2minsforslashing | (no subject)

Title: Never Alone
Author:

nofaves
Characters: Ty Conklin, Marc-André Fleury
Rating: G
Warnings: So squeaky clean, your grandmother could read it.
Summary: Story opens a few weeks after the initial outbreak of the High Ankle Sprain PENdemic of ’07-’08.
Word Count: 1,358
Author's Notes: Beta’d by me, since I have no one to serve in that capacity. :(
Disclaimer: I don’t own these guys; I merely rent them space in my head.

A pale yellow rosebud in his dressing room stall.

A picture postcard featuring a vivid garden of tulips, sent to his hotel room.

In his email inbox, a subscription to “Flower of the Day”.

And once, after a particularly trying practice, a seven- or eight-year-old girl handed him a white carnation.

Each day, every day (with one exception), something different. A different Flower.

It couldn’t be coincidence, thought Ty. Had to be that French prankster, just trying to needle him, get under his skin, get into his head. But what he didn’t understand was why. Why would a guy do something like that to his own teammate – his own backup? With the season’s outcome at stake? This type of prank seemed like one that you’d play on your biggest rival…

A rival. Was that how Marc-André saw him?

Ty buried that thought deep within his mind, in that lonely graveyard of bad goals and dressing room dramas. This was not a place he ever visited. He merely used the mental location as a dumping ground, a processing plant. All successful goaltenders had a way to deal with the inevitable missteps of life; this was Ty’s way.

But day after day, the flower appeared in one form or another. The sole constant was the game-day yellow rosebud, cunningly hidden somewhere in his stall. Once the long stem had been left on and it was threaded through the grille of his mask. Another time it was pinched between the thumb and basket of his catching glove. And once he’d found it pinned boutonniere-style to the front of his sweater.

Ty had not spoken of this to anyone, had let it all pass, but wished he knew what was driving Marc-André to play this… headgame. I mean, he understood that the kid was probably bored out of his mind being on the injury shelf, but that didn’t seem reason enough to go to such lengths.

And Ty knew what it was like to be injured. A guy doesn’t fully feel like part of the team. Sitting in the stands watching your teammates work, and play, and then to hear their little jokes and references to past games and practices – they all mean less to you if you’re not right there with them.

So was this Marc-André’s way of staying close? Ty wondered as he glanced across his bedroom to the potted begonia he’d found in his car after his first shutout. But even that reasoning didn’t make sense. After all, he barely knew the kid; he’d only met him and gotten to know him in camp that fall, and then again the past few weeks. The outgoing, always-smiling young man hadn’t seemed to Ty to be the kind of person who had a hard time fitting in with the guys, injured or not.

And every time he’d seen him around the arena, he was laughing and chatting with his healthy teammates, or sitting in the stands with Max (who was also no slouch in the personality department). Often he’d wondered what kind of mischief they’d been concocting between them, but now Ty feared that he himself might be the brunt of their joke.

This kind of distraction he did not need. He was going to get to the bottom of this. First, he realized he’d better have proof that Marc-André was the man behind the flowers.

So he’d shown up an hour early to the arena on his latest home start. He’d parked a few blocks away so as not to give any warning he’d arrived. Sure enough, Marc’s SUV was parked in its usual spot. Ty slipped inside and headed to the dressing room, shushing and waving people off on the way there.

Finally, he rounded the bend and peeked into the room, and as expected, there he was: rosebud in hand, staring at Ty’s stall as if considering his next placement.

“Just hand it to me, Marc. I’ll make it easy on you this time,” drawled Ty, careful to keep his tone even and non-threatening. He wanted answers from the kid, not a confrontation.

But Marc-André was blushing furiously and, most surprising to Ty, not smiling.

Ty took a few more steps and closed the distance between him and the young netminder, expecting the sheepish version of Marc-André’s megawatt grin to flash across his face. It did not.

The older man extended his hand and watched as Marc-André placed the yellow bud there. The kid’s shoulders drooped as he wordlessly turned to leave the room.

Stopping him with a hand, Ty gently spun Marc-André around to face him again. “Marc, why?” asked Ty, holding up the rose. “Is this some joke? Or are you just trying to let me know that this is your job and you’ll be here when I’m gone…”

The words died on Ty’s lips as he caught the expression on Marc-André’s face. The naked pain, the disbelief that he would be so misunderstood – all reflected in the boy’s round, wide eyes and slack-jawed gape.

“Non! No way… not what I meant… not what they mean…” he stammered in increasingly broken English, his eyes darting this way and that as if he were a deer trapped within a fence.

“Hey, chill. Ne t’en fais pas,” Ty whispered, using the little French he’d picked up in his travels. When this seemed to calm the young man, he continued. “I just want to understand why. Can you explain?”

At first, it appeared to Ty that he couldn’t explain himself, but he patiently watched the young man compose himself and his thoughts. “Goalies are always alone,” Marc-André stated haltingly. “On the ice, it’s the team – and you.” He let out a tense breath and met Ty’s gaze squarely. “With this,” he said, pointing to the flower, “you are never alone. Good or bad, win or lose, I’m with you. You’re not alone.”

Ty stood poleaxed at the kid’s words. He never saw that coming. In all the years he’d played, at all the levels – in junior, in college, various minor league teams, and finally The Show – he’d never had a fellow goalie make such an effort to show his support. And in the middle of the dressing room, with half a dozen staffers milling about in the course of doing their various jobs, Ty returned that support the only way he knew how.

He pulled Marc-André close and enveloped him in a fierce embrace. Tears dropped from his tightly clamped eyelids and he didn’t care. He felt the kid tense up at first, but finally allowed himself to relax in Ty’s arms.

“Thanks, Flower,” he murmured in Marc-André’s ear. When they parted, Ty turned toward his stall and grabbed his chest protector, then sat down on the wooden bench. He placed the piece of equipment on his lap, lifted up the left-side pad and showed the young goaltender a small rip in the canvas-like covering. “Don’t worry about finding a new place to hide that rose every time. Here’s where they belong,” he said, sliding the bud into the inch-long hole under the pad. “Just make sure you get all the thorns off of ‘em first, OK, kid?”

*******************

The playoffs. What every athlete lives for.

But this year, it’s so much sweeter, Marc-André thinks. Last year, Ottawa schooled us. Tonight we can show them the lessons we learned.

He picks up his chest protector, places it over his head, adjusts the straps. Then out of the corner of his eye, he catches a flash of color that doesn’t belong… Roses?

A piece of white equipment tape holds a knotted necktie to the back of his stall, its pale yellow rose design a stark contrast to the burnished wood. Written on the tape are the words ‘jamais seul’.

His face brightens and a smile that could light up the arena on its own appears. He glances over at his backup, who’s grinning from ear to ear.

Marc-André unfastens his protective gear’s Velcro strapping and pulls it off. He grabs the tie, opens up the loop and slides it over his head before covering it with his pads.

Never alone.

Current Mood: cheerful

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