Long Live

Of course it was Philadelphia. Of course, of course, of course. Somewhere, the Hockey Gods were pointing at their TV’s, laughing over a case of beer, because Marc refused to accept that it was anything but cruel fate. They had tried so hard to catch up to New York, to break the 4-5 match up that was headed their way, to escape their instate rivals for the next sixteen games, saying goodbye to them until next year. And Marc wanted that, needing time away from Max, away from seeing him in that awful, hideous orange jersey, away from seeing him across the ice, heading towards Marc when he should’ve been skating away, away.

He was starting to think, though, that it might not be possible for him to ever get what he wanted.

The series was weird, beyond fucked up, and every night Marc wanted to smash things, slamming his stick into walls, snapping them in half, or crunch glass beneath the heels of his favorite shoes. Anything to simulate the sound of what was happening inside of him, because in one week, he went from having forty-two wins under his belt and a hell of a season, to letting in nine goals in one game and completely, utterly failing. It was like he wasn’t himself, like he was watching everything going on from outside his body, like he was seeing someone fall down the stairs, landing right on their face, only it wasn’t funny, because the person turned out to be him.

I led the team here, and now I will be their ruin. This can’t be the end.

But after going to six games, it was the end, and what started off as violent, bloodthirsty, ended in a line of shaking hands, slumped shoulders, and slyly hidden smiles. Marc’s back ached and his palms were sweating; shaking hands with a team like them was the last thing he wanted to do, wanting instead to travel back to ten minutes earlier, to a time where he could’ve made a save, could’ve saved the game, could’ve done more to stop what was happening. Instead, he watched through a blurry haze, as his arm seemed to lift of its own volition and reach, squeeze, release. Some of the guys complimented him, most of them uttering the same phrase over and over again, good game good game good game, but it wasn’t a good game, that was a lie. It was only good for you if you were wearing orange, if you were the ones triumphant. Was there ever such a pointless practice of repeating that endlessly after a game? It was only ever going to be a good game for one team; the others would shake hands, thinking instead fuck you fuck you fuck you and go home with heavy hearts and numb fingers.

As the line coming towards him grew shorter and shorter, Marc’s heart began to race. The numbers flashed by in front of him: 44, 48, 17, 28, 10, but not the one he was looking for, never the one he was looking for, not yet, but he was coming, making his way towards him. Words crawled up Marc’s throat, forming a crowd, jockeying for position, words of anger, of hurt, of everything he had ever wanted to say to his best friend, the imbécile, but never had, out of respect, out of love. Hands, more hands, more talking, nods from Marc, all through a sheen of frost, a curtain hanging over him, softening the sights and sounds of the Flyers fans still hanging around, still cheering, still breaking their hearts over and over.

And just like that, #27 was beside him, and before Marc could even open his mouth to let those words spill, Max was reaching an arm up into a hug, pulling him close and tapping his mask a few times, just like he used to. Stunned into familiarity, Marc hugged him back.

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Words. There were so many words, so many things Max wanted to say, that he felt he ought to say, but what were they? What words would make moving on without his best friend easier for the two of them? And even now, when he needed them the most, the right words--the important words--were failing him, speeding in the other direction away from his mouth, hiding ever deeper. Max hoped, more than anything, that Marc would hear the ordinary words, and still feel the right ones underneath. Wasn’t that what friends were for?

“Uh.” Max’s mind blanked. “You were great, Flower.”

Those dark eyes found his, and Max could see the hurt there, the disappointment. “Liar.”

“Am I still invited to the wedding?”

Fleury’s grin was half-hearted at best. “Try not to show up. I dare you.”

“Right. Well…” This was always the hardest part. “I’ll see you.” You mean everything to me, mon ami. “And Flower?” You promised.

Marc waited expectantly. So did everyone behind Max, the few of his teammates that were left, waiting to shake hands with the losing goaltender.

“You and me?” I love you, man.

Marc’s eyes glimmered. “Me and you.”

And with that, they were gone, moving past one another.

Sometimes, words failed. Max knew, always had, because his words failed all the time, winding him in holes he’d dug too deep, in pools of quicksand pulling him under, but he hoped, always hoped, that people would wade through his bullshit, that they would find him worthwhile enough to read between the lines when his words came out ass-backwards and so wrong.

The worst times were now, when Max realized, skating to the center of the ice with his teammates, watching #29 retreat, followed by his former brothers, that sometimes there were no words, that there were endlessly strange words for almost any other situation, but for the two of them, grown men and hockey players, there were no words adequate, no words strong enough, no words good enough for him to convey what he wanted and needed to tell Fleury. Trying to find them was like walking through a funhouse full of mirrors; just when you think you’re going to escape, you run smack into your own reflection.

So maybe Max would never know how to tell him, but still, he knew, and he hoped that Marc knew too, just how much he had changed Max’s life.

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Marc was going to get married, and now that everyone--not just Max--knew, and of course, there had to be a party.

Everyone was there: the guys, their families, Vero’s family, Marc’s. They crowded the house in Quebec, spilling out the open doorways, onto the deck and the front steps, in the pool, where green, blue, and pink lights changed, pulsing beneath the water. Music played outside, and Marc’s dad stood at the grill, churning out food for everyone, even those coming back for seconds. He wore a captain’s hat on his head and a silly grin on his face. Seemed like everyone did, knowing that finally, finally, the couple that had been through everything together, were finally going to be joined as one.

Coolers were Max’s favorite thing about pool parties, both the frequency of them, and the stock. There were at least four in the backyard alone, all of them full of bottles slick with ice water and cold to the touch. He had been there since the morning, helping out, setting up, parking cars, fetching new drinks for other people and now, just after dusk, it was his time to relax. He wasn’t drunk, not yet, that would come later. It was enough, though, that he’d had a few beers and his head was pleasantly light and airy, filled with thoughts of the future though it was.

Max knew how he should feel, and he did. He was happy, so happy for Flower, for his best friend. Though he referred to Vero as “the wife” many times before, they were now going to make it official, with a ceremony, a black tie affair, with roses and a church and the two of them standing at the end of the aisle, watching her walk down it. So of course, he was thrilled; Marc had only waited the better part of twenty years. But lingering there with what he should feel and kind of did, was an overwhelming dread that he tried to pretend he didn’t feel but knew he did.

You’re just being selfish, he tried to tell himself. Quit worrying about your contract and think of your friends. Yet, he couldn’t shake what was happening in his chest: there was a funny rattle and shake going on every time he thought of the wedding that would happen the following summer.

It’s nothing, he kept telling himself. I'm happy.

Still, Max felt the urge to talk to Fleury, to get out whatever was happening. If there was any one person he could talk to, it was Marc, always him. Sid was a close second, but he was standing in a corner, chatting with Dupuis and Sullivan while their children ran around in floaties, and Max didn’t want to bother him, not when he was finally managing to smile again. Max glanced over his shoulder; Fleury was still surrounded by a horde of relatives, his and Vero’s both. As if he knew Max was watching, he looked over his shoulder and caught Max’s eye. He made a face, widening his eyes. Help.

Max smiled. It was the least he could do, right?

Grabbing a fresh beer to replace his empty one, he sauntered over to the crowd and lightly grabbed Fleury’s arm. “So sorry, but I need to borrow the groom-to-be. We’ll be just a few minutes…”

Vero smiled and nodded, and the circle closed around Fleury’s empty space, before the crowd began towards the pool.

“Thank you.” Fleury’s voice sounded so relieved that Max had to laugh.

“You’d better get used to it, buddy. That’s your life from now on.”

“Yeah, but I won’t have to see them all the time. Here, come on, I need a drink.” Marc stooped to grab a beer, before Max followed him into the house.

He’d had a bit more to drink than Max, and the two of the stumbled slightly down the dim hallway. The noise of the party faded, the two of them mostly alone indoors. A chorus of laughs echoed from the backyard, but nobody seemed to notice they’d gone. Good.

“So what’s up?” Fleury asked, after taking a gulp of his beer.

Max was about to talk, about to explain how all of this was so new that he didn’t know how to react, but something distracted him. Max turned to the wall, gaze focusing in on the panes of glass, framed in silver, all the memories that had been captured and immortalized for him to see. The photos were alive in his eyes, and all at once he was back in time, transported to a sticky night in Detroit, the cameras flashing and the taste of champagne heady and sweet in his mouth. He would always remember that moment in the back of his mind, how their hands had shaken, how their fans in the crowd had gone wild. He felt like a king at that moment when they read off his name, all their names, staring up at the lights, looking around at the guys, at Marc, standing there, holding his head like a hero on some history book page. It was the end of the decade, but the start of an age.

Directly before them was one of Max’s favorites, a picture of the two of them hugging after the Final, waiting for the Cup to come out. He had been saying something, and Marc was mid-laugh, caught in a festive reply, his hair soaked and hanging in front of his face. Max could still feel Marc’s hands, latched onto his jersey, hugging him for all he was worth. Long live the look on your face.

Max tapped the frame with one finger. “Hey, remember this?”

“Of course I remember it.”

Max grinned, punching Marc’s chest jokingly. “You and me, man. That was our game.”

They had done the impossible, crashing through walls, breaking down everyone’s doubts. Standing there on the ice, pulse still racing from adrenaline, it felt like the lights in the arena shone for him and Marc alone, just the two of them, me and you. Regardless of what anyone else said, Max knew it was true: that team, that year, they had made magic. All the years before, the years of hardship and struggle, the years of not making the playoffs, standing there on the sidelines and wishing for that moment, were all gone. Marc had traded his baseball cap for a crown; they revived a team that nobody thought would survive. It was only reinforced when they handed the Cup over to Crosby, and he skated around, screaming, holding it up for the fans at home, for the fans in the stands, for everyone who believed. Of course, the cynics were outraged, the Detroit fans screaming, “This is absurd!” because for just a moment, their rugged band of thieves got to rule the world.

Sure, it had been a team effort. It was always a team effort, always the group, always all of them combining their individual styles and particular skills to complete the bigger picture, to come together to win. Max and Fleury hadn’t carried the team for all sixteen games, though they had helped enough when it counted, but they did carry the team for the one game that mattered the most. Your save at the end, my two goals… it was our victory, our moment. We moved mountains, we fought dragons. We will be remembered.

Marc snickered. “And you complained you didn’t get the hat trick.”

“Yeah, that sounds like something I would do.” He laughed, but the sound quickly faded.

The party noise was still there, just out of sight, reminding Max of the inevitable end to their moment, when someone would surely go looking for the man of the hour. Max stifled a sigh. Seemed like everyone had been waiting for that moment, especially Vero. And Max had too, of course he had, but the ramifications of what that meant were only just now occurring to him, closing in on him, making it hard to breathe. They’d get married. They’d have kids.

And then where will I fit?

Two years ago, Max had stood in the middle of a roped off street, listening to the hordes chant his name. Confetti fell to the ground, showering him in black and gold, and he spun, hands out, catching the memories. He thought in that moment he’d stay in Pittsburgh forever. Now, he wasn’t so sure.

“Hey,” Max suddenly said, his voice serious. “Promise me something.”

Marc was still grinning, still nostalgic, eyes glancing over the other pictures, gleaming. “What?”

“Promise me you’ll never forget this.” Max tapped the picture again. I had the time of my life with you.

“How could I? Max--”

Max shook his head. “Uh-uh, let me finish. Promise me that no matter what, you’ll remember that. But not just that.” He pointed to Marc, and then to himself, the two of them alone in the hallway. “This, too. Don’t forget this.”

Marc frowned slightly. “Are you drunk?”

Max couldn’t help laughing. “No, not yet.”

Marc didn’t seem encouraged. His dark eyes were still concerned. “Is something else wrong?”

“Nope, nothing’s wrong. I just want to be sure.” Max turned back to the pictures, walking a few feet down the hall, looking at all the glory, all the magic.

“Sure of what?”

“That if for some reason, something happens, and I don’t end up here…”

Marc’s eyes widened. “They are going to sign you, Max. I know it. The fans love you too much.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. It’ll happen. But if God forbid, fate should step in and force us into a goodbye, promise me you’ll still be here.”

“I don’t like the way you’re talking. Are you worried about how long they’re taking? Because these things happen, man, it just--”

“Just promise me, Flower.”

Fleury took a deep breath, before shrugging and nodding. “Fine. I promise.”

“Look, man, you’re getting married. I have to prepare myself, okay? So, if you have children someday, do me a favor: when they point to these pictures, please tell them my name.” Max took a deep breath, fighting past the feeling clutching his chest.

Marc swallowed hard, nodding.

“Tell them how the crowds went wild. And tell them how I hope they shine.”

When Fleury spoke, his voice was hoarse. “Tell them yourself. You’ll be babysitting.”

Max smiled, but there was something sad about it, something wistful. “You wish.”

“Just wait and see, mon ami. But yes, I promise, to all of that.” Marc reached out, placing his hand on Max’s shoulder and squeezing. “You’re my best friend.”

“You and me?”

Flower smiled, his trademark grin lighting up the hallway. “Me and you.” He let go of Max, standing up straight and clearing his throat. “So wait, if you won’t baby-sit, does that mean you won’t be my best man either?”

“What? You weren’t seriously thinking of asking me, were you?”

“Well, yeah.”

Max smiled, his eyes prickling. He hadn’t always been the best person -- to women, and otherwise -- but for someone who wasn’t directly related to him to consider him for that role, that symbol of friendship, was the biggest and best compliment he could ever receive. And yet…

He smiled, clapping Marc on the shoulder. “I’d be honored, Flower, but I’m not the man for the job.”

“What do you mean?”

“Come on. Sid’s got the job in his pocket. Sit next to a guy on planes for what, six years, and you snub him like that? He’ll never recover.”

Fleury grinned. “You sure?”

“Yeah, man. I’ve overqualified. Ask the Kid to do it. It’ll make him feel more important. Besides, it’ll be better if he handles the bachelor party. If I do it, we’ll probably end up in prison in Mexico dressed as mariachis or something like that, and I don’t want Vero to cut my head off.”

Fleury burst out laughing. “Good point. You better be a groomsmen then, or whatever they are. I don’t really know; this is all Vero’s specialty.”

“Don’t worry man, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Hurried footsteps approached from the direction of the kitchen, and Vero herself swung into view. Her face brightened at the sight of them. “There you are! My parents are about to cut the cake.” She reached for Flower’s arm.

His mouth dropped open. “There’s cake? Why didn’t you tell me?” He glanced over his shoulder as Vero began tugging him away, his smile radiant. “Come on, Max, there’s cake!”

“I’m coming, man.” Max laughed to himself, shaking his head. He followed, watching as the two of them wrestled and laughed, Marc reaching one long arm to mess up Vero’s hair, and her poking and tickling him as they headed outside.

Max watched them go, draining the last of his beer. Things were changing and Max was powerless to stop them; that was how life went. But no matter what new things happened in Fleury and Vero’s life, and no matter where Max ended up, Pittsburgh or otherwise, a huge part of Max knew: this was where he belonged.

Silently, he raised his empty bottle to the images behind him, to the best friend bent double with laughter on his way out the door.

Long live us.