"Wish You Were Here"
Apr. 10th, 2006 08:06 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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2minsforslashingTitle: Wish You Were Here
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
zdarovyeh
Rating: R, mostly for language and a smidge of adult content
Characters: Marcel Goc (San Jose Sharks), Marco Sturm (Sharks/Bruins), Christian Ehrhoff (Sharks)
Disclaimer: So made up, it’s FICTION. I do not know these people. I don’t own them. I don’t believe they’re really like this off the ice, just pretend they do.
Author’s Note: Hi, relatively new here, dragged over by mycrackdealer enabler, harleymae. This fic was written as a birthday present for her, and she suggested it be my first post to this community, so, there’s my dedication, too. :)
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
“It’s not supposed to be like this!”
I realized I whined, and next that I probably sounded like Mason throwing a temper tantrum. But, dammit, I was having a temper tantrum.
Marco, God love him, tolerated it better coming from me than he did his son. He probably would’ve spanked his son for it. He knew better than to try doing that to me. Hmmm, now there was an interesting thought…
His words yanked me out of that pleasantly distracting daydream. His voice was shaky, as he said, “It’s part of the business, Marcel, you know that. Trades happen.”
We were in his room, the hotel room in Dallas that he had shared with Patrick Marleau last night, that he’d spend one last night in, and then he was gone. Marco was packing. Patty had been kind enough to give us this time alone, while he said his good-byes to Wayne and Brad.
“I know.” I still felt petulant. I could’ve helped him pack, but instead I dropped heavily on the edge of his bed, bouncing his suitcase up and down, which of course jostled the contents and made his jaw set because I’d ruined the nice neat order of his stuff. Fuck it, I thought angrily. Fuck his nice neat order and his logic and his fucking professionalism. I began kicking the frame of Patty’s bed irritably. “But you’re supposed to be part of the core of this team.”
He paled visibly, pausing in his packing to swallow hard, before he continued at the slow pace of an old man. “I was,” he corrected me. “But the opportunity to get Joe Thornton on your team doesn’t come everyday. I can understand why Doug had to act on it. He’s a great player, Patty’s talked about him a lot. He’ll be a really good asset for you.”
I kicked the bed hard enough to make it skitter sideways. “I don’t want him to be an asset for us, I want you!” I burst out.
He finally snapped. “Fuck you, Marcel, you’re not making this any easier!”
His anger cut through my wallowing self-pity more effectively than any appeals to my sense of maturity did. I could see the tears threatening to fall once more. “I’m sorry, Marco,” I apologized, and meant it. Dammit, now I was going to cry. “It’s just—“
“I know,” he said hoarsely.
And then he dropped his socks on the floor, right there on the floor, where they didn’t belong and should’ve annoyed the hell out of him but he was coming at me and climbing on me and kissing me and holding me and pushing me back on the bed and pushing the suitcase onto the floor and pulling my shirt off and pulling my pants off and oh, God, how was I going to last the rest of the season without him?
Later…
“Are you planning on going home anytime soon?” Christian asked me bemusedly.
I sprawled on his comfortable IKEA couch, drinking his tasty German beer and watching his crystal-clear HiDef TV. I should know they were all good, since I owned the same damn things. But why should I bother going home when I had the same damn things here? “No.”
His elbow jabbed me in the ribs as he sat beside me on the couch. “Then at least scoot over so I can sit down, too.”
I moved an inch.
“Oh, thank you so much,” he said sarcastically.
I didn’t reply. The only thing I could think to tell him was how warm he was, and how his cologne reminded me of Marco. I didn’t think he’d appreciate that.
Later…
“How’re you doing?” Marco asked.
It was two weeks after the trade, and we were on the phone. “Okay,” I lied. “It’s not the same without you around though.”
“I noticed you’re not scoring. From the box score,” he added in a rush.
I felt my cheeks begin to burn. “I’m not. But it’s only been two weeks.”
“You can’t think like that,” he chastised me. “Make sure—“
“…I’m doing everything else. I know, I know,”
I could hear his beautiful smile through his voice. “I’ll be there next week.”
“I have lunch in my schedule already.”
“See you, Marcel.”
“See you, Marco. Wish you were here.”
Later…
“I can’t believe you’re having lunch with Marco and you didn’t invite me!”
“Christian…”
“Don’t ‘Christian’ me,” he retorted. “You’ve been over here almost every day we’ve been home since the trade. You know I’d like to see him, too. I can’t believe you’d exclude me like that.”
He was right. He wouldn’t believe why I’d exclude him like that.
“Get out,” he said.
I got out.
Later…
“We’re not going to be able to see each other anymore, you understand that, right?” Marco asked me at lunch.
“Why not?” I asked, taken aback.
“East Coast, West Coast. Boston will play San Jose at most twice over the next three seasons. And during the off-season, I have my family.”
“What about the Olympics?” I blurted out desperately, grasping for straws.
He smiled his beautiful smile at me, and this time, I got to see it. “Sure,” he agreed. “I’ll see you at the Olympics.”
Later…
“Christian?”
No answer. I knocked again. “Christian, come on, it’s me, Marcel.”
Still no answer. I waited a few seconds, then knocked a third time. “Christian, come on, open the door. I’m sorry.”
Clicking noises emanated from the door as the locks tumbled, and he opened the door just enough to stand in the aperture and look at me. “For what?” he asked harshly.
“For not inviting you to lunch with Marco and I.”
“But you went without me anyway, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” I admitted.
He began to close the door. I stuck a hand out to impede its progress. “Christian, wait!”
“Why?” he asked, but he did wait.
“It won’t happen again.”
“Promise?” he demanded.
“Promise.”
Later…
“…leave your message after the beep, and I’ll get back to you when I can. *BEEP*”
“Hi, Marco, it’s Marcel. Uhm. You probably turned your phone off because it’s so late, I forgot about that. I managed to get three shots on goal again tonight, but still no goals. That’s thirteen games now. Thirteen games since you left. Oh, and we lost to Phoenix. I saw you guys lost to Florida tonight, sorry, but that you got another goal. What’s that make it, six? Anyway. Good night. I still miss you. Wish you were here.”
Later…
“So when are you planning on going home tonight?” Christian asked me.
We were three nights into a six game break in the schedule, and I was schnockered and sprawling on Christian’s couch. I think at this point it was more comfortable than mine because it was more broken in. I’d been spending enough time on it.
“Susanne’s out until late. Dunno,” I answered blearily.
“If you want to crash here, you can.”
His shoulder was very comfortable to lean up against. And he didn’t smell like Marco at all. Not really.
Later…
“… I’ll get back to you when I can. *BEEP*”
“Hi, Marco, it’s Marcel. I forgot you’re probably still out at dinner with Patty and Nabby. Never mind. Wish you could be here instead.”
Later…
“Ow! Jesus, Christian,” I laughed, throwing an arm back to hold him away. “For fun, remember?”
He pressed up against me again, leg wrapping around mine. His breath was warm on my ear and on my cheek, and he grunted with effort.
He was trying to get the soccer ball away from me in the hallway outside the locker room, but for a moment, I wished we were playing something else.
Later…
“… I’ll get back to you when I can. *BEEP*”
“Hi, Marco, it’s Marcel again. We beat Los Angeles tonight, but I didn’t manage to land any shots on net. Twenty-three games and counting. I saw you got your twelfth tonight against Atlanta. Anyway, just wanted to call to say hi. Looking forward to seeing you at the Olympics in a few weeks. Wish you were here. Night.”
Later…
“Aiiiiigh!” Christian shrieked. “Your feet are fucking freezing!”
“You sound like a girl,” I taunted, and tucked my bare foot into his side again, just to see if he’d make the same noise. He did. He slapped my foot away, and I laughed. “Well, if you’d turn the heat up in here instead of being such a penny-pincher, my feet wouldn’t be freezing.”
He pulled the blanket up and tucked it more closely around his torso. “If you’d just put some fucking socks on, your feet wouldn’t be freezing,” he retorted.
I grinned, pulled the blanket back towards me, and watched the other end slide down to his waist. “If I had any fucking clean socks up here, I’d put some on.”
“If you had any fucking clean socks up here, would you ever go home?”
I broke the argument game to laugh. We were seated on either end of his couch, sharing a blanket between us. It really was fucking cold in his apartment. “I’d have to think about it.”
His leg was so warm pressed up against mine. And the blanket smelled like him.
Later…
“… I’ll get back to you when I can. *BEEP*”
“Hi, Marco, it’s Marcel. Good job on the win against Ottawa last night. We beat Anaheim tonight. Still no goal, but Patty mentioned how you were always really good against Anaheim, and it made me think of you. Wish you could’ve been here for it. Give me a call and let me know what your flight plans are for getting to Torino? It’d be nice to hear from you. Night.”
Later…
“So what are you looking forward to most about the Olympics?” I asked Christian.
“Getting to see Marco again. I miss him.”
It was like a kick to the gut. It was the one thing I hadn’t expected him to say.
“Marcel, watch the wine!”
His warning brought me back to awareness and the fact that I was about to overpour the glass I’d been filling. He was making dinner, or what passed for dinner when he cooked, which was his attempt at homemade German food. The wine made it easier to pretend it was food.
“Sorry, Christian.”
“That table cost me $250.”
I rolled my eyes. “As if you couldn’t drive up to Palo Alto and buy a new one.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Pinch, pinch, pinch, pinch,” I teased him, miming the motion in mid-air along with the word.
He stuck his tongue out at me. It was rather a fine tongue, long and pink. He was probably an excellent kisser.
“What about you?”
His question jerked me out of admiring thoughts about his tongue. “What?”
“What are you looking forward to most about the Olympics?”
Cleverly, I thought to distract him. “Getting to see Sascha. Oh, and getting to play with Marco again,” I added as if in after thought.
That night, I dreamed about Christian’s tongue.
Later…
“… I’ll get back to you when I can. *BEEP*”
“Hi, Marco, it’s Marcel. I read on the Internet that you’re not sure if you’re going to be able to go to the Olympics now? I’d really miss you if you had to skip. Well, we would. Christian said he’s looking forward to seeing you, too. You’d be amazed, he’s been playing really well the last few games. I think the idea of going over to Torino has really fired him up. Wish you were here to see it. Oh, and still haven’t scored. Night!”
February 11, 2006
I shut my cell phone and sighed morosely, letting my arm fall back to the bed.
Christian looked over at me. “So?”
I looked up at him. “Marco’s out. He’s not going to Torino.”
His face fell. “Fuck. I was really looking forward to seeing him.”
“Yeah, me, too,” I admitted wearily. I closed my eyes.
We were in a hotel room in Phoenix and it was Saturday night. I was prone on my bed, Christian was seated next to me with his back propped against the headboard. We were in the phase of the night when we were playing musical roommates, and mine was off in someone else’s room. Christian had left so his roommate could hang out with his closer friends. Tomorrow, we would play the Coyotes, then hop on a plane to go to Germany, where we would re-direct to Italy to join up with the rest of our team. Sascha would be there, and Olaf Kolzig, and Christian was really looking forward to getting to play under Coach Krupp, but the one person I’d most wanted to see wouldn’t be there. I’d been looking forward to that for months now, and now it was gone.
Dammit, I’m going to cry again.
“Marcel, are you okay?” Christian asked me softly.
“I’m fine,” I lied, even as tears leaked out to run down into my hair.
“You really miss him, don’t you.”
“Yes,” I admitted. Okay, I cried, but dammit, I refused to sniffle.
“You know, he asked me to take care of you when he left.”
“What?” My eyes flew open, and surprise sharpened my voice.
“He asked me to take care of you when he left. He was worried about you, worried about how you’d take the trade. I promised him I would. He told me about you guys.”
“What?” I asked again, this time breathlessly. I couldn’t believe Marco had told Christian about us, that Christian had known all along. Sitting right next to me, and he’d known all along.
“He told me he’d probably see you again at the Olympics, and that would be it, so to watch out for you until then, and then after that. Because we Germans have to stick together.”
I already cried, but I wanted to laugh at the improbability of it all. I’d tried not to let him find out about Marco and I, and he knew all the time and Marco had told him to watch out for me, and I’d spent the last few months wanting to be with Marco and spending all my time enjoying being with Christian instead, and neither one of us had had a damn clue what the other one was up to.
He reached behind his back and pulled out a folded wad of cloth, and dropped it on my chest. It thumped lightly.
It was a pair of socks. Not just a pair of socks, but a very nice pair of socks, soft and fuzzy and thick and possibly cashmere. Probably expensive. I looked at him in befuddlement. “Who are you, and what did you do with the real Christian?”
He chuckled softly, twisting in his seat to lay a hand on my chest just below the socks, his palm resting lightly just under my ribs. “Clean socks for the next time you come over.”
And he had dropped the socks, the expensive socks, right there on my chest, and his hand was on my chest and then he was leaning over and he was kissing me and I was kissing him and he was an excellent kisser and my eyes closed again and his hand was pulling up my shirt and my hands were pulling down his pants and the socks got tossed to the floor and the sheets got torn down the bed and oh, God, how did I go this long without him?
Later…
“… I’ll get back to you when I can. *BEEP*”
“Hi, Marco, it’s Marcel. I scored tonight. A goal that is. It was the tying goal against Italy. Christian scored, too. A goal that is. He got it against Canada, a couple of days ago, and you should’ve seen how happy Joe was that Christian was the one who got it. We’re pretty much out of contention for the medal round, but we’ve had a lot of fun and we’re looking forward to going back to San Jose and trying to get into the playoffs. Christian’s really jazzed about all the ice time he’s getting and planning on trying to see how many holes he can drill in the goalies back in the U.S. He’s hoping to collect the whole set in the West, at least. Anyway, Christian’s saying we need to get to dinner, so I gotta go. Seeya around.”
(crossposted tozdarovyeh)
Author:
zdarovyehRating: R, mostly for language and a smidge of adult content
Characters: Marcel Goc (San Jose Sharks), Marco Sturm (Sharks/Bruins), Christian Ehrhoff (Sharks)
Disclaimer: So made up, it’s FICTION. I do not know these people. I don’t own them. I don’t believe they’re really like this off the ice, just pretend they do.
Author’s Note: Hi, relatively new here, dragged over by my
harleymae. This fic was written as a birthday present for her, and she suggested it be my first post to this community, so, there’s my dedication, too. :)Wednesday, November 30, 2005
“It’s not supposed to be like this!”
I realized I whined, and next that I probably sounded like Mason throwing a temper tantrum. But, dammit, I was having a temper tantrum.
Marco, God love him, tolerated it better coming from me than he did his son. He probably would’ve spanked his son for it. He knew better than to try doing that to me. Hmmm, now there was an interesting thought…
His words yanked me out of that pleasantly distracting daydream. His voice was shaky, as he said, “It’s part of the business, Marcel, you know that. Trades happen.”
We were in his room, the hotel room in Dallas that he had shared with Patrick Marleau last night, that he’d spend one last night in, and then he was gone. Marco was packing. Patty had been kind enough to give us this time alone, while he said his good-byes to Wayne and Brad.
“I know.” I still felt petulant. I could’ve helped him pack, but instead I dropped heavily on the edge of his bed, bouncing his suitcase up and down, which of course jostled the contents and made his jaw set because I’d ruined the nice neat order of his stuff. Fuck it, I thought angrily. Fuck his nice neat order and his logic and his fucking professionalism. I began kicking the frame of Patty’s bed irritably. “But you’re supposed to be part of the core of this team.”
He paled visibly, pausing in his packing to swallow hard, before he continued at the slow pace of an old man. “I was,” he corrected me. “But the opportunity to get Joe Thornton on your team doesn’t come everyday. I can understand why Doug had to act on it. He’s a great player, Patty’s talked about him a lot. He’ll be a really good asset for you.”
I kicked the bed hard enough to make it skitter sideways. “I don’t want him to be an asset for us, I want you!” I burst out.
He finally snapped. “Fuck you, Marcel, you’re not making this any easier!”
His anger cut through my wallowing self-pity more effectively than any appeals to my sense of maturity did. I could see the tears threatening to fall once more. “I’m sorry, Marco,” I apologized, and meant it. Dammit, now I was going to cry. “It’s just—“
“I know,” he said hoarsely.
And then he dropped his socks on the floor, right there on the floor, where they didn’t belong and should’ve annoyed the hell out of him but he was coming at me and climbing on me and kissing me and holding me and pushing me back on the bed and pushing the suitcase onto the floor and pulling my shirt off and pulling my pants off and oh, God, how was I going to last the rest of the season without him?
Later…
“Are you planning on going home anytime soon?” Christian asked me bemusedly.
I sprawled on his comfortable IKEA couch, drinking his tasty German beer and watching his crystal-clear HiDef TV. I should know they were all good, since I owned the same damn things. But why should I bother going home when I had the same damn things here? “No.”
His elbow jabbed me in the ribs as he sat beside me on the couch. “Then at least scoot over so I can sit down, too.”
I moved an inch.
“Oh, thank you so much,” he said sarcastically.
I didn’t reply. The only thing I could think to tell him was how warm he was, and how his cologne reminded me of Marco. I didn’t think he’d appreciate that.
Later…
“How’re you doing?” Marco asked.
It was two weeks after the trade, and we were on the phone. “Okay,” I lied. “It’s not the same without you around though.”
“I noticed you’re not scoring. From the box score,” he added in a rush.
I felt my cheeks begin to burn. “I’m not. But it’s only been two weeks.”
“You can’t think like that,” he chastised me. “Make sure—“
“…I’m doing everything else. I know, I know,”
I could hear his beautiful smile through his voice. “I’ll be there next week.”
“I have lunch in my schedule already.”
“See you, Marcel.”
“See you, Marco. Wish you were here.”
Later…
“I can’t believe you’re having lunch with Marco and you didn’t invite me!”
“Christian…”
“Don’t ‘Christian’ me,” he retorted. “You’ve been over here almost every day we’ve been home since the trade. You know I’d like to see him, too. I can’t believe you’d exclude me like that.”
He was right. He wouldn’t believe why I’d exclude him like that.
“Get out,” he said.
I got out.
Later…
“We’re not going to be able to see each other anymore, you understand that, right?” Marco asked me at lunch.
“Why not?” I asked, taken aback.
“East Coast, West Coast. Boston will play San Jose at most twice over the next three seasons. And during the off-season, I have my family.”
“What about the Olympics?” I blurted out desperately, grasping for straws.
He smiled his beautiful smile at me, and this time, I got to see it. “Sure,” he agreed. “I’ll see you at the Olympics.”
Later…
“Christian?”
No answer. I knocked again. “Christian, come on, it’s me, Marcel.”
Still no answer. I waited a few seconds, then knocked a third time. “Christian, come on, open the door. I’m sorry.”
Clicking noises emanated from the door as the locks tumbled, and he opened the door just enough to stand in the aperture and look at me. “For what?” he asked harshly.
“For not inviting you to lunch with Marco and I.”
“But you went without me anyway, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” I admitted.
He began to close the door. I stuck a hand out to impede its progress. “Christian, wait!”
“Why?” he asked, but he did wait.
“It won’t happen again.”
“Promise?” he demanded.
“Promise.”
Later…
“…leave your message after the beep, and I’ll get back to you when I can. *BEEP*”
“Hi, Marco, it’s Marcel. Uhm. You probably turned your phone off because it’s so late, I forgot about that. I managed to get three shots on goal again tonight, but still no goals. That’s thirteen games now. Thirteen games since you left. Oh, and we lost to Phoenix. I saw you guys lost to Florida tonight, sorry, but that you got another goal. What’s that make it, six? Anyway. Good night. I still miss you. Wish you were here.”
Later…
“So when are you planning on going home tonight?” Christian asked me.
We were three nights into a six game break in the schedule, and I was schnockered and sprawling on Christian’s couch. I think at this point it was more comfortable than mine because it was more broken in. I’d been spending enough time on it.
“Susanne’s out until late. Dunno,” I answered blearily.
“If you want to crash here, you can.”
His shoulder was very comfortable to lean up against. And he didn’t smell like Marco at all. Not really.
Later…
“… I’ll get back to you when I can. *BEEP*”
“Hi, Marco, it’s Marcel. I forgot you’re probably still out at dinner with Patty and Nabby. Never mind. Wish you could be here instead.”
Later…
“Ow! Jesus, Christian,” I laughed, throwing an arm back to hold him away. “For fun, remember?”
He pressed up against me again, leg wrapping around mine. His breath was warm on my ear and on my cheek, and he grunted with effort.
He was trying to get the soccer ball away from me in the hallway outside the locker room, but for a moment, I wished we were playing something else.
Later…
“… I’ll get back to you when I can. *BEEP*”
“Hi, Marco, it’s Marcel again. We beat Los Angeles tonight, but I didn’t manage to land any shots on net. Twenty-three games and counting. I saw you got your twelfth tonight against Atlanta. Anyway, just wanted to call to say hi. Looking forward to seeing you at the Olympics in a few weeks. Wish you were here. Night.”
Later…
“Aiiiiigh!” Christian shrieked. “Your feet are fucking freezing!”
“You sound like a girl,” I taunted, and tucked my bare foot into his side again, just to see if he’d make the same noise. He did. He slapped my foot away, and I laughed. “Well, if you’d turn the heat up in here instead of being such a penny-pincher, my feet wouldn’t be freezing.”
He pulled the blanket up and tucked it more closely around his torso. “If you’d just put some fucking socks on, your feet wouldn’t be freezing,” he retorted.
I grinned, pulled the blanket back towards me, and watched the other end slide down to his waist. “If I had any fucking clean socks up here, I’d put some on.”
“If you had any fucking clean socks up here, would you ever go home?”
I broke the argument game to laugh. We were seated on either end of his couch, sharing a blanket between us. It really was fucking cold in his apartment. “I’d have to think about it.”
His leg was so warm pressed up against mine. And the blanket smelled like him.
Later…
“… I’ll get back to you when I can. *BEEP*”
“Hi, Marco, it’s Marcel. Good job on the win against Ottawa last night. We beat Anaheim tonight. Still no goal, but Patty mentioned how you were always really good against Anaheim, and it made me think of you. Wish you could’ve been here for it. Give me a call and let me know what your flight plans are for getting to Torino? It’d be nice to hear from you. Night.”
Later…
“So what are you looking forward to most about the Olympics?” I asked Christian.
“Getting to see Marco again. I miss him.”
It was like a kick to the gut. It was the one thing I hadn’t expected him to say.
“Marcel, watch the wine!”
His warning brought me back to awareness and the fact that I was about to overpour the glass I’d been filling. He was making dinner, or what passed for dinner when he cooked, which was his attempt at homemade German food. The wine made it easier to pretend it was food.
“Sorry, Christian.”
“That table cost me $250.”
I rolled my eyes. “As if you couldn’t drive up to Palo Alto and buy a new one.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Pinch, pinch, pinch, pinch,” I teased him, miming the motion in mid-air along with the word.
He stuck his tongue out at me. It was rather a fine tongue, long and pink. He was probably an excellent kisser.
“What about you?”
His question jerked me out of admiring thoughts about his tongue. “What?”
“What are you looking forward to most about the Olympics?”
Cleverly, I thought to distract him. “Getting to see Sascha. Oh, and getting to play with Marco again,” I added as if in after thought.
That night, I dreamed about Christian’s tongue.
Later…
“… I’ll get back to you when I can. *BEEP*”
“Hi, Marco, it’s Marcel. I read on the Internet that you’re not sure if you’re going to be able to go to the Olympics now? I’d really miss you if you had to skip. Well, we would. Christian said he’s looking forward to seeing you, too. You’d be amazed, he’s been playing really well the last few games. I think the idea of going over to Torino has really fired him up. Wish you were here to see it. Oh, and still haven’t scored. Night!”
February 11, 2006
I shut my cell phone and sighed morosely, letting my arm fall back to the bed.
Christian looked over at me. “So?”
I looked up at him. “Marco’s out. He’s not going to Torino.”
His face fell. “Fuck. I was really looking forward to seeing him.”
“Yeah, me, too,” I admitted wearily. I closed my eyes.
We were in a hotel room in Phoenix and it was Saturday night. I was prone on my bed, Christian was seated next to me with his back propped against the headboard. We were in the phase of the night when we were playing musical roommates, and mine was off in someone else’s room. Christian had left so his roommate could hang out with his closer friends. Tomorrow, we would play the Coyotes, then hop on a plane to go to Germany, where we would re-direct to Italy to join up with the rest of our team. Sascha would be there, and Olaf Kolzig, and Christian was really looking forward to getting to play under Coach Krupp, but the one person I’d most wanted to see wouldn’t be there. I’d been looking forward to that for months now, and now it was gone.
Dammit, I’m going to cry again.
“Marcel, are you okay?” Christian asked me softly.
“I’m fine,” I lied, even as tears leaked out to run down into my hair.
“You really miss him, don’t you.”
“Yes,” I admitted. Okay, I cried, but dammit, I refused to sniffle.
“You know, he asked me to take care of you when he left.”
“What?” My eyes flew open, and surprise sharpened my voice.
“He asked me to take care of you when he left. He was worried about you, worried about how you’d take the trade. I promised him I would. He told me about you guys.”
“What?” I asked again, this time breathlessly. I couldn’t believe Marco had told Christian about us, that Christian had known all along. Sitting right next to me, and he’d known all along.
“He told me he’d probably see you again at the Olympics, and that would be it, so to watch out for you until then, and then after that. Because we Germans have to stick together.”
I already cried, but I wanted to laugh at the improbability of it all. I’d tried not to let him find out about Marco and I, and he knew all the time and Marco had told him to watch out for me, and I’d spent the last few months wanting to be with Marco and spending all my time enjoying being with Christian instead, and neither one of us had had a damn clue what the other one was up to.
He reached behind his back and pulled out a folded wad of cloth, and dropped it on my chest. It thumped lightly.
It was a pair of socks. Not just a pair of socks, but a very nice pair of socks, soft and fuzzy and thick and possibly cashmere. Probably expensive. I looked at him in befuddlement. “Who are you, and what did you do with the real Christian?”
He chuckled softly, twisting in his seat to lay a hand on my chest just below the socks, his palm resting lightly just under my ribs. “Clean socks for the next time you come over.”
And he had dropped the socks, the expensive socks, right there on my chest, and his hand was on my chest and then he was leaning over and he was kissing me and I was kissing him and he was an excellent kisser and my eyes closed again and his hand was pulling up my shirt and my hands were pulling down his pants and the socks got tossed to the floor and the sheets got torn down the bed and oh, God, how did I go this long without him?
Later…
“… I’ll get back to you when I can. *BEEP*”
“Hi, Marco, it’s Marcel. I scored tonight. A goal that is. It was the tying goal against Italy. Christian scored, too. A goal that is. He got it against Canada, a couple of days ago, and you should’ve seen how happy Joe was that Christian was the one who got it. We’re pretty much out of contention for the medal round, but we’ve had a lot of fun and we’re looking forward to going back to San Jose and trying to get into the playoffs. Christian’s really jazzed about all the ice time he’s getting and planning on trying to see how many holes he can drill in the goalies back in the U.S. He’s hoping to collect the whole set in the West, at least. Anyway, Christian’s saying we need to get to dinner, so I gotta go. Seeya around.”
(crossposted to
zdarovyeh)
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