You Could Make a Life

by Taylor Fitzpatrick

  They spend the rest of the summer there, Marc intent on making sure Dan gets his Toronto time in, looking guilty no matter how often Dan tells him to cut it out. Marc meets the Toronto training crew, who are all suitably pleased to be playing against someone "so much better than us, no offence, Riley", and they get recognised everywhere by people who passionately inform them that they disagreed with Toronto's management all along. There's a heatwave that cooks the pavement, melts the ice shoveled out of their practice rink in the space of minutes, makes Marc's hair curl damply with sweat, humidity, until he looks like a freaking ringleted cherub and threatens to cut it all off, which leads to Dan hiding all the scissors in the apartment, because it's adorable.

  Marc spends three days working through their schedules and coming up with the most complicated calendar ever, tracking where home games overlap, where they have a night, or a couple. He sends it to Dan's phone, those days highlighted like holidays amidst long white stretches of days without Marc. There are enough of them to loosen some of the ache he's been holding since he went down to Hamilton, the ache that wouldn't go away even when he was trying to pry Marc off of him in the middle of the night so he could breathe.

  When training camp comes they take separate cars—Marc took their sudden need for a second car as an opportunity to buy a flashy sportscar, and called Dan a soccer mom when he objected to its lack of practicality—but they stay on the same highway awhile, Dan watching Marc weave through traffic before he speeds up and out of sight like a total showoff.

  He gets into Ottawa, comes in to a fully furnished apartment, his superintendent having obligingly run interference with furniture delivery, a parking spot with his name on it, a few pedestrians doing double takes. Gets to The Bank where there's a locker room like any other, guys jostling and pushing and roughhousing their affection after a summer apart, the ice a clear sheet, like it always is before anyone steps onto it, all opportunity.

  Ottawa's captain Olsen makes a point of introducing himself to Dan, to the rookies, to everyone who looks a little clueless and has no one to violently throw themselves at in gleeful reunion. He's only a few years older than Dan, but he has that wise, calm, captain thing down pat, the kind that settles Dan into his skin.

  Training camp is brutal because training camp's always brutal, but Dan's honed after pushing himself against Marc all summer, which was an absolute fucking nightmare and means he isn't scared of anybody. He feels better on the ice than he has in years. Looks better too, judging from some of the approving looks and shoulder claps he's getting from the coaching staff, and when people start getting sent down left right and centre, Dan earns himself a spot on the squad, right-wing on the bruiser line, the three of them a solid wall, the perfect lineup for taking out, well, the Marcs of the league, which makes Dan's summer habit of backchecking his boyfriend to the ice pretty handy.

  Their second preseason game is against Montreal, and Dan gets a couple claps on the shoulder, a couple warnings that nobody's going to go easy in Lapointe just because he's Dan's. Judging from the look Marc shoots him from the face-off circle, a sly, determined look to Dan on the bench, that feeling's mutual.

  Just how determined Marc is shows itself in the second period, when Dan greets Marc with a gentle, mostly friendly hipcheck when their lines actually share ice-time, and Marc goes sprawling, coincidentally right in front of the refs.

  "Are you serious?" Dan says, when he gets a hand around his elbow. "That was a total fucking dive."

  "Save the lover's spats for home," the ref grunts, and escorts Dan to the box. When Dan finally gets out, after the Habs convert Marc's lying lying into a point, Marc blows him a kiss.

  "It's on, Lapointe," Dan says, when he skates past the Habs bench, and Marc just smiles.

  xiv. make it your own

  Ottawa is less of an adjustment than Dan might have expected. They're a young, physical team, a bunch of good ol' Canadian boys and guys who are good ol' Canadian boys in all but nationality. They're all used to the ups and downs, trades and minor leaguing in a way that only youth and inexperience can understand, and Dan's accepted into the locker room and its politics easy.

  He decorates his apartment. He's never been able to, living with his parents and then with Marc, and he does it his way, a way that had Marc chirping him when he was ordering stuff during the summer and then giving him horrified looks when he saw it in person, has his mom looking disappointed by his very existence when she comes up the first time, leaves Sarah cackling for a minute straight when she takes the train up for the home opener.

  "Oh my god you made a man cave," she says, delighted. "This is the most awful thing I've ever seen, how do you live here?"

  He likes it. He's going to be here for three years, and he needs it to feel like a home, even without his family, without Marc. Ottawa's good to him that way—his line clicks, Carruthers and Bowman practically reading his mind, and the locker room settles into an effortless camaraderie once the season starts, the kind Dan hasn't seen since his time in Juniors. Olsen's a bit of a space cadet sometimes, but he's a good captain, Carruthers is intent on showing Dan the town in a way that reminds Dan of Pazuhniak, but there's no insistence that Dan flirt and fuck, so he's fine with it. Bowman dubs him and Marc the married couple after the third time he goes to grab Dan just to find him on the phone with Marc, and everyone latches onto it, somewhat gleeful but not mean-spirited about it.

  The Senators are—and the die hard Leafs fan that will always be inside him hates this part—a pretty awesome team to play for. They're not good, not yet, in the midst of a rebuild, but Olsen's leadership is perfect for them, and they're all going to get a little older, a little harder, a little formidable. At least that's the idea. Dan wants that, wants to see that, wants to be there for that. It's surprising, feeling that way, but he isn't complaining.

  After Marc's Olympic calibre diving in the preseason, they don't see the Habs until November. The Habs have been tearing up their division, while the Sens have mostly been interested in keeping afloat, and Dan doubts anyone's betting on Ottawa winning this game, but he wants to, and only a little bit because it would bug Marc.

  His room warns him again that they're not going easy on Marc, then chirps him forever about how Marc's so gone for him he literally falls all over himself on the ice, and Dan rolls his eyes at them with good cheer. When it's time to send his standard 'good luck' text to Marc, the way he always does before Marc's games, he hesitates, and then sends were goin 2 kick ur ass.

  Not likely., Marc sends back, and Dan grins down at his phone.

  *

  They start off pretty even, considering. The puck's getting passed around like freaking show-and-tell, the play's physical but mostly clean, and the first winds its way down scorelessly.

  There's less than a minute left in the period when Mayer starts jawing at him while they're fighting for the puck in the corner. Mayer says the standard homophobic bullshit Dan's always heard, hell, he thinks he heard the exact same shit from Mayer back when he was playing him as a Leaf, but this is a little different. "Seriously?" Dan asks, when the horn goes.

  Mayer belatedly realises what, exactly, is different this time. "Shit," he says.

  "Dude," Dan says.

  "Please don't tell Lapointe," Mayer says, and spends half the second making beseeching eyes at Dan.

  *

  "Is Mayer flirting with you?" Marc calls over during an icing that leaves Dan's line stranded and fucked against Marc and his brilliant, horrible face-off skills. Dan's hadn't realised Marc could talk to him without tripping over his own feet and drawing a penalty.

  "I can't help it if I'm irresistible," Dan says, and Marc rolls his eyes so violently Dan's surprised he doesn't injure himself.

  "Dude," Carruthers says. "Quit flirting with your boyfriend and play some fucking hockey."

  "Will do," Marc says cheerfully.

  "I didn't mean you, diver," Carruthers argues, but then Bowman is back with a new stick and they can't
delay the icing any longer.

  *

  It's been building up all game. Never mind Mayer being an idiot, there was a completely dirty play against Leon by Carmen in the second that was never called, and then Ottawa's tentative retaliation ended in a bullshit double minor that Montreal converted into the only goal of the game. The team's been stewing since Leon was getting stitched up on the bench, and it's inevitable, a whistle blowing when they're finally making some headway, an offside that is borderline at best, the puck on Carruther's stick just begging to be tapped in.

  Carruthers loses it, goes for Mayer, who just happens to be closest, and then it's everywhere, Dan barely aware of the situation before Carmen's got a fist in his jersey, a fist in his face, impact harder because Dan wasn't fucking prepared. Dan thinks he gets a shot in, he hopes he gets a shot in, because Carmen gets a few more, a few that burn, Dan's nose throbbing. He thinks he's got blood on his face. He's sure of it when Carruthers is handing over a towel in the penalty box and it comes away red.

  "You're going to have one hell of a shiner," Carruthers says, and Dan's wince only brings more pain, so he's probably right.

  *

  Dan only has a couple more shifts once he's finally released from the box. The pain's manageable, so he's surprised when he finally checks his face out after his shower. The blood's gone, the product of a temperamental nose, but Carruthers is right: Dan's developing one hell of a shiner, a shade of violet Dan hasn't seen since Sarah's awful prom dress. He prods at it gingerly until Olsen, passing him in front of the mirror, slaps his hands away. "Stop poking, you're going to make it worse," he says, stern, and Dan raises his hands meekly.

  After he's dressed Olsen comes with an ice pack that Dan has no option but to take, pressing it to his eye, which burns cold for a minute. The media mostly leaves him alone, and he actually manages to get out in reasonable time, Olsen having miraculously managed the same, Carruthers flanking him so closely Dan is starting to suspect he's on bodyguard duty. When they exit the locker room they find Marc lurking in the hallway, and Olsen and Carruthers stop, squinting at him suspiciously.

  "I can take it from here," Dan says.

  Carruthers gives Dan a sceptical look.

  "Dude," Dan says. "I could take him easy, look how little he is."

  "Hey," Marc says, disgruntled.

  "So little," Dan coos, and Marc scowls, but Olsen and Carruthers finally move on. When they're gone, Marc comes up, reaching for Dan's wrist and gently pulling his hand—and attached ice pack—away from his face. He hisses through his teeth when he gets a look at Dan's eye.

  "That bad, huh?" Dan asks.

  "No one is talking to Carmen," Marc tells him.

  "Meaning you totally just bullied your team into shunning Carmen," Dan guesses. "Marc."

  Marc scowls, fingers brushing lightly over Dan's cheek. "He hurt you," he says.

  "He just did his job," Dan says. "Call off the dogs."

  "Eventually," Marc says, then curls his hand around Dan's wrist. "Come home with me?" he asks.

  "Already cleared it with coach," Dan confirms. "You're going to have to drive me into Ottawa for tomorrow afternoon, though."

  "Sure," Marc says, distracted, reaching up for Dan's face again.

  "Stop poking, you're going to make it worse," Dan warns, and Marc snatches his hand back like he's been burned.

  Man, Olsen's effective.

  *

  Marc strong-arms him into taking a bunch of anti-inflammatories when they get back to his apartment, orders food and then hovers, all inept care. "Come here," Dan says, and when Marc settles against him on the couch, "you are so bad at this."

  "I know," Marc sighs, tucking his head into Dan's shoulder.

  Dan raises a hand to stroke through Marc's hair. "What are you going to say to Carmen next practice?"

  "Nothing," Marc says darkly, and when Dan tugs lightly at his hair, "fine, fine, sorry."

  "I can't believe I'm still teaching you manners," Dan says, and Marc bites his shoulder.

  *

  Dan's eye looks worse but feels better the next morning, and he makes Marc promise again to call off the French Inquisition against Carmen when he's dropping Dan off.

  He gets a couple low whistles when he gets into practice, and Olsen eyes him. "You poked at it," he accuses.

  "I didn't," Dan argues. "Marc did."

  "Yeah I bet he did," McDonald says, and Olsen turns his eyes on him instead.

  "Some things are sacred, my friend," he says mildly. "We do not discuss them." Which is probably the most strangely roundabout way to tell McDonald to keep his nose out of Dan's sex life ever.

  "You are the fucking weirdest," Carruthers says to Olsen from Dan's other side, and Dan nods his agreement.

  *

  It's four days until Christmas—and two days until Dan gets a whole three days off to spend with Marc and also his family he guesses—when Marc takes a high stick to the mouth in a game against Nashville.

  Dan gets off the ice to find a bunch of missed calls and a text from Marc that just says I am fine., which is worst fucking nightmare material. The reporters look surprised to have Dan turning the questions on them, but one of the Ottawa beat reporters hands over his phone, a web page open where someone has already uploaded a clip of the incident, Marc on his hands and knees, dripping blood into a pool on the ice.

  "Is that a fucking tooth?" Dan asks, and the reporter shrugs helplessly at him.

  "I really am fine," Marc says, when Dan calls, still in full gear. He sounds garbled. "Mouth injuries bleed a lot. It is only seventeen stitches. And a tooth. Two teeth. "

  "Oh, only seventeen," Dan says, "Well in that case."

  "Most of the stitches are inside my mouth," Marc adds, like that actually helps.

  "Go take a picture," Dan says. "Send it to me."

  Marc hesitates. "It looks worse than it is," he says, finally.

  "Marc," Dan says.

  "Fine," Marc sighs, then says something muffled in French Dan can't catch. "I will take a picture for you," he says, finally. "Go take a shower. I will see you on Tuesday."

  Dan frowns at the phone, wondering how Marc figured out he hadn't showered, but then, Marc's used to Dan's particular brand of worried.

  He does take a shower, and comes back to a picture of Marc, mouth swollen, stitches bright. He's fine Dan's ass.

  Dan makes it to Toronto on Monday night, or Tuesday morning, more accurately, starts the drive after a loss to the fucking Penguins and arrives at three. Marc's already there, didn't have another game after his injury, thankfully. The break couldn't have come at a better time, gives him enough time to heal up a bit so he can get back onto the ice.

  He's in bed when Dan gets in, sleeping on his back instead of his side, like he usually does, and it's not hard to see why. Marc's face is fucked up, the wound livid across his mouth, lip split. Dan's careful when he climbs into bed, trying not to jostle Marc, the constellation of bruises and shallow cuts that always mar both of them, the mess of bruising around his stitches.

  When Dan brushes his fingers over Marc's lips, gentle, Marc frowns, eyes fluttering open. "I look like Frankenstein," he says groggily.

  "Still beautiful," Dan says, and gets away with it because Marc's still too asleep to roll his eyes at him. He kisses Marc's uninjured cheek, rubs his thumb over the curve of his shoulder. "Need anything? Painkillers? Water?"

  "You're here," Marc says, and makes it sound like an answer instead of just a statement of fact.

  *

  Christmas is uneventful. Marc already did the gift exchange thing with his parents before he left Montreal, so it's just the Rileys and Marc, Dan's father insisting on wearing a Santa hat and Santa apron in the kitchen and banishing Dan from the area when Dan sneaks too many rolls.

  Dan offers one of his stolen rolls to Marc, and they contentedly split the carbs in front of The Sound of Music, because for some reason his mom and sister demand it every year even though it's not even Christmass
y. Dan doesn't pay attention, doesn't even try to, and Marc hums along under his breath until he realises Dan's caught him, and goes bright red.

  Marc complains self-consciously when Dan's mom demands pictures, until Sarah goes down into the basement and comes up with an old-school goalie mask. Marc eyes it speculatively.

  "You'll look like a serial killer," Dan says.

  "Put my hat on," Dan's dad suggests, and so there's a picture of Marc looking like a Christmas themed murderer, because Dan's family is insane, and they use Christmas as an excuse to be even more insane. Marc gets sucked up way too easily in the insanity. It's a flaw of his.

  They have turkey for dinner because Dan's mom hates ham, and Marc falls asleep on him while they're watching The King & I (Dan really doesn't understand Riley holiday choices). Dan tucks him in closer, eyes heavy, and wakes up hours later, the lights all out, a blanket thrown over him and Marc, Marc's face still tucked into Dan's neck. He manhandles Marc up to his old room, because neither of their backs can take that couch for a whole night, goes back to sleep, doesn't even notice that Marc never took that stupid Santa hat off until he wakes up the next morning to find it crushed between Marc's head and the pillow.

  *

  Before he even gets settled, the break's over, and the only thing that's keeping him from burning out is the fact that the All-Star game is in a month, and everyone who isn't good enough gets a blessed, beautiful week off. Obviously, Marc is playing it, stuck with the burden of his awesome, but Dan looks into trips to Cuba, Jamaica, the Dominican, figures he can take Sarah or something, get some sun before he goes back full-speed into Ottawa winter. Of course, that changes when it's reported that Marc turned down his spot in the roster. It's not unheard of, but it's uncommon enough to be newsworthy, especially since it comes with an automatic one game suspension if the player isn't injured.

  "What the hell?" Dan says, instead of hello, when Marc calls. "You love that kind of shit."

  "Oh," Marc says. "Well, I was wondering if you wanted to do something else instead."