“Dishes first,” Mike says, and Liam sighs explosively. Still has that holdover from adolescence, Mike supposes. Instead of trying to lure Mike to bed he helps Mike rinse, loading the dishwasher with the dishes Mike hands him. It feels domestic, kind of ridiculously so, and a few years back that would have made him nervous, but he sort of likes it tonight.
Mike doesn’t have hockey anymore. Doesn’t have booze, or more than a measly cup of coffee a day. Can’t properly exercise, handle an entire movie, read more than a chapter of a book at a time, drive up to Duluth without needing a break at every fucking rest stop. Can’t keep his hands from shaking.
He has Liam, though, and maybe that’s not much, maybe that’s not enough, but in this moment, it suits him just fine.
Chapter 21
Two days after Detroit clinches a playoff spot once again, Liam calls Mike up and says, “I think we’re going all the way this time.”
“You ever heard of jinxing yourself?” Mike asks, because they haven’t even finished the regular season yet. Mike’s never been particularly superstitious — certainly not in comparison to most hockey players, who have more superstitions than they do missing teeth — but Liam says that in his locker room and he’s going to get a lot of guys pissed at him, which is jinx enough.
“I mean it though,” Liam says.
“Can’t know what’s coming,” Mike says.
Liam’s quiet for a moment, just long enough for Mike to get suspicious. “Will you come if we make the Finals?” he asks, and Mike realizes that it’s the first time Liam’s asked him to come to one of his games since that drink in St. Paul two years ago. He asked in ignorance then, had no idea how much he was asking for. He knows what he’s asking for now.
“It’s ‘if’ now, huh?” Mike asks. “Not ‘when’?”
“Someone told me I can’t know what’s coming,” Liam says. “Will you?”
“I’ll think about it,” Mike says. “You’ve got three rounds to get through before that’s anything other than a hypothetical.”
“I know,” Liam says, but he says it like he’s humoring Mike, not like he actually agrees.
*
Mike pays close attention to the playoffs that year. Well, close attention to the Red Wings, at least, which is still more than he has since he retired.
It’s not that Mike hasn’t been keeping an eye on the kid’s career since they went back to being — whatever they are, but he’s usually limited it to checking the box score the morning after a game, listening to Liam exult over a two point night or complain about a rough game and catalog his bruises. Kid usually has more of them than Mike did, not necessarily because he bruises easy but because he’s an easy target, or looks like one at least, gets nailed as many times in a game as Mike used to nail guys, and his tendency to plant his ass in front of the net gets him knocked down a lot. Gets right back up, most of the time, stubborn little shit, but it always leaves its mark on him.
Mike traces those bruises whenever Liam comes to him, not gently, exactly, because Liam doesn’t like gentle, but carefully. Traces the places where other people have left their mark on him and bites back the anger that washes over him, unsure if it’s the implied violence of them or the mere fact that someone else has left an imprint on Liam’s body that has him pissed.
One of those things would be better. One of those things would mean he was a better person.
He’s still not sure which one it is.
The Red Wings tear through the first and second rounds, Liam racking up point after point after point. He’s never played like this before, Mike can tell just listening to the games, doesn’t need to see it to know he’s running red hot. Mike has never made a habit of reading press, not even when he was playing, but he finds himself skimming articles about the Red Wings, looking for Liam’s name. It’s always accompanied by praise, not just from the Red Wings beat, but from the national stuff too, Canadian and American, and Liam deserves it.
It’s not just Liam pushing them forward. Everything seems to be going right for the Red Wings: the goalie’s hot, the D is close to impenetrable, they’re comfortably rolling four lines that are clicking. It really looks like Liam might have been right, that this is their year. At the very least, it’s his, the breakout year Mike always knew he had in him, and someone’s going to be paying through the nose for him when the off-season comes along.
The Red Wings head to the Western Conference Final, beat the Kings in six. The series winner is an absolute rout of a game, 6-1, and Mike buys himself a ticket to Detroit before the final buzzer goes.
“You fucking see that?” Liam crows an hour later. Mike can picture him right now, hair damp from the shower, throat raw from celebration, burning brighter than anyone else in the damn room.
“I saw,” Mike says, then, because that isn’t quite true, “Well, I heard.”
“So—” Liam says, almost hesitant, and Mike knows what he’s going to ask before he says it.
“Coming in on Tuesday,” Mike says, and Liam exhales all in a rush.
“Good,” Liam says, “That’s — thanks.”
“You asked,” Mike says.
“I did,” Liam says, then again, “Thanks.”
“Go celebrate,” Mike says. “I’ll see you soon.”
“Yeah,” Liam says, and Mike can hear him smiling.
*
Liam’s parents come into Detroit for the Finals, which Mike should have expected, but somehow didn’t. They’re staying at a hotel at least, not in Liam’s guest room, so Mike doesn’t have to awkwardly share space with them, everyone pretending not to notice he’s sleeping in their son’s room every night. Mike doesn’t know what Liam’s told them about the two of them — doesn’t want to know what he’s told them — but it’s one thing to know your son’s decided to waste his time on a washed-out enforcer, and a whole other thing to have it rubbed in your face.
Peter and Barbara Fitzgerald are the quintessential ‘nice people’. Polite, friendly but not overbearing. They're your average middle-aged couple, the kind you might see wandering around a tourist trap with fanny packs on, maybe rocking socks with sandals. Honestly, Mike has no fucking idea how they produced Liam. They’ve got nothing in common with him.
Well, there’s hockey at least: they never leave the subject during a dinner the day Mike arrives, Liam talking over his parents whenever he gets excited, which is, of course, all the time, both of them giving him indulgent looks, probably more than used to it.
Mike mostly pushes his food around; his steak is overcooked, though not overcooked enough to send back. The flight in seemed to piss off every single shit part of his body, so he’s an ugly mix of exhausted, nauseated, and sore. He barely has the energy for Liam right now, let alone strangers, and he feels awkward as fuck, resentful, because this isn’t what he agreed to. Liam keeps snatching fries off his plate, eschewing his own steamed vegetables, and Mike keeps his head down so he doesn’t have to see whether Peter and Barbara are watching.
After dinner Liam’s parents head back to their hotel, but not before they give Liam long, tight hugs Mike can see him wince through, probably battered as all hell after three rounds. Peter shakes Mike’s hand, which he’s fine with. Barbara kisses him on the cheek, which requires him to bend down a little and embarrasses him. Obviously he’s not going to say shit about it, though.
Later, lying in Liam’s bed while Liam dozes beside him, his fingers tracing over Liam’s back, careful to skirt any bruising, Mike feels for the first time that day like he made the right decision, hopes that feeling will last.
*
Agreeing to come to the actual games was a terrible fucking idea.
Mike knew that when he agreed to come, of course — he hasn’t exactly been avoiding watching Liam’s games out of spite — but the crush of sound before the game even starts, twenty thousand people making idle conversation, that’s already too much. The roar when the Red Wings take the ice is close to unbearable.
Mike
wasn’t stupid enough to come without ear plugs, but even with them the noise is incredible. He doesn’t remember it ever being this loud, but he’s sure it was. It’s Mike that’s changed, not the game.
Mike doesn’t see a lot of the game itself. His head’s pounding with his pulse, started before the puck even dropped, and it’s getting worse every time the jumbotron tells the crowd to crank up the noise, every TV timeout, a blur of movement and color on the screen he can’t shut out unless he closes his eyes. He can’t fix his eyes on anything but the sticky floor beneath his feet without things going unfocused and blurry anyway, and if he shuts his eyes it gets worse, leaves him feeling blurry and unfocused. He shuts them anyway, squeezes them tight.
He can feel a hand settle on his back, start rubbing slowly. Liam’s mom. Well, he thinks it’s her: his sense of direction’s shit right now, things are spinning drunkenly around him. Vertigo’s a goddamn bitch, and so is irony, considering he can’t take a sip of alcohol anymore but he gets the damn spins anyway. He has to keep fighting off the urge to shrug her hand off his back, because it doesn’t help, honestly makes things worse. He can’t bring himself to do it. She means it kindly, he’s sure.
Far more helpful is the way she’s narrating the game right into his ear, a low murmur Mike has to struggle to hear, though he’s sure Barbara must be half yelling so Mike can hear her over the crowd, through his ear plugs. It’s probably bugging the shit out of everyone around them, and fuck, Mike can just imagine how it looks to them, him not even bothering to look up at the game when he’s sitting in a seat that probably cost half a grand. They like to find players’ families in the crowd, Mike knows, and he hopes to Christ they don’t find the Fitzgeralds, or if they do they leave him, white-knuckled and nauseated, out of it.
Mike heads straight to Liam’s apartment after the game, takes the strongest shit he has. He doesn’t know when Liam gets in, because by then he’s thankfully, painlessly asleep.
*
Mike goes to the next one, though it takes him the two days between the games to steel himself. This time they’ve got a box, at least, have it all to themselves despite the fact it’s probably meant for a dozen people. Mike doesn’t want to think about the kind of money Liam shelled out for that, or alternately, what he had to tell the Red Wings to get them give up that kind of cash cow. Doesn’t want to think about what Liam’s parents told Liam after the game. They had to have told him something, because Mike didn’t say shit. Liam’s got bigger things to worry about right now.
It’s humiliating, the idea of them talking about him behind his back, humiliating in a way that makes him want to pack up and leave, that makes it impossible for him to look Liam’s parents in the eye. He wants to apologize for taking them out of the action, forcing them to babysit him, split their attention between their kid, who’s in the goddamn Stanley Cup Finals, and his invalid fucking whatever Mike is, who can’t even handle being a spectator without getting sick.
It’s still too loud, and he still can’t watch the game without getting dizzy, the forced perspective, so high off the ice. It isn’t as bad as watching it on TV, where the panning camera and constant change of angle is enough to get his head pounding within a minute, but he finds it easiest to keep his eyes on Liam whenever he’s on the bench. He’s easily identifiable, even half swallowed up on the bench, shortest guy on the roster. Mike can recognize him just by his posture — the set of his shoulders, the way he’s always leaning forward, keeping an eye on the action, his head in the game.
“I didn’t want you to come,” Barbara says during first intermission. Mike’s watching the slow sweep of the zamboni across the ice, missing something he can’t put into words.
“I don’t blame you,” Mike says.
“I didn’t mean it like—” she sighs. Mike’s heard that sigh before. It’s the one Liam uses when he thinks Mike’s being purposely obtuse, and he’s usually right, though not always. Mike vaguely wonders if it’s something hereditary or learned. Either way Liam obviously got it from her. “I told Liam it was unfair of him to ask you to.”
“He just asked,” Mike says. “I was the one who agreed.”
“He didn’t leave you much choice,” she says. “Never does, does he?”
Mike snorts. It’s strange, how she can simultaneously be almost on the mark but also so far off it she’s landing in another zip code.
“He asked,” Mike says. That’s all he’s got to say about it.
Barbara gives him a look he doesn’t bother to try and decipher. “He’s really glad you’re here,” she says. “It means a lot to him.”
Mike doesn’t know how to answer that. ‘I know’ sounds too flippant, even though he does know. It’s why he came, why he’s subjecting himself to the fucking hell that is this arena, the different hell of sitting up here instead of on the bench.
He doesn’t say anything in the end. There’s no right response.
*
Mike sticks around in Detroit while Liam goes to Tampa for games three and four. He comes back with two triumphant wins in hand and an injury he’s not hiding particularly well. He’s moving around gingerly in a way Mike doesn’t like, this split-second delay to all his movements, like he’s calculating whether sitting down or getting up is going to hurt. Probably every movement hurts a little with the myriad bruises he’s sporting, but it’s different now. He was ginger already by the time Mike came into town, but the way he’s holding himself, Mike’s concerned he’s nursing something serious.
He can’t tell what’s hurting Liam beyond the fact it’s something upper body, doesn’t know if it’s a strain or a sprain or something harmless but painful. All he can hope is that the docs aren’t incompetent or turning a blind eye for the sake of the playoffs. Worries that they probably are, that Liam’s pretending nothing’s the matter and so are they.
Playoffs have always been a whole other game than the regular season: refs toss most of the rulebook out, every hit is thrown with the intent to injure, players play with injuries that’d normally take them out for weeks. Mike knows all that firsthand, and he’s never been on a team that’s made it past the second round; he imagines the Finals is all that ramped up to eleven.
“You hurting right now?” Mike asks.
“Everyone’s hurting right now,” Liam says with a one-shouldered shrug. “We’re almost there.”
They’re almost there. Well, either that or they’re at the point where it was within their grasp and they lost it, but Mike doesn’t say that out loud. They’re up 3-1 in the series, so they’d have to crash and burn pretty fucking spectacularly to end up without the Cup.
“You good to play?” Mike asks.
“Of course,” Liam says without hesitation, and Mike wonders if he should have asked a different question.
“Anything I can do?” Mike asks, and it’s definitely a testament to how much Liam’s hurting when he shrugs and says no, because Mike can’t count how many times he’s milked a minor tweak or slight stiffness to get Mike to give him a massage. Not that Mike minds: he’s not exactly a professional masseuse, but he’s pretty good at finding where it hurts and pushing until it gives, and more often than not it leads to some pretty good sex, Liam humming with the pleasure that comes with the sudden absence of pain.
Bruised up as he is right now, a massage would probably do more harm than good, and Mike’s pretty helpless to do much else except offer a literal hand, see if endorphins might take the edge off the ache. Liam’s not hurt enough to say no to that, but then, Mike doesn’t think it’s possible for Liam to be hurt enough to say no to that. Kid prioritizes sex somewhere above sleep and food.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” Mike says that night. One more game is all they have to play, if they play it right, and Mike would prefer Liam intact at the end of it. Unfortunately, Liam has a tendency to throw himself in the worst spots if it means he’s getting the puck, right in the path of guys inevitably twice his size. Mike hates it, even though he understands it. It
must be worse for his parents, who don’t, can’t.
Liam grins. “When have I ever?”
“Do you want that list numbered or bullet pointed?” Mike asks.
“Fuck off,” Liam says, then yawns. “Sorry.”
“For being tired?” Mike asks.
“It’s early,” Liam says.
“Yeah, but you’re putting your body through a fucking meat grinder,” Mike says. “Not going to hold being tired against you right now.”
“That’s a really lovely thing I’m picturing now, thanks,” Liam says. “Guess that’s what you get from being from Fargo.”
“Wood chipper,” Mike corrects. “And I’m going to pretend I didn’t just hear you call me a fucking North Dakotan.”
“Minnesota, North Dakota, same difference,” Liam says with a wave of his hand, and he’s fucking lucky he’s hurt right now, because that’s the only thing that saves him from Mike putting him over his fucking knee.
Chapter 22
By the time Game Five rolls around Mike’s almost gotten used to Detroit, but he really fucking hopes they win it tonight. Because he wants them to win, obviously, but if the Lightning win tonight the Red Wings are heading back to Tampa, and Mike didn’t travel all this way just to listen to Liam win it on the radio.
Worst case scenario is it drags on to Game Seven, and Mike doesn’t want that, not when he knows that they’re on the cusp of it all, have Tampa on the ropes. When he doesn’t how much more Liam’s body can take of this.
They’re back in the crowd this time, which isn’t surprising; Mike doesn’t want to know how much a box costs when the Cup’s in the building. If he thought Game One was loud, well. He’s prepared for it this time at least. Has his ear plugs, has noise canceling headphones over that, because who cares if he looks fucking stupid if it saves him some pain. Has painkillers on him anyway, and he takes those less than halfway through the first, suffers silently until they kick in and the pain in his head mutes a little.
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