Long Live

Bruno got his call first. Like they used to when they were kids, they had joked about it in the days leading to their joint golf charity. They had a bet, smiles on their faces, laughs and promises. “Just wait,” one of them would say to the other. “I’ll go first, because nobody wants you.” It was innocent fun, but secretly, Max knew they probably both told themselves at night that someone did want them, someone would, and they would get that call. Reassurance went a long way in the midst of the longest summer either of them would know.

But Bruno’s came first, and the unease set in again. It had been a week since Max had told the guys he was leaving, since he had cried the entire drive from Montreal to St. Hyacinthe, since he had asked himself if he was ready for this. The answer had been yes, but now, watching Bruno’s phone and eyes light up nearly simultaneously, he wasn’t so sure.

When Bruno wandered back to where Max was standing beneath a willow tree, he was grinning from ear to ear. He held both of his arms up in triumph.

“Tampa Bay!” he said, exuberant. “I’m going to Tampa Bay.”

Max snorted, almost dropping his golf club. I wish Marc was here to laugh with me. Still, he congratulated his childhood friend, and half-listened as Bruno began wondering about the beach and the women there. The two of them walked back across the course, to the handful of people waiting, corners of their lips lifted by a summer breeze. For them, it was just another day, just another golf tournament, just another sunny patch of grass.

Not to a hockey player. Not to Max.

Tomorrow is Free Agent Friday. Where will I end up? It was like closing your eyes and picking a place on the map, only some places didn’t want him, didn’t need him. He could understand that. Hell, that was part of the reason he’d left Pittsburgh in the first place. He had given his agent a list of teams, and now he just had to wait, eyes closed, for someone to guide his hand to the new city he’d call home.

He got one call just before lunch from his agent, to tell him Chicago was out. Max had kind of been expecting that, but he tried to be as jovial as possible.

He got another call during lunch, saying Toronto had made an offer, but considerably lower than what he wanted. The answer was obvious.

The last call happened in the middle of the afternoon. The team was willing to match what he wanted--and even give him more. Max could barely hear, his heartbeat taking up all the stray space in his head, rocketing, bursting, like fireworks on a summer night. He and his agent talked it over, and before he knew it, he was standing in the middle of a golf course, unable to believe what had just happened. He had been so worried that nobody would want him, and the team he had expected to want him the least--

And what was worse? He was going to do it. His agent said he would call him back soon to finalize it, to give Max some time to consider it, but even as he was hanging up, Max knew. He was going to sign with them. It was like ripping off a band-aid, over and done with before you even had time to realize you were hurt.

Bruno jogged over, his face concerned. “Well?”

Max shook his head, unable to speak.

"You okay? Did you get signed?"

Max nodded. His tongue felt numb, fuzzy, unable to shape words and give them meaning. "I...I am going to, yeah."

"With who?"

Max shook his head. He loved Bruno, always would, but his excitement was too much, too soon. “I…I need a minute. Okay?”

Bruno frowned slightly but nodded, backing up. "Let me know," was all he said, before making his way back across the green. Max watched him distracting their patrons and guests, before walking away as fast as he could towards the trees, dialing quickly, his club forgotten on the course.

This was what Max wanted. He wanted a team, wanted to be a part of somewhere, and maybe the place wasn't exactly what he'd envisioned, but he knew them, knew them almost as well as the Penguins, like an extension of himself. It was like standing on the opposite side of the street, staring at something familiar, seeing things from the other side. Max wanted those fresh eyes.

But he knew not everyone would. The call had been almost mechanical, a reflex, something he started before he even knew what he was doing, but he knew it was right. He knew if anyone would understand, it'd be him.

“Can’t talk right now,” the other person answered. “Trying to decide where to go on vacation.”

Max took a deep breath. “How about Philly?”

There was a pause. “And why,” Sidney Crosby asked, “would I go there?”

“To, uh, see me?”

There was an even longer pause this time, before Sid said, “Well?"

"Well what?"

"What’s the joke? Where’s the punch line?”

“It’s not a joke, Sid.”

“The last time you said that to me, it was a joke, so I don’t know if I can trust you.”

“Trust me, this isn’t a joke.” There is nothing funny about this.

“Okay, see, you say that, but--”

“Dammit, they made me and offer I’m going to say yes.” The words rushed out in one breath.

Pauses were quiet, filled with background noise: the drone of a TV, Sid’s dishwasher, Bruno’s laugh in the distance the birds hopping from branch to branch in the trees surrounding Max, chirping at each other and fluttering into flight. They always had sound to accompany them, to let Max know his words had been heard, and the world was still turning.

What followed his declaration was silence, as if everyone on Earth had heard, and was standing there in the middle of whatever they were doing, stopping to stare in horror. There was no sound, no noise, no music or laughter, just cold disbelief. It was like with one sentence, Max had single-handedly slowed time.

“You’re--” At the sound of Crosby’s voice, hoarse now, everything spun back into focus, fast-forwarding, the grass greener, the sunshine brighter, noises flooding Max’s head: laughter, birds, summer, life.

“Signing with Philadelphia. Yeah.”

The phone crackled with a whoosh of breath and Max could picture Crosby standing in his kitchen, the counters clean, the floor immaculate, hand in his hair, kingdom crumbling beneath him.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay,” Sid said firmly. “Okay, you’re going to Philly. This is obviously something you’ve thought through, something you want.”

Max blinked. “So that’s just it?”

“Max.” His voice was almost patient, bemused. “If there are two things I know, they’re hockey, and you. Yeah, I won’t lie, I hate that team. Hell, more than the team, I hate that entire organization. We lived that for years together; you know it better than anyone. But strip away all the bullshit--the Commonwealth Cold War, everything--and you’re left with something I hate to admit, even to you.”

“Which is?”

“A good hockey club. They play the game. They’re a classic. They’ll be great for you.”

Max smiled, clearing his throat. “You think so?”

More than not having a place to go, this scared Max. He had never been one to care about acceptance -- if people didn’t like him, they could fuck off. He’d rather have fun than impress people. But when it came to telling his captain -- former captain -- and one of his best friends that he would be joining a team more their enemy than anyone else, he was terrified, afraid that this would be the end. Even now, his hands were shaking, like he was about to dive off a cliff. And wasn’t he?

But hearing Sid’s words…they meant more to him than he would ever say.

“Yeah, I really do.”

“Thanks, man. I figured I should call you first, make sure you didn’t want to kill me or anything.”

“Max, come on. What have we been through? Seriously. Obviously it's not ideal, but if this is what's best for you, then I say go for it.”

Max’s smile grew, as he leaned back against the tree. A weight had been lifted off his chest, but one still remained, growing larger by the second. “You’re right. Good news is it’s looking like they’re gonna pick up Jagr too, so they won’t hate me too much.”

“Eh, I don’t think they will. Philly cares more about winning than grudges, or at least, I’d like to think so. Maybe that’s too optimistic of an opinion; you can never tell with these crazy sports cities --”

“I wasn’t talking about Philly.”

It took Sid a second to decode what he was talking about. “Hey,” he said softly. “Give us some credit.”

“Come on. You really think the fans won’t call me a traitor? I can just hear the boos now…” He laughed quietly, though he didn’t find it funny, not even a little bit.

That thought hurt. I didn’t necessarily want this, but how will they know? Max had been around for a while; he knew the games, on and off the ice. Without warning, people would be there, saying things, forming their own opinions and making their own harsh judgments, people who had no idea what it was like. But those were things they couldn’t control, things they had to prepare themselves for, building up fortresses, thickening their skin into armor, veritable knights behind fortified castle walls. It was the price they all played for being in the lights, for laying their hearts out on the ice. Sooner or later, they knew, someone was going to skate over them.

“Well, if Jagr really does sign there, maybe you won’t have to.”

“Right, I forgot, I’m not that bad yet. Or, I guess I should say that good.”

“Hey,” Crosby said again, his voice sharp. “Shut up. You--you, Max Talbot--are a hockey player. You hear me? You’re a fucking hockey player.”

Max let out a breath, remembering days long since past, days of a summer standing beneath a rain of confetti, black and gold sprinkling the ground. “I was, wasn’t I?”

“You still are. I heard this thing once. ‘The most enduring heroes are people who don’t try to be.’"

“You think so?”

“I know so.” Startling to Max was the certainty in Sid's voice. He kicked at the ground, smearing mud on his white shoes, trying to think of something to say, something that would probably be dumb and sentimental, before Sid spoke again. “So have you told him yet?”

Him could’ve applied to so many people: to Max’s father, to one of his brothers, to Dan, to anyone. But Max didn’t even need to ask to know who Sid was referring to.

“Not yet. I called you first.”

“I’m glad. But you need to do it, Max.”

“I know.”

“I’m serious. Call him.”

“All right.”

“Right now.”

“All right! I just gotta--” There was a sudden beeping. Max held out his phone. Call waiting. It had a 267 area code. He held the phone back up to his ear, his heart skittering low in his chest. “Sid, I gotta go. They’re calling me.”

“Oh. Okay. Well…good luck, man.”

“Thanks.”

“We’ll miss you.”

“Me too.”

“Max?”

“Yeah?”

“Everything is going to be okay. I promise.”

Max swallowed hard. “How do you know?”

“Are you kidding me? I’m Sidney Crosby. I just know.”

Max laughed. That dumb kid had the world wrapped around his finger, and it wasn’t hard to see why. They said their goodbyes, and Max answered the phone just in time to say his goodbyes to Pittsburgh. On a conference call with his agent and Paul Holmgren, they sealed the deal, giving him what he wanted--and then some. Max couldn’t thank them enough as they told him they'd announce it the next day, but there was still one person left on his mind, one person he had to call before everyone else, before the world told him first and he really was the last to know.

But how? How could he do that to Marc-André twice within one week? It was twice the pain, adding insult to injury. He didn’t want to call him, didn’t even want to speak to him, and maybe that was bad, awful, but what Marc didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, couldn’t hurt him. But you know he’ll hear it from someone else, and then what will he think of you? Max groaned in frustration, lightly punching the trunk of the tree beside him, slumping against it. He knew he was being selfish, but it was to save Marc from what was supposed to happen next. Max would rather fall on his own skates than do what he was about to.

And where were the words? Instead of writing stupid books like Reading For Dummies, they should write a self-help book, something to tell you how to ruin someone less painfully, something detailing, with diagrams and examples, how to break someone’s heart without leaving a scratch. But that was the thing; Max knew it wasn’t fucking possible. That pissed him off more than anything.

I’m leaving, and I’m going to our most intense rivals. Max shook his head. Your. Your rivals. It hit him then, with a sick wallop, right in the stomach, making him queasy.

This would never end. Every single word would hurt, because it would be spoken across the airwaves, across the miles. Every time would hurt, every time they faced each other across the ice, the lines between them, blue, red, different logos separating their bond like someone standing between them and pushing away. Maybe it would hurt less in between, when Max didn’t have to see him, when he could hit and score on others in red, white, black, blue, but the moment they met again, the wounds would re-open, never healing, never scarring, just there to ache when Max missed his best friend the most.

How the fuck am I going to do this?

There was only one way to find out. He could’ve dialed the number with his eyes closed and his phone upside down, but he took the time to actually do it, worrying at his lip with his teeth, stalling, stalling. When it began ringing, a wave of dread rushed him, swallowing him.

“Uh, yeah, this is Marc-André’s voicemail. I guess you, um, know what to do.”

“Shit.” Max grabbed onto one of the branches, digging his fingers into the bark. “Look, man, I was hoping you’d answer, but--”

“Then maybe you should’ve called earlier.”

Max frowned. “What the fuck?”

“Good question,” Marc said, his voice shaking. “I wanted to hear what you had to say but I didn’t want to talk to you.”

“You’re talking now.”

“Which is stupid of me. You should be talking.” There was some particularly eloquent, inventive swearing in French on the other end. “The Flyers, Max? Do you just hate us, or what?”

Max scowled. He hadn’t wanted this, and yet, here he was, seconds from falling to his knees and begging for forgiveness. The urge was so strong, he was surprised to still be standing. He had never heard Fleury so angry before, except maybe when they lost the Cup in 2008, but this was different. This was personal.

That was why suddenly, Max didn’t care if the fans hated him, if they screamed “traitor” at him when he played Pittsburgh (a weird thought in and of itself). Hell, he didn’t care if Sidney really did hate him, if he spat in his face, if he checked him on the ice, if they fought. Everything boiled down to this, to Max just needing to make things okay with one person, with Marc-André Fleury, with Flower, the happy-go-lucky kid he had met in 2005, so fresh-faced and eager, so hopeful and fun, so inspiring and always, always there for Max when he needed him.

“Marc, I--” I can’t be sorry, because I’m not. But this wasn’t what I wanted, for either of us. “How did you hear?”

“I’m a hockey player too, Max. We always know before the people. And they’re signing Jagr too?” More swearing. Something crashed in the background.

Max waited. Fleury carried on for a few minutes, but Max didn’t say a word. After the slamming and the yelling was done, there was just silence, but not the kind earlier with Sid. This kind was the kind shared between two friends listening to each other breathe, caught in a tangle of despair, neither of them sure how to break free.

“You’re an idiot,” Marc finally said, breathing hard.

“Maybe.”

“No, not maybe. You are.”

“Yeah, okay, I’m an idiot.”

“Did you know?”

Max frowned. “That I'm an idiot?"

“No. About leaving, about everything. You did, didn’t you? I remember the engagement party, Max. Everything you said…you knew this would happen.”

Max’s mind filled with lights, blue green pink, plastic cups, a darkened hallway, drunken words. Briefly, he remembered what he had said. “I didn't know. I had a feeling.”

“Why didn’t you say something? Why are you leaving it all until now?”

Max sighed. “Because I thought it would hurt less.”

“Well you’re stupid.”

“I know.”

“Why am I even friends with you?”

“My dashing good looks and charm?”

“Fuck that. You’re nothing but trouble.”

Max smiled, though he felt weird, like he was standing on the edge of a precipice and looking down. He was glad nobody was nearby, because he had the overwhelming urge to cry. “Yeah, but we had fun, didn’t we, Flower?”

Marc took a long time to answer. When he did, his voice was thick. “Yeah, we did. Probably a little too much fun, but we did."

Max took a deep breath, the smile fading. “Look, it doesn’t change things. We’re still us, you know?”

“No, no, it does change things. It does. I’ll never look up to see you dancing in the dressing room, or messing with Sid. We’ll never talk again during warm-ups--”

“Sure we will!”

“--and be able to chirp the same team. We’re different now, Max. The jerseys say so.”

“But that’s just work, you know? It’s our job. That’s--that’s nothing, man. People have been friends on rival teams, it happens.”

“Take away our jobs, and what are we?"

“Best friends?”

Marc huffed out a breath. “It’s still going to be weird.”

“I know. But you're getting married anyway, you know? Things were bound to change."

"But not like this. Who am I going to talk to?”

“Okay, now you’re just being dramatic. You talk to everyone, Flower.”

“So? Not like I talk to you.”

“I know."

“This is weird.”

“Yeah. But you know what? I’ll only be a couple hours away. Plus, we’ll play each other constantly; we’ll always be around to visit. We may have to buy sunglasses and fake beards--” Marc let out a strangled laugh, and Max’s heart leaped with hope. “But it’ll work out, dude. And you know what else?”

“What?”

“Jerseys come off. So what if my loyalties change on the ice? They won’t change off of it.”

“They better not.”

“Hey.” Max wiped at his eyes, blinking. “Come on. You and me?”

Marc sighed, almost bemused. “Me and you.” There was a brief pause. “But you know, orange is not your color. You will look awful. Hideous.”

“Yeah, it never really was, but you know what?” Max smiled. “I think it might grow on me.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Max’s first game back in the ’Burgh, and of course, not only did Jagr score, but Max had to go and score the game-winning goal. Fucking jerk.

Fleury swiped the puck away with his stick, so angry that he wanted to hit something. It was always tough losing, letting in a goal. Worse than that was losing to Philly, but when his best friend was the one to do it? When Max was the one swarmed by teammates, celebrating, after making Marc feel like shit? That was the worst thing he could ever do.

It had been weird, adjusting to how quiet the dressing room was without Max. Of course eventually it got noisier again, once the shock wore off, once there were new guys filling old spaces, but Marc still felt the absence of him, like an itch he couldn't scratch, couldn't reach, right in the place in the middle of his back. They texted constantly, but it wasn't the same, and both of them knew it might never be. They could try and lie to themselves as much as they wanted, but that would always remain the same.

After the game, Max was waiting in the corridor, messing with his phone. When Marc walked by, he looked up. “Hey! Dinner? It’s on me!” There was laughter in his voice, as usual, as always.

Your jersey’s off, Marc thought, reminding himself of the phone call they'd had months earlier. Taking a deep breath, he spun on one heel, his hands in his pockets. He didn’t want to smile, but he ended up doing it anyway, out of habit, his muscles remembering the way they had always flexed into that shape whenever he and Max were together. “Sure. But we have a flight tomorrow, so we can’t be out too late.”

Max fell in step beside him. “So do we.”

You and me, me and you, but not us. Not anymore. That was going to be a tough pill to swallow; always would be. Even now, there was a bitter taste in his mouth, a hill he would have to learn to get over after every game, during every dinner, so he could smile again and mean it. Sometimes, he wondered if it would be easier if they just hated each other. Marc didn’t know how to hate anyone, least of all Max, but sometimes he wished he did, to have a place, a neat little box, to store all his anger, all his frustration.

Still, Marc knew better than anyone, nothing worth winning ever came easy.