc debates the merits of slate grey versus cadet grey (Dan formally registers his lack of opinion).
The place is bare, so they're still stuck in a hotel room that Dan has started to have rather vicious feelings towards. Most of their furniture remains unordered, Marc waffling, but the mattress is on its way, and honestly, that's just about all the excuse Dan needs to check out. Hotels are depressing enough when he spends half his life in them: all of it is way too much.
Of course, it's like Dan complaining about his situation, even just in his own head—and to his mom, because he only has so much restraint—has led some god with a sick sense of humour to decide to show him how good he had it, because he gets asked to stay after practice the morning after they finally move in.
Marc hovers, chewing the inside of his lip, and Dan has to practically shove him out of the locker room after practice, insist multiple times that he's perfectly capable of getting a cab, and even knows how to say their address en francais. Even then, he leaves only reluctantly, and when Dan leaves the locker room he half expects Marc to be lurking in a corner.
He isn't, though, has either actually listened to Dan for once (not likely) or gotten better at hiding (slightly less unlikely), and Dan drops his equipment bag outside of Gagnon's office, enters after an abrupt "Come in."
When he does enter, it isn't just Gagnon, but the GM too, and if Dan didn't already have an idea what this was about, he would now.
"Close the door," Gagnon says, and Dan does, takes the opportunity to force his breathing down to even.
"Do you know why you are here?" Gagnon asks, when Dan turns around, and Dan nods, jerky.
"Your play has been unsatisfactory," Laurier says. "And we would like to go with a more guaranteed player."
"St. Pierre," Dan says.
They both nod at him, looking almost proud that he isn't some oblivious asshole.
"I understand," Dan says, like it's rote.
"The contract never guaranteed you wouldn't be sent down," Laurier says, almost defensive, like Dan's arguing with him, like Dan could even argue this.
"I understand," Dan repeats, mechanical. "Thank you for the opportunity."
"The Bulldogs play at home tomorrow afternoon," Laurier says. "It would be appreciated if you were in town for the game."
Dan nods, waits just long enough to make sure that neither of them have anything else to add before he shakes their hands, grabs his gear, stuffed in a Canadiens bag that's still stiff, it's so new.
He should probably call for a cab, but he doesn't really trust Marc not to be lurking, so he heads to the garage instead, and sure enough Marc's sitting on the hood of their car, reading a book. He doesn't notice Dan's approach, startles when Dan drops a hand on his shoulder.
"What did they say?" Marc asks, sliding off the car when Dan looks pointedly at his ass on the hood.
"I'm going down to Hamilton," Dan says.
"What?" Marc asks, looking genuinely flabbergasted.
"Marc," Dan says. "C'mon, we both knew this was coming."
Marc's expression says they both did not, thank you very much, but then, Marc's always had a little more faith in Dan's play, has always been a little blind to the fact that he's biased about it, about Dan in general.
"When are you leaving?" Marc asks, finally.
"Today," Dan says. "Probably soon, if I want to get in with time to sleep."
Marc's jaw sets.
"Don't," Dan says, suddenly tired, so tired. "Whatever you're going to say, just don't."
"I'll drive," Marc says finally, and Dan sighs, gets in the passenger seat, lets Marc drive them—well, not home.
It doesn't take long to pack; they haven't even finished unpacking what was sent up, replacing what wasn't. Their new couch is going to arrive the day after tomorrow, and Dan isn't going to be there.
Marc watches him pack, tries to help and just gets in the way until Dan puts him on sandwich duty, distracts him with making food for Dan's drive. He finishes quickly once Marc's out of his way, used to packing fast and smart, and Marc's bagging a sandwich when Dan makes his way into the kitchen, wraps a hand around Marc's hip.
"This is insane," Marc says, low and furious. "I only agreed because you would be here."
Dan doesn't comment on the fact that Marc seemed perfectly willing to sign with the Canadiens when he wasn't sure Dan would agree to follow. It's emphatically not the time for a fight. Instead, Dan squeezes his hip, rests his chin on the top of Marc's head. "It's business, babe," he says.
Marc mutters something in French, rude from the sound of it, and Dan just wraps his other arm around Marc's stomach, closes his eyes.
Marc fidgets, and Dan loosens his arms, lets Marc turn, nose tucked against Dan's throat. "Hamilton is even further than Toronto," Marc says, muffled against Dan's skin.
"I know," Dan says. "It's fucking stupid, Marc, I know that."
"We just moved in," Marc says, and Dan curls a hand around Marc's cheek, kisses him until he goes lax against Dan, eyelashes brushing his cheeks. When Dan pulls back, Marc's eyes open again. Dan always forgets how blue they are until he knows he won't get to see them every day.
"I should go," Dan says, and Marc shakes his head, curls his fingers in Dan's shirt, which means another shirt is going to die to the cause, Dan guesses. At least it's just a Habs one.
"I have a game tomorrow," Dan says. "And it's a long drive."
"I hate this," Marc says, and Dan doesn't disagree, so he just kisses Marc's forehead, goes to get his bags while Marc finishes packing up the sandwiches.
"No KFC on your way down," Marc says, solemnly handing him his snacks.
"No KFC," Dan agrees, and gives himself another couple minutes to tuck Marc under his chin and just breathe.
*
Hamilton smells like rotten eggs, and that's just a fact. Dan knows the second he's within city limits because the sulfur fumes hit him like a blow. Holding his breath isn't going to do much, especially if he's going to be living in it, so he just steels himself, pun intended, drives to the first decent hotel so he can check in, grab some dinner, and then pass the fuck out.
He's up bright and early the next morning, drives to Copps Coliseum practically by memory, used to being there with the visiting team from his time on the Marlies. He gets there early enough that he's one of the first ones in the locker room before morning practice, keeps his head down, though the majority of the guys come up and introduce themselves, and Dan forces himself to remember that here, he's no one's luggage, and he was a giant pain in the Bulldogs' ass when he was o
n the Marlies.
He's nudged into the second line to start with, presumably where the now absent St. Pierre was slotted, and they gel quickly, easy, something Dan hasn't managed on a line in awhile. It's a low-impact practice, nothing that could take anything out of them for the game that afternoon, but even so the coach looks pleased with where Dan's fitting in, and Dan feels something click, like it did on the Marlies, like it always seems to when he plays at a level he can excel at without stretching himself sore trying to reach the bottom rung.
After practice he's got a few texts, one from Larsson hilariously indignant on his behalf, presumably sent after Marc called him to vent, one from Sarah pissed that she heard about it through their mom, one from Marc wishing him luck.
He doesn't need it, the team doesn't need it, the Bulldogs playing decently for once, and the San Antonio Rampage decidedly not. They pull it out 3-1. Dan gets himself an assist and a stupid hooking penalty, more ice-time than the Habs would give him in a week. He's happy every minute he's on the ice, but then he's getting undressed in a Hamilton dressing room, preparing to go back to an anonymous Hamilton hotel, his boyfriend over 600 kilometres away after Dan dropped everything to follow him.
A good chunk of the team goes out for celebratory drinks, and Dan declines as politely as he can, goes back to the hotel, where he puts the TV on as background noise, orders room service, feels like he's at square one all over again, sitting in a hotel room in a city that's apparently supposed to be home, at least for a little while.
He calls Marc, and Marc lets loose with the anger he's clearly been bottling up since Dan told him, goes on a rant with an impressive and creative array of curses, insults the parentage of half of Montreal's management.
"Don't say something stupid to them just because you're pissed," Dan says, when Marc takes a moment to breathe.
"Why would I do that?" Marc asks, and Dan lets his silence judgmentally speak for him.
"They made a mistake," Marc argues. "They should know that."
"Don't," Dan says. "Don't you dare."
Marc's quiet. "But," he says finally.
"No," Dan says, firm. "If I'm going to play, I'm going to earn it, and it's going to be because I'm good at hockey, not just because you want me there."
Marc remains quiet.
"And I'll find out if you do anything," Dan says.
He probably wouldn't, but at least the threat is there.
*
Dan plays pretty well, considering he's on the Hamilton Bulldogs, who seem to have taken Montreal's success in typical little brother fashion and run in the exact opposite direction. Maybe it says something that Dan is only decent when he's playing on a shitty team, but whatever that is, he doesn't really want to know.
The first week just feels like a road trip, or the part of the summer stretch when Marc and Dan part ways for full family time (and Dan not wanting to endure Montreal more than he has to, ha, joke's on him now), but that's because he's actually on a road trip, and a city you're visiting is a city you're visiting is a city you're visiting. But then he's back in Hamilton, in a hotel room, and this isn't a road trip, this isn't going to end after a week and send him back to Marc unless the Habs face a rash of broken limbs or maybe the plague. He likes to think he wasn't in denial, but maybe he was, because it doesn't hit him until he's sitting in that hotel room, ugly comforter over his knees, watching the Habs host the Leafs on a 27 inch screen, everything he was a part of and isn't right now.
Vargas is dogging Marc, not even trying to be subtle, line-matched by Payne because Payne is a dick. He gets away with a few cheap shots, then a few more, until Dan's hands are fists and his teeth are clenched so tight his jaw hurts. Around the end of the second, Montreal's enforcer takes Vargas on, but Dan would have stopped that shit before it started, would have clocked that son of a bitch, but he couldn't, and he can't, and instead he has to watch it on a small screen in a town that smells like rotten eggs.
He goes for a walk after the game, and when that doesn't work, changes it to a run, runs until he's exhausted. When he's back he's got a couple texts from Marc, a missed call, and he responds to the texts—assurances that Marc's fine, because he knows Dan well enough to cut that line of thought off early—before passing out without bothering to shower the sweat off.
*
The article comes out like deja vu. Dan doesn't know if it's the same author, or some Montreal writer who picked up on the previous Leafs centric article, but once again, the narrative of "Marc Lapointe plays better when Dan Riley isn't around" is picked up, and this time it's vicious.
Dan had found it funny last time, mostly, found the correlation interesting, but then, last time was the offseason and he had a Stanley Cup ring and some bigger problems than a reminder of minor league time, considering he'd just been shoved out of the closet with Marc in tow.
This time, sitting around in Hamilton like a stay of execution, playing decent hockey for a shitty team, it's not funny at all. The last article had mostly focused on the facts, on Marc's points and face-offs and ice time, while this one briefly acknowledges that before getting speculative, fast, making assumptions about their relationship, about their fucking sex life (and who said anyone played better when sexually frustrated, anyway?), and pretending that it's actual journalism.
Marc is still playing hot, and Dan's doing well, but Dan's difference has more to do with the fact he isn't playing in the same league as NHL level, literally, and Marc's hot because, well, sometimes Marc's hot, and Dan wouldn't be surprised if he was powering himself out of pure spite towards Toronto and everyone who said he was washed up at twenty-two.
But instead of actually going with rational explanations, it's sly fucking winks, plenty of borderline dirty jokes, and then a serious conclusion that Dan's bad for Marc's game, like he's some sort of jinx. Dan bets you could connect anyone's injury, call-up or shove down with someone else's performance rising or falling, because sometimes life just works like that, but of course someone takes it as an excuse to dissect them. It's practically a national sport at this point. Behind hockey, obviously, but maybe somewhere between curling and lacrosse.
Marc rants about it for a solid ten minutes the next time he calls Dan, and Dan usually tunes out the 'fuck the media' rants, but this time he's in total agreement so he contributes a little more than understanding 'mm's. Not much more, because it's usually best to let Marc get it out of his system before he snaps and lets his temper convince him he's bigger than he is, but a little, at least.
*
Dan's been in Hamilton two weeks before Marc finally realises that there's no way Dan's coming back that season, period. Dan had figured that out as soon as the news broke with less than two months left, but Marc's fundamental optimism probably convinced him that it was going to be like an extended, annoying vacation, and then Dan would show them all and fight his way back, just like last time.
But that'd be a miracle this close to the playoffs, Montreal sitting comfortably in contention, working the chemistry, cementing the lines for the post-season. It's a little touching that Marc honestly thought Dan would be coming back, a little touching how hard he takes it when he realises Dan won't, sitting quiet on the other side of the line while Dan fiddles with the ugly bedspread he's gotten so used to. Here for another month or no, there's no way the Bulldogs are going to make playoffs, and absolutely no way that Dan is willing to put down roots when he'll be booking it the second the final game is over, so the hotel—ugly bedspread and all—is where he'll stay.
"Another month," Marc says with venom.
"Hey, we're like a third of the way through it," Dan says, and Marc makes a noise suspiciously similar to a growl, startling Dan into a laugh.
"I miss you," Marc says then, all the anger gone, just sounding as tired as Dan feels in this stupid fucking hotel room, in this stupid fucking city.
"You too," Dan says, flicks the TV off, makes himself comfortable. "Hey, you have time for phone sex?"
"For
you?" Marc says, "of course."
"Wait, for me?" Dan says, "who the hell else is asking?"
Marc laughs at him a little meanly, which sadly isn't enough to ruin the mood.
*
It hits Dan a couple days after his conversation with Marc and subsequent phone sex—Marc talking dirty in French is insanely hot (also almost totally incomprehensible, but mostly hot, which is the important thing), and pretty much the only time he's happy to hear the language. Obviously he knew he wasn't coming back, hell, he talked Marc through that reality, but even if there's less than a month left, and there is, barring some miracle that takes the Bulldogs out of the cellar and puts them in the running, what then? The Habs are going to make the playoffs barring an absolutely opposite miracle, and Dan's season is going to be over right when Marc gets into the thick of it, the part all of them live for.
So what, Dan trudges back to Montreal to play WAG and cheer Marc on during the playoffs? Dan goes back to Toronto and sits in the apartment that doesn't get to be home anymore? The only thing Dan knows is he isn't going to stay in Hamilton, and he knew that before he even started the drive there.
It's less than a month, but it isn't, because it's going to be over but everything's going to stay up in the air. They'll have the summer, sure, but a stay of execution just leads to the execution and Dan's contract is up when the season ends. He'll be an unrestricted free agent who might actually drum up interest with the teams struggling for versatility, struggling in general. And if he's going to be hundreds of kilometres from Marc regardless, he'd rather not be hung to dry in the minors for a team that doesn't want him.
He doesn't say anything about it to Marc, who's stressed out enough as it is with the pressure of staying hot, the distance that's wearing on both of them, the reality of being in the same city as his mother, which he clearly didn't think through when he signed the contract with Montreal, and is passionately bemoaning now.
He doesn't say anything about it to anyone, because it's ungrateful and bitter and cold, and he's embarrassed for even thinking it, but the embarrassment doesn't make any of the thoughts go away, just makes him shove them to the back of his head where they start to fester.
You Could Make a Life Page 16
