You Could Make a Life

by Taylor Fitzpatrick

  "They asked me about Sarah," Marc tells him, and Dan groans.

  "What'd you say?" he asks.

  "That you beat me up and stole my woman," Marc says, and Dan punches him on the arm.

  "See?" Marc says, rubbing his arm, and when Dan raises his eyebrows at him, "Fine. That she was like a sister to me and actual sister to you."

  "Great," Dan says. "Now they're going to be writing about us being brothers-in-law."

  Marc just smiles at him sunnily and lets his hand rest on the small of Dan's back until Dan speeds up enough that it falls away

  They go straight back to Dan's place, and Dan fixes them breakfast for dinner because it's pretty much the only thing he can make. Marc catches him up on the trip, what little he hasn't already told Dan about, and Dan makes sure they get enough carbs and protein in them before he drags Marc to bed, needing to get his hands on him. Marc's got bruises Dan can pinpoint the cause of, an ugly one on his calf from a blocked shot in the Islanders game, one under his chin from a high stick, and then a whole motley of bruises Dan doesn't know the stories to, wasn't there for. Dan's got a number of his own bruises, and clearly they didn't properly appreciate summer sex and its smaller likelihood of knocking against something that'll make one or the other wince.

  They take it slow, Dan cataloguing the sore spots with his mouth, gentle as he can. He stays up way too late considering tomorrow's an early day, a travel day, but he can sleep on the plane.

  *

  The next day it's Dan leaving, a six game road trip down in the south that'll take him from Toronto for two weeks. Those road trips sucked enough when he was sharing a room with Marc, but now it's infinitely worse. He's sharing a room with Borkowski, who's nice enough but not particularly social, and never really leaves the room, so Dan can barely call his mom, let alone actually get to skype with Marc. Instead it's mostly texts, and Dan fervently wishes he spoke enough French to actually have a private conversation with Borkowski three feet away.

  Dan plays great, because there's nothing else to do but play great. He works out as much as he can without straining himself before the games, goes out enough to avoid a reputation as a loner, misses Marc so much it's stupid. The itch stays there. The drinks don't help. The workouts don't help. The only thing that gets close is winning, but even the thrill of that wears off sooner rather than later.

  He comes back to Toronto with five points, a promotion to the first line, and the determination to make it back to the squad if he has to break Fyodorov's arm to do it.

  Marc has a game that night, so Dan has enough time to swing home, shower, eat some leftovers, catch a nap. He'd been trying to watch all the Leafs games, but enough of his schedule directly conflicted with Leafs games to make it impossible, and now he keeps slipping. He'll watch the highlight reels, which Marc seems to be in as often as not. He shouldered his way up to the first line when Smythe backslid, and now he has Buchanan on his left and Petrovic on his right feeding him pucks that he sinks like breathing. Dan maybe has a google alert on Marc's name (to be fair, there's no way Marc found the blog article on Dan's supposed relationship with his freaking sister that quickly without some technological aid), and the Toronto press has gone from admiring Marc to practically canonizing him while Dan has been away, Marc on a point streak so pretty it makes the press corps cry.

  He's awake by the time the second period starts, and so he goes down to join his parents and catch that and the third, and then OT and shootout when it stays stalled at two apiece. Marc gets his through on a deke that makes Dan breathless, and gets an admiring murmur from his dad, but it doesn't matter, in the end, and the Leafs drop the point.

  He lets himself in to Marc's place, makes breakfast for dinner again because the only other meal he can reliably do is pasta, and that tends to be Marc's pre-game thing. Marc comes in trudging the trudge of the downtrodden, but he shuffles right over to Dan the second he kicks his shoes off, tucks himself up against Dan's back where he's standing in front of the stove, nose between his shoulderblades.

  "Hey," Dan says, leans back into him. "I'm making you eggs."

  "Your eggs are terrible," Marc mumbles, and squeezes him tighter.

  Dan snorts, and when he puts them down in front of Marc, along with a couple slices of the multigrain toast Marc detests and forces himself to eat anyway, they're gone within two minutes. He eats his own with the slightly more leisurely pace of one who hasn't just burned every calorie in their body, and by the time he's finishing his last piece of toast Marc's staring at him with narrowed eyes, like he's eating slowly on purpose. When Dan pushes the plate back Marc climbs into his lap to straddle him.

  "You are way too heavy to be doing this," Dan says, then tucks Marc more comfortably against him, Marc's nose brushing against his temple, lips grazing the crest of his cheekbone.

  "Hey," Marc says with a squeeze.

  "Salut," Dan says, returning it, and Marc snorts over his no doubt terrible pronunciation.

  "You have been playing well," Marc says.

  "Yeah," Dan says. "I figure if I break Fyodorov's arm I can maybe make the team again."

  Marc lets out of huff of laughter, tired.

  "Let's go to bed," Dan says, quiet. It's been a long two weeks for Dan, and even though Marc spent the majority of it playing home games, being Toronto's version of the second coming probably isn't easy.

  Marc mumbles something incomprehensible and doesn't move.

  "If I have to carry you I'll probably throw out my back, and then I'll have to stop playing hockey," Dan guilts, getting his arms under Marc's thighs and bracing himself to stand.

  "Fuck off," Marc mumbles, but he gets up, and Dan follows him into the dark bedroom, neither bothering to turn the lights on, just undressing on opposite sides of the bed and then crawling in. Marc latches onto him as soon as he gets under the covers, and Dan tugs him in the rest of the way.

  "I missed you," Marc whispers, and Dan kisses his hair, closes his eyes.

  v. also-ran plays

  If it's supposed to get easier, that's bullshit. He texts Marc constantly, talks to him more than he talks to his mom—which is a lot, okay, Dan's a momma's boy and he's not ashamed of it—but every single time they have less to say to each other.

  There's hockey, there's always hockey. Dan's steady, having the best season of his life, the offensive part of his play finally clicking into place beside the brute force grinding. Marc's having the best season of his life, but he's also having the best season of anyone, pretty much, averaging at least a point per game, a streak that's reached ten games, the longest active in the league.

  So there's hockey, and then their families, Marc always genuinely interested in what Sarah's pet cause of the week is, or what movie she informs Dan that Marc must watch, trusting Dan to play the messenger. Dan's pretty sure they text each other on the side, but it's nice to play the intermediary. Dan's mom always sends her love, though Dan is pretty sure she is also texting Marc, because seriously, his mom is probably spending her lunch break drawing up papers so that they can adopt Marc properly.

  That's enough to fill some of the space, but it isn't like it is when Marc's there, Dan letting Marc babble until it washes over him and he just gets Marc's voice and an impression of his excitement, Marc not really bothered whether Dan's listening or not. When they're on the phone it always has to be about something, and Dan spends his days cataloguing things to tell, just so that he has an excuse to stay on the phone a little longer, which is probably pathetic.

  And then Marc makes a friend. Dan hears about this more from Sarah than Marc, because she finds it as adorable as, in her words, a baby bird leaving the antisocial nest. Ulf Larsson (and who the fuck names their kid that anyway?), who's tall and blond and Swedish and a total hipster, if Swedish and hipster wasn't redundant enough, who sits on the fourth line in the spot Dan had held onto by his fingernails last year. They start a little book club (adorable, apparently), and watch the kind of movies Marc likes (adorable!), and god
, probably stay up half the night talking about how much they have in common.

  Marc's heading out on more of the nights out (Dan's going to apologise for the google alert), and Ulf (seriously, that's his fucking name) is always there, stupidly attractive, looking more like a model than a hockey player, grinning with white chiclet teeth, because he's somehow managed to avoid hurting his pretty, pretty mouth. It's stupid, and petty, and irrational, but Dan still can't help but fume whenever 'Ulf' becomes the topic of conversation, 'Ulf' who seems to have made himself comfortable in every part of Marc's life that Dan used to inhabit, 'Ulf', when every other member on the team is referred to by their last name.

  Half of the information Dan's getting from Sarah's starry-eyed review, but he's getting plenty from Marc. 'Ulf', who unexpectedly shares a favourite movie in common with Marc, 'Ulf', who got the tying goal in a game they lose in overtime, 'Ulf', who loves Camus, for whatever that's fucking worth.

  "I don't fucking care about your Swedish soulmate," Dan snaps, after a Marlies losing streak, a long Leafs road trip, a full 12 days apart, and nothing but Ulf Larsson to fill the days, apparently.

  "Sorry," Marc says, sounding anything but. Still, he doesn't mention Larsson again, though that doesn't keep Dan from filling in the blanks. Ulf, who's probably feeding Marc grapes at this point. Ulf, who leaves Dan—and frankly most guys—in the dust, looks wise, who is, again in his sister's stupid words, 'a fucking babe'. Ulf, who's there when Dan can't be.

  The calls are getting shorter, more clipped, and Dan knows it's his fault, knows that Marc's trying, can hear him bemused, then a little angry, then hurt, but every single time Dan talks to him all he's reminded of is the distance.

  They're fine when they're together, it's them again, easy, Dan's entire family making sure Marc is fed and watered and content, Marc latching onto Dan like he's saved up every bit of physical intimacy and waited until they were in the same place at the same time. They're fine when they're together, they're perfect, but they're not together nearly enough.

  *

  It lasts until the new year, this purgatory, where the only reprieve is the way Marc touches him when he's home, like Dan's his home. And it's insane that it feels like limbo to Dan. Dan's playing really well, getting written up about, getting noticed, and his team's flying second in the league, Utica the only team edging them out. He should be overjoyed. And he is, when he's on the ice, because that's all that there is once he steps into the rink, just hockey. He remembers, every game, why he continues to do this, but the rest of the time he isn't quite sure.

  The New Year isn't special. Dan's got a game two days before, and two days after, so he gets a long break, but the Leafs are playing the Winter Classic New Year's Day, and Dan's got mandatory practice New Year's Eve. He spends it with his family, a quiet night in, and thinks about how excited he was at the idea of the Classic when it'd been announced last year, about all the stories he's heard, the players and their families throwing open the doors of their hotel rooms and congregating in a low-alcohol, kid-friendly celebration.

  Marc calls him at midnight, muffled noise all around him. It isn't anything like a kiss to ring in the New Year, but it's what they have.

  After New Year's, Dan finally resigns himself to the fact that he might be stuck in the minors. There was always a piece of him, large enough to drive him, that thought it was going to be a matter of time, that someone would start playing like shit, or someone would pull something, sprain something, break something, and Dan could edge his way back up again and prove himself. But the Leafs are having an insanely lucky year, no one knocked out by worse than day to day colds, normal wear and tear, and Dan stays right where he is.

  So Dan lives with it. He goes out with the guys, has a few beers, talks shop, listens to their girl problems and lets them be jealous about how he's escaped the drama of it. The calls to Marc are mostly texts at this point, and that well's running dry too. It'll be weeks before him and Marc are going to be both free and in the same place for any real length of time. Dan stops counting days, because that only makes it worse.

  His sister drags him out because he's 'sulking', her word, makes him interact with all of her downright awful friends, who suit Sarah, would suit Marc, and look at him like he just stepped out of a time machine from the dark ages. Sarah peels off with a new boyfriend (looser pants, at least), so Dan finds Alex and clings to him like a lifeline.

  Alex liberates a bottle of vodka, and they go sit on the fire escape, passing the bottle back and forth, knees knocking. Alex lights a joint, and Dan watches him smoke it, shakes his head when it's offered. He tries so hard to be good.

  "So tell me the problem," Alex says, when he's stubbed out the joint and grabbed the bottle back from Dan.

  Dan looks at him questioningly.

  "You tend to find me when you have a problem," Alex says, and Dan wants to protest that, but it rings true.

  "Sorry," he says, rubs his thumb over his thigh, looks down to the empty alleyway below.

  Alex shrugs, takes a pull from the bottle, coughing a little and handing it back. Dan clutches it loosely, watches it instead.

  "I'm in love," Dan says, finally.

  "And?" Alex asks.

  "And it fucking sucks," Dan says.

  "Cheers," Alex says, knocks his knuckles against the bottle.

  "How did you even deal with it?" Dan asks. "The long distance, me being gone all the time?"

  "I didn't," Alex says. "I was fucking miserable."

  Dan rubs his eye with the heel of his hand, takes a long sip of vodka. It burns going down, just like it's supposed to.

  Alex knocks his shoulder against Dan's arm. "You catch your Freckles?" he asks, and Dan looks over at him, surprised he even remembers.

  "Yeah," he says, and all it sounds is hollow.

  *

  Sarah drags him out again three nights later, Alex in tow. Dan's a little surprised, considering Sarah's dropped the whole Alex narrative, all gung ho about Marc, but it becomes clear when she reveals she broke up with the latest boyfriend, and Dan is desperately grateful for Alex's presence, because he is way better at dealing with it than Dan.

  "We're single, let's pick up hot men," Alex tells Sarah.

  "Nope," Dan says. He takes it back. Alex is banned. Also Sarah is banned from men, forever, for Dan's mental health. He has no idea how she's so fond of Marc, other than the fundamental Marc-ness of him, because Dan generally likes everyone, and he's invariably hated every single one of her boyfriends.

  It's definitely the fundamental Marc-ness. Dan can't even blame her.

  Alex pouts at him. "Really, Danny?" he asks. "Now that you have one, you won't let anyone else get hot men?"

  "No one related to me," Dan says. "You can."

  "Very generous," Alex says, dry, and Sarah laughs through tears, which Dan is, for the record, super uncomfortable with. Also tempted to go punch the asshole who made his sister cry. Only he's allowed to make Sarah cry. He's always failed—she was much better at making him cry when they were kids—but still.

  "Drinks," Dan tells the waiter desperately when he arrives, which is at least something Alex and Sarah can agree with.

  It's in that stupid blog again, the next day, which is ridiculous, considering Marc already stated Sarah was Dan's sister.

  "I thought Sarah broke up with that guy," Marc says, the next time he calls. It's definitely a confirmation that him and Sarah text. Honestly, it doesn't bother Dan.

  "What guy?" Dan asks.

  "The guy in the picture with you," Marc says. "He was in the last picture. The one where they thought you and Sarah were together."

  Dan wrinkles his nose. "Who?" he asks, finally, and Marc sends him the picture from the gossip column, him, Sarah, and Alex.

  "Oh," Dan says. "That's just Alex."

  "Alex Alex?" Marc asks. They had a fairly frank talk about sexual experience before anything happened. Marc didn't seem particularly impressed with the slutting around Dan did in their rook
ie year, though he said nothing, and other than that, Dan had a couple instances in Juniors and Alex, compared to Marc's one girlfriend in high school.

  "Yeah," Dan says, and Marc's quiet.

  "How is Sarah?" Marc asks, finally, and Dan's almost relieved to answer.

  *

  Dan sees Marc twice in January. The first time Marc comes over, eats with the family, watches a movie with the family, goes upstairs early, a long trip behind him, a bruise the size of Dan's fist on his hip, the bags under his eyes deep purple. He's lost most of his summer weight, and when Dan hugged him hello he felt fragile in his arms.

  He's already asleep when Dan goes upstairs, back to the door, and Dan fits himself around Marc as carefully as he can, presses his lips to the back of Marc's neck, squeezing his eyes shut hard enough they sting.

  The second time they fuck and Marc bites his shoulder hard enough that the mark stays vivid for days, Dan getting jeers and high fives in the locker room, because he's pretty sure his teammates half thought he was still a virgin, or at least celibate.

  *

  In February Pazuhniak breaks his foot and Dan gets called up. He's in Houston when it happens, and they stick him on a commercial flight, economy, so he folds himself into the seat, knees practically up to his nose, and flies out to meet the team in Detroit.

  Dan's pretty sure no one told the team he was coming. That's confirmed when he gets to the ice they're renting with just enough time to catch the end of practice and he can tell the second Marc sees him, because he stops paying attention to his feet and skates right into Buchanan, almost bounces off of him.

  Dan laughs, and Marc shoots him a smile, small, a little tentative, and when Marc gets off the ice he nudges him with his hip, hello. Dan nudges back, salut.

  After practice a good chunk of the team heads out to lunch, and Dan gets conscripted by Buchanan, who wraps an arm around his shoulder and manhandles him to a waiting cab. By the time he gets back, it's semi-official nap time, so Dan just gets the key to his room, goes to pass out.