"Oh god, you've transcended hockey," Dan says, and then at Marc's pleased and surprised face, "I do sometimes listen when you and Larsson and Sarah talk." It's not like he can avoid it.
"I have," Marc says, still cheerful. "But I got Perreault's autograph for you, so it is not all bad."
"Give it," Dan demands, and Marc laughs, hands him a sheet of paper that isn't even an autograph but a note, wishing Dan luck, telling him he's brave. Dan looks down at it, jaw tight.
"See?" Marc asks, gentle. "It is not all bad."
"Yeah," Dan agrees. "Yeah, okay."
x. an interlude
It's a little weird being the boyfriend of Marc Lapointe, Gay Icon. For one, Marc starts getting a lot more fan mail. Hate mail too, probably, but that gets filtered out before it reaches him. He insists on responding personally to most of it, to the girl in Laval with two dads saying everyone at school is suddenly jealous instead of mocking, to the teenager who came out to his team and was shocked when he was accepted with open arms, to the guy who enclosed a dick picture. Okay, maybe not that guy.
There are so many of those guys. Dan thinks Leafs PR are leaving them in just to fuck with him.
Dan's squinting at one such picture while Marc spreads the non-obscene letters on the hotel bedspread, pad of paper beside him. "You're going to get carpal tunnel," Dan says, looking at the way Marc hunches over the pad, the terrible scrawl of his handwriting. "Can't you just type them and then sign your name?"
"Not personal enough," Marc mumbles distractedly.
Dan sighs, looks at the unread piles littered everyone. Wonders when Marc's going to find time to actually sleep, between this and hockey. "Want me to answer some of them?" he asks, finally.
Marc looks up at him, beaming around a pen cap in his mouth.
"Fine," Dan says. "Give them here."
He refuses, however, to join Marc in his handwriting only endeavour. They can co-sign Dan's letters and Marc can deal.
*
The Leafs are embracing it too, hold a Pride Day during a Sunday afternoon game, handing out tiny little rainbow flags to wave so that the ACC is a riot of colour, a cry going up every time Marc touches the puck.
"There are so many more hot chicks than usual," O'Connor says, craning his neck to better see the crowd behind them. "Did you know they were so into it?"
"Yes," Marc says, from the other side of Dan. "That was our plan all along, pretend we are together so that we can meet hot chicks."
O'Connor looks at Dan, wide eyed. "Don't confuse the rookie," Dan chides Marc, then maturely ignores what sounds suspiciously like an evil laugh.
*
After a home game against Philadelphia they take with a decisive 6-1, the guys collectively go crazy, kidnap Marc and Dan (this is the last time Dan trusts Buchanan when he looks guileless), and head up to the gay village.
They all pile out of their various vehicles and into a gay bar, a plan Dan thinks he has to blame on Tremblay, who has taken it as an opportunity to wear pants tight enough Dan sees parts of him he only sees in the locker room, and only if he can't avoid it. Tremblay disappears onto the dance floor the second they get in, and is immediately dancing terribly around a small group of admirers who clearly care more about the pants—and the hockey ass in them—than the dance skill.
Marc and Larsson have gone off to fetch drinks, and from the glint in their eyes, Dan suspects that his request for a beer, please just a beer, is not going to be granted. Once he's been dealt the third hopeful look from teammates clearly checking in to see if they've made him happy with their choice of venue, Dan escapes to go find them.
He finds them at the bar, where Larsson is looking on with evident amusement as some twink's edging so close into Marc's space he may as well be humping his leg. "You're that hockey player, right?" he hears, as Dan comes up, raising his eyebrows at Larsson and getting raised eyebrows in return. "The gay one? That's so cool. Do you want to dance or something?"
"I have a boyfriend," Marc says, some of that amusement in his own voice, and he leans back slightly into Dan as Dan comes up behind him, like he knows that it's Dan just by the way he takes up space.
The twink gives Dan a glance, then dismisses him as uninteresting. "I'm Jacob," he tells Marc. "And what your boyfriend doesn't know won't hurt him."
He's so cliche it actually hurts a little. He has glitter on his face. The last time Dan had glitter on his face was when he was embroiled in a pretty serious prank war in Juniors. He doesn't know why anyone would wear it willingly. That stuff never comes off.
"I'm Dan," Dan says with a little wave, and Marc snorts. Jacob gives him a pretty eloquent look, one that says 'I'm busy, what do you want?'
"His boyfriend," Larsson adds helpfully, a distressingly colourful tray of drinks in front of him.
Jacob gives him another once over, clearly cataloging that Dan's got six inches and fifty pounds on him.
"I like your glitter," Dan says, and Marc collapses back against him, giggling so much that Dan has to wrap an arm around his waist to keep him upright as Jacob decides that booking it is the better part of valour.
Larsson disappears with the drinks, and Marc tips his head back to look at him, grinning. "Were you checking up on me?" he asks.
"No," Dan says. "I wanted a beer, and I knew you two idiots weren't going to get me one."
"We got cocktails," Marc agrees, bright.
"Yeah," Dan says, "and I'm getting a beer."
They aren't usually much for public displays of affection, even after coming out—or to be more accurate, Dan isn't, and Marc respects that—but Dan keeps his arm around Marc's waist while he orders his drink, tucks his fingers in Marc's belt loop.
"Are you feeling threatened?" Marc asks, clearly amused by everything tonight.
"Nope," Dan says, and he isn't. Trusts Marc, and also knows him well enough to know that this sort of shit bores him stiff, like it bores Dan, now that he isn't constantly hooking up. But they're in the kind of place that won't give that contact a second glance unless someone happens to recognise Marc or Dan, and Dan likes that, likes that he can do what any of the guys can do with a girl at a bar without comment. "This was a terrible idea," he says. "It was Tremblay's, wasn't it."
Tremblay has lost his shirt somewhere already, and has some guy's arms hanging off his neck.
"I think it is sweet," Marc says. "They are trying to understand."
Dan gets his beer, pays for it. "And this will help them understand us?" he asks. "Cocktails and strobe lights?"
"I did not say they were doing a good job," Marc says. "But I want to see them drink the cocktails."
"Brat," Dan says, and drags Marc back over to the table, which is currently loaded up with a bunch of manly men sipping cocktails with pleased surprise.
"This is delicious!" Pazuhniak declares with utter delight, saluting them with something violently pink.
Marc gives him a speaking look, and Dan's mouth twitches. Okay, it's worth it for that.
Tremblay somehow acquires a feather boa and convinces a few of the boys to dance with him, and the rest of the guys remain at the table drinking a terrifying number of cocktails. Dan tries to remind them that just because they don't taste alcoholic doesn't mean they aren't, and when that only receives disinterested looks, estimates how many calories and how much refined sugar there is per cocktail, which is slightly more effective.
They're not the first ones to leave that night, but they're not the last ones either. When Dan's nutrition duty is done, him and Marc leave a good number of guys behind, Tremblay waving the boa at them in farewell, and head home.
The next morning some pictures have popped up, nothing better than camera phone quality. There's one of them at the table, Marc tucked under Dan's arm (and this is exactly why Dan doesn't do public displays of affection), but that's massively overshadowed by a photo of Tremblay getting down with O'Connor on the dance floor, boa and all.
That gets Tremblay some questions from the clearly
amused local media, and his panicked "I just like to dance!" does him no favours at all, the team plastering Tremblay's stall with photos of ballerinas wearing Tremblay's face, and one particularly agile opponent pulling out some figure skating skills in pre-game warm-up, and mockingly bowing at Tremblay before skating away.
*
In Boston it briefly looks like they're going to have a repeat of the Stevens incident. Lafferty's been following Marc around all game, spouting something in his ear, sticking to him like a burr, and Dan doesn't care if they were bros back on the Battalion, he will knock him out if that means Marc doesn't get into another fight with someone twice his size.
Marc takes care of it all by himself, though, laughing in Lafferty's face after he says something, and Lafferty looks so downtrodden at his failure that Dan doesn't have the heart to go beat him up.
After the game Dan nudges Marc's knee with his own, checking in, and Marc smirks at him.
"He said you gave him a blowjob in Juniors and that it was terrible," Marc says.
Dan freezes, cheeks heating up. Marc knows a bit about his history—knows about Alex specifically and that Dan wasn't exactly inexperienced otherwise, but it's not like Dan went around naming names. And he was pretty sure there was an unspoken code that what happened during Juniors stayed in Juniors.
"You look so scared," Marc says, amused. "Do not worry, I told him you are much improved at it now."
"Marc," Dan hisses. "Don't talk about my blowjob skills on the ice."
Larsson, who'd approached them without Dan noticing, just turns on his heel and walks away, mumbling, "Why is it always me that hears this shit?"
*
But other than the dick pictures, and the tiny rainbow flags, the cocktails and the unfortunate memories of sucking Lafferty's dick, it's probably the closest thing Dan's had to an actual, normal, uneventful season.
Sarah gets a boyfriend that makes Tight Pants look awesome, and Marc joins Dan in the 'scare this douche away' crusade. He's way better at it too, because physical bulk can only do so much, but a sharp tongue is forever. They successfully drive the douche away, and take Sarah out to commiserate over cocktails, sharing a celebratory high five under the table. Okay, it's just Marc's hand inappropriate and proprietary on his thigh, but close enough.
Marc and Dan have a grand total of one fight that doesn't blow over in an hour, and it's about Marc leaving his towels on their hardwood floors because, in Marc's words, you are twenty-one, Dan, not fifty, what do you care, and in Dan's, that's both gross and terrible for the wood, and also how hard is it to hang a freaking towel up? Seriously.
That one lasts three days and gets half the locker room divided along the barricades of cleanliness and horrible mess, before they spectacularly win a game and have equally spectacular make-up sex in the hotel after. Larsson, who was in his room next to Marc's instead of out celebrating like the rest of the guys, can't talk to either of them without going oddly bashful a week, and Dan thinks he overhears him having a nervous breakdown the morning after, mumbling "why is it always me?" over and over to his breakfast while Buchanan pats him consolingly on the shoulder.
Marc has a decent, if not mind-blowing season, or, a season that would be mind-blowing for just about anyone else, but raises some eyebrows with the press anyway. Dan's season is great, but the majority of the Leafs are in the 'decent but not mind-blowing' camp with Marc. They miss the playoffs by a single point, and the media's on it like it's the end of the world and they've never heard of Stanley Cup hangovers in their lives.
On media day, Dan cleans out his locker, losing Marc in the process, and finds him trapped by a horde of reporters, looking calm, amazingly, because whenever Dan has even close to that many microphones near his face his first instinct is to run.
Dan watches for a minute, Marc's face not losing its composure even as he's practically accused of being the reason the Leafs didn't make the postseason, like everyone's forgotten that hockey's a team sport the second it's no longer convenient as a narrative. After a few more questions along those lines, and Marc's patient, media-ready answers, Dan turns around and packs up the contents of Marc's locker as well, so they can make a quick getaway.
When he returns there are still a few tape recorders running, but the horde has now descended upon Coach Walters, probably off to accuse him of destroying the season. Dan stands behind the reporters, holding up their bags, and Marc smoothly wraps it up, taking his bag from Dan, who the reporters notice and then advance toward.
Dan takes a step back, eyes darting around for an exit, and Marc laughs, tugging him by the wrist out to the garage, throwing their bags in the back. Marc sits in the passenger seat, just closes his eyes. Dan watches him for a minute, the bruise peeking out from under his t-shirt, the way he looks so tired.
"Next year," Dan promises.
Marc doesn't say anything, but after a moment he smiles.
xi. upon further review of the play
The first blow comes when Larsson gets traded in the off-season. No. That's not quite true. Buchanan retiring, putting down his 'C', that's the first blow for Dan, but for Marc, it's Larsson.
It doesn't help that in exchange for Larsson going to Florida Toronto gets Jackson Vargas, who is a piece of shit, the only person Dan's ever dropped gloves with that he genuinely wanted to pound until he cried. Vargas is dirty, and he's cheap, and Dan doesn't even know if he can share a locker room with the guy.
Dan doesn't tend to take things said and done on the ice personally, but this guy he takes personally. Vargas who slew-footed Marc last season, and Marc narrowly avoided concussing himself again by managing to catch himself painfully on the elbows instead of the head, winced whenever he bent his arms for days after, skin shaded the dark purple of the worst bruises. Vargas who made eye-contact with Dan on the bench as he was escorted to the box, made eye-contact and fucking grinned, all teeth, like a shark. And that hadn't even been the night Dan fought him. There are too many incidents for Dan to wipe the slate clean.
Marc wanders around the apartment looking bereft for days. Marc doesn't make friends easy, or at all, and he seems at a loss, calls Larsson in Sweden and racks up his phone bill bitterly cursing the management while Larsson, Marc reports, simply talks about how thankful he is that he won't have to sanitize his eyeballs anymore.
So that's the first blow. And it's not exactly an insignificant one, for either of them, especially since that means Dan's probably stuck returning to pretentious movie-watching now that Larsson won't be picking up the slack. And Dan has perhaps grown to like Larsson. A lot. And will miss him as well.
But regardless, it's just the first of many.
*
The second blow comes when Marc sprains his ankle walking down the street. Marc had somehow managed to completely avoid ankle injuries in almost twenty years of skating, yet sidewalks apparently elude him. It's the off-season, so it could be worse, but Marc's training stalls while he imperiously orders Dan to get various things, milking his injury for all it's worth (Dan didn't even do this when he broke his ankle), and the recovery time puts him behind schedule, returning to training in fits and spurts, the things he can do, the things he shouldn't push unless he wants to tempt a more permanent injury. He still probably pushes it too early, before he's 100%, but when training camp comes he's out of shape, at least compared to usual, and for once he doesn't embarrass everyone else without bothering to try.
He's solid, of course, because Marc's never less than solid, but he goes without a point in the pre-season games, and the papers are getting alarmist before games are even worth anything.
They name Halliday captain. Dan's never had anything against him, but Halliday's never really been there either, not like Buchanan was, not only tolerating the rookies trailing him like ducklings, but welcoming them, welcoming Dan, into his home, into his life. Halliday's been in the room forever, and by the time Dan and Marc made the show he'd gotten over the ebb and flow of kids coming up and falling back down, an
d Dan's spent years in the room with him without feeling like he really knows him.
They offer Marc an A, Halliday's A. Marc turns it down. That makes sense, Marc never comfortable in the centre of things, never going to be the backbone of the team in any way except on the scoresheet. Dan still thinks they could have picked a better second option than Pazuhniak, and hopes he's at least brushed up on his rookie speeches since he was faintly horrifying Dan. He doubts it, though.
*
They start the season like shit. They'd been okay in the preseason, were 50/50, at least, but it's like everyone forgets to play hockey at the same time. Or that Halliday is a shit replacement for Buchanan, but there's nothing to be done about that.
Vargas should be on the third line, but he put on weight instead of actually training that summer, so they put him on Dan's opposite wing in Larsson's old spot. Their line probably suffers from the fact that Dan can't look the guy in the eyes without gritting his teeth, but no one in the media cares because every other line is imploding at the same time.
Marc seems a little adrift without Buchanan on his wing, is taking passes too late, always a step out of sync with his linemates. They fold like paper their first game, 5-1, and it doesn't get any prettier their second game, or their third. After five straight losses the mood in the locker room has hit funereal, people mumbling at one another instead of shouting across the room, Marc's head always down so he doesn't have to talk to anyone.
They win their sixth, but drop three more immediately after, and Coach gets fired the next day. It's an off-day, so Dan and Marc stay glued to TSN in numb disbelief, watching the last good thing their team has get taken away.
"It is not fair," Marc says. It's such a childlike thing to say, a Marc thing to say, always believing the world is fair until events prove otherwise. But it isn't fair, and Dan would like some of that assurance, some belief in fundamental rightness, because right now he would rather barricade himself in this apartment with Marc than step into that locker room tomorrow.
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