Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationships:

Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau/Hayden Pike, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau & Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike/Jackie Pike, Hayden Pike & Jackie Pike

Characters:

Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Hayden Pike, Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Slow Burn, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff and Angst, Idiots in Love, Yearning Cliff Marleau, Misunderstandings, in the sense that these idiots did not speak with each other for years, Possessive Behavior, Fist Fights, Internalized Homophobia, Religious Guilt, Explicit Sexual Content, Podfic Link in Author Notes, Podfic Length: 6-7 Hours, Audio Format: Streaming, No cheating, No Character Bashing, Expect for Dallas Kent, We bash him every day if possible!

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-06 Completed: 2026-04-16 Words: 59,831 Chapters: 2/2

Marleau, you motherfucker!

Summary

Because Pike had shouted, “Marleau, you motherfucker!” and the rage embedded itself on Cliff’s skin.

or: the one where Cliff gets his soulmate mark in 2017, and it's a long fucking time until everything is going to be okay.

Notes

heeey hello, so, this was supposed to be a 3k fun and sweet story, but it kinda...got out of control.
2 days of writing and 20k later, have some yearning Cliff Soulmate AU.
i do love me these idiots.

Chapter 1 Podfic Version Here <3

Oh and no AI. Fuck AI, Kill AI, murder it with your bare hands. I would rather suck on a broken battery than use AI!

Chapter 1: Cliff Marleau

Chapter Notes

April 2017

Cliff just almost, accidentally, killed Shane Hollander on the ice. Or ended his stardom career with a fucking hit that tossed the other man around like a bouncy rag doll. Which he didn’t do on purpose, obviously. Yes, he’s Boston’s best left wing with the recognised right hook. Yes, he does enjoy dropping a glove here and there and get his knuckles bloody, but almost, maybe, ending Shane fucking Hollander’s career?

Hell fucking nah. Not his type of play style, and definitely not what he signed up for when the Raider’s asked him: “Wanna play for us awesome fuckers?” almost a decade ago.

And he seriously is sorry about this, really. No one wants to see these type of injuries. Even less, be responsible for a hit like this and then having to wait, halting breath until the other guy gets up again. Worse even when he doesn’t and is carried away by a team of frantic looking medics. So yeah, Cliff feels like absolute shit right now.

On any other day, he would probably want to curl up in his hotel room bed and feel sorry for his action, or even pressure Roz to take him to the hospital later so he can kind of grovel on the floor like a beaten dog. Just to make sure Hollander really understands how stupidly sorry Cliff feels about all of this. Despite it being a legal hit and Hollander not having his eyes where they should have been. Who actually turns around to grin at their opponent after winning a face-off? If he wouldn’t feel like hot garbage about all of this just now, he would probably be mad, and confused.

But not tonight. Not when he can barely contain the urge to run off the ice and lock himself in a bathroom stall like a teenager on the verge of a panic attack about… what do teenager’s get panic attacks about? Fucking Algebra?

Not when Shane Hollander stays on the ice and doesn’t move an inch and his captain looks like he’s on the brink of tears. And especially not when he hears the enraged “Marleau, you motherfucker!” and then feels it. The telltale burning sensation of these words etching themselves onto his skin under his left armpit.

For a moment, he is so distracted by the little fire on his skin that he almost misses Hayden fucking Pike throwing his gloves and trying to start a fight with him. Because Pike had shouted, “Marleau, you motherfucker!” and the rage embedded itself on Cliff’s skin.

Of course, he gives into the shuffle after a moment, heart double times at the feeling of his stupid fucking soulmate mark appearing. He pushes Pike around the ice a bit until a ref comes to separate them. He even leans into the surprisingly solid punches and gives Pike the opportunity to get a hit in or two. All of it as silent as a mouse, though, lips pressed tight enough to hurt so he wouldn’t accidentally say something and etch his own words onto Pike’s skin, too.

Which sounds unlikely to happen, but he cannot be safe enough.

The thing is that Cliff knows exactly three things about Pike.

One: he is a pretty good player or else he wouldn’t be on Montreal’s first line, assisting almost every fucking goal Hollander has ever scored. Does he think Roz chirping Pike and calling him a mediocre player at best is funny? Hell yes. Does he think it’s based on evidence? Not really.

Two: Pike and Hollander are best friends. Like really best friends as in best man at the wedding and If I tragically die, you’re going to raise my children type of best friends.

Three: yeah, exactly that. Pike is fucking married and has almost enough kids to build his own hockey team. Which, in hindsight, is kind of a brilliant retirement plan. Become the first man to coach your entirely self-made team.

So, yeah, Cliff bites his tongue and doesn’t say anything back, just in case the fucking universe thinks its funny and decides to embed his words onto Pike’s skin as well. Because Cliff Marleau is not a homewrecker. Cliff Marleau doesn’t care if Fortuna herself thinks Hayden fucking Pike is his soulmate, and he’d rather die alone than get in between what seems to be a happy marriage.

Not to mention that they’re both hockey players from rival teams and fucking men. The homophobia in male centred sports is no joke, he knows this.

But also, Cliff’s not gay. He knows some people would probably say that he can’t be sure as long as he hasn’t tried it yet, but Cliff’s still a hockey player. He’s been around very athletic dudes for most of his life, some of them are even pretty hot, and never felt like “I wanna peg that.” Or be pegged by them.

Listen, he gets that the locker room fantasies can be downright sinful with all the steam and soap and such, but seriously trust him when he says that these thoughts are gone the moment the first guy lets out a fart under the shower bad enough for his cheeks to clap like he’s at the Oscars. There’s just nothing truly erotic about men in locker rooms. Especially not when they put on the same socks they were wearing during the game after their shower, knowing that they probably haven’t washed them since the season started.

So, no, despite seeing lots of penises and sculptured bodies and slippery skin, Cliff’s not gay. And even if he were, or bi or whatever else there is to label people who like dicks, he’s definitely not into hockey players. And Hayden Pike is a hockey player, and a dude.

So, he swallows Pike’s punches, bites his tongue and lips and keeps as much distance to the other man for the rest of the period as humanly possible.

He is honestly not sure what else happens during the game after Pike let go off his jersey and they’re both pushed back to their respective benches.

The Raider’s win, and then Cliff is racing off the ice and he stumbles over his apologies and I hope he is alright’s to Roz, knowing his captain will visit the other star player. Only after that he grabs his phone and actually hides in the bathroom stall like a teenager having a panic attack about Algebra.

His arms feel like lead when he grabs the hem of his jersey to yank it over his head and drop it on the closed toilet with little to no care. For the first time since he was seven and started playing hockey, his fingers fumble with his gear, unable to open the straps for a few seconds with how bad they’re shaking. His heart drums loud enough in his throat that he’s sure he’d be able to give a sick beat if he’d try beat boxing just now.

Once he is finally free, he takes a shaky inhale and raises his arm to check, but no matter which way he turns and twists, he can’t see anything. Then he checks by opening his phone’s front camera and taking a picture, just to make sure he’s not mistaken a bruised rib for a soulmate mark.

But there it is.

Marleau, you motherfucker! in the ugliest chicken scratch he’s ever seen, right under his left armpit, which, admittedly is a weird place for a soulmate mark to appear. At least, it’s not on his toes.

He stares at it in utter despair. This cannot be fucking real, cannot be his reality, his life. But there it is, black ink on his natural tanned skin, almost close enough to the dip and his pit hair.

He deletes the picture immediately.

Hayden fucking Pike.

Everything pulls away for a moment, and Cliff feels like he might actually faint. This whole thing is like an out-of-body experience, and Cliff drops his forehead against the door with a loud thunk.

“Shit,” he mumbles and bangs his head against the door again, and then again. He crosses his arms around his sides and presses the tip of his fingers into the warm spot where Hayden fucking Pike’s words are nestled. He flinches at the raw pain that courses through his chest, as if he’s just gotten a new tattoo.

What is he supposed to do now?

One thing he knows for sure. No one can know about this, and that means, he needs to find a way to hide the soulmate mark from everyone, but especially his noisy ass bitch teammates who never respect anyone’s personal space.

Almost in trance, he unlocks his phone, opens his search engine and types How to get rid of soulmate mark?

Unsurprisingly, the first Reddit post is a bit unhinged, suggesting to burn it off the skin with fire or acid. Cliff is not going to mutilate himself over Marleau, you motherfucker! no matter how awful the whole thing is. The words, the context, the fucking person it came from.

He’s also a hockey player, burning his skin to hide his soulmate’s first words might get him benched due to injury, and the Raiders are going to be in the playoffs now. They need him to play. Cliff wants to fucking play. He might not be as obsessed about hockey as some of the other players in the league, but the fucking playoffs? Of course he won’t burn the words off his skin if that’ll mean he can’t play. He’s not an idiot.

The second post is much tamer, and a little less insane. Tattoo over the words. Smart. Something he can do, even during the playoff stress. It’s not like it would need to be a big tattoo, and he can probably get it done in a few hours, and then no one will ever know but it. No one will know what kind of words are hiding under real ink.

Cliff forms a plan. Get out of the toilet, hide the mark by saying he got hurt during the scuffle against Pike and press something against his armpit so no one will see it. Tell Roz again to tell Hollander Sorry, didn’t mean to hit you, hope your brain doesn’t swell up to crack that skull of yours and Sorry you and therefore the rest of your shitty team is out of the playoffs now and I really, really didn’t mean to make your face kiss the ice. Then go to the hotel room, hide in the bed, look up a good, but quiet tattoo parlour in Boston and think about a design. And then ignore it ever happened in the first place, and do not, under no circumstances, talk to Pike. Just in case the Canadian fucker gets some words back from him.

It’s fucking easy to do, one of the most cohesive and precise plans he’s ever made. It’s manageable. He can do these things with ease, because there are hundreds of tattoo artists in fucking Boston, and besides meeting Pike on the ice, he will never have any reasons to talk to that man at all. No biggie, foolproof.

It’s a secret he can take to his grave with him.

Cliff chickens out and doesn’t get a tattoo. The moment the stencil of two hockey sticks and a puck is put on his skin and he gets a glimpse of what it will look like to never see the words again, he breaks and calls the whole thing off. He pays the artist double the full prize as compensation and buys her silence with an extra tip of three hundred dollars, and then runs back to his apartment to pout.

It’s stupid. And it’s not really fair.

It’s also not like he actually wanted a soulmate or like he’s a particularly romantic person, but having a married, straight dude as a soulmate is just really the cruellest joke. He is aware of the irony of that, since he’s thought he is straight himself, which he’s apparently not. No straight guy has this many shower wanks over a married man.

Also, he tried porn. Not bad, 6 out of 10. Not sure about some of the prominent gay kinks, though. He likes to smoke, but not while fucking, so, there went a few points. Also, most of the men are either looking like they just got their first pubic hair, all little chicken legs or they look like they could bench press Cliff, and both options are not really his type. Not, that Cliff has a guy type, though big blue eyes seem to do something to him. He tries not to think about this too hard.

Instead, he learns to hide it, and Cliff never says anything. To anyone. He makes a point to avoid Pike more than usual; he’s never really bullied the guy on the ice anyway. Always left that to Roz before, and now he stays even quieter. Only ever chirps at games against Montreal when it’s a dig against the entire team or someone else.

It doesn’t stop him from looking though.

Pike is hard to ignore and Cliff is honestly not sure how he never really noticed before. Pike has a controlled kind of energy on the ice that catches Cliff off guard. He’s bright in way that is quite uncommon in these type of team sports, open and nice. Like, genuinely nice. Maybe that’s just the Canadian thing, though. Pike is also pretty liked among his teammates and even beyond the locker room. A few times Cliff hears other players talk about Hollander’s shadow and it doesn’t really surprise him that he’s respected among their peer.

He is also kind of pretty in that jock next door kind of way Cliff never thought he might find appealing in any person regardless of the gender. He likes these big blue eyes framed by long black lashes that always look like he put on mascara and eyeliner. And Cliff likes the half smirk Pike wears during their games when he’s not frowning or shouting. It’s just there for most of the time as if the game amuses him or someone told a joke only Pike really understands.

Cliff sometimes imagines how it would have been if they’ve spoken to each other much, much earlier. Before Pike got married and all that. He gets the impression that he would have liked to like Pike. Hopes Pike would have liked him too.

He doesn’t think about potential kisses or gentle touches or breathy moans they might have exchanged, because these type of fantasies bring him nothing but sleepless nights and the uncomfortable pinch of guilt in his stomach.

Because none of it matters. Because Pike is married and Cliff never says anything.

Instead, he swallows his words and hides the soulmate mark with tape and bandages and towels and a palm pressed against it, and almost dislocates St-Simon’s shoulder when he tries to pry once.

He doesn’t say anything, and hides, and thinks it’s okay. He can live through this, he doesn’t need Pike, doesn’t need his soulmate, and it’s okay. Life is okay. He can do that. It works fine for him.

January 2018

But then Roz tells him it’s their last season together in Boston, and that he’ll go to Ottawa after. Which is really fucking stupid - Ottawa? Last team in the division? Ottawa, who hasn’t seen a cup in fucking decades?

“I mean if you leave Boston for your Jane, at least go to Montreal. You’d be in her city and it is a good team.”

“But then I am not captain anymore,” Roz shakes his head and Cliff gets the impression that it’s not at all about that.

And okay, Cliff can be a bit thick sometimes, but he’s not stupid. After that it’s pretty easy to figure out, the Shane Hollander thing. It only takes him a few more weeks and one particularly embarrassing night were he couldn’t stop himself from watching the footage of Pike pouncing Cliff, shouting, “Marleau, you motherfucker!”

Not a lot of people have the moment on tape where they meet their soulmate. Not that it’s the moment Cliff met Pike for the first time. It’s definitely not, they’ve played against each other for seven years before that, but it’s still the moment.

All the times he watched it before, he only ever looked at Pike or himself, or the way he can clearly see in his own face when the realisation hit him that Hayden fucking Pike is his soulmate.

He doesn’t know what makes him look at Roz that night, but seeing him standing there, helplessly watching Hollander not getting up again, Cliff finally understands. Now, Ottawa makes sense, because Ilya Rozanov can’t play with his Jane on the same team when everyone and their granddad think these two are each others worst enemies.

The season ends for them early on during the playoffs when they lose against Philly. They’re on the road and Cliff is sharing the hotel room with Roz for the very last time. Both of them declined to go out with the rest of the team and are just hanging out in silence, on their phones, and Cliff comes to the conclusion that it’s now or never. Before Roz can leave for Ottawa and Shane Hollander, Cliff has to tell him that he knows about the Shane Hollander Thing.

“Do you already have a place in Ottawa?” Cliff asks, placing his phone face down on the mattress.

On the other bed, Roz mirrors him with stiff movements, “Not yet, but my - Jane’s parents think they have found a good house for me.”

Cliff nods slowly, takes a deep breath and then says in a rush, “Will you and Shane live together or will he stay in Montreal?”

“What?”

“I think you heard me just fine, Rozy,” Cliff says, not moving, just in case he accidentally spooks his friend even more.

“Did you mispronounce Jane’s name ?” Roz’s voice is shaking, and Cliff feels a bit bad for springing it on him like this.

“I support you, you know. And Hollander,” Cliff says and finally, slowly turns his head to look at Roz. “Shit, obviously it’s sad that you’re leaving our team for him, but if that is what will make you both happy, you have me in your corner.”

First, Roz’s face is all but a hard chiselled mask, cheek muscles twitching, but then it morphs into something softer, something that makes him look like the kid Cliff got to know when he joined the Raiders years ago.

“You don’t hate me?” he asks, and Cliff shakes his head.

“Never, Roz. Not over this.”

Seeing the fucking relief in Roz’s face is like a brick to the teeth, because it implies that Roz thought he’s completely alone with this. That probably no one in his life really has his back about it, and that he must have been lonely and scared. Which fucking sucks, because until then, Cliff prided himself with the thought of them being best friends.

But then, over a year ago he realised that Hayden Pike is his soulmate, and he didn’t tell Roz about it, too. What does that say about Roz being Cliff’s best friend?

Their conversation after that is not really emotional or even very wordy, but Cliff thinks he does an okay job being a good friend and ally. He even gets Roz to tell him how it happened between the two of them.

“20 - fucking - 10?”

“Yeah,” Roz says with a secretive little smile. “Summer before rookie season.”

“Holy shit!”

“Yeah,” Roz says again.

It still feels a bit like there’s not really any balance between them, with one secret tossed out in the open, and with Roz leaving anyway for none other than Shane fucking Hollander, Cliff gets the impression he can and should share one thing about himself, too.

So, he says, “I have a soulmate, too.” He taps his fingers against the words under his left armpit, hidden underneath some tape and his sleep shirt.

Roz slowly nods, “I thought so, you’re very bad at hiding it.”

His heart drops into his stomach before it springs back up into his throat, and Cliff has to count himself out of the little panic before he can ask, “You’ve seen the words?”

“No,” Roz says, grimacing. “I don’t think anyone has seen them, but you’re very obviously hiding them. I think when you almost broke St Simon’s arm, everyone got the impression that you do not want to share it.”

“I didn’t break it,” Cliff counters, palm now rubbing over the words in soothing circles. It’s a thing he learned during the season, a little habit that calms him.

“Almost, though,” Roz says, stretching his legs out on his bed. “But seriously, no one knows the words.”

“Good,” he says and hates it a bit. Hates that he has to keep this to himself for now and probably forever. Fuck the universe for this, seriously.

“Does your soulmate know?” Roz asks quietly, his own hand finding a sliver of skin on his hip and Cliff can see his thumb brushing over his own soulmate mark.

He shakes his head, “No, they’re married with kids.”

“Ah,” and that’s it. They don’t talk about it again, and a few weeks later, Cliff’s best friend empties his house and moves to Canada.

And Cliff becomes Boston’s captain and houses a new rookie in his apartment each year. When they have enough time, he goes out to clubs and has flings with pretty women with big blue eyes and cute noses and once he even fucks a man with the biggest bambi eyes he’s ever seen. It’s really the eyes that does it for him.

He hides the mark, and doesn’t talk about it again. It goes well for about two years.

October 2020

First time Cliff sees the video of Hayden Pike with a split lip and busted right eye on Twitter is when the Raiders are waiting at the airport. There’s an ugly bruise spanning across Pike’s nose and cheekbones that is only enhanced by the bad lightening of the Montreal locker rooms and camera’s of the news outlets on him. He is still smiling somehow, but his words are a bit slurred when he tries to answer the reporter’s questions about the fight.

A moment later, Cliff looks it up. Montreal against Toronto, and midway through the third period Dallas fucking Kent, that ugly bitch, says something to Hollander. And of course, Pike hurls something back. Cliff sees red when Kent trips Pike with his stick and then kicks out, blades digging into Pike’s leg.

When Pike stands again, gloves drop, and around him forms a sea of players in a scrimmage. And then both Kent and one of his fucking henchmen are on Pike, pummelling their fists into his face over and over again. It’s not only an unfair fight, but downright meant to harm.

Almost feeling the phantom pain for each beat, Cliff lets a breath rattle through him as he tries to still his clenching heart.

“What are you watching?” Carmichael asks and leans over the bench to check Cliff’s phone. Cliff angles the screen to show him and watches his assistant captain wince when Kent’s fist connects with Pike’s cheek in rapid succession. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah, that fucker cross-checked Pike in the ribs and then kicked him with the blade before that,” Cliff says quietly through gritted teeth, trying and failing for his words to come out passive and nonchalant. If his friend picks up on Cliff’s inner turmoil, he doesn’t show it.

Instead, Carmichael lets out a low whistle, shaking his head, “I fucking hate that guy.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Cliff clicks his phone shut, and leans back in his seat, closing his eyes and trying to keep his face neutral. He never thought he could feel like this, like he wants to literally murder someone. He doesn’t think its a soulmate thing, has never heard about emotions being heightened through the bond. He fears it’s a him thing. A possessive nature that is buried so deep inside his mind that it could be a fucking ancient relic or whatever.

A moment later, one of the rookies comes over to engage Carmichael in some sort of scheme to get alcohol from one of the airport bars, and Cliff knows he should stop them, because hockey, because the rookie is a minor, because he’s the captain and all that gist, but his brain is filled with Kent beating the shit out of his soulmate.

He ignores his team members and unlocks his phone instead, unable to not look at Pike in the other video, the interview one. Takes in the dark red and purple smudges under his eyes and puffy, swollen lip. There’s a bit of blood drying under his nose, and Cliff’s insides roar.

“Is nothing,” Pike says in the video, grinning his lopsided grin. He rakes one of his hands through his sweaty blond hair and looks directly into the camera. One of his eyes is almost entirely swollen shut, and Cliff hates it, but it’s like their eyes meet for a second through the screen. And then another reporter asks something and Pike’s good eye swivelles to the side, listening intensely. Heat blossoms on Cliff’s chest and trails down and behind his ribs and across it as if to settle on the words under his armpit.

Two weeks later they’re in Toronto, and Cliff’s actually not actively seeking out any type of confrontation. He tells himself to just play the game, win, humiliate the fuckers, and then fly home again.

He sees Kent on the ice, doing his stretches pre-game, laughing, waving at a group of girls that look a tad too young for him, and Cliff tries to breath through the waves of anger.

The game starts not much later, and Cliff’s new rookie wins the power play easily enough. He’s proud of the kid, and that helps with his churning stomach. Helps with the rage in his bones. And he thinks it’s going to be easy to go through the game and ignore what he’s seen fourteen days ago and how Pike’s burst lip had made him feel. How he hated seeing Pike’s eye swollen shut, and the blood crust under his nose.

But then Kent tries to trip his rookie, and Cliff doesn’t really think about much after that. He crashes Kent into the boards and shrugs off his glove without even a second of hesitation.

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t wait for a provocation or word or anything else, just punches Kent into the jaw. It drops him back into the boards, head bouncing off the plexiglass.

“What the hell!” Kent shouts, an arm flies up to his face to protect himself from the next, already incoming hit. He doesn’t lift it high enough, and Cliff’s knuckles connect with his teeth, chips one of them off. He lands a third hit, scratching his knuckles at Kent’s broken tooth.

“If you ever-“ Cliff growls in a tone he’s never heard from himself before. “- ever touch him again, I will end your fucking life.” He doesn’t sound like himself. He doesn’t sound human at all. “Understood?”

When the ref pulls him back by the neck a moment later, there’s blood running down Kent’s chin, and Cliff doesn’t know if its his own, Kent’s or theirs combined. His hand throbs.

He doesn’t get an answer out of Kent, as he’s pushed off the ice and directly on the bench, but Cliff knows that fucker will never get close to any of the Raiders’ rookies ever again. Not as long as Cliff is on the team. And while this was, to a degree, what he wanted, it doesn’t loosen the tight knot in his chest he’s been carrying with him ever since he saw Kent hurt Pike in that video.

He is benched for the rest of the game and one of the assistant coaches takes him to their medic to check his hands for injuries before he’s being lead into the locker room.

“I think they’ll check the footage for a misconduct and you might get a fine,” he tells Cliff, but he doesn’t really care. He stares down at his own hands. They’re bandaged and shaking, and there’s still a bit of blood on his knuckles and the inside of his wrist. His hair is damp with sweat and lose around his face. He feels like a fucking animal, and while he hates the violence surging through him, he also kind of loves it.

Cliff is still vibrating with adrenaline when the game ends later and his team wins even without him.

The guys stumble into the locker room, celebrating their win. His head coach doesn’t say anything at all, which is probably for the fucking best. Cliff hopes its because LeClaire knows that it had to be done, and not because his coach is contemplating trading Cliff away for a better captain.

Only when the first guys of his team begin to undress, Cliff’s hands stop shaking enough for him to finally open the laces of his skates. No one asks him why he hit Kent like a game of whack-a-mole, and no one asks why he is still in his gear instead of his post-game suit.

No one tries to pry it out of him, but Cliff can feel Carmichael’s eyes on him in the shower, then in the locker room when they change clothes. He can feel his teammate’s eyes linger on Cliff’s bruised knuckles when they swipe over the words on his side, hidden underneath the familiar waterproof tape he always uses during their games and practice.

And even though it scares him a little bit, Cliff thinks Carmichael might not be so fucking dumb, too. Might actually connect the dots, not unlike Cliff did with Roz and the Shane Hollander thing. But if Carmichael has a realisation, he keeps it to himself.

Maybe, one day, during Cliff’s last night on the road before he ends his career and goes into retirement, after a last game they either win or lose together, they will share a room and Carmichael will tell him, “Hey, captain, I know about the Hayden Pike thing.”

Like Cliff did with Roz.

The only difference will be that Carmichael will not need to tell him he’s happy for Cliff and won’t have the need to promise support and loyalty, because Hayden Pike is married to a woman, and in no world, Cliff will leave Boston for Pike and have the same type of epic, almost tragic love story as Roz and Shane Hollander have.

Later that night, while Cliff lies in his hotel bed, fingertips pushing into his side and blindly tracing the words by heart, he gets a call from Roz.

“How’s your hand?”

Cliff flexes his fingers, testing out the bruise blossoming on his knuckles, and says, “Eager to meet that face again for round two, or three.”

Roz snorts loudly, the sound slightly distorted by how close his face probably is to the speaker, “What did you do it for?”

Cliff shuffles on the bed, turning around until his back hits the mattress and he can stare at the ugly beige ceiling. He still holds his hand carefully against the mark, pressing into the words with each inhale. “Didn’t know I need a reason to deck Kent.”

“True, I guess,” Roz says, and Cliff can hear him moving around his house, probably striding through it to get something to drink, but then he hears another voice. Hollander, he realises. He can’t hear the words, but he doesn’t need to because Roz repeats a second later, “Jane says she appreciates your effort after what he did to Pike.”

“I did not say that,” Hollander grumbles, now much closer to the phone. “But still, thanks for hitting the bastard.”

“How is Pike doing?” Cliff asks slowly, hoping neither of them can hear the desperation in his voice when his mouth forms around his soulmate’s name.

“He’s doing good, slept in for two weeks and just got the doc’s okay to get on the ice again tomorrow,” Hollander answers at the same time Roz shouts, “Big baby Pike, lies at home two weeks with black eye and whines that he’s not allowed to watch Boston games on big TV.”

“He did not whine about not being able to watch Boston play,” Hollander says and Cliff can literally hear the man’s eyes roll back into his head. “Though he asked us to thank you for getting back at Kent.”

Cliff’s gut twists and he lets his nails rake across the motherfucker on his skin. “I’d say any time, but I actually do wanna play and not lose my captain privileges.”

They end the call not much later and Cliff leans back on his side, phone thrown on the bedside table. He rubs his bust knuckles over his lips and tries not to think too much about the fact that Hayden Pike watches his games sometimes. On a big TV.

Next time Boston plays against Montreal, Pike joins Cliff at the line while stretching, big blue eyes open and bright and he says almost inaudible over the mouth guard between his still scabbed lips, “You have a good right hook.”

Cliff doesn’t say You’re Welcome or Glad I could do that for you or I did it because he touched you.

He keeps his fucking mouth shut instead, shifts his legs further apart until the stretch burns in his calves and gives Pike a curt nod. It must be enough though, because Pike nods back and then skates away, finding his place next to Hollander.

March 2021

For a few peaceful months Cliff doesn’t have to think about Pike. He doesn’t really think about much besides hockey and maybe getting a cat after the season, and if he should call Emma, the stunner he met at St-Simon’s housewarming party a while back.

In the end, he decides yes about the cat because his youngest sister Clara is going to live with him after the summer and once she starts med school so the cat won’t be alone when Cliff’s on the road. He decides against calling Emma. It wouldn’t be fair, the way his stupid heart has been beating for only one person for years now and he doesn’t think it will stop any time soon.

One evening, his rookie Stephenson sees the soulmate mark when Cliff gets out of the bathroom after his shower, thinking he’s alone at home. The kid doesn’t say anything, but the next day Cliff sees that he doesn’t wear his always prominent leather band around his wrist, and Cliff gets a glimpse of dark purple ink, saying, “You skate like a pussy.”

Oh. Okay. Yeah, Cliff would hide that, too.

They don’t talk about it that night, but Cliff opens them a bucket of chocolate fudge ice cream and they watch a few episodes of Avatar, the last Airbender, both of them quietly fucking done with the whole soulmate shit.

A few weeks later, they play against Tampa and Cliff watches as Stephenson’s phone lights up and the rookie gets that look on his face. The same one Roz had about his Montreal Jane, and fucking hell, not again.

Cliff still covers for him when the kid steals himself out of the hotel to meet up with his Tampa Girl. Life really is a damn fucking loop.

And then the Fanmail Incident happens, and Hayden fucking Pike accidentally exposes Roz’s and Hollander’s relationship to the world.

Since Boston’s next game is a week away, Cliff finds himself on a plane to Ottawa less than two hours after the video of his best friend kissing his fiancé goes viral. Nothing, not even his fear of accidentally shouting at Pike for being a fucking idiot and perhaps triggering his own soulmate words can keep him away from his best friend.

There are a few paps camping outside Roz’s house, but Cliff sends him a message and seconds later -

“Thanks for coming,” Hayden Pike opens the door, rubbing at his weary chin. His hair is a mess, all sticky-up-y and haloing him like a some type of white Jesus bullshit. The shirt he’s wearing looks like it needs a wash, but it still clings to his chest in a way that makes Cliff’s mouth water a bit. His face is tired and his eyes miserable, guilty, and still, he looks absolutely fucking beautiful.

Blinking out of his stupor, Cliff pushes past Pike and into the house, slipping out of his shoes, shouting, “Rozy!” He is pointedly not looking at Pike, willing the universe to understand that this is not meant for the other man and therefore there won’t be the need to embed his best friend’s nickname on his soulmate’s skin. Though, it would be a bit hilarious. Some kind of shitty irony.

“They’re upstairs,” Pike answers with a frown, and Cliff abandons him in the middle of the hallway to take four steps at once, making his way to Roz’s and Hollander’s bedroom. His heart is beating out of his chest, and both of his hands clench tightly at his sides as he tries his hardest not to reach up and press his palm against the words. Or turn around and walk back and reach for Hayden Pike’s arm or cheek like a parched man in a desert.

He isn’t even up all the way when Roz barrels into his side, “Marley, what are you doing here?”

His arms curl around Roz in a real hug, not these fake little ones where men pat each other’s back like a puking baby, and says, “I promised you two, didn’t I?”

Roz nods into his shoulder.

“Want me to deck Pike?” he asks as a joke, hoping Roz doesn’t take him up on it. Cliff doesn’t think he would be able to do that, but he would try, for his friend, and then he would have Pike pinned against a wall or the floor, and his arm lifted, and he just wouldn’t be able to hit him. And that would be even more damning than the fucking words on his skin.

Roz shakes his head, and then moves out of the hug, mouth almost contorted into a small grin. “Please do not, my man would be even more upset than he already is.”

“Want me to deck someone else, then?” Cliff asks, just in case.

“Crowell, maybe?”

Cliff nods and keeps that in mind. One day, maybe. When hockey isn’t his entire life anymore, then he’ll do it. He’s sure he can make it happen, one way or another.

He is hiding on Roz’s small patio, smoking a cigarette.

Somehow he made it through the entire day without talking to Pike directly, sending general questions to Hollander and Rozy or simply not answering when Pike asked him anything, hiding behind the stoic mask of a man angry on his friend’s behalf.

Cliff is fucking exhausted. He never thought talking around so much could drain his energy like this. He takes a drag from the cig, slumping into one of the garden chairs and listening to his favourite playlist on his phone when the door behind him opens quietly.

“Pike’s gone now,” Roz says and drops on the chair beside Cliff’s, hand reaching out in silent demand. Without confirming, Cliff lightens another cigarette and puts it between Roz’s fingers.

“Okay,” he simply says and rubs his free hand along his jaw and mouth and then through his chaotic hair. Spending hours with the man the universe decided was his perfect fit and not being able to talk to him left an aching desperation itching under his skin.

“You don’t need to be angry with him for us,” Roz says, blowing the smoke up into the air. “He’s feeling really bad.”

“Okay,” Cliff says again, reaching for his phone to skip a song simply to have something to do with his hand that doesn’t involve clawing through his skin to get rid of the sensation.

“He’s an idiot, but a good man,” Roz continues, either unaware of Cliff’s discomfort or not really caring all that much in this very moment. At least, the sun is already down, and it’s almost entirely dark outside, hiding Cliff’s frown and shaking hand when he lifts it to take another drag of the cigarette.

He bobs his head a few times and says, “Yeah, I know.”

“Have I ever told you what my soulmate mark says?” Roz asks so suddenly that it feels a bit like getting whiplash.

“No, you haven’t.”

“Is my name,” Roz laughs quietly around his cigarette. “Is just Ilya Rozanov? Nothing else. And it is so close to my dick that everyone who’s ever gave me a blowjob after I met Shane, had to look at it.”

Cliff can’t help himself and huffs out a surprised laugh. “That’s a fucking stupid first line.”

“Yeah, Shane’s says Oke. Is not even written correctly, just Oke, because this is how I pronounced it.”

“He loves it,” Cliff says, and even though he and Hollander have never talked about this, he knows it’s not a lie. Shane Hollander loves the Oke on his skin as much as Ilya loves his own name right next to his dick. As much as Cliff loves his own little mantra of Marleau, you motherfucker!

“I know, and it is the most beautiful thing to have, to share with your soulmate,” Roz says and Cliff can see from the corner of his eyes how his friend shifts on his chair enough to fully look at him. “Is not fair if you do not give them the opportunity to wear it on their skin.”

“It’s different for you and Shane,” Cliff whispers and drops his head back onto the backrest to stare up into the sky.

“Is not,” Roz disagrees. “Is only different because you don’t give him the chance.”

His whole body jerks and for a moment he doesn’t know if he might actually puke, cold sweat trickling down his shoulders, “Since when do you know?”

“Today,” Roz says and he kicks his foot into Cliff’s legs and jostles him a bit. “But I suspected for a while now. You get weird every time Shane mentions Pike, you’re voice is all strange. And then, I mean, we all love to fucking beat the shit out of Kent, but eh - it was a bit obvious for me.”

“Just you?”

“Yeah, everyone else is stupid.”

Cliff huffs, “Don’t let your boyfriend hear this.”

“Shane is a smart man, but he is also very oblivious about anything that is not hockey,” Roz says far too tender. “No one else knows, don’t worry.”

“Good,” Cliff says and blinks up into the sky, licking his lips.

Roz doesn’t say anything. Sometimes he seems to possess a sixth sense about the people around him, when to stay silent and wait, when to push and probe. “I know since 2017, that fucking night I put Hollander into the hospital.” He blinks to himself and lifts his hands to press the heels of his palms into his eyes until he sees colours and weird geometric shapes behind his eyelids. “I haven’t - “ He stops and drops his hands.

It takes almost everything in him to turn his head to look at his friend, “It doesn’t matter, because he is married.”

“Soulmates do not have to be romantic, Marley,” Roz says quietly. “You could be friends. Best friends even.”

“You won’t get rid of me, Rozanov,” Cliff says with as much teasing he can put into his tone and swallows loudly. He’s not sure why he feels like he wants to cry now. “And you know yourself that we can’t chose our fucking feelings.”

“So, you don’t even give him a chance.”

“I make it easier for one person, harder for myself. It is my decision,” Cliff counters and leans forward again, elbows dropping on his knees. Roz, when he turns his head, is staring at him through tired eyes, cigarette stump forgotten between his fingers.

“Is a lonely life you’re choosing.”

“If Shane had been married with three kids and one on the way before you even knew, would you have pushed yourself into this dynamic?” Cliff asks, trying and failing to keep his voice composed. He doesn’t shout, but it’s a near damn thing.

He can see on Roz’s face that he wants to say yes, unable to imagine a life without Shane Hollander, but then his mouth hardens and he shakes his head, “No, I would have not.”

Cliff moves a hand around the air as if to say, “See, exactly.”

“But Pike’s marriage with Jackie is complicated,” Roz adds slowly, obviously careful about his words. “I don’t know enough, but maybe there is a chance.”

Maybe there is a chance. God, how fucking much Cliff wants this to be true, it’s not even funny anymore. His whole body aches with want, but that is not reality, so he says, “But they’re still married.”

“Yes, but-“ Roz starts, but Cliff cuts him off.

“They’re married, Ilya. Just because it’s not always easy, doesn’t mean it’s not the right kind of life he has chosen for himself. I will not step between that, not make it harder and more complicated, and I don’t know,” he runs his hands through his hair again, tugging at the long, black strands until it hurts and he feels some fog lift and his thoughts become a bit clearer again. “He has kids, man. Four kids, and I will not be the reason why their parents are not together anymore, even if, hypothetically, he would want me back. Which he doesn’t.”

“You don’t know that,” Roz whispers, but he doesn’t sound so sure about it.

Of course, Pike could be bisexual, like them, or he could hate his wife, or be a repressed gay man in hiding, or be such an utter romantic, that he would leave his life behind for his soulmate regardless of his attractions. Cliff knows that these are all pretty real possibilities, but he also feels like that’s not the case. Not here, not with Hayden Pike.

He doesn’t say all of this to Roz, though. Instead he laughs, cold, sad and a bit cruel towards himself, “My mark says Marleau, you motherfucker!”

And with that he manages to get the first real laugh out of Roz after the horrors of the last day, “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“And do you love it?”

Cliff reaches for the cigarette pack and lights another one, sighing loudly before answering, “Of course.”

By the time Cliff has to fly back to Boston, he is sure Pike thinks he hates him because he either blankly ignores anything Pike says or leaves the room in such a haste that even Hollander’s parents notice something it weird about him. Which is fucking awesome.

One of the worst moments of Cliff’s motherfucking life had been the night they all hung out in Roz’s living room and watched a fucking stupid movie with one third of the Centaurs in the house and Pike pressed against his side. He can’t even remember the movie, can’t remember who was in the house with them and who made the guacamole and what type of pizza he put into his mouth, because all Cliff remembers is Hayden fucking Pike’s body heat and the stupid scent of him.

All he remembers is how he couldn’t stop looking at Pike, at his hands on top of the blanket on his knees. At his face, the small twitch of a smile, the gentle furrow of his brows, the way his nose twitches milliseconds before he starts laughing. And all Cliff wanted to do was to say, You are so beautiful to me, to write these words on to Pike’s skin so he would never not know how important he is to his soulmate, but he couldn’t. Couldn’t and wouldn’t.

If nothing else, Cliff learned a hell of a lot of self-control the week in Ottawa, because he didn’t say any of it, but swallowed and pressed the words down until he felt full and bloated and like he might throw up.

He doesn’t think he can do this much longer. In general. Seeing Pike at games had been hard enough the last four years, but with Roz and Hollander out now, starting a normal life, there won’t be a way to avoid him much longer.

Maybe if he quits hockey, ends his career a bit earlier than he always imagined? Maybe then, one contact point will fall away and it will be easier to manage? Cliff doesn’t think he can let hockey go yet, though. Not yet. So, he swallows, and works on hardening himself even more.

Back in Boston, he tries to forget how it felt to be around Pike and to know him in a private setting. How his voice changes when he talks to his kids, to Hollander or to Roz. How he eats his steak. What kind of cologne he uses. How, even after rejection after rejection, he tried to get Cliff to talk to him, unwilling to give up. Or maybe not realising Cliff’s reluctance.

Time moves weirdly for him for a while. The Raiders get into the playoffs, and somehow lose every singe time, ending their season short. With that Cliff helps his rookie to move out of his apartment and his sister to move in.

They watch the final, see Hollander trip and watch even through the camera his whole team minus Pike turn their backs on him. He helps his sister choose a wall colour while talking to Roz on the phone about what the Metros said and did. He promises himself to fuck them up next season so bad, they will go home crying every single game.

He gets a new suit for his best friend’s wedding and on his way home, he stops at a random shelter to see if one of the cats would like to be adopted by him. He takes home two black cats that are inseparable, and somehow hate his fucking curtains. Of course, he gets rid of the curtains.

He’s covered in beet red wall paint when Hollander calls him and asks him if he could arrange some stuff about the wedding together with his best man, and when Cliff asks who his best man is, Hollander just says, “Hayds, obviously.”

Duh, his sister would say. Cliff only stares at the paint on the wall, and feels fucking hopeless for a moment.

It takes him half the afternoon to freaking out about Pike until he manages to check online if written words also count as a trigger. They don’t. So, he sends Pike a message about flowers and cake and if they should get chairs or not even though both Roz and Hollander didn’t think about chairs.

While waiting for Pike’s reply, his sister comes home crying and with a soulmate mark on the back of her hand that says, “Aren’t you the Herpes girl?” Which, charming, and really horrible, but he somehow gets her to giggle when he asks her what she said back to her soulmate.

“Says Mister Syphilis,” and okay. Med students are officially weirder than hockey players. At least, his skin doesn’t show that his soulmate referred to him as an STD.

Later that night, he gets his answer from Pike.

Hayden Pike

On June 2nd, 2021 at 11:56PM

sorry for the late reply, kids, yk.

not sure about the chairs, I think it might be a good idea, but Hollanov are weird.

cakes come from Le Parfait, they will be delivered, same for the rest of the food. tho Rozanov might want to try and get some fast food from somewhere, ykyk

one of us needs to pick up the flowers, when will you and your +1 be in Ottawa? we can check who’s less stressed then?

Shane also decided against a big guest list. Just friends and Scott Hunter. (quote Rozanov).

they haven’t said anything about a DJ or something, but apparently Harris (social media dude from Ottawa/Troy Barrett’s BF) said he can do it. We do have to stop him from playing Rihanna tho. Whole Centaurs say he’s obsessed with her.

also, should we plan a stag night? 2 Stag nights? Together or alone?

Cliff Marleau

On June 3rd, 2021 at 00:31AM

Stag night: yes, maybe I take Rozy and you take Hollander? Make it two different days, so Centaurs can go to both?

Chairs: lets see if they decide anything later on? If not, we can probably find some chairs somewhere last min

Flowers: send me the address, I’ll pick it up

I’ll be there 4 days early and stay for about a week.

What about photo slideshows or speeches?

Hayden Pike

On June 3rd, 2021 at 00:47AM

stag night: tbh lets just make one, its probably easier for the guys to arrange/be free.

chairs: okay, but if everyone is whiny bc they can’t sit down or have to lie down on the grass, it’s your fault.

okay, so you’re coming alone?

photo slideshow: hell yes. Speech: if you want to do one, yay. I won’t bc I think Shane will bury me somewhere behind his cottage if I do.

is anyone else from Boston coming?

Cliff Marleau

On June 3rd, 2021 at 01:02AM

Okay, just one stag night. How about karaoke?

Chairs: maybe blankets? Its kinda romantic?

Photo slideshow: think we can send videos/pics to that Harris guy and he can make an edit?

Speech: Will do that, give me notes about Hollander so I can mention literally anything else but the Jane thing.

Carmichael, St-Simon, Connors and Hammersmith have already booked tickets. I know Karkov won’t come bc of Russia, but not sure about the rest.

Hayden Pike

On June 3rd, 2021 at 01:14AM

Yes to karaoke.

blankets sound good.

i’ll ask Harris.

[text doc: info about Shane H.]

Cliff Marleau

On June 3rd, 2021 at 01:22AM

👍

Hayden Pike

On June 3rd, 2021 at 03:39AM

are you going to talk to me this time or ignore me again when you’re in Canada?

Cliff reads the last message the next morning and decides to start early with the whole ordeal and ignore it.

“And it’s just like,” says Luca Haas, gesturing wildly with both of his hands, “like, I do love hockey, obviously. But I also like art. And I’m always thinking, what if I stay and be an athlete and that’s cool, but then I will never be able to tell my stories, you know? Would that still make me happy? Does my happiness depend on art or hockey, and how can I have both without sacrificing one or the other?”

St-Simon nods and takes another sip of his beer, sending a glance over to Cliff that clearly looks like he wants to say, “Can you believe this guy? Won a Cup and is now reconsidering his life choices?!”

One of the other younger players leans closer to Haas and says, “You can make lots of money with hockey, and when your knee is fucked or you feel like its becoming a chore to get on the ice, you can stop and do your art.”

“And you don’t need to share it, don’t need to be successful with it,” says St-Simon slowly, adding, “But if you want, you can start now, small. On social media, create a following. Do your thing, you don’t need to sacrifice anything.”

Cliff looks away. Outside the bar window, it’s started raining. He watches the drops hit the glass and fall in and out of the yellow lights of the streetlamps.

The karaoke bar is loud and crowded and just like Cliff always liked his night’s out. Music, laughter, conversations driving all around them, it’s nearly three a.m., and he knows some of the stag guests have already made their way home.

He hasn’t seen Roz and Hollander in the last two hours, and he would be willing to bet his shirt on the fact that they’re already at home, in their bed, probably doing the nasty.

Somewhere on the other side of the bar, Pike has been flitting between the different circles: Centaurs, Raiders, Hollander’s old school and hockey camp friends, Roz’s Russian friend group around Sveta and even Rose Landry. Every time Cliff caught a glimpse of him, he’s been in a conversation, smiling or holding the damn mic in his hands with someone’s arm tossed over his shoulder, singing his heart out to Abba and what not.

It’s fucking awful, because this is sort of exactly what Cliff wants, the metaphorical and physical distance between him and Pike. It’s awful, because he finds himself battling with this bone deep relief that Pike doesn’t approach him since Cliff ignored that one message and at the same time the misplaced, cold discontentment that he wants him so much and cannot have him. He is both happy and incredibly sad, both content and displeased. And he fucking hates it.

Why did he get Pike? Why not someone else? A random girl in a bar or a high school sweetheart or a friend of a friend of a friend? Why had it to be fucking Pike?

He closes his eyes and takes another sip of vodka. The bad one, since Roz isn’t here anymore to bitch at everyone for buying the stuff that’s certainly not Russian and tastes and smells more like a car tire than anything else.

He glances up to find Pike standing on the other side of the bar counter. Cliff feels his throat close up and a flash of heat soars through his entire body. Carefully and with much more effort than he thinks would usually be necessary to keep his hands calm, he places his glass back on the counter.

“I’m gonna head out for some air,” he says to no one in particular, and the only indication that they heard him over the new song playing is Hayes hand hitting his back a few times.

He gets up, leaving his drink and friends behind, and winds his way through the packed room towards the door. He’s out before anyone can stop him for a quick chat, and crosses the street to lean against one of the house walls. The rain hits him in the face and despite the summer time, he feels cold immediately, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans.

This late in the night, there aren’t a lot of people on the street. Only a few odd party goer on their way either to another bar and club or home.

Cliff kind of wants a cigarette right now, but his jacket is still inside and he doesn’t dare going back to grab it just now. Around him, the rain soaks through his shirt and jeans and plasters his hair awkwardly to his forehead, runs through it and down his neck.

On the other side of the street, the door to the karaoke bar creaks open, and Cliff looks up from the floor where he just stared at a small puddle filling up.

It’s Pike, because of course it’s him. He holds two jackets in his hands, one looking suspiciously like Cliff’s. He slips into his own jacket and throws the hood up before he heads towards Cliff, long strides across the street.

He comes to stand beside Cliff and pushes his jacket against his chest. Pike’s knuckles touch Cliff’s peck and for a second, Cliff leans into the touch, soak in the little warmth of their closeness, but then he leans back against the wall.

Wordlessly, Cliff takes it and slips into it, hand automatically reaching for the cigarettes in his pocket.

For a moment, neither of them speak.

Then Pike says, surprisingly vulnerable and shaky, “Did I do something to you? Do you hate me?”

Cliff shakes his head, pushing one of the cigarettes between his lips, but when he sees that Pike doesn’t make any move or even looks like he believes him, Cliff presses his eyes shut for a moment, sighs as quietly as he can and then says, “No.”

Because, even if he doesn’t want Pike to know about their soulmate situation, Cliff cannot, in good conscience, let him believe that he is being hated by him. Not when it is quite the fucking opposite.

He opens his eyes again and looks at Pike, waiting for his reaction when the simple word No burns itself somewhere onto his skin.

“Oh, now he speaks, was that so hard?” Pike says, self-deprecating in a way that Cliff hates. He doesn’t show any indications that the word No triggers something for him. There’s no subtle twitch of his eyebrows, no widening of his crystal clear blue eyes, not even the tiniest gasp. Absolutely nothing.

If Pike was another person, more like Roz or the men Cliff grew up with, he wouldn’t think twice that Pike is able to hide it, but Pike is not like that. His face is an open book, his eyes their own language, and everything about Pike right now tells Cliff that there’s nothing.

And Cliff really isn’t an idiot. He knows what that means - four years worrying that the man in front of him would get into a precarious situation if Cliff even dared to whisper something into his direction, and in the fucking end it’s a one-way soulbond.

Hayden fucking Pike is his soulmate, but Cliff’s not his.

He never thought anything could hurt more than the steady, lingering ache he always felt regarding Hayden Pike, but this? This hurts so much worse. This is so much crueller than finding his soulmate only to realise that he’s someone else’s person already. Maybe his wife is his soulmate.

“Sorry, Pike,” he says around his cigarette and hopes the shaking of his voice isn’t audible with the rain pelting around them. He rubs one hand over his face before he reaches for his lighter, the click between them like it’s own fucking language, too. “I’m not a big conversationalist.”

“That’s a pretty big word for someone who claims he’s not talkative,” Pike says and steps a bit closer, leaning against the wall of the house right next to Cliff. Their shoulders touch.

“I said I’m not a big conversationalist, not that I’m fucking stupid and don’t know any words,” he takes a drag of his cigarette, hoping every other word that’s laying on the edge of his throat is burned by the smoke.

“Touché,” Pike says quietly. “So, it had nothing to do with me? You not talking to me?”

“No, of course not,” Cliff says, and it’s technically not really a lie. For most part, the past four fucking years, was because of him. It wasn’t Pike’s fault. It isn’t Pike’s fault that the universe decided he’s going to be Cliff’s person, and it’s not reciprocated. It’s not Pike’s fault that they’re both men, play hockey and Cliff is a stubborn motherfucker.

“What was it then?”

Cliff stares at the rain and lets the smoke of the cigarette fill all his senses, and thinks what to say. He could lie and tell a stupid story no one, least of all Pike will believe. He could tell the truth, and bare himself open to being pitied. Cliff thinks he has seen Pike’s softer edges enough to know that the man will feel guilty for not being his soulmate. He can’t decide what might be worse. The pity and guilt or lying, and burying this thing even deeper than it already is.

“I didn’t mean any offence,” he says in the end, choosing deflection above all. “I didn’t think you would want to talk to me, you know. Boston and Montreal are not known to have friendly relationships.”

Pike huffs out a loud, humourless laugh, “And yet, here we are, three days before Shane Hollander’s and Ilya Rozanov’s wedding.”

“Technically, both of them are Centaurs now,” Cliff says with a raised eyebrow, shifting a bit so he can look at Pike by his side.

“Not when they started this thing,” Pike says and runs a hand through his soaking wet hair.

“Even worse than Boston-Montreal, they were Canada against Russia back then.”

Pike shakes his head a bit, and there is the tiny lopsided grin Cliff loves so much, “You know what I mean, though.”

Cliff hums noncommittal and tries not to stare too much at the way Pike’s eyelashes clump together from the rain streaming over his face and his cheeks are pink from the alcohol and night’s out.

The silence stretches between them like both of them are holding on to something they’re not willing to let go yet.

Cliff moves from one foot to the other and their shoulders brush again.

Pike doesn’t move away. He shifts slightly, leaning back into Cliff. It feels so easy, so wrong, so inevitable, and Cliff is almost sick with greed, sick with how much he wants this.

And he didn’t even notice that he is still staring, eyes almost blindly roaming over Pike’s face, trying to take in every single detail, until Pike’s gaze drops, just briefly, to Cliff’s mouth.

It’s so small and fast that if Cliff hadn’t been already looking, he would never have seen it.

His heart jumps in his chest, rabbit fast, racing hard enough to hurt. For a split second, he allows himself to drop his gaze, too. To look at Hayden’s lips, the curve of them and the way they part in a silent, trembling exhale. There’s a small scar on his upper lip where Kent’s knuckles bust it open months ago.

Hayden leans in closer. Just a fraction, slowly, like he’s testing the water to see if Cliff might be safe, like he’s waiting for Cliff to pull away.

The door to the bar opens and falls shut, and Cliff turns his head away, pulls back like he’s dragging himself through quicksand until there’s enough space between them.

The cigarette burns out between his fingers, and he clears his throat, “I should go now.”

“Back inside?” Pike asks, pushing himself off the wall to follow him, but Cliff shakes his head.

“No, I mean, you go back inside, but I’m going back to my hotel room now.”

“Oh, okay,” and there is the earnestness Cliff has always been able to witness on Pike’s open like a book face. He doesn’t want Cliff to leave yet. And if Cliff was a different person, more prone to selfishness or unwilling to care about other people’s emotions, he would run his hand over Pike’s neck now and draw him close. He would, could, wants to throw all warnings in the wind and take what his body has been longing for years, but that’s not him. And it’s not Pike, either.

“See you tomorrow,” he drops his hand on Pike’s shoulder, knocks his hand into his back a few times like Cliff has learned in his years raised in locker rooms, and then he turns on his heels and leaves, almost runs as if the devils behind him. Because if he doesn’t run, he might turn around and press his whole body against Pike, and maybe even eat him alive.

He doesn’t look over his shoulder to check if Pike stays there and stares after him.

He also doesn’t really breath until he turns around the corner and knows that either way, Pike can’t see the heaving, desperate inhales.

Cliff makes it into his hotel room before he calls Roz. When he doesn’t pick up the first time, he tries a second time not even moments later.

“Is almost five in the morning, Marley,” Roz greets him, sounding not at all as if he’s been asleep. Which only solidifies Cliff’s suspicion from earlier that he and Hollander went back home to fuck.

“Give me two minutes,” Cliff says, and his voice sounds rough.

“Has something happened?”

Cliff shakes his head, forgetting that Roz can’t even see him, and shrugs off his shoes and drenched jacket, “No. Not really.”

“So, you just miss me so much you have to call me at five in the morning?” Roz jokes, and Cliff hears Hollander’s quiet, “Be nice, Ilya,” filter through the speaker.

“I talked to my soulmate,” Cliff says, and his chest tightens enough that he would consider going to a cardiology if he wasn’t in Ottawa right now. And if he didn’t know that it’s not a heart attack, but just the stupid hurt of not being right enough for his soulmate. He read once that people can die of a broken heart, but that’s not him. He will suffer, he will hurt, but he will get up.

Fuck a broken heart.

“You did?”

“Yes,” Cliff says and runs his tongue over the edge of his teeth.

“And?”

Cliff curls his arm around his left side and presses into the words hard enough to hurt before whispering, “And nothing.”

There’s the sound of fabric and some shuffling, and Hollander’s questioning voice, and then Roz asks, “What do you mean, nothing?”

“Just nothing, Ilya,” Cliff says, voice empty. “No words on his skin. It’s just me.”

“No, that can’t be. Are you sure?”

It can be, yes. It doesn’t happen often, a one in a hundred-thousand chance or something, but it’s not uncommon, not impossible.

“He didn’t react at all,” Cliff says, leaving out the almost kiss, the tension, the palpable want between them, because this was later. This wasn’t when Cliff finally spoke to him. This was something else entirely. “I’m not his soulmate.”

“Where are you, Marley? Do you want me to come to you? Or send Uber to pick you up and you come here?” Roz asks in rapid succession, and Cliff suddenly realises that he accidentally scares his friend.

“I’m fine, I’m at my hotel room,” he says and puts as much sincerity into his voice as he can muster. “I’m okay, Ilya.”

“I can be there in twenty minutes, Shane can come, too, or he can stay home, but you’re not alone.”

“Stop freaking out, Roz. I’m okay, I want to be alone.”

“It’s not every day you realises you’re not your soulmate’s soulmate. I worry,” there’s panic in Roz’s voice now.

“I know and I’m not saying this doesn’t hurt, but I’ll be okay. Nothing will change from this, except now I can talk to him without worrying anymore,” Cliff says and drops on the bed, bending over to get rid of his socks and then his jeans. “Tomorrow, I will be at your place, right? Like we planned and then I will help your father in law to decorate for your wedding, and I pick up the flowers and buy blankets because you two weirdos don’t want chairs for your garden party.”

“Are you really sure?”

“Yes, I’m just tired,” Cliff says and yanks the shirt over his head before falling back into the bed, not even bothering to brush his teeth or pull a blanket over his damp body. Almost automatically, he hand finds the mark on his side again, nails gently scratching over it. “But thank you. And Ilya?”

“Da?”

“You will never have to worry about me ending my life, yeah? No matter how bad I feel, I will not do that, not to you, not to my sisters and parents. I’m sorry this worried you,” Cliff says with vigour and then just waits.

Seconds or minutes tick by, Cliff isn’t even entirely sure anymore, and then he hears the quiet exhale from the other end of the line, “Okay, sleep well. Is good that you called.”

“Sleep well, too,” Cliff whispers and ends the call.

He’s a bit tipsy, and the night sky in Ottawa really is something else. Cliff lays on one of the blankets he and Pike got for the wedding party, star fished, eagle spread or whatever, head pillowed on one of his arms and just looks up.

Boston is all nice and fun. The perfect city for a buzzing nightlife and to be young and stupid and reckless but there are barely any stars in the night sky. Ottawa however, really shines bright.

Somewhere to his right is Rose Landry in deep conversation with Connors about - Minnesota? Okay, if that’s the best topic he can come up with to talk to a fucking super star, Cliff just lets his team member fumble around for a bit.

From somewhere he can hear a bright cackle, one of the WAGs and there’s actually Rihanna playing in the back.

Someone drops next to him on his blanket, and Cliff knows it’s Pike before he even turns his head to look. Sometimes Cliff thinks he might know Pike by his walk alone, by the way he moves each leg and by the sounds his feet make on the ground.

“Have you seen the newlywed somewhere?”

Cliff shakes his head and lies through his teeth, “Not since Scott gave Barrett the lap dance.” He’s seen Roz and Shane steal themselves away ten minutes ago, giggling, kissing, Roz’s hand in Shane’s trouser, but Cliff’s a good buddy. He’s not going to tell Pike where they are if that might ruin their first married-couple-orgasm.

“That was something else, wasn’t it?” Pike says, and leans back on his elbows, one of his legs brushing against Cliff’s for a moment.

Cliff lets out a chuckle. He is pretty sure Troy’s beet red face that said he might actually faint any second has burned itself into his mental library, “I think he fulfilled a teenage dream with that.”

“Oh hell yeah, that's very likely,” Pike hums and sits up again to shrug his suit jacket off to throw it to the side, uncaring, unbothered before dropping down again, right next to Cliff. They’re a bit closer now, Pike’s arm touching most of Cliff’s side and if he would turn his head just a bit, his cheek might press into Cliff’s armpit. God, he hopes he still smells nice after that day. “You think they’re happy with today? Shane and Roz.”

Cliff makes a small sound and nods, “It was a nice wedding, you did good.”

“Not as good as the one with my kids,” Pike laughs and his breath hits Cliff’s side and sends shivers through his whole body. “Has Roz told you about it?”

Cliff remembers the story, something about flower crowns and capes and plastic rings, and the soundtrack of Moana in the back. He nods, can’t say anything because he doesn’t trust his voice to cooperate. Not with their proximity, not when the hurt just makes him ache tonight.

“They were wearing the rings today, too,” Pike whispers, a bit pleased with himself.

“They did,” Cliff breathes out and closes his eyes, or else he fears he is going to turn his head to the side and look at Pike, and realise how fucking close they are, and if he sees Pike’s eyes glistening in the fucking starlight, he might have a very big problem.

“You were avoiding me, though,” Pike says, voice flat.

Cliff feels his jaw tightening, brows furrowing, “It was a long day, lots of people to talk to.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Pike presses out through gritted teeth, and Cliff knows there might be a conversation coming he’s neither ready for nor wants to have out in the open. But he can’t really say that without giving away too much already.

Still, he asks, hating the edge in his voice, “What do you mean then, Pike?”

“I thought, maybe, we could be-“ Pike says quietly into the space between them. The space that is charged with so much tension and far too many unsaid words.

Be something.

Be lovers. Friends. Acquaintances.

Be anything.

Cliff opens his eyes again and shifts a bit, away from Pike’s body next to his, away so he can really look at him from a safe distance.

His eyes really do fucking glisten in the starlight, and his eyelashes flutter when he looks up at Cliff, a desperate tension around his mouth.

“Don’t,” Cliff says, and he doesn’t know if he’s asking Pike to stop talking and bury his thoughts deep within him or if he’s begging him to stop looking at him like this. Like they could be more.

Pike lets out a harsh breath, “Don’t what? I’m trying here, Marleau.”

Marleau, you motherfucker!

The words on his skin burn, and Cliff lets them, lets them lick and burn through it and into his bones until he feels them deep inside him. He opens his lips to say something, and then closes them again, because all that wants to spill out is how fucking much Cliff has been yearning for him.

“I’m trying to be friendly here and to, I don’t know, find common ground now that our best friends are married to each other. We will see each other a lot more, and I thought we could try and bond and I don’t know. I’m really trying here,” Pike says, a desperate little plea and above all else, he sounds exhausted.

Cliff has to grab the blanket underneath them and hold tight so he doesn’t reach across the space and lay his fingers against Pike’s cheek. He breaths through the instinct, and then asks, “Where is the rest of your family?”

“What?”

“Your kids, man,” Cliff tries to deflect again, to get the conversation into shallow waters.

Pike looks like Cliff’s tossed him around, shaken and entirely confused, “They went home a few hours ago, with Jackie, why?”

Cliff tries not to flinch, and charges forward, “Jackie’s your wife, right?”

Pike’s face goes still, control snapping into place, “Yes.”

Cliff nods once, more a jerk than anything else, and then turns his face away, back up to the sky, hoping the dismissal is as clear as day and Pike stops prodding, stops whatever conversation he is trying to have.

He doesn’t stop. “What has that to do with you ignoring me?” he asks, and his voice shakes. “And look at me when I try to talk to you.”

“Pike,” Cliff says, and his name tastes like dirt on his tongue. “You are married.”

“What has that to do with everything?” Pike says, harsher, louder, but not loud enough to attract anyone else’s attention. There is something raw underneath his tone and in the way the words come out of his mouth, something like panic and pain.

Cliff looks back at him, because he asked him to. Because, probably, if Hayden Pike asks Cliff to jump off an air plane, he would fucking do it.

Hayden’s throat bobs. His eyes are open and bright, and there’s a tear clinging to his eyelashes. And Cliff is just a person, just a weak man, so he reaches out and brushes his thumb over it, rubs the salty wetness into the gentle curve of Hayden’s cheekbone, and repeats, slow and with honesty, “Hayden, you are married.”

His hand lingers for a moment, waiting for the devastation to hit. For Hayden to realise that it means everything to Cliff, that this is a barrier he can’t cross. Not even for a potential friendship, because this is not what he wants, has never been what he wanted, and will never be what he wants with Hayden fucking Pike. And this means, he has to ignore him. This means that he will turn and run, and turn and talk to other, far less interesting people. Because Hayden is married, and Cliff’s not his soulmate, and he would rather dig his own grave than stay and witness Hayden’s life from the outskirts.

He lets his hand linger another moment, watching Hayden’s eyes go wide when he finally seems to understand what Cliff is hinting at but is unable to voice out loud, and only then Cliff curls his hand back to his side. Fingers clenching and unclenching, prickling with the lingering sensation of Hayden’s skin against his.

He breathes for a moment, slow and unsteady before he sits up. He pats his hand on Hayden’s knee, one, two, three times, and then he gets to his feet. He reaches for his jacket and tries to ignore that Hayden has his head tilt up to him and his lips move with unspoken words.

Somehow, Cliff makes it across the lawn and kisses Yuna Hollander on the cheek, says goodbye to anyone who’s still there, still laughing and talking, and having the beautiful night they so very much deserve.

The taxi drive back to his hotel is a complete blur. He knows the radio is playing too loud. He might tip the driver a hundred dollar bill in cash. The receptionist of his hotel greets him with a tired smile.

It’s not until Cliff’s closing the door of the room behind him and he comes to a tentative halt right there, door knob digging into his hip, that he comes back into himself. His thumb bleeds where he bit the skin next to his nail in nervous energy. His jaw hurts by how hard he’s been clenching his mouth shut. His eyes are dry, too dry, like he hasn’t been blinking enough.

Cliff basically confessed. Maybe not the soulmate thing, but the emotions. He confessed and left. And now he is alone in a random hotel room in Ottawa, and has to live with this new reality.

A few nights ago, he had been able to call Roz, to talk it through. Not tonight, though. This is the man’s wedding night, and while Cliff knows from the bottom of his heart that Ilya Rozanov would leave his husband dry and bothered to lend a shoulder to cry on, Cliff is not that desperate. There’s just no one else who knows. No one who might listen and understand, beside maybe Stephenson, but that’s a fucking kid, and he’s probably back in Denmark with his family for the summer like most of their team is on vacation.

Most of their team. Carmichael, who was at the wedding, maybe still even is there and drinks with the guys. Carmichael, who is probably not as thick as some of the other guys.

Cliff dials his number before he can rethink his decision.

“Captain!” Carmichael shouts into the phone, music blaring in the background, and Cliff can hear someone laughing loudly.

“Carmichael,” he only replies, unsure how to start this conversation. He’s usually not one to call people, and even less someone who talks his emotions through until they’re not so heavy anymore.

He doesn’t need to do anything else, though, because whatever his assistant captain heard in his voice must be enough. The sound of the party in the back grows quieter until the only thing Cliff can hear is Carmichael’s breath, “What happened?”

“You know who my soulmate is, right?” Cliff answers with a question of his own. He doesn’t think he can say it himself, and it’s so much easier if the other man simply answers for him, get it over with like ripping a bandage off.

He hears a quiet, “Oh god,” and then louder, obviously directed at him, “I have my suspicions.”

“And they are?” Cliff asks, swallowing loud enough for his throat to click.

Carmichael makes a sound that’s almost a huff, “I guess it’s not fucking Dallas bitch boy Kent.”

Without wanting to, Cliff echoes the huff, the almost laugh, “Hell no, no it’s not.”

“Thank fuck for small mercies, then,” his friend says, but his voice betrays him. Betrays that he doesn’t really think it’s that much of a mercy if Cliff is desperate enough to call in the middle of the night during their other’s friend’s wedding party.

“Can you say it?” Cliff asks, leaning against the hotel room door and adding when they’re quiet for too long, “I’ve never said it out loud, and I don’t think I can. So, you need to say it for me, please.”

There’s a deep sigh, resigned and sad, on Cliff’s behalf, he realises a second before Carmichael says, “Hayden Pike. He is your soulmate, right?”

“Yes,” Cliff croaks out, eyes burning. “Hayden fucking Pike is my soulmate.”

And that’s it. He says it and it rips out of his chest in almost violence. Hayden Pike is his soulmate, and life is not fucking fair. He gasps for air and struggles to fill his lungs with oxygen now that he said out loud what he’s been carrying with him for four long years.

“That sucks, man,” Carmichael says softly. He doesn’t sugarcoat it, doesn’t try to tell Cliff any stupid platitudes to make it hurt any less.

“It does suck, yeah,” Cliff laughs and it sounds wet to his own ears. “It sucks so fucking bad, man. It’s stupid. I wish, I didn’t have a soulmate at all.”

Carmichael is quiet for a moment, and then he says, “Yeah, I get that.” He doesn’t offer an explanation, and Cliff doesn’t ask. It’s none of his business, and if Carmichael ever wants to tell him, he will on his own. Instead, his friend asks, “Are you okay to be alone tonight?”

Cliff thinks about it, plays the night he has ahead of him out, tests it in the safety of his own mind, and says, “Yes, I’m taking a shower now, then bed, and then I help the Hollanders clean that fucking garden.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Carmichael says, and there’s the click of a lighter and then the sound of a cigarette coming to life. “Give me your hotel room number, I pick you up tomorrow.”

“I’m a grown ass man and your captain,” Cliff retorts, sighs, and then adds, “20-17.”

“Cool, see you tomorrow,” Carmichael says and then the line goes quiet, and Cliff lets his head hit the door hard enough to bruise, and stands still until time loses all meaning. Until he can finally move his body.

Somehow, he manages to slip out of his clothes and into the shower. His whole body is frozen, his limbs shaking. He’s in fucking shock. The warm water is scalding on his skin, goosebumps rising all over. He pushes a hand into his side hard enough for bruises to bloom underneath the words. How fucking fitting, he thinks and laughs just once, and then swallows the rest, because the rest sounds more like a sob. And Cliff doesn’t let himself cry.

He almost doesn’t hear the knock on the door over the water around him. But then there’s another knock, a firm, insistend pounding.

Cliff shuts off the water and reaches for his towel, and there’s another knock. Loud, persistent, there.

“Second,” he calls out, walking out of the bathroom and past his blinking phone. Usually, he would ask or look through the peephole before opening any hotel room door, but Cliff is a bit out of it, his brain miles and miles away.

This night, he opens the door without so much as checking anything.

Hayden stands there, fully dressed in his suit from the wedding and hair a tousled mess, face blank in the way that shows he is trying too hard to hide his emotions. But his body speaks for him more than any language could. The sharp line of his tense shoulders, the subtle shift of his feet as he braces himself for Cliff, and then leans forward, slightly swaying closer like a planet pulled into Cliff’s orbit.

“What-?” Cliff asks, his heart beat hard enough that he feels dizzy.

“Let me in,” Hayden says and his voice is steady, stoic; scared. His chest rises and falls a bit too fast, as if he’d been running.

And who is Cliff to disobey his soulmate, no matter what kind of mess of a situation they’re finding themselves in now. Of course, Cliff moves to the side and opens the door wider, welcoming, damning himself with this action. For a second they are close enough that Cliff can smell Hayden’s cologne and the scent of garden and sun from the day outside. Then, Hayden walks past him, into the room and Cliff can’t do anything but close the door with a gentle click.

“Carmichael gave me your room number,” Hayden says, and his voice cracks just slightly. It shifts the helplessness Cliff feels to the side and makes room for a small wave of righteous rage and indignation. “I was looking for you.”

“And he gave you all the details you wanted, yeah?” Cliff whispers, vulnerability so open in his voice that he doesn’t even need to push his chest open and lay himself bare for the man in front of him.

Hayden shakes his head, eyes narrowed and lifts a hand, knuckles red and starting to bruise, “No, I almost broke his fucking nose and even that didn’t make him talk.”

The sight of Hayden’s hand makes something inside Cliff snap into place, or maybe out of it, because he steps forward, closer, like a moth to the flame, uncaring that he will be burned. “What do you want?” he asks quietly, defeated. He never had a chance to begin with, because whatever Hayden wants, asks of him, Cliff will give him.

“You owe me an explanation,” Hayden says, hands lifting to rub over his tired looking face and through his hair and then down to his chest, hugging himself as if to keep his insides where they belong. “I ask of you to give me a chance to become, what- friends, if you want to use that word, and you say no because I’m married?”

“Yes,” Cliff says and mirrors Hayden’s posture, hands rising to his head, his forehead, to brush over his eyes in desperation to block him out and not have to deal with him.

“You have to tell me what you mean,” Hayden says and the words come out raw and fast. “Because it is not fair of you to let me suspect something, to overthink it and then maybe come to the wrong conclusion.”

Cliff shakes his head, but the words are already threatening to spill over his lips. His phone starts ringing, and isn’t that the perfect fucking time. He turns towards it, left arm outstretched to reach for it and turn it off. Cliff wants this moment to end, but he’s not an arsehole. He won’t ignore Hayden for his phone.

He sees one message from Carmichael before he turns his phone off completely and throws it on his bed.

Carmichael Boston

On July 11th, 2021 at 02:15AM

Sorry Captain

Hayden goes very still.

The hotel room is dim, lights low, the door to the bathroom open and the only other light source, and it is dark enough for Cliff to miss a lot, but not the way Hayden’s eyes are on his chest.

No, not his chest. On his left side, by his armpit. Where the words Marleau, you motherfucker! are a stark contrast on his otherwise unblemished skin. Cliff slaps his palm on it, hoping the cursive script, the dim lightening of the room and their physical distance to each other is enough that Hayden wasn’t able to read it, or even to realise that it is a soulmate mark and not a dumb tattoo.

From the way Hayden’s eyes have widened, Cliff doesn’t think that is the case.

“You have a soulmate,” Hayden says slowly, voice hollow like he’s a million miles away.

“Hayden,” Cliff shakes his head in warning. “Please don’t.” He sounds genuinely weary when the little plea falls over his lips. The soulmate mark burns underneath his hand, pulses as if it wants to rip itself off his skin and reach out the small distance between their bodies. “Please,” he repeats almost inaudible.

Hayden inhales sharply, long and his breath shakes on the exhale. He stares at Cliff as if his words get tangled together in his throat, and then he lets out an ugly little laugh, “We’re in a fucking stalemate here, huh? You don’t talk, I don’t talk, but I think-“

“Hayden-“ Cliff begins, trying to interrupt him and make him stop, but he continues on with something like composed rage and bitterness spilling out between each word, it’s own little cadence.

“- but I think, we might mean the same thing. So, please, work with me here, Cliff, and tell me what you meant,” he talks like a man who knows what he wants, but doesn’t dare to voice it out loud. He also talks like a father of four small kids, like authority and self-assurance, and being wise beyond his fucking age.

Cliff is neither of theses things, but he is exhausted and tired, and so hopelessly in love with Hayden fucking Pike that it scorches him from the inside. And maybe he would have been fine if not for Hayden saying his name. “You are fucking married,” Cliff says, and his voice is louder now, sharper, cracking at the edges. “You have a family. You - I don’t think I can be friends with you, and I don’t think I can stand close to you and see you and talk to you because this isn’t what I want. I want-“

Four years, skin stretched thin, bend him over and crack his chest open, and -

“What do you want?” Hayden asks and steps closer, his face dark, hopeful, resentful.

“- my soulmate,” it’s the simple truth, raw and ugly and honest. Cliff lets his arm fall to his side, not really showing, but also not hiding the words behind his palm anymore. “I want you, but you don’t-“ He stops himself, doesn’t want to put words into Hayden’s mouth and twist this moment into something ugly.

He feels his own pulse hammering in his throat like a sledgehammer. He said it to Hayden, came clean, opened himself and told the truth, and with it everything will change now.

Hayden takes a step closer, his jaw clenched and then, “Jackie met her soulmate two years ago. We still live together because its easier for our kids, with me on the road six months of the year and because her soulmate is an astrobiology professor from London. Which doesn’t fucking matter at all, Marleau. We’re still married because it’s easier for the kids and because there wasn’t a reason to get a divorce yet. It gives her a safety net, and because she is my best friend. Don’t tell Shane.”

Cliff can’t help himself and laughs, once, broken, too fucking rough, “I won’t.”

“Yes, I’m married,” Hayden says and takes another step closer. “And I won’t fucking lie to you and tell you I don’t love her, still. I love Jackie, I really fucking do, and I will always love her. Always, she’s the best person I know. But,” His hand stretches out, slow, careful as if Cliff might bolt the moment his hand touches Cliff’s side and the tips of his fingers find his own words etched on his skin. The touch is hot, a unique swirl of amber blazing underneath his skin. The touch is familiar, like everything of Hayden is familiar to him even though they don’t know each other like this.

Cliff closes his eyes, hears an intake of breath and can't tell if it was him or Hayden. Feels like maybe there isn't a difference in this moment.

So, this is how it feels like when a soulmate touches the mark. This heat, this depth, Cliff opens his eyes again at the very moment, Hayden whispers, “But not like I want to love you.”

His other hand, the one that doesn’t explore the mark on Cliff's skin, comes up to push Cliff’s arm out of the way, to open the space around his mark so he can really read it. The shake of Hayden’s head is small, almost invisible, “That’s not-”

“What?” Cliff asks and lifts his hand to Hayden’s neck, thumb gently pressing into the curve under his cheekbone to lift his head and make eye contact.

“That’s not the first thing I said to you,” Hayden whispers, eyebrows furrowed.

“It is, it’s on camera, you can see in my face when it burned itself there, and you can hear your own voice,” Cliff says, thumb gently brushing from Hayden’s cheek to his ear. Hayden’s hand, that isn’t tracing the words under Cliff’s arm comes up and holds on to Cliff’s wrist, long finger curling around it hard enough to leave an imprint.

“But that can’t be, because I worked hard on these words to you, I practised over and over again, and then I said them, and you didn’t react,” Hayden says, voice breaking, and nothing he says really make sense. “I said You’re everything I never knew I wanted, but you didn’t react, so I thought, okay, it’s just me.”

“You didn’t react either, Hayden. Remember a few days ago? When you asked me if I hate you because I was ignoring you, and I said No,” Cliff counters, gripping Hayden’s neck and cheek a bit tighter. “I said No, and there was nothing from you. So, maybe the whole soulmate word thing is just fucked up, okay?”

Hayden’s eyes flash and his face tightens so hard it looks like pain, and he laughs out a sob, “That’s because it wasn’t the first fucking time you talked to me. No wasn’t your first word, Cliff.”

“What do you mean?” his heart hammers in his chest, under his rib cage, and Cliff just knows that Hayden must feel it under the tip of his fingers, still tracing the words Marleau, you motherfucker!

Hayden’s fingers lift and clench and then a fist hits Cliff’s chest, gentle, careful, not willing to hurt him, but enough to shake off some of the raw emotions. His mouth trembles but his eyes don't leave Cliff’s and then he tilts his head and leans into Cliff’s hand like a touch starved cat, “I’ve been carrying your words since I was eighteen. Since our first game against each other, third game I ever played in Montreal. You pushed me against the boards and said something, and I’ve been wearing these words ever since.”

“First game, that is what? Ten years ago?” Cliff exhales and his hands shake with the confession, but also with relief. He is not alone in this.

He is Hayden’s soulmate, too.

“2009, Montreal won 5 - 4, you and Drapeau fought in the last period. You pushed me into the boards and shit talked me, and when we played against each other a few months later again, I said this whole fucking thing back, but you didn’t react. You didn’t react,” Hayden says and his fist knocks into Cliff’s chest with each word. His eyes are shiny, and he looks like he’s trying not to drown in his confession. “And for years, I thought, okay, okay, it’s just me and you’re not - I’m not your person, so, I decided to move on, and I met Jackie. I met Jackie because I thought you either didn’t want me or because I wasn’t your fucking person.”

“Show me,” Cliff says, rough, bleeding. Twelve fucking years, because Cliff didn’t hear him or the universe wanted to fuck with them. Twelve fucking years. “Please show me.”

The blush spreading on Hayden’s cheeks is like a blazing fire, “They’re on my thigh, and.” He stops and takes a step back, hands falling away from Cliff’s body.

“And?” Cliff asks slowly, and then waves his hands around, pointing at his own state of undress, the only thing covering him the towel wrapped around his waist. “Not like I’m not also kind of naked here.”

“Your words suck,” Hayden says under his breath and Cliff can’t stop the laugh tumbling out of his lips.

“Yours aren’t that good, either.”

“If you laugh, I will kick your balls, okay?” Hayden says, eyebrows raising threateningly, and even through it doesn’t do anything to intimidate him, Cliff nods, just once. It’s enough for Hayden, though, who takes another step back and slowly, begins to undress. The jacket falls first, then his tie and his shoes. It’s rather methodically, and Cliff can see his hands shaking when he reaches for the buttons of his dress shirt. When their eyes meet and the question in Cliff’s face must become obvious, Hayden only mumbles, “Feels weird to undress to my underwear, but leave the suit jacket and shirt on.”

The dress shirt and white tank top he had been wearing underneath fall to the floor in one crumbled pile and then Hayden reaches for his trousers, finally looking up and at Cliff again. He opens the button and then shimmies out of the black pants, dropping them on the floor right where he stands, only for him to take another step backwards.

Cliff can’t stop staring. Yes, he has seen a lot of men as athletic as Hayden, but somehow none of them can compare to him. None of them have the gentle curves and sharp edges, or the spread of light freckles across his shoulders and chest. A blush starts swimming to the surface of Hayden’s skin.

Slowly, he turns around and stops at the perfect angle where the dim light of the bed lamp hits his right thigh. And there it is, on the back of his upper thigh slightly above his knee.

Like in trance, Cliff steps closer, careful not to tangle himself into Hayden’s scattered clothes, and then goes down on one knee to really look.

The words are upside down, written in Cliff’s ugly handwriting from twelve years ago that hasn’t really improved since then. He tilts his head to the side and squints his eyes.

Your hands would be more useful around my cock than around that stick, rookie.

An unwelcome laugh punches out of his lungs, and Hayden kicks him once into the upper thigh.

“Stop laughing,” Hayden says and turns around, and isn’t that a fucking bad idea, because Cliff is still kneeling on the floor in front of him, and now he’s looking up to him, face close enough to Hayden’s clothed crotch that Cliff can feel the heat of him. “You chirped me on that fucking ice, and I’ve been wearing it ever since.”

Slowly, Cliff lifts his left hand and curls it around Hayden’s leg until he finds the back of his knee where approximately Cliff’s first words are etched onto his skin. He trails the pads of his fingers and then the whole hand over Hayden’s skin until he finds the words, a low murmur of heat wanders through him. It’s like laying in the spring sun, slow and gentle, and moving through Cliff like it's tries to circle through his body, and when Hayden gasps at the hot sensation Cliff grabs Hayden’s leg, possessive and hard. “Do you hate your words?”

Hayden swallows, his gaze flickers down, briefly, to Cliff’s chest and then up to his lips, and then he shakes his head, “Not anymore.”

Cliff feels something inside him crack apart, not the fear and loneliness, but clarity because finally he can see the want and longing in Hayden’s eyes that had been held back for more than a decade. The fear laced into desire, and the knowledge that they’re both allowed to have this, now, after so many years is almost unbearable.

Cliff surges up and kisses Hayden.

It’s a collision, desperate and aching, like waves crashing into each other, like a wild fire let lose, like Cliff has reached the end of his restraints. For the briefest fraction of a second Hayden freezes, simply catching up with him, and then he kisses back with a force that takes Cliff’s breath away.

Hayden’s hand slides up Cliff’s arms and then to the back of his head, to hold him closer, tighter and right there, in place, gripping hard to leave marks. Marks that might vanish in a few days, but will probably never be forgotten as long as Cliff is alive. They pull each other closer until their bodies are pressed tight, and Cliff can feel Hayden’s heartbeat against his own chest, a rapid, racing little thing. Cliff’s hands find Hayden’s jaw and shoulder, and then flutter over every little bit of naked skin he can find as if to explore and map him out.

“Marley,” Hayden breathes into his mouth, and Cliff feels his lungs screaming not for air, but for every sound Hayden makes, longing to swallow them all and breath them in and let them intertwine with Cliff’s deepest parts forever.

When they finally pull apart, it’s only for their foreheads to press together, and Hayden to tug him closer, asking Cliff to follow him without using words. Cliff’s whole body trembles with adrenaline and relief and an emotion he’s not ready to name, even though he has the word for it in at least five different languages. Not yet, but soon. Not tonight, but maybe tomorrow, when they, hopefully, wake up next to each other and Hayden’s eyes are bright and clear and as deep as the ocean. Maybe then Cliff will name it, and say it, because they missed this four years, no twelve, and he doesn’t want to miss another.

“I’ve wanted to do this for so long,” Hayden whispers against his lips, his eyes closed and breath coming too fast.

“Me, too,” Cliff admits and rubs his nose against Hayden’s, pushes his face until their lips slide against another again. “Four years, and I know it’s not as long, but four years, I was thinking, if I just keep it quiet and not talk and hide it, it will go away. But it didn’t.”

Hayden makes a noise against his lips and then into the side of Cliff’s face and then into his neck.

“It got worse, Hayd. So much worse.”

Hayden’s lips trail his neck and the shell of his ear and then he leans back and says quietly, “I will not lie to you and say I’m regretting my years with Jackie or my kids-“

“And I wouldn’t want you,” Cliff shakes his head in desperation. “I’m glad you got this.” He kisses Hayden gently on the lips, right where Kent left that scar, and then on his cheek and eyebrow, and the dip of his temple. “I’m glad you are loved by more people than just me.”

Hayden lets out a breath that sounds more like a muted sob and then pushes harder into Cliff, his right hand finds Cliff’s soulmate mark almost automatically. It sends hot shivers through his body, blazing, circling, twirling underneath his skin.

The back of Hayden’s legs hit the bed and then Cliff is hovering over Hayden, one hand pushing himself up. Blinks dumbly into those too blue eyes, drooped behind these fucking long lashes, framed by pink cheeks and Cliff’s words.

They gravitate back to one another. Hayden’s mouth quick as he trails kisses on Cliff’s lips and then his neck, his jaw and the sensitive skin behind Cliff’s ear. They leave a cooling path on his skin, and a shudder races down Cliff’s spine, and comes to an end where Hayden has his hand still pressed into the soulmate mark.

His other hand skims along Cliff’s waist, a question, and when he nods, Hayden loosens the towel still wrapped around him while Cliff’s own hands find their way under the waistband of Hayden’s underwear.

“Off,” Cliff murmurs, fingers thrumming against Hayden’s waist to make him lift his hips to pull the underwear off and then leans back on the bed to make some space for his legs.

Hayden lets out a sound Cliff can’t describe as anything else but a little giggle and complies, raising his hips and then his legs and Cliff heart stutters in his chest when he sees the black words on Hayden’s skin for a moment.

“Fuck,” Cliff groans quietly. He grabs Hayden’s right leg and bends it back, knee almost hitting Hayden’s ear, because like this, he can read the soulmate mark without any problems. Like this, stretched and open, Cliff doesn’t need to tilt his head to read Your hands would be more useful around my cock than around that stick, rookie.

Cliff moves his hand along Hayden’s leg, down to the curve of the back of his knee until his flat palm lays on top of the soulmate words. He keeps his hand there even when he leans forward, hips to hips and chest to chest, and presses tiny little kisses on Hayden’s chin and neck and down his chest until he can feel Hayden’s heartbeat under his lips. Cliff moves his hips in small circles, their hard erections pressed together, and relishes the soft moans Hayden spills out just for him.

Hayden’s hand finds Cliff’s soulmate mark again, and with both of their bodies connected where Fortuna decided to place their words, the world seems to shift around them.

It’s everything and more Cliff ever wanted. It’s years of yearning splitting open. It’s hunger and frustration and an aching tenderness that feels like his skin breaking apart. He moves his head up again, mouth crashing into Hayden’s, and Cliff makes a broken sound that is not really a gasp or a moan, but something much deeper, less human.

Hayden’s free hand moves over Cliff’s shoulder, sliding into Cliff’s hair, fingers spreading wide as if he needs to make sure to touch as much of him as possible in just one brush of his hand. As if this confirms their reality, as if to make sure that Cliff is here, with him, finally, and not just a fantasy turned phantom memory.

And Cliff kisses him back like a starving man, possessive and ruthless, and so fucking gentle, he wants to cry. His hand around the back of Hayden’s upper thigh tightens because he’s afraid Hayden will vanish the second he dares to let loose. The touch sends jolts of heat and electricity through both their bodies. Underneath Cliff’s solid body, Hayden moves against him and pants harshly into his open mouth. Cliff tilts his head and deepens the kiss, a synonym of You are mine and I am yours, and Hayden groans into his mouth. The sound goes straight through Cliff’s body and settles in heart.

They break the kiss just enough to breath, lips still close enough and Cliff’s forehead against Hayden, and he can feel his own breath coming too fast, uneven, rapid pants against Hayden’s face.

He looks at Hayden up close, at his swollen, pink lips and the dilated eyes, darker than usual and he wants to see him writhing under him, wants to make him shout and tremble and come, but he also doesn’t want to stop touching the mark, and seriously, Cliff feels like he needs more hands.

And suddenly Hayden laughs, deep and honest, and it changes his entire face into something bright and warm, “You said that out loud.”

“What?” Cliff asks, a bit dumbly and nips at Hayden’s jaw, simply because he can, because they’re close enough and Cliff is allowed to touch.

“The hand thing,” Hayden replies with a smirk, and Cliff wonders what else he’s said out loud, what else fell from his lips. He doesn’t get to ask, because Hayden pushes him to the side and wraps his legs around his waist, somehow pressing the back of his thigh against Cliff’s waist but also keeps skin to skin contact on Cliff’s left side, and then he wraps his hand around both of them, and Cliff honest to god, growls.

Which gets another quiet laugh out of Hayden before Cliff starts to move his hips and it earns him a broken moan. Their breath and precum mixing, and nothing Cliff has ever done can compare to this. No one’s touch comes even close to the blazing heat under his skin when Hayden moans his name and reciprocates his demanding, asking, begging kisses.

Years, so many years, but they will make up for it. For years Cliff felt so fucking alone, so lost in his skin and in this world, that he thought this was just how his life was supposed to go. He couldn’t have everything. Wasn’t hockey enough? His loving family? Friends and a good team and everything else he’s got. And he had wanted to be grateful, thankful for all of it.

But right now, with his hand sliding up Hayden’s side and his fingers pressing into the warm skin where he can feel Hayden’s steady heart beat, a physical evidence of their proximity, he knows that he would give it all up for this. Hockey, and the life he built in Boston. For this, for Hayden, he would give it all up, as long as Hayden chooses him, too.

“I do,” Hayden whispers against him, panting and jerking from the touch of their bodies. “I choose you, Cliff.”

The relief is so sharp it hurts, and Cliff gasps into Hayden’s embrace. He kisses him again, slower now, but no less intense. And with each move of his lips he tries to pour everything he feels into it. The fear of losing him again despite their promises in this moment, the relief of finally having Hayden in his arms, the years of longing and lying to himself and everyone and bone-deep loneliness.

And Hayden kisses him back, the same way, the same intensity, the same emotions. He makes a rough sound against Cliff’s lips, and then the kiss turns tender, gentle, so slow it is almost painful. His grip tightens reflexively around them both, and even though they don’t have any lube, the slide of their bodies is easy and wet, and Cliff feels himself on the brink of coming. On the edge of being ruined for anyone else, forever.

“Me, too,” Hayden gasps, head throwing back and exposing his neck while his hand flexes and then pushes hard against his words on Cliff’s skin.

Cliff’s teeth sink into Hayden’s neck, not too hard, not to hurt, but enough to claim him for himself, to mark him for everyone to see, and this is enough to push Hayden over the edge first, Cliff following closely, moaning into Hayden’s neck and then sucking the tender flesh where he just sunk his teeth in.

That ache, that horrible hurting longing behind his chest bone shifts and changes shape. It’s not entirely gone, and Cliff doesn’t believe some kisses and coming entangled in each other arms will heal them just yet, but it’s a start. It’s a new beginning, something they can work towards to. Together.

After Cliff cleans them both up with a washcloth, Hayden curls around him, chin digging into Cliff’s shoulder, one leg thrown over his waist. They don’t put any clothes back on, and even if, usually, Cliff doesn’t really enjoy the feeling of summer sweaty skin sticking together, he doesn’t mind it if it’s Hayden’s skin.

For a few hours and in between whispered conversations, they drift in and out of sleep.

“How did I say the words to you?” Cliff asks him some time around four in the morning.

“Hot, angry,” Hayden says against his neck, nose pressed into Cliff’s steady pulse. “You had your hand on my neck and I felt so small. I hated it, hated the words for a long time after it, too. Took me a while to come to terms with the fact that my soulmate was a guy, another hockey player. Worse even, one from Boston.”

Cliff runs his fingertips along the curve of Hayden’s spine, “Did you have someone to talk to?”

“No.”

A bit later, Hayden leans back from their slow kissing, and says, “Tell me something private. Something that is probably not on the internet.”

“Did you look me up so often that you know everything there is about me?” Cliff asks, teasing, but the smirk on his face softens into a sad smile when Hayden doesn’t laugh, doesn’t make a joke about it.

That is a yes, then.

“I’ve got two cats in June. Their names are Sriracha and Mayo, courtesy of my younger sister Clara. She’s a med student, and moved in with me after last season,” Cliff starts, mostly speaking into Hayden’s messy hair now, lips brushing his forehead with every syllable. “My favourite music genre is gothic rock, but my favourite song is A Moment Apart from Odesza. I only ever cry when watching a sad movie. I had a tumblr blog when I was a teenager.”

“A tumblr blog?” Hayden laughs, and it sounds a bit wet. “What did you blog about?”

“To be honest, mostly tits. But sometimes hockey, sometimes poems, it was all very emo. And you?” He kisses Hayden’s temple and lets his lips linger.

“No tumblr,” Hayden says a bit smug. “My favourite song is Lover, You Should’ve Come Over by Jeff Buckley. I cry all the time. I think that’s something that came with the birth of my first kids, the twins. We don’t have any pets, but that’s not because I don’t like them, but because I’m away so often and didn’t want Jackie to deal with four small kids and animals, too.”

The sun is coming through the window, just the first beams when Cliff says, “Tell me about Jackie.”

“Cliff.”

“No, seriously, tell me about her. I want to know everything about you, too.”

“Okay,” Hayden says slowly, and wiggles his back closer against Cliff’s chest, hand reaching behind him to lay his arm on the soulmate mark, “We met in a club in 2011 and hit it off immediately. She’s funny and smart, and we started dating after only a handful of phone calls. I told her about the soulmate thing immediately. I didn’t want to lie to her or hide my body. She always thought it was kind of funny.”

“What do you mean?” Cliff asks and reaches down to lift Hayden’s leg up a bit, to angle it enough, so his hand can slip into the crevice of the back of his knee, finding the mark there almost as easily as Hayden found his without looking.

“Not that I thought about being alone in this, but the words itself,” he clarifies, sighing quietly when Cliff rakes his nails over the words. “When she met her soulmate in 2019, she almost didn’t tell me.”

“Why not?”

He hums before saying, “I think she didn’t want me to feel lonely, but also, the first few months, we acted as if she didn’t met them. Jackie wanted to ignore it and move on, not give into the bond or whatever. We had so many fights because of this until she finally gave in and contacted them, started to get to know them. I think they’re in love.”

Cliff’s heart somersaults in his chest, an nonrhythmic beat at the almost forlorn sound of Hayden’s words, “Do you - I mean, would you rather-“ he stops short, unsure what he actually tries to ask here, but Hayden seems to pick up on his struggle and somehow knows the question better than Cliff himself.

“I love her, that won’t change, but I want her to be with her soulmate if that is what she wants, and I also want to be with my soulmate, if this is what he wants.”

“I want that,” Cliff says into Hayden’s neck, relieved and almost euphoric. “But I won’t make you divorce her or anything. You do whatever feels right for you, okay?”

“Okay,” Hayden murmurs and turns around enough to capture Cliff’s lips between his.

“You beat the shit out of Kent for me,” Hayden moans, his hand in Cliff’s hair, tugging at the strands.

Cliff hums, low and deep around Hayden’s erection and moves his head up and down as if he’s nodding.

“Fuck, you - what? Saw my face after that game and decided to take Kent’s teeth for it?” Hayden asks, voice broken and rough, and his muscular legs around Cliff’s head shake with how much he tries to stall this moment, make it last.

Cliff looks up at Hayden through his eyelashes and bobs his head again, swallows around the jerking length in his throat and groans when he feels the first spurt of cum hit the back of his throat.

“Oh my god,” Hayden moans, hips moving in tiny circles as he rides out his orgasm.

“I love your eyes,” Cliff breathes into their kiss, and groans in annoyance when his phone starts ringing again. “Fuck, I really should take that or else Carmichael is probably banging the door open in half an hour tops.”

Hayden grumbles, but stretches out his hand to take Cliff’s phone from the nightstand and accepts the call, putting it on speaker.

“Fucking finally,” Carmichael says, annoyed. “I called you eleven times.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” Cliff says, more into Hayden’s chest than into the phone.

There’s an awkward silence for a moment, and then, “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Cliff says and shifts so he leans on his arm and can look at Hayden while he’s still talking to his assistant captain.

“Did he - “ Carmichael swallows roughly before continuing, “Did he come to you?”

“Yes, sorry he hit you,” Cliff says and watches the furious, embarrassed blush spread on Hayden’s cheeks and chest.

Carmichael lets out a bark of laughter, “He hit like a rookie, man.”

“Hey,” Hayden complains, and then immediately bites his bottom lip when he realises he accidentally outed them.

“Ah,” Carmichael chuckles, “Good for you two. So, I don’t need to be sorry for giving your room number away, huh?”

Cliff plops down on Hayden and says, far too soft, “No, I owe you.”

Cliff helps Hayden getting dressed by re-opening the buttons of his dress shirt four times to pepper tiny kisses and bite marks across his chest.

“Stop, seriously, I need to go now,” Hayden says, but both of his hands are in Cliff’s hair and he presses his nipple harder into Cliff’s face.

“One more,” Cliff murmurs roughly around the stiff nipple and slips his hand into Hayden’s underwear, fingers flitting over his rim.

“Fuck, okay.”

“Come to my house later,” Hayden says, his big blue eyes careful, a bit hesitant. “Meet Jackie, and my kids? I know, it’s early, but I want - I want you to get to know them before you decide that this -“ He gestures between the two of them, “- is really what you want.”

“Okay,” Cliff says and brushes the knuckles of his hand gently over Hayden’s cheekbone.

“And promise me, you will be honest when you’re not okay with it, because I get it, four kids, that’s a lot, and still married.”

“I will be okay with it,” Cliff whispers, meaning it more than anything else.

Hayden rolls his eyes, “You don’t know that. Maybe it’s cool now, but later when you actually see the whole thing, you’re going to turn heels and run.”

“I won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

Cliff seriously, really fucking does. Because the kids and the still-wife who’s more like his best friend and roommate, and the chaos of it, is Hayden Pike, and Cliff wants nothing more than Hayden fucking Pike.

“Just promise me, you will tell me if it’s too much,” Hayden says and lifts his head, looking up to Cliff, these long, black lashes fluttering, and Cliff nods.

“I promise.”

It feels like he’s promising a whole lot more than just that.

Chapter End Notes

ehm so, here are a handful of head canons:
-2010 Cliff didn't hear Hayden say anything and the universe thought "haha fuck it, make them beg for it", so that's why it took so long.
- after almost breaking Carmichael’s nose, Hayden confessed to him that Cliff is his soulmate so he could get that room number
- Cliff is going to be obsessed with missionary fucking and rimming bc like this he can press Hayden’s leg up and see the soulmate mark
- Cliff is the epitome of a service top
- Hayden thinks about hiding their relationship for 5 minutes bc of Montreal and then decided he'd rather coach his thousand kids and never play Hockey than keeping Cliff a secret
- Ilya will be so fucking smug about it, Shane will be hella confused at first
- Hayden had a crush on almost every queer Hockey player in the Game Changer universe, even on Ilya, but that ended the moment Ilya opened his mouth
- they both get a tattoo of words they actually would liked to have said to each other the first time. So, under Cliff's mark "Marleau, you motherfucker!" will be "You’re everything I never knew I wanted". And under Hayden’s mark "Your hands would be more useful around my cock than around that stick, rookie." will be "You are so beautiful to me".
- they also have a Ruby-Jade wedding, but with the soundtrack of Elementals, aka Steal the Show by Lauv
- they do have chairs and picnic blankets at their official wedding tho
- Cliff is a biter, Hayden is a sucker
- Cliff cries the first time they fuck
- they go on the funniest double dates with Hollanov

Chapter 2: Hayden Pike

Chapter Summary

It starts with a prickle, a light touch similar to nails brushing over his skin that turns into the distinctive fire he’s only ever heard other people talk about. The sensation of his soulmate’s first words manifesting on his skin.

or: the one where Hayden gets his soulmate mark in 2009, and it's an even longer fucking time until everything is going to be okay.

Chapter Notes

Oki, first of all:
A huge thank you to everyone for the massive support. I am completely baffled and surprised by all the readers, kudos and WONDERFUL, funny and lovely comments.
I did not expect Hayds/Marley to get so much love, and I AM HERE FOR IT. So, thank you so FUCKING MUCH!

But guys!
I do have a lil confession to make:
Chapter 1 and the funny, sweet and slightly angsty but fluffy POV of Cliff was actually just the construct of the Trojan Horse that is Hayden’s POV, because dear deity of your choice, that boy has some issues. So, please keep the newly added tags (internalised homophobia, religious guilt, catholic guilt, explicit sexual content) in mind when starting to read the rest of the story.
If I had to explain how this happened, lemme use music for it:
While writing Cliff’s POV I listened to Ethel Cain’s “Family Tree” on repeat, specifically minute 3:15 - 6:17.
While writing Hayden’s POV it was Ólafur Arnalds “Broken”; Abbot, 2WEI “The Encounter”, SYML “Listless” ans Ethel Cain “Tempest”. So yeah, I hope that kind of “visualises” a bit why the chapters are how they are.

Chapter 2 is actually just a little Extra due to popular demands, but I’ve been sitting on it since I posted Cliff’s part, unsure if I wanted to add the extra trauma and angst to the story lol. Also, because Cliff’s POV is a complete story that doesn’t necessarily need extra context. But you guys are completely correct: we need more Haycliff/Hayleau/HOW DO WE WANNA CALL THEM?

Anyway.
Have some trauma… <3

Chapter 2 Podfic Version Here <3

additional warning: in the November 2011 part when Hayden/Jackie's relationship reach 2019, Hayden's inner monologue implies that Jackie might have been touched without consent/maybe got raped. That didn't happen, but fair warning for this scene.

July 2021

“Hayden,” Marleau says his name like it physically hurts, like it punctures his lungs and drags across his tongue with spiky thorns and bittersweet poison; and Hayden’s chest constricts painfully. His heart beat, already racing with Marleau’s thumb against the corner of his eye rubbing away his angry tears, turns into that horrible, scary freefall. It’s so loud in his ears, so persistent, that he barely hears his own thoughts.

For a split second, Marleau’s brown eyes linger on Hayden’s lips and then they move away, fall shut and open again so fast it’s almost invisible. They fix on Hayden’s own eyes then, insistently. Everything about this man is hard angles and sharp corners, and Hayden sometimes fears he might cut himself open if he seeks any close contact. But Marleau’s eyes right now? His eyes are soft and gentle, and so fucking devastated.

Marleau opens his lips, and it’s barely enough time for Hayden to brace himself for the words and their impact, and then:

“You’re married.”

It sounds like a punch, like a kick to the gut, like there’s simply no hope at all, and Hayden doesn’t really understand them just now. They don’t seem to register inside his mind, don’t click into place and explain to him why Marleau had been ignoring him the entire day. They don’t explain to him why Marleau had been ignoring him for years, really. Why, for years, he’d barely looked at Hayden, let alone pressed his lips tightly together as if speaking to him might condemn both their lives.

Marleau’s hand lingers on his cheek, hot against his cool skin, and it shakes ever so slightly as if he is holding himself back from pressing harder into Hayden’s skin. For a moment, Hayden wants to turn his head and push into the touch, lift his hand and put it on Marleau’s and press hard enough until their bodies merge into one, but then the words finally land and form into a physical shape inside his mind.

You’re married.

A statement of the truth. A refection of their reality.

You’re married.

A reminder that echoes like a warning.

It sounds like this simple fact kills Marleau from the inside, and if this is true, then it means something more. But Hayden can’t suspect. He doesn’t dare to put words into this possible more, because there is so much longing swimming inside him that every suspicion is laced with a decade old desire. And he can never be sure if it is true or simply hopeful thinking. Because like this, Hayden wishes the more could be Marleau battling against his own feelings for Hayden. And that doesn’t sound right. He needs Marleau to say what he means and explain it slowly so there will be no doubts or no double meanings and no walls to hide behind. Hayden needs to hear him say it out loud. Or else he fears it is just a too vivid fantasy.

Marleau’s hand leaves his face, and it takes every last bit of willpower of Hayden to not follow it, seek it out like a sunflower turns it’s head with the movements of the sun. Then Marleau sits up, and his other hand finds Hayden’s knee and he pats it as if to say, It’s okay. As if to say, Goodbye. As if to fucking say, Lets end this now before it gets out of hand.

Don’t go, Hayden wants to beg, but his lips don’t cooperate with him. There’s barely enough air inside his lungs to even exhale and before he can pull himself together enough to reach out and wrap his hand around Marleau’s or ask him to stay and please, explain yourself he’s across the lawn and too far away. And Hayden can’t move.

Don’t go, sits on Hayden’s tongue, and he stays still on that flower patterned picnic blanket and stares up into the night sky, unable to move. With Marleau gone, his side turns cold and he begins to shiver, and still. Hayden can’t get up and move. He knows he should. His hand falls to the side where Marleau just was, and he digs his fingers into the blanket as if holding on to it is the same as holding on to Marleau.

Get up, and go home, he thinks to himself, but the right side of his face burns with the phantom touch of Marleau’s palm on his cheek.

Get the fuck up, and go home and forget this happened or get up, and follow him, ask him, beg him, make him understand that you’re his, he screams inside his own mind, but his body doesn’t seem to belong to him anymore. It doesn’t listen to his commands and it feels like mutiny, the way his limbs are locked in place and all he can do is go through swallow breathing, looking up into the night sky through burning eyes. He’s frozen in place and his soulmate mark on the back of his thigh throbs in sync with his heartbeat.

He can’t fight against the onslaught of memories, of nights so different but so similar like this one, were Hayden was frozen in terror of how much he wants Cliff Marleau.

From the far corner of the Hollander’s garden, he hears a loud, “Captain!”

Instinctively, he knows it not meant for Shane, who is no captain anymore, or for Ilya Rozanov, or even Scott Hunter. And if it’s not meant for any of them, then there is only one more captain among them.

Drawn in like a moth to a flickering porch light, Hayden finally gets to his feet, stumbling on his shaky legs and follows that voice, away from the party and to the other side of the house where the front door faces the Cul de Sac and too many cars of all the guests still celebrating his best friend’s wedding.

He sees Carmichael leaning against one of the cars. Hayden’s too far away to hear anything he says, and he doesn’t want to invade the man’s privacy, but if Carmichael is talking to Marleau, Hayden needs to know. Now that Hayden’s body finally listens to him again and moves, he needs to know where he can find Marleau. So he can ask him what the hell is going on, and how to fix this thing Hayden didn’t know is broken between them. His soulmate mark throbs on his skin, and he thinks if he just knows where to find him tonight, he will tell him. Tell him the whole damn thing and rip his heart out of his chest and present it to him like an offering to an ancient god.

So, Hayden steps closer, approaching the other man and tries to make enough noises with each step to not surprise Carmichael by accident.

Carmichael has his phone pressed between his ear and shoulder, lightening a cigarette with his hands protectively curled around the flame and says, “Give me your hotel room number, I pick you up tomorrow.”

He doesn’t notice Hayden standing there, on the outskirts of his peripheral, waiting, and Hayden really doesn’t want to eavesdrop or invade, but this might be his only option tonight that doesn’t involve calling Cliff Marleau himself and begging him to come back and talk to him. In the end, he thinks, he would do that, too. If only to finally resolve this and, if nothing else, find closure to a question he’s never dared to ask before.

He steps even closer, shuffles his feet on the gravel road and tries not to freeze when Carmichael’s blazing eyes look up and find him.

“Cool, see you tomorrow,” he says into his phone and doesn’t wait for a reply, ending the call immediately and taking a long drag from his cigarette. He doesn’t say anything, and the silence between the two of them unnerves Hayden so much, he has to repress the prickling shivers on the back of his neck.

He licks his lips, trying and failing multiple times to say something, and then Carmichael sighs, long and drawn out like he’s just really exhausted by this whole ordeal, “What did you hear?”

Hayden shakes his head, a tiny, careful movement, “Nothing.”

“Liar.”

“Was that Marleau?” Hayden asks instead, unwilling to participate or even start a confrontation, not with how tired he feels, how close to the edge of falling apart he is.

Carmichael’s tongue flicks out to wet his lips and Hayden can see him biting the inside of his cheeks.

“Please,” Hayden adds, stepping a bit closer.

“You’ve got some fucking nerves, Pike,” Carmichael says on an exhale, smoke filling the space between them. “Whatever you did to him-“

Hayden stops like being slapped. “Whatever I did to him?” he says, flat and quick. He laughs because he feels like he has to. He laughs because he feels like if he doesn’t, something else spills out of him that isn’t supposed to be laid open in a fucking Cul de Sac in Ottawa. It comes out all wrong.

“Listen, man,” Carmichael start and pushes himself off the car, taking a step closer. “I don’t give a shit what you said to him or did, but you don’t get to come here and act as if you care about him.”

But I care, Hayden wants to say. He cares so fucking deeply for Cliff Marleau it is written and embedded on his skin. Even if he didn’t want to care, he wouldn’t be able to suppress these emotions because the universe decided that Cliff Marleau was one of the people Hayden was supposed to care about the most. He didn’t even have a say in it.

But if he’s completely honest with himself, he cares not only because of the mark on his thigh, but because Marleau deserves someone to care about him. Because he has watched Marleau for years and seen him, and what he saw in this man is worthy of care and affection. No one knows this, though, besides Jackie. Cliff Marleau doesn’t know it, and least of all Carmichael.

It takes everything in him to open his mouth and say, “That’s not true.”

“What’s not true?” Carmichael asks, and it is less a serious question and more a challenge.

Hayden’s jaw tightens. He has been living in hiding for so long it feels like muscle memory to pull back and act as if this doesn’t hurt him, doesn’t shake him. He doesn’t owe this man anything, no explanation, no accountability. “Do you know where he is?” he asks instead of answering, breath coming through his nose in harsh little pants.

“No.”

“Liar,” Hayden echoes Carmichael’s own words. “I need to talk to him.”

“You don’t get to talk to him if that -“ Carmichael says, hand moving in a broad gesture, voice controlled but edged with something protective. “-is what happens when you talk to him. Whatever you did was fucked up enough.”

The defensiveness rises in Hayden automatically, hot and instinctive. “I didn’t do anything to him. I’m just trying to talk to him.”

“Take your conversation home to your wife, Pike,” Carmichael snaps.

Hayden’s hands curl into fists at his sides. He’s on the edge of breaking, his whole body vibrating with suppressed rage and fear and confusion. What did he do to deserve this? And why does it always have to be so hard, so complicated? Why does his life always have to be a constant fight? He takes a deep breath and forces his fists open again. “Please tell me where I can find him.”

“You’re a fucking arsehole, Pike,” Carmichael barks out a humourless laugh, and Hayden breaks. His skin is too tight, too thin already, and it’s all too much. His fist connects with Carmichael’s nose hard enough for the other man to stagger half a step back. He knows it’s a mistake. Carmichael has at least nine inches on him and is about 230 pounds pure muscles.

A second later, he’s on Hayden, hands curled into the front of his shirt, and he spins them around until Hayden his knocked hard against the side of the car, “What the fuck to you want of him? Aren’t you already married, have kids at home?”

Hayden shakes his head and tries to wind himself out of the grip.

“Come on, Pike! What do you want?” Carmichael growls, eyes dark in the night. “Or are you a fucking coward?”

“I’m not,” he grits out, heart racing in his throat.

“Then fucking say it!”

Say it, as if he already knows. Maybe he does. Hayden has heard too many times that people can read him like an open book, that his face and expressive eyes betray his every emotions. Maybe the entire fucking world knows that Cliff Marleau is his soulmate and all these years he thought he was silently suffering, he’d been screaming it into the universe for everyone to hear. And if that’s the case, then why is he holding on to it so dearly? If that is the case, why is he not simply shouting it from the rooftops now.

“He-“ Hayden starts, voice breaking, turning from an almost shout to something quiet, something that betrays how long he’s been chewing and swallowing around this words. “He’s my soulmate.”

Carmichael studies him carefully, and when Hayden doesn’t back down, doesn’t claw the words back to bury them somewhere deep and meets his eyes in silent provocation, he lets go of him and takes a step back. His face is passive, one eyebrow raised, “Was that so hard?”

“Fuck you,” Hayden says with vigour and slumps into himself, arms coming up to curl around his frame in a self-soothing hug.

Carmichael falls back against the car, too, reaching into his pocket for another cigarette and lifts the package, silently offering one. “Why haven’t you told him?”

Hayden shakes his head. He hasn’t had a cigarette since he became friends with Shane years ago. “I don’t owe you an explanation,” his voice sounds empty, now that all fight has left him and he’s said it out loud to a person he barely even knows. His hand stings, and the pain is only shadowed by how much his heart squeezes in his chest.

“That’s fair,” Carmichael says, and grins at Hayden. There’s a small trickle of blood on his nose, and now, that everything is over, he seems more amused about the whole thing than it seems healthy. Hayden gets the impression that Carmichael kind of enjoyed the confrontation a bit too much.

Hayden drops his arms to his side and exhales loudly, “Sorry about your nose.”

“Sorry for the provocation,” Carmichael retorts, hand lifting to wipe the blood away, and then he adds when Hayden makes a doubtful sound, “No, seriously. I do feel a bit sorry, but to be honest, guys like you need to get pushed to the breaking point sometimes.”

He doesn’t tell Carmichael that he’s long broken and fixed himself over and over again before.

It also sounds like there’s a story, and Hayden is unsure if he should ask or at least leave an open in case Carmichael wants to talk about it but before he can come to a decision, Carmichael asks, “What will you do when I give you Marley’s location?”

Not if, but when.

Hayden hears himself speak before he even knows what he’s going to say, all restraints giving way at once like shackles just falling off his wrists or a door finally breaking off its hinges after too many storms, “I will try to fix this.”

For a moment, he wants to keep some of his thoughts to himself, but instinctively, he knows that Carmichael won’t give him what he needs, if he isn’t completely honest now.

“I will tell him about Jackie, and that we’re living in separation for two years now. That she knows about his words on my skin, and I know about the words of her soulmate on her skin. I will tell him that I’ve been carrying his words since our first game against each other- “ He ignores the surprised little sound Carmichael makes after this confession, “ - and that it’s okay he doesn’t wear my words back. But if he lets me, I want to be in his life. One way or another.”

Next to him, Carmichael’s hand, that’s been coming up to take a drag of his cigarette, freezes mid-air, and then says, “You guys really need to fucking talk.”

“Yeah, no shit, Sherlock,” Hayden retorts with an eye roll he is unable to suppress. “That’s what I’ve been trying to do for weeks now, but he either fucking ignores me or runs away.”

“Jesus Christ,” Carmichael says and rubs a hand over his eyes. “He’s at the Hampton Inn in Ottawa West. Room 20-17.”

Hayden nods and pushes himself off the car, already reaching for his car key because there’s no point in stalling or waiting anymore. Not when he’s finally able to move, and finally able to say it, and fucking finally brave enough to confront this. There’s also the small possibility that this is less of a choice, and more a necessity. He cannot live like this anymore, and it’s either confronting Marleau and clearing it out or finding one way or another to permanently cut these feelings out of his chest.

“Hey, Pike?” he’s almost at his car when he hears Carmichael and when Hayden turns he only says, “Do yourself and him the favour and clarify how you want to be in his life. Don’t fuck it up by talking around that bullshit.”

Hayden only nods and gets into his car.

He drives without thinking too much about where he is going. Knowing that if he lets his thoughts wander, he might take the wrong corners, follow more familiar streets that lead him home instead of to Marleau’s hotel. And while he knows it’s an unfair advantage, driving to his hotel without asking or warning him, Hayden can’t stop himself to send a message in advance. Maybe Carmichael warns Marleau, and that will be enough, because then he has a chance to run away if he really wants. Maybe when Hayden reaches the hotel room, it will be empty and silent, and he will have his answers to all the swimming questions either way.

The streets are blissfully empty, streetlights and neon signs flickering and blurring into each other as he drives, faster than allowed as if he is racing against time or running away from something. He wants to think it’s neither, but that he’s running towards something instead.

For years, he bottled this up and hid his mark under tape and bandage or asked Jackie to paint over it with waterproof makeup, so no one would see. Sometimes even so he wouldn’t see himself and could forget that Cliff Marleau’s words are on his skin like a steady reminder of how cruel the universe could be. But he is sick of it. Sick to his stomach of hiding and scraping away piece after piece of himself when all he wants is to be honest and loud about how lucky he is for having a man like Cliff Marleau as his soulmate.

Maybe it’s seeing Shane marrying Rozanov of all people, getting his well-deserved happy-end with the person he loves that makes Hayden’s insides sappy and wishful, and gives him hope that he might be able to have this, too.

Maybe it’s the way Marleau had stared at him under the moonlight as if it took every bit of strength not to reach into the empty space between them and tuck Hayden into his arms.

And maybe, it’s the daring little, broken You’re married, that explains to Hayden more than he is willing to believe just yet.

When he pulls up outside Marleau’s hotel, he stays in the car for a moment too long. He stops the engine and removes the key in case the omnipresent panic rises in his chest and changes his mind and makes him want to run away. He grips the steering wheel hard, leather creaking underneath his hands.

On the seat next to him, his phone buzzes and when he glances down without thinking, he sees a message from Jackie.

JACK PIKOW ❤️

On July 11th, 2021 at 01:32AM

twins are finally asleep. They had soooo much cake today, sugar overload - ugh reminder: Moss and I are on vid call tomorrow 3pm, and you promised Arthur to go to the dog park.

Hayden Pike

On July 11th, 2021 at 01:35AM

aye aye, boss!

If I miss Moss tomorrow, tell them I said hi

JACK PIKOW ❤️

On July 11th, 2021 at 01:38AM

You always tell them hi

I want to ask them if they would like to come visit us this autumn, you’re ok with that, right?

Hayden Pike

On July 11th, 2021 at 01:40AM

Of course, I’d love to see them again, and Amber will be ecstatic. She has so many questions about space at the moment.

Hayden Pike

On July 11th, 2021 at 01:43AM

I think I’m gonna tell CM tonight.

JACK PIKOW ❤️

On July 11th, 2021 at 01:44AM

HOLY SHIT. Like right now? Are you with him?

Are you ok? Want me to stay up and wait for after?

Hayden Pike

On July 11th, 2021 at 01:46AM

I’m at his hotel, in the car. Kinda shitting myself right now,

but I think there might be a chance?

Had the weirdest encounter with Carmichael, but he gave me CM’s hotel and room number

And no, go to sleep. I’ll text you later

JACK PIKOW ❤️

On July 11th, 2021 at 01:48AM

OF COURSE YOU TEXT ME AFTER. I NEED TO KNOW EVYTHING!

*everythign

*everything

Fuck, I think I’m more nervous than u lol

It will be fine, tho. I know this from the bottom of my <3

Hayden Pike

On July 11th, 2021 at 01:47AM

Thanks Jack’s <3

Sleep well

It will be fine.

He gets out of the car.

The hotel lobby is quiet, only a handful of people still awake. Most of them are business men in grey suits, sitting around with their laptops or phones or having a drink by the adjacent bar.

Hayden ignores them all, eyes locked on the closest elevator doors and expression as neutral as possible, willing no one to recognise him or worse even, talk to him. His footsteps sound too loud on the polished stone floor, and he feels his jaw locking tight. The ride up feels like a small eternity, the walls closing in on him and the orange, artificial light too bright, and he almost stumbles out of the small metal box, breath tightening and hands nervously flitting over his hair and dress shirt, trying to straighten it.

The corridor seems like an endless loop of identical doors, numbers swimming in front of him as he passes each room until he finds the 20-17, black letters on gold, right next to the door. Somehow, Hayden doesn’t hesitate when he comes to a stop before it, too many feelings caught in his throat and he lifts his shaking hand.

He knocks.

September 2009

Hayden is going to puke. Or faint. One of the other, Hayden is going to do that and with it he will be forever known as the Canadian rookie who threw up on the ice, or fainted seconds before he even went over the boards during his third ever fucking game in the MLH.

His team will never let him live. For fucks sake, his brother will never let him live, either. Hayden can literally hear Brandon’s voice in his head, cackling like a devil. If he pukes on the ice, Hayden just knows he will have to watch the footage of it until the end of time. If he ever gets married, his brother will show it during his speech or whatever. And probably during every Christmas party to come.

So, Hayden swallows around the bile in his mouth and presses his teeth into his gum shields hard enough to chip a bit of the soft plastic off.

“You’re good there, rooks?” his captain asks with a big grin and when Hayden, admittedly shaky, nods, Lewandowski lets out a roar of laughter.

This is the first game against Boston, and today, his performance matters more than during the last two games. Because this is fucking Boston, and they’re the Metro’s biggest rivals. And Hayden can’t puke on the ice if he wants to assert his dominance against the Raiders?!

He’s quoting the assert his dominance part, something Drapeau said earlier in the locker room, which is a pretty idiotic phrase Hayden thinks, but Drapeau lets out a lot of idiotic stuff when no one stops him. Which doesn’t happen often, because as long as he talks shit, he’s not doing shit. At least, that’s the impression Hayden got since he joint the roster starting this season.

“Off you go,” his captain shouts, hand hitting Hayden’s back, and a moment later, he’s over the boards, getting into the game. The moment his blades hit the ice everything becomes easy again. The scent of cold air and metal, and ice being broken apart by the way all of them glide across the frozen water, hits his nose and crawls into his lungs, and it loosens Hayden’s too tight muscles.

This is familiar. The rink and hockey itself Hayden knows almost more intimately than his own body. It comes from years on the ice, from the simple fact that Hayden had been able to skate long before he’d been able to run in a straight line, the smallest skates too big on his feet.

The lights above them buzz faintly, and the fans in the ranks are shouting, singing, twirling their scarves above their heads. He sees a few jerseys with his number already. #35. Not too many yet, but it will fill up over time, his captain assured him. Somewhere to his right, J.J. taps his stick two times, and the puck skips across the ice. Hayden tightens his hands around his own stick and starts racing. His coach has given him only two instructions for this game:

One: be fast and annoying. Steal the puck from under Boston’s arse and assist the Metro’s centre. Claim it whenever he has even the tiniest chance and make Boston race after him until their calves shake with exhaustion and their breath rattles loud enough to be heard over the sound of the Metro fans exploding. Hayden is one of the fastest the Metro’s ever had. He’s not the best player, still has a rather weak shot and he’s training his accuracy every day, but with his smaller build, he slips through most defences before any of their opponents can even blink their eyes.

Two: Don’t let the new rookie from Boston get his hands on him. Cliff Marleau joint the Raider’s this year, and even though the season has just started, he’s already known for throwing other players around the rink. He is not even an enforcer, just a left winger. That motherfucker is also massive it feels a bit like someone taught a bull how to skate, and Hayden seriously doubts he’d comes out of a scuffle against Marleau unscathed if they’d ever drop gloves. And while Hayden doesn’t mind getting a bit physical if he has to, he seriously doesn’t want to lose his teeth or nurse a broken nose. Or be out of the game due to head injuries. He already had two concussions during his junior days, and he really doesn’t want another one. He likes his brain as it is, thank you very much.

But since he’s fast, much faster than Marleau, he can just skate around him. As long as he keeps his distance, it will be fine.

It’s not fine.

Hayden has the puck, and he of course overthinks it for a second too long, contemplating if he should send it back to J.J. or try for a goal himself when Marleau crashes into him. With the speed and his massive body, Marleau pushes them both against the boards, Hayden’s helmet knocking into the glass face first. The impact presses all air out of Hayden’s lungs, and for a few heart beats, he freezes underneath Marleau’s solid frame and tries to breathe through the shock.

He lets go of his stick to put his hand between his body and the boards, so he can push himself back and against Marleau to shove him back. That arsehole doesn’t budge an inch, pressed tight against Hayden’s back. As he tries to shrug Marleau off him, one of Marleau’s massive hands finds it’s way to Hayden’s neck to holds him down. Which is, frankly, fucking insulting. He just holds Hayden there not unlike a cat holds their kitten by the scruff. Like, he actually tries to assert dominance. Fuck, Hayden hates that phrase, but it somehow expresses what is happening quite well.

He’s about to open his mouth and let out an indignant shout or a string of curse words his mother would ground him for, when he hears Marleau say, “Your hands would be more useful around my cock than around that stick, rookie.”

And Hayden clams up, eyes bulging and gasping for air. Because his right thigh burns. It starts with a prickle, a light touch similar to nails brushing over his skin that turns into the distinctive fire he’s only ever heard other people talk about. The sensation of his soulmate’s first words manifesting on his skin. It is on the edge of being painful, but then it fizzles out and leaves behind a dull, pounding heat.

Hayden pants around his mouth guard, feeling like he might double over any second, and then Marleau’s hand leaves his neck and Hayden turns around only to be faced with a bright, sweaty smirk. Before he can even open his mouth to say something, hopefully equally embarrassing back, Marleau turns on his skates and leaves him standing there, skin buzzing with shock. And something like misery curling in his gut.

J.J. comes up to him, hand waving, “Are you okay? Head fine?”

And Hayden nods, dazed, and then bends to get his hands, who are not much more useful around Marleau’s fucking cock, back on his stick. He’s still in the middle of the fucking game. And he’s not going to puke, faint or scream on the ice because apparently his stupid soulmate is one of the Raider’s new left wingers.

“That wasn’t a bad first game against Boston,” Lewandowski says, grabbing Hayden by the shoulder to wiggle him around a bit as he leads them towards the parking lot.

“You think so?” Hayden asks numbly, honest to God not really caring if it was the best game of his entire career or bad enough that he should get out of the contract and become a plumper like his dad. All he can think about is the steady, hot twinge on the back of his right thigh and that he doesn’t remember how he got off the ice after they won and through the locker room shit without any of his team members to see his mark. He thinks he would know if anyone saw it, because they would have either teased him to hell and back, or -

He stops his thought, swallows hard around the lump in this throat. He thinks they would tease him about a girl, but. Well, Hayden clearly heard Marleau say the words my cock, and if it is written on his thigh as he fears, and they would have been able to see it, he is sure the locker room would have been hell. The team seems to be nice enough on a good day, but Hayden is not naive. He knows they wouldn’t be so nice about this thing. About Hayden having a male soulmate, more even of him being a Boston player. Having a male soulmate would mean Hayden’s gay, right? And hockey players are not fag-

He stops himself again, trying the put these thoughts and especially this word away together with his bag into the trunk of Lewandowski’s car. He digs his knees into the metal for a moment while he shuffles the bag around the trunk until it’s secure, hoping the hard surface grounds him. And ends the ongoing panic attack that’s been wrecking him since the moment Marleau opened his mouth.

Like all rookies, Hayden has to live with a vet during his first season, and somehow he got lucky (or punished, depending who comments on it) and he was placed with their captain. Which is totally fine. Lewandowski can be a right prick for most of the time and he’s super harsh about curfew and some pregame routines and training, but he’s a nice enough dude on their off days. Or after their games, always likes to ignore their strict diets, not caring a lot about what their nutrition specialist says.

He also never holds back any compliments if he thinks they’re deserved, so Hayden hears him say, “Seriously, Pikey. First game against the Raider’s and you got one goal and one assist, that was pretty good.”

“Thanks, Cap,” Hayden drops onto the passenger seat and tries hard to form a believable grin on his face. He still doesn’t understand how he managed to pull through the shock of Marleau’s words burning themselves on his skin and then somehow playing more than decent.

“Pizza or Burger?” Lewandowski asks as he gets them off the parking lot, hand already reaching out for the radio. He not one for a lot of words during their car drive back home, so Hayden only says, “Pizza,” knowing that this will result of them to order in instead of going through a drive-in or even getting into a burger place. He needs to get home immediately and check. Check his thigh for a mark, make sure it’s really there and real despite the sensation on his skin. He needs to make sure that he’s not imagining something so outlandishly crazy like having Cliff fucking Marleau as his soulmate. After he's confirmed it, Hayden promises himself a big freak out. Quiet and internally because no one can know, but a freak out nevertheless.

When they’re home, Hayden vanishes into the bathroom immediately, mumbling something about toilet, not even caring if his captain thinks he got the nervous shits after their game. He almost bangs the door close behind him, drops his bag on the floor next to the bath tube and then turns the key until the door clicks firmly shut. He still triple checks that it’s really locked before he fumbles with the strings of his sweatpants and when he can’t get the knot open, just wretches them down anyway and lets them soundlessly hit the floor. He shimmies out of them entirely and kicks them to the side.

Hayden knows he must be panting. The inside of his mouth dry and his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth, but he can’t hear it over his heart beat. It’s like a war drum in his own ears as he bends his body and tries to look at his upper thigh.

He can see a bit of the black ink, but it’s not enough.

His whole body is shaking when he moves in front of the mirror, ignoring how stupid he looks with his hoodie falling over his ass, the white tennis socks and that he accidentally put on his boxer short inside out. Slowly, he turns around and he has to take a deep breath with his eyes closed before he can force himself to really look.

It’s already there. He’s seen a bit of the ink, has felt it burn itself on his thigh. Stalling and wordlessly praying won’t change the fact that it’s already there.

When he opens his eyes and twist his neck enough, he reads Your hands would be more useful around my cock than around that stick, rookie. It’s tiny and upside down, and almost illegible, but definitely there. The handwriting itself, but also the stupid placement, almost looks smug. A bit like Marleau’s grin, if that makes sense.

Hayden drops one of his hands and twists to trace the letters with the tip of his fingers. His skin throbs and it’s a bit hot to the touch, but not really uncomfortable. Under different circumstances, it would probably feel nice.

Fated.

He and Marleau are a fated pair. He snatches his hand away again as if burnt. He bites the inside of his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood because otherwise, he fears he might actually scream.

Who the fuck says something like this to a person they’ve never talked before? Hayden’s been raised to say always something nice, or at least neutral to any person he meets for the first time. Just in case it might be his soulmate and they’d have to live with the consequences of his words on their skin for the rest of their life. Like he has to now.

More useful around my cock. He wants to rip the letters off his skin, burn it off, scrape his nails over it until there’s nothing left but a ragged scar.

He can never tell anyone about it, or else he might lose his career, right?

God, please, he can never tell his parents. The words are bad enough, but Marleau is a guy, and Hayden’s parents are - well, not directly or even loudly homophobic. But they’re traditional, old fashioned. He knows his father didn’t vote for any politician who’d been in favour of the Civil Marriage Act a few years ago. Hayden has seen the way his mother’s lips twisted into something ugly when that family with two mothers moved into the house opposite theirs a in his last year of high school.

He remembers how his dad and some of his friends talked about that Danny guy. It’s like his team members talk about men who might desire other men, too. The jokes and insults that are being thrown around the locker room and rink.

And he’s listened to their priest, and knows that their congregation doesn’t do the homo-weddings. Father Benedict never said it outright, but Hayden knows it’s a sin. So, no, he can’t tell his parents, because they believe in God. Hayden believes in God. He has his grandma's rosary in his wallet, safe and sound so he doesn’t accidentally lose it during a game or break it.

He also can’t tell any of his friends, because they believe, too. And he can’t tell his teammates, because this has no place in hockey, and they would ostracise him regardless of his own, very much non-homosexual, preferences.

Hayden likes girls, he just doesn’t have the time. He’s not a queer. He doesn’t know what to do. Why did God made Marleau his soulmate when he’s neither allowed nor wants to have him?

“Rooks, Pizza is here,” comes Lewandowski’s shout through the door, and Hayden jerks violently out of his thoughts, eyes still transfixed on the mark on the back of his thigh.

“Coming,” he calls out, hoping it doesn’t sound too shaky, turning away and reaching for his sweatpants, silently promising himself to get rid of the mark one way or another. The promise doesn’t help against the dull feeling that’s growing in his chest.

That night, he lies in his bed with his grandma’s rosary clutched in one hand and stares at the ceiling with burning eyes. He doesn’t pray, doesn’t know what to tell God anyway. He knows the Lord won’t take the mark away, so Hayden doesn’t find it in him to even address him in the first place.

Cliff Marleau is his soulmate and this is his challenge in life, something he has to overcome by himself.

July 2021

Marleau opens the door after what must have been a hundred, very insistent knocks, and when he does, Hayden manages only just not to take a step back, fist still raised for yet another onslaught of knocks. Somehow he also manages to bite his tongue before a quiet, little pant escapes his lips, because Marleau is naked. There’s only a white towel draped precariously low around his narrow hips, and there’s water running from his slicked back hair over his chest and defined stomach and the V of his Adonis belt muscles and shoulders. On the floor to his feet forms a small puddle, and Hayden can see a bit of foam slide from his knee to his calve.

He looks stunning. Like one of Hayden’s infinite little fantasies, and it takes everything in him to keep his mouth closed and not surge forward and claim Marleau as his, even as his fingers twitch illicitly.

He watches the way Marleau stiffens all over, trying to school his face into a blank mask, and for a second, Hayden doesn’t find any words because the sight of Marleau’s face is too much to handle. He’s never let himself look too much or too long, always scared to show the ever prominent want in his own eyes. Now Hayden can’t stop them from running over the curve of Marleau’s lips, the sharp line of his jaw and the beard that’s long past the usual scruff he normally wears.

Marleau’s eyes flicker over Hayden’s face as well, as if he is trying to read him and find a way to lessen the impact of the situation, and Hayden doesn’t want him to come to a conclusion that would resolve in Marleau finding any excuses or even hurtful words to send Hayden away and protect their horrible not-quite-peace, so he rushes to say, “Let me in.”

It comes out weak, on a small exhale, but without a second of hesitation, Marleau takes a step back and opens the door enough for Hayden to slip through. Hayden passes him close enough for his shoulders to brush Marleau’s damp chest, and he hears the hitch of a breath, the subtle flare of Marleau’s nose as he breathes Hayden in. He almost stops there, with his body too close to Marleau and lets him, but Hayden knows that if he does that, they might not talk at all.

And he came here to talk. So, he moves further into the generic room and puts as much distance between them as possible. He tries not to linger on Marleau’s hand tightening on the edge of the door before he closes it and locks them both into the room. With the lock falling shut it seems to much smaller now that the only way out is closed and blocked by Marleau’s hovering form. And Hayden’s body doesn’t seem able to decide if he should feel locked in and claustrophobic or if the small enclosure is exactly the type of proximity he needs, and wants.

For a moment, he doesn’t know what to say, wonders if he should have taken more time to prepare for this moment, but then he simply offers an explanation to why he knows where he could find Marleau, “Carmichael gave me your room number. I was looking for you.”

He doesn’t say that he had been frozen in place after Marleau left; that he doesn’t even know how long he’d been laying there alone in the dark. Doesn’t say that he almost left to go home instead of coming here. Because he can be a cowards. Because this type of bravery doesn’t come easy to him.

“And he-“ Marleau says, voice cracking and he sounds accusatory, almost angry in the way he slurs some of the vowels and drops others. There is also the undertone of defeat and a bone-deep exhaustion Hayden knows all to well. One of Marleau’s hands lifts to rub against his red-rimmed eyes, “-gave you all the details you wanted, yeah?”

Hayden wonders if he is the reason Marleau can’t sleep well, and hates himself a bit for wishing it to be true, because he can’t sleep well, too. Ever since Marleau became even more prominent in his life earlier this year, he’s been plagued by either too-sweet dreams or long nights lying awake, wondering and wishing for a life that seemed impossible until this week. Until Marleau, drenched in the rain, looked at Hayden’s lips as if they were holding the absolution to all his sins.

“No,” he shakes his head and lifts his throbbing hand to show him how far Hayden is willing to go just for him. “I almost broke his fucking nose and even that didn’t make him talk.” Hayden is very much aware of the fact that his knuckles probably hurt more than Carmichael’s face. But that doesn’t matter now, doesn’t lessen the meaning of his actions.

As if seeing the red of Hayden’s knuckles physically pains Marleau, he takes a small step closer, one hand inching forward as if to reach out and smooth his palm over Hayden’s hand. Marleau doesn’t touch him, but drops his own hand instead, and whispers, “What do you want?”

And God, isn’t that the wrong fucking question? Hayden wants everything. He wants Marleau to come even closer and run his mouth along his neck and over his lips. He wants them to have this thing resolved already without all the hard work. He wants Marleau to smile at him; the way he sometimes smiles for the people who seem dear to him. Soft, private and gentle despite the impression he usually leaves.

He wants Marleau to know about all the years, and sleepless nights and how much it fucking hurt having the soulmate mark on his skin, knowing that he wasn’t supposed to be Marleau’s person. That one day, Hayden would wake up and learn about the fact that Marleau might have his own soulmate, and Hayden would never even have the opportunity to be close to him. To be let in, never allowed to be a part of his life.

But Hayden knows that they won’t reach the easy part without starting somewhere first, so he says, “You owe me an explanation. I ask of you to give me a change to become, what-“ He stops for a moment to breath, “- friends, if you want to use that word, and you say no because I’m married?”

Marleau nods, hands moving all over his body, his face, through his hair and then over his chest as if to hug himself, and then he says almost inaudible, “Yes.”

“You have to tell me what you mean,” Hayden just barely swallows the desperate please. “Because it is not fair of you to let me suspect something, to overthink it and then maybe come to the wrong conclusion.”

With a shake of his head, Marleau’s lips fall open and Hayden thinks he will say it now despite the reluctance and with it, they can resolve this into something bright and beautiful, but then his phone starts ringing too loud in the otherwise quiet, subdued room, and he cannot be for fucking real right now. Because Marleau turns away from Hayden and reaches for his phone. Hayden is about to say something, maybe even shout, but then his eyes land on the small, messy ink on Marleau’s left side, right underneath his armpit, and his heart drops.

He stops breathing for a moment, and like from somewhere far away, away he sees how Marleau throws his phone to the side and follows Hayden’s transfixed gaze. He puts his hand above the mark as if to hide it now, even though Hayden’s already seen it, clear as day, but too small and too far away for the words to be legible.

“You have a soulmate.”

It’s a statement. It’s like Marleau said, “You’re married.” And Hayden understands the words now more than before, because they painfully rip out of him, and he feels so hurt, so much less than he actually knows he is, because Marleau has a soulmate, and why isn’t it him?

“Hayden, please don’t,” Marleau says quietly, his voice like gravel. It sounds more like a warning. “Please.”

Please, please, please, dear Lord, please. Hayden has begged and prayed and wished for so long. For this to end, and for it to move forward. For it never to have happened in the first place, and then later, when he learned to live with his own desires and overcame the horrible guilt and self-hatred, to find a way to be okay with it. To be okay even if he’s alone.

Please.

But if Marleau’s You’re married sounds like Hayden’s You have a soulmate, then they basically mean the same thing, and Hayden can live with the fact that Marleau has a soulmate that is not him. Because he said You’re married like Hayden said You have a soulmate, and Marleau is here, alone, not with them. He is here, and looks at Hayden like Hayden looks at him: like they want to be each other’s everything, but are just too scared to say it.

“We’re in a fucking stalemate here, huh?” Hayden says and it comes out raw and ugly and not even a little bit the way he means for it to come out, “You don’t talk, I don’t talk, but I think-“

“Hayden-“ Marleau starts, chest heaving.

“- but I think, we might mean the same thing,” Hayden interrupts, unable and not willing to give him the upper hand and brush it aside anymore. He came here to talk, to resolve this, and so God, he will. “So, please, work with me here, Cliff, and tell me what you meant.”

He says Cliff’s first name for the first time ever, and the moment it leaves his lips, it changes everything about Cliff’s posture, his face, the way he holds himself tightly together. It also changes everything in Hayden himself, because now that he allowed himself to say it out loud, he doesn’t think he can go back to Marleau. Can’t go back behind the anonymity and protection a surname provides.

“You’re fucking married. You have a family. You -“ Cliff almost shouts, and his voice is laced with so much pain, Hayden wants to reach out and brush it away, take his pain and turn it into something softer, kinder. “You have a family. You - I don’t think I can be friends with you, and I don’t think I can stand close to you and see you and talk to you because this isn’t what I want. I want-“ His breath is coming too fast, and he looks almost like a wild animal, backed into a corner, ready to lash out.

“What do you want?”

“My soulmate. I want you, but you don’t-“ Cliff snaps his mouth shut, teeth clacking together loudly.

Soulmate. You.

If that is true, then why didn’t he say anything? Why did he keep it to himself if Hayden is his soulmate?

You’re married.

Cliff did say it. Not really, but Hayden know understands, really understands. And he wants to shout it back, wants to drop his clothes and show him the mark on his thigh and make Cliff understand that Fate didn’t betray them, and that neither of them are alone in this, but he promised himself and Carmichael of all people, to explain himself first.

So, he tells Cliff about Jackie, that they’re not in love anymore. That they’re friends who live together with their kids, which is kind of strange, Hayden knows this. But he needs Cliff to understand that this is a part of his life and he is not ashamed of the arrangement they have, the family they built in their home. He needs Cliff to understand, that he would do everything for his children, even leave Cliff behind and never look back, and that Jackie is his better part, his closest confidant, his best friend in the world, who he loves so dearly it sometimes makes him want to shout it out into the world.

“But not like I want to love you,” he says, hand pressed tightly against the mark on Cliff’s side. He doesn’t even remember stepping closer at all, and then the heat of their touch and the ancient magic of the soulmate bond thrums through his body. He lifts his other hand to move Cliff’s arm out of the way, expecting resistance, but Cliff doesn’t hesitate and opens up underneath him, presenting the mark for closer inspection.

Marleau, you motherfucker!

That can’t be right. Hayden didn’t say that. Hayden remembers saying something different. He remembers.

February 2010

It takes Hayden weeks until he is able to look himself into the eyes again. Weeks of lying awake in the dark, sometimes gasping around small broken prayers, of whispering the Lord’s words like it’s his only lifeline.

Sin shall not have dominion over you.

His fingers trace the rosary as he lets it slip through his hands, one small prayer for each of the fifty-six quartz beads.

Murmured Hail Mary’s and choked, The law of the Spirit of life in Christ Jesus has set you free from law of sin and death.

Hoping the words on his thigh might disappear regardless that he knows God won’t help. He has read the Bible and knows that God barely ever helps, wants everyone to do it on their own, to save themselves.

God loves you. They say, and he wants to believe that at least.

But not enough to save you, oh, he knows this to be true.

So, it takes Hayden weeks of quiet agony and nights on his phone, looking up how to reverse soulmate marks and, when it becomes clear that this is not a possibility at all, how to live with a soulmate he’s not supposed to have. Doesn’t want to have.

Lord, with all your power, please help me resist the devils forces.

Until one night, he comes across a forum post that takes apart the rhetoric that soulmates have to be romantic. It’s not like Hayden isn’t aware of that, but somehow, he always thought it had to be like that. Like with his parents, and uncle Erwin and his wife, and his cousin Jacob with Lucy, and basically everyone he’s ever known who has a soulmate. All of them are in romantic relationships, so obviously, Hayden always thought once he meets his, they will marry and have kids, and it will be like for everyone else.

But the blog post talks about the differences of romantic and platonic attachments, and emphasises the importance of friendship and kinship, and love that breaks the romantic barriers. There, he reads about hundreds of people who found their best friends in their soulmates, people they would never consider as a romantic partner. There, he also reads about people who find a rival, an enemy in their soulmate, someone they don’t like, but pushes them to be better in some capacity.

He also reads about a lot of same-sex soulmate bonds, and that, while some of them are queer, a lot are just friendships on a level so deep, Hayden doesn’t think he’s ever experienced it himself before.

Thank God for answering my prayers, for showing me the way.

It helps. Helps him to come to terms with the words on his thigh, and Cliff Marleau being an irrevocable part of his life, if he wants it or not. He can be friends with Marleau, he thinks. They have hockey in common. That is a start, and as a professional player, most of the time, there isn’t anything else but the sport anyway.

Two months after he met Marleau and got his words, Hayden starts looking him up on the internet. To get to know a bit about him before Hayden wants to approach him, say anything back and make it clear who they are to each other.

What he finds out about Marleau is not much. They’re still too new in the league, to fresh and Marleau keeps his social media private, if he even has some at all. So, Hayden only learns about the basics like that Marleau’s almost a year and a half older than Hayden, who is one of the youngest players drafted to Montreal ever. He started playing when he was seven. Even started out as a goalie, then switched in his teens. He has six sisters, and there are a few pictures on google of him and their, what Hayden guesses, family cat. His parents are doctors, his father french, which is where the name comes from. Marleau once said in an interview that he likes Zelda. Hayden buys all the games so they can talk about this.

There are tons of pictures of him in night clubs with pretty girls hanging off his shoulders. Hayden tries not to dwell on these too much. He simply doesn’t understand how Marleau has so much time on his hands to even go to a club after their games or training, while Hayden sometimes feels like he is crawling on all four back into his bed. And when he does look a bit too long, in the safety of his own room, he tells himself it’s because he is jealous.

Of Marleau, of course.

Hayden would like to go out and meet pretty girls, too. Instead, he lives with his captain, who is worse than a bloodhound when it comes to breaking the curfew. Last time he was twenty minutes late, he made Hayden run ten extra lapses the next day in training, and it was only ten because his hair smelt like church. Like frankincense and religious fucking guilt.

Sometimes, when he is too tired to keep that mask up even in his own bed, hiding himself and his phone underneath his blanket, he acknowledges the thought that he’s also jealous of the girls. Because they can hang out with Marleau while Hayden cannot. They’re allowed to put their hands on Marleau’s arm or chest or shoulder, and no one bats an eye. If Hayden would do that, he doesn’t even want to imagine the outcome.

He thinks his parents wouldn’t want to talk to him again if they knew. His brother would be worse, even if he and Marleau only form a friendship. Hayden wonders if Marleau would be horrible about it, too. Would he punch him and retreat and ignore that they’re soulmates like Hayden initially did? Or would he be welcoming? Could they hang out and be friends, and still hide their soulmate marks from everyone? Would Marleau be okay with that?

It is hard for him to imagine either way, because sometimes, when he thinks too hard about it, lets his mind linger too much on the fantasies of Marleau’s reaction, Hayden finds himself thinking about kissing Marleau. And he doesn’t want to think about kissing him. He cannot think about kissing him.

My sacrifice, O God, is a broken spirit, a broken and contrite heart you, God, will not despise.

It helps watching the Boston games, to analyse Marleau’s play style and figure him out. Hayden thinks it makes him a better player against Boston. Like that, he can out skate, out run, out play Marleau more easily.

He doesn’t think too much about the low heat in his gut when the camera focuses on Marleau’s grin or the way his black hair falls into his eyes, or, once, he lifts his jersey to wipe away some blood and Hayden can see a sliver of Marleau’s stomach and the little trail of hair down into his pants.

God, please!

He throws his phone to the side after that one, forehead pressed against the cool wall, repeating what Father Benedict had said when he visited his hometown church before moving to Montreal the summer before. About sin and forgiveness, and that there is a difference of thinking about sinning, and actually sinning.

Sometimes, he thinks his God doesn’t know the difference at all, because Hayden is already punished long before he can go to hell. And that isn’t really fair. But maybe he deserves it.

Hayden meets a girl on Twitter when he engages with her in a discussion about anime and religion. He knows both of them talk shit, but it’s kind of fun to have someone to talk to. They don’t even know each other’s real names, or where they’re from or what they do with their lives. He only knows she lives somewhere in Europe, because its always really late in her place when he has time to message her and too early for him when she’s free; and that she’s a year older than him.

They’ve been chatting for a few weeks when she finally tells him her soulmate is a girl, and she is beginning to fall in love with her. At first, Hayden thinks he should be disgusted by it, the way his parents would be. But, he likes “TheDevilMayWhine” and got to know her pretty well through their messages. He knows she is a good person, someone deserving of support and love. So, when she messages him what must be the middle of the night for her, he actually sits down and thinks about it for a while. It’s not easy for him to come to the conclusion that love is actually just that: love. No matter the gender. But he somehow manages to tell her that she should be happy about it, because love is precious, right? Love is something wonderful, and if she and her soulmate can share this, then what is there not to cherish about?

It will take him a long time to think about himself like this without shame, too. It’s a beginning, though. A step into the right direction. It feels a bit like breaking a bone so it can heal properly. And by god, does it break, loud and ugly and so incredibly painful, and the healing journey isn’t easy, isn’t over in a second. It takes him months and months, and then sometimes, even years later on random Sunday afternoons, he still feels that ugly phantom pain of a bruise underneath his skin.

But that girl, “TheDevilMayWhine” on Twitter helps him break off some of the shackles, some of his worst believes, and for the first time in months, he doesn’t fall asleep with the rosary in his hands.

Hayden doesn’t tell his online friend about Marleau. He doesn’t tell anyone about Marleau, not even when he, slowly and carefully, comes to the decision that he should finally say something back. He tells himself that he wants it to be private, in case Marleau doesn’t want anyone to know. The truth is that he is scared anyone might know. Scared of the scrutiny and, maybe even more than that, of rejection.

At first, he wants to say something generic, something unimportant that wouldn’t be weird on Marleau’s skin, but he also wants it to mean something.

He looks up phrases and ideas, because while Hayden is a romantic by heart, he is not ready to use his own words. Because he doesn’t have his own words yet, and because he thinks anything that might come out of his mouth and is his own, might be a bit too religious. A bit too harsh and too self-loathing. And he doesn’t want that. He wants his words on Marleau’s skin to be bright and hopeful.

He settles with You’re everything I never knew I wanted. Because this could be from any gender, in case Marleau doesn’t want to hide the words, but also doesn’t want anyone to know who they came from. Which would be alright, because they’re still players on rival teams and even if Hayden tries to feel more at ease with the whole thing, the league is still a cesspool filled with homophobia and misogyny.

And the words he chooses can mean friendship, but doesn’t need to, right? Later, if they actually like each other, they can mean something more, something romantic?

The days before their game against the Raiders in late February, he practises the words over and over again. Mutters them under his breath and says them in front of the mirror, quietly enough so Lewandowski doesn’t hear him through the door. He stands there and looks at himself while his lips form around each syllable and he practises his facial expressions, learns how to keep his eyes guarded enough so they don’t spill all of Hayden’s secrets if Marleau looks at him. Doesn’t tell him how hard the last few months were for Hayden.

And then he is on the ice, and actually swallows around the bile in his mouth, so fucking scared to stumble over his words and mess it up. Not even the scent of the ice and the leather of his gloves or the sounds of the people in the ranks, calms his nerves. It takes until the second period before Hayden even gets the opportunity at all, and his heart is ready to jump out of his chest and up his throat when he crashes into Marleau’s back, faking a hit, and says into his shoulder, “You’re everything I never knew I wanted,” and then waits.

For Marleau to turn around with a shocked expression. For him to say something back.

But there is nothing.

Marleau pushes Hayden back, bright grin on his face, and then races after the puck to their left. He doesn’t even turn back or, like he usually would when something like this happens, get into Hayden’s personal space, testing if they wanna fight or not.

Maybe, he is like Hayden, he thinks. Hockey comes first, everything else can wait. After the game, then. Hayden will wait near the entrance after the game, and then they will talk, right?

He rushes through his shower, and ignores his teammates crude jokes about the long underwear Hayden started to wear since his own soulmate mark appeared, and then tells Lewandowski that he’ll go out for dinner, with a friend, will be in the hotel not later than one am, and then races out, waiting for Marleau.

But Marleau walks past him, laughing with Carmichael and Connors by his side, and he doesn’t even look at Hayden. Walks past him as if he’s invisible. Walks past him as if he doesn’t matter. And Hayden freezes, doesn’t reach out or call after him, because he doesn’t want to make a scene.

Maybe, Marleau will get his phone number from someone and text him later, and they will send messages back and forth, and talk sometimes on the phone. In private, until they know how to handle this soulmate thing. Until they know how they feel about each other.

Maybe…

Hayden doesn’t call after him, and he doesn’t hear anything from Marleau. He waits for weeks, still frozen, still a little bit in shock, hoping every time his phone lights up that it’s an unknown number and Marleau finally talks to him.

And then the Metros are out of the playoffs, and Hayden goes home for the summer. He meets up with his school friends who are home from college, and have a lot of bullshit to tell, a lot of fun stories to share. He hangs out with his brother, who has even worse shit to share and teases Hayden to no end that he hasn’t built a fuck pool all around North America like some of the other players apparently have. He tries not to cringe at the phrasing. And he plays Zelda. Every game, ever last DLC, anything, and wonders if Marleau is doing the same.

He goes to church, starts to hate Father Benedict a bit, and his parents who nod at every word the man says. Start to hate God a bit, too. For giving him his soulmate, making him a man, and then leaving him hanging there, all alone.

During some nights, Hayden looks up Marleau on the internet, sees more pictures of him with pretty women or at the practise rink, and even one underwear ad, of him rolling around a beach somewhere in nothing but white briefs and sand on his strong chest.

Hayden doesn’t hold himself back when he touches himself then, doesn’t knock his forehead against the cool wall to calm his thoughts, and only presses his palm over his lips when he comes with Marleau’s name on his tongue and an almost quiet shudder. After, he steals himself into the bathroom and fills the sink with cold water. He puts his head into it, face first and screams, like he’s seen in a movie once, and tries not to feel to fucking hopeless when the water fills his lungs and doesn’t replace Marleau’s name that seems to inhabit his flesh.

When he’s being called back to Montreal for the training camp, Hayden meets the new rookie, Shane Hollander, who is so pretty, he lets himself have a tiny crush on him. Only for a week, only for quiet hours, and only to test out how it feels to have a crush on another man. And obviously, only because it somehow feels easier to have a crush on Shane than thinking about Marleau at all.

It helps that Shane has his own soulmate mark on the back of his neck. A simple, tiny, very ugly Oke, he doesn’t hide but also doesn’t talk about. It’s a good mark, one Hayden would have liked to have, too. A lot less assuming, less graphic for sure.

The new season starts, and the first time Montreal plays against Boston, Marleau pushes Hayden against the boards again. He says something shitty, something mean, some stupid little chirp, and Hayden bites his tongue. Doesn’t say anything back. Never says anything back, because he already said what mattered, and that had been ignored.

Which is fine. It’s not like Hayden wanted Marleau anyway. He will get over it.

July 2021

“So,” Hayden whispers, his entire body sluggish but still buzzing from the orgasm. He lays on top of Cliff, entire face pressed into Cliff’s chest, ear flat against his skin so he can hear his heart beat loud and clear. “You forgot that you’ve already talked to me before this month, and because I’m married, you didn’t talk to me all these years at all. In fear that it would trigger my own words and it would complicate everything. Is that the story?”

Cliff tenses for a moment, and then hums, a low vibration that sends little shivers through Hayden’s hypersensitive body. Cliff's big hand moves from Hayden’s shoulder down to the curve of his butt and just stays there, not holding on or grabbing or shifting their focus to something sexual, just lays there, warm and soft, “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

Hayden huffs out a small laugh, unsure if he should be angry about how stupidly stubborn the two of them were or feel cherished even more. Cliff had been willing to bury his feelings and let Hayden live his life. He’d been willing to stay alone, without Hayden by his side. It hurts to think that if he wouldn’t have come to Cliff tonight, or if Shane would have never fallen in love with Rozanov; or one little part of their life had been a tiny bit different and they never had any other contact points besides hockey, he would have stayed alone. While that hurts, it also is, in it’s own fucked up and sad way, very much romantic.

“I’m sorry I made you wait,” Cliff says, nose pressed into Hayden’s hair.

“It’s not on you, I should have said something else back then, should have talked louder, demanded your attention,” Hayden swallows and shuts his eyes as he feels the burning tears threaten to spill over, embarrassing and entirely beyond his control. “I really thought you hated me, it’s so stupid.”

“I couldn’t hate you even if I wanted,” Cliff says, too quiet, too tender, and Hayden turns his head to rub his nose over Cliff’s skin, tears spilling freely now.

March 2021

For a few years, Hayden doesn’t think a lot about the fact that Marleau stopped chirping him on the ice. He doesn’t even know when it stopped, when the words suddenly didn’t come anymore, and their shuffles for the puck and the cup and a win have turned quiet. He didn’t really notice until the day he skates up to Marleau before one of their games and sort of thanks him for beating the shit out of Dallas Kent, and all he gets back is a stern nod. No shit talk about Kent, no stupid comment that Montreal will lose later, not even a tiny jib against Hayden himself.

Hayden tries not to feel defeated by the way Marleau’s eyes don’t linger on him long enough for their entire one-sided conversation to even become a conversation at all. Instead, he looks at Hayden for a second. Just a pair of surprised eyebrows, a nod and the twitch of Marleau’s upper lip as if he wants to say something, but decides to rather chew on the words than let them out. And then he shifts his attention back to his pregame stretches, and Hayden can’t do anything but leave and join Shane and Mitty by the boards. Because staying would be incredibly humiliating. Because staying would mean he’d might try to talk more to Marleau.

It’s then that he really notice the years long silence, and then can’t stop noticing how Marleau doesn’t talk to him at all.

On the ice, it’s manageable. They have other things to do there anyway. And off the ice it won’t be a problem as well, because they never have a reason to interact with each other.

This doesn’t help with the pang of hurt each time Marleau skates past him and there is absolutely nothing.

Then he sends that fucking Happy Birthday video to that Brad guy, who uploads it everywhere and suddenly Shane’s and Rozanov’s relationship is open to everyone’s scrutiny.

The moment Hayden realises what happened because of his stupidity and carelessness, he’s in his car and on his way to Ottawa, bashing himself for every single mile he drives and hoping he can fix what he’s accidentally broken.

He would understand if they send him away, shout at him, maybe even throw a punch or two. Hayden exposed something they so very carefully held on, protected for years, and now, they have to live with the aftermath of the video going online. All because he didn’t check, wasn’t careful enough, was too self-absorbed and wanted to get the whole thing over with as soon as possible.

It comes to a surprise that Rozanov lets him in. Hayden really thought that’s it, his friendship wouldn’t be enough, not after what he did. But Rozanov steps aside and then tries to hug Hayden after the door slams shut to block out the paparazzi and reporters outside. He can’t help his instinctive reaction; the violent flinch when Rozanov’s arms curl around him.

“I’m not gonna hit you, Pike,” Rozanov says, and Hayden can almost hear the roll of his eyes.

“Even if I definitely deserve it?” Hayden asks, standing completely useless for a moment, still bracing himself for a fist to his face or something sharp to his ribs. But when it doesn’t come and Rozanov doesn’t let go, he manages to lift his arms and hug him back. It’s only a little bit awkward. Scratch that, it’s incredibly awkward, or it would be if Hayden had any more capacity to feel anything else but the shame. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Rozanov sighs, tightens his arms for a moment before letting go with a shake of his head, “Would you feel better if I hit you?”

“Honestly, maybe?!” Hayden says with a grimace, and slips out of his shoes because he will not bring any street dirt into the house on top of his compunctions and shame. He follows Rozanov to the living room, looking around the house he’s only been a handful of times before, and then adds, “Would Shane feel better if you hit me? Because then, I’m all in for it. Just straight to the face, yeah?”

Rozanov cracks a tired, but shark like grin, white teeth a stark contrast to his raw-bitten lips, and says, “I really appreciate the offer, but Shane won’t be happy about it if I knock out his AC and Montreal will be without a captain for the time being.”

“What?”

“Have you not heard already?” Rozanov asks with a raised eyebrow, and Hayden shakes his head. He accidentally left his phone at home after seeing the news of the video. He’d been halfway to Ottawa when he realised he left it on the kitchen counter connected to the charger after rushing out of the house, but he also didn’t change his clothes after his morning run, so that’s that.

“No, what happened?” he asks, taking a careful seat on the edge of the couch, still a bit unsure if he is welcome here at all. Also, he doesn’t want to mess it up. Shane somehow always knows when people get on his furniture with their dirty clothes.

“Crowell benched us, you have captain duties now,” Rozanov says around a bitter twist of his lips, and immediately lifts his head when they hear the quiet clutter of something falling to the floor from above them. “I should-“

“Yes, of course,” Hayden says, wringing his hands and when he looks up, Rozanov looks at him with that half smile he only shows to a handful of people, like that Harris guy from the Centaurs or their rookie, Luca Haas. It tells Hayden that whatever frenemie act Rozanov does around him, is mostly for show. It solidifies something Hayden thought before, but didn’t let himself believe until right now: they’re friends, on a spectrum and not really close, but friends either way. “I’m seriously sorry about this. If there is anything I can do to help-”

“Pike, stop. Is okay. Yes, is not ideal, but we are okay,” Rozanov says slowly, and Hayden hates himself a bit that, on top of everything else, Rozanov feels the need to reassure him, too. “Shane is not angry with you, okay? He’s scared, but he doesn’t blame you. It happened and now, we- we live with it, okay?”

“Okay,” Hayden says, wishing to feel a bit relief after this, but he doesn’t. He somehow feels even worse. He doesn’t want to imagine how it might feel if someone takes his secret and tells the world about his words from Marleau. On accident or not.

“Stay, we want you here. Just, maybe don’t upload any more videos, okay?” Rozanov says with a quiet, humourless laugh and races up the stairs, and when he’s almost up entirely, he shouts, “My phone is on table, can you keep an eye on it if something important comes up? Pin is Shane’s birthday.”

Hayden nods vehemently and then he is alone in Rozanov’s living room, shaking hands pressed between his knees. He sits there for a while, unsure what to do with himself, looking at Rozanov’s phone every once in a while that’s going off like a geyser with incoming calls, messages and mails. None of them seem too relevant, and those that might be, are in Russian, and Hayden is not going to translate these and invade Rozanov’s privacy on top of exposing his sexuality to the world. Fucking hell, that man is from Russia. Russia! He sighs, and tries to relax his jaw once he tastes blood from how bad he’s been biting on his bottom lip.

When Hayden’s hands finally stop shaking and his mind becomes to fucking loud to simply sit around and do nothing, he goes into the kitchen and starts cleaning it. Simply to have something to do with his hands. And then he makes food with what Rozanov has in his refrigerator. He just dries his hand on a hand towel when Rozanov’s phone vibrates with another incoming message.

Marley - Clifford ૮･ﻌ･ა

On March 20th, 2021 at 03:28PM

Open your door, or I’m gonna punch one of the paps!

Without even thinking twice, heart on his tongue, Hayden races to the door. He slips twice in his socks and has to grab the wall so he doesn’t fall and bust his face open again, and then he wrenches the front door open before Cliff Marleau is even close enough to ring the bell.

He is still looking at his phone when Hayden says, “Thank you for coming.” Like he’s a hostess in a fancy restaurant or Rozanov’s personal doorman. The surprise is written all over Marleau’s face when he lifts his head and simply stares at Hayden, brown eyes flitting over his entire form. They stare at Hayden’s shirt, the one he’s been wearing during his last work-out and now during his big clean up in Rozanov’s kitchen and is absolutely filthy, and Marleau’s eyebrows furrow for a moment, judgemental, and then his brown eyes turn soft, like hot chocolate on a winter afternoon.

He blinks once and this schools his face into something passive, and it all but gives Hayden whiplash of how fast and confusing the entire thing is. Then Marleau pushes past him, almost boxing his shoulder into Hayden’s chest for how close they’re for a moment, and while he slips out of his shoes, he shouts through the house, “Roz!”

He doesn’t greet Hayden, doesn’t really acknowledges his presence after the first look, but marches forward even before Hayden manages to say, “They’re upstairs.”

Nothing. Not even a tiny hello, not even a damn fucking nod. Hayden gets absolutely nothing of the man before he turns his back on him and finds his way to the stairs leading up to owner of the house, who is Marleau’s best friend, Hayden finally realises.

He knew, of course he knew Marleau is Rozanov’s best friend, but he never gave it much thought, because every single time he did, he started asking Shane questions or accidentally revealed a bit too much of himself in front of Rozanov. Like that time he, concussed and nursing a bleeding lip, pouted that he wasn’t allowed to watch Boston play until his brain wasn’t swollen up anymore. Or that first time Hayden got drunk with Rozanov years ago, and when the stupid topic of Hall Passes came up, Hayden, stupidly buzzed and fuzzy after too many pink cocktails, had said, “Marleau. He’s got good hands,” instead of any conventionally attractive movie star. He still remembers Rozanov’s delighted expression and Shane’s loud, “That’s your choice?”

Moments after Marleau turns around the corner, Hayden can hear low voices, Rozanov and Marleau talking somewhere close, and Hayden doesn’t move. He stays beside the door, tipping his head back in silent consternation how much the quiet rejection still hurts, after all these years, and waits. Waits for their voices to drift away and for them to leave him there, fighting against the familiar burning behind his eyelids and fighting against the urge to drop his hand on the back of his upper thigh and pinch the soulmate mark until it finally stops hurting.

Dinner doesn’t get much better after that. Shane and Rozanov talk to him, Shane even makes it abundantly clear that he really isn’t angry with Hayden, but Marleau?

Marleau stays quiet whenever Hayden so much as turns his head in his direction or formulates a question meant for him to answer. Otherwise, he’s chatty, throws jokes and easy banter around the dinner table that even brings a smile to Shane’s lips, and Hayden hates that he can’t be angry about it. Because Marleau makes his best friend smile, and makes the evening a tiny bit better by simply being there.

“How long will you stay here?” Hayden asks at one point, desperate for Marleau to give him the tiniest bit of attention, but instead of answering him, Marleau takes a big bite off his steak, so Rozanov has to answer for him, intelligent eyes flitting between the two, “You said until the end of the week, right, Marley?”

Marleau nods, swallows and says, “Next game is in a week and I told LeClaire it’s a family business, so I’m excused to miss practise for a few days.”

Hayden blinks a few times, soaking in the warmth of Marleau’s voice, and still feeling so very cold. No hello, no answers to any of his conversation starters, and he wonders what he did to the man? Was his You’re everything I never knew I wanted that horrible that he still, after so many years, deserves nothing more than the silent treatment at best? He wonders if he should offer Marleau to punch him, too. Maybe that will help get rid of the anger Marleau might harbour for Hayden being his soulmate, and end the quiet disregard.

He doesn’t try again, chews on his salad and roasted potatoes and drinks his ginger ale, and talks to Shane, quiet and subdued, and wonders if this is his eternal punishment instead of Hell.

And if so, what did he do to deserve this? What did he do?

When he gets home that night, the kids are already asleep and Jackie hangs out on their couch, laptop propped on her knees, talking to Moss with her hair in a slimy looking hair mask, the soulmate mark under her collarbone a beautiful green accent on her otherwise unblemished skin.

That’s me, Moss like in the forest.

He drops next to her, one hand already stretched out to protect her laptop from falling down after being jostled a bit and then curls into himself, only waving a quiet hello to his wife’s soulmate before reaching for the blanket next to them and hiding as much as he can underneath it.

Jackie turns her head away from the screen for a moment, eyebrows drawn together, and asks, “You’re good there, hubby?”

“Yeah, you’re good, hubby-once-removed?” comes Moss’s voice through the speaker and it makes him crack a small laugh.

“Yes,” he says, but it sounds all wrong, cracked and heavy with too many emotions. It must be obvious to Jackie, who’s known him for such a long time now, because she purses her lips, obviously examining Hayden from head to toe and when his reassuring smile inevitably fails, she flicks his arm gently.

“Move over,” she says, and for a moment they’re a pile of limbs and hair, pillows and entangled blankets until Jackie moved the coffee table closer to the couch and has her feet propped up there, balancing the laptop between them. She drags Hayden back onto the couch until his side hits the cushions and his head is pillowed on her soft thigh, one of her perfectly manicured hands in his hair. From this position, he can watch Moss through the screen too, sees them sitting in their own home, a cup of tea in their hands. It’s two in the morning for them, but they seem to be wide awake.

He listens to them talk, about Moss’s work, about his and Jackie’s kids and their today’s antics and their weekend plans and spring plans and life plans. He listens while Moss talks around the possibility that they’re in Toronto in late spring, and they could meet if Jackie wants, which she wants. She just doesn’t says it outright, but takes a few turns that get Hayden’s brain twisted and a bit confused, and sounds a bit like, “I mean, if this one here-“ she points at Hayden’s head, which he only sees on the screen through the camera, “-gets into the playoffs, then it might not work because of the kids, but I can ask my parents? They would love to stay here for a bit, but I won’t ask Hayd’s parents, they’re a bit - well, I won’t ask them. But if Montreal loses, which they will if they don’t let Shane play after today, which was horrible. Poor man, this must have been so stressful, but if the Metros are out, then he can take care of our four monsters for once, alone, and I can come. Or we can all come, visit you, show you Toronto, but only if you want, which is fine if you don’t.”

Hayden thinks he’s never heard Jackie ramble like this, not even when they first started dating and she’s been a nervous wreck around him sometimes. It’s endearing to him to witness this clear sign of affection his best friend has for her soulmate.

It’s even better to see Moss’s face during the ramble, the slow smile that turns their entire face into bright happiness, and then hears them say, “I would love all options. You alone. You with the kids. You, the kids and Mister I-Can’t-Win-A-Stanley-Cup-Without-My-Best-Friend and even if you bring your parents. Don’t bring Hayden’s parents, though. I don’t wanna meet them if they’re a bit -“

They talk like this for a while, Jackie and Moss, and Hayden just lies there and listens, and lets his heart settle and feels the anxiety drop off his shoulders because he is home. Here, where he is noticed, and people talk to him. Home, where he is loved. He ignores the quiet voice in his mind that reminds him it’s not the same, and never will be the same.

Only after Moss finally bids their goodbye, tells them that they have to be on campus in a few hours, and Jackie ends the call, she starts probing. She doesn’t voice out loud the question she must have had on the tip of her tongue the moment he came into the living room, the simple, “What happened?”, but she stays quiet and waits, gently tugging at his hair.

“Shane and Ilya are okay,” he slowly begins, not moving his head but curls the blanket tighter around himself. “Not good, obviously, but they’re going to be okay, I think. They’re not angry at me.”

“That’s good,” Jackie says and shifts a bit, jostles his head around on accident and then on purpose to make him smile again.

He curls one arm around her leg in a little wrestler grip and then settles his hand on her shin, “I think once the shock has settled, they will be angry, though.”

Jackie hums, low and soothing, and her hand in his hair stills for a moment, “Yeah, maybe, but they will forgive you regardless.”

“I know,” he says, and he really does believe it. Especially after today, and the way Shane didn’t shy away and Rozanov pulled him into a short, but honest hug. Hayden knows that, but the confrontation still scares him a bit. They are his only real friends, he thinks. Next to Jackie. And maybe Moss, now that they are a part of his life, too.

“What happened then?”

Hayden opens his mouth and closes it a few times, unsure how to explain the silence, the erasure, the feeling of being treated like something unwanted. In the end, he settles for something easy, something that won’t fill Jackie with rage and make her drive the two hours to Ottawa to kick Marleau around Rozanov’s house. Because Hayden knows she would do that for him, even in her hair mask and wearing nothing but one of his old tank tops and boxer shorts.

“Marleau dropped by.”

“Oh,” Jackie says quietly and her other hand drops on Hayden’s shoulder, drawing small, soothing circles on it that leave goosebumps in their wake. “He came directly from Boston?”

“Yeah, basically did the same I did the moment he heard the news and just made his way to them.”

“He’s a good friend, then.”

“He is,” Hayden swallows around the lump in his throat, fighting against the tears and wobbly lips. “He ignored me the entire day.”

Jackie sighs deeply, a bit sad for him, and only murmurs, “Oh baby, I’m sorry.”

Between training and captain duties, and his kids and his daily life, Hayden manages to drive to Shane and Rozanov almost every day while Marleau is there. He drives there, two hours, and hangs out with them, buys groceries so none of them need to go out and face the media, and then drives back home. Most of the time, he is alone, but he can only go so many times a week to uncle Shane and Ilya without taking his kids, too.

And while Marleau still ignores him, sometimes downright flees the premise the moment Hayden enters the house, he is kind to Hayden’s kids. It’s something Hayden never thought he might see, but Marleau lets his twins walk all over him, plays with them out in the garden when they ask him. Plays something that seems to be a strange mix up of baseball, soccer and Kill The Orc, in which Marleau seems to be the orc and Ruby and Jade are two magic wielding knights who have to hit Marleau with the ball until he is down, or whatever. It looks very inventive, and a little bit violent, and Hayden is just glad, he’s not the one under enemy fire.

When they’re done with that, Marleau gets pulled in by Amber, who shows him her space book Moss sent them a few weeks ago. They read it out loud and Marleau gives random commentary each time Amber tells him anything that is not in the book, and might or might not be the truth.

Hayden is helping Bood make about a thousand pizzas from scratch when he sees both Marleau and Rozanov help his son to look over the online library of animated movies and choose the right kind of movie to entertain not only them, but about half of the Centaurs.

It gives him the opportunity to watch Marleau undisturbed, to find small details in Marleau’s face or body that he likes, or words he pronounces a little bit different that stick out to Hayden, and he repeats in the safety of his own mind over and over again.

“They’d be good dads one day,” Bood says, and Hayden tears his eyes away, a little bit scared his staring had been obvious. Next to him, he can see the blush on Shane’s ears.

“Yeah, I can see that,” Hayden says, slowly, maybe a bit too slow, but neither Shane nor Bood seem to realise the skip in his speech and how loud his heart is beating against his rip cage.

In the end, they watch Kiki’s Delivery Service, and Hayden finds himself, not on purpose of course, next to Marleau on the couch, Amber pressed to his other side. And he really tries to watch the movie, but every time he even dares to peer to the side, he finds Marleau already looking at him. At Hayden’s hands and his forearms or at the side of his face. It’s like he can feel Marleau’s eyes on him as they trace the shell of his ear and down his neck and find the dip of his cupid bow or the fold of his eyelid.

He feels examined, laid bare and opened up. He wonders if Marleau might be able to read his entire life if he shifts just slightly to the right. He doesn’t, but he moves his hand on the blanket, a fraction closer to Marleau’s warmth, and he knows Marleau tracks his movements. Sees it as the man’s gaze dips down and lands heavy on Hayden’s hand.

And he tries not to look back too much. Or not too obvious, because Hayden has seen Rozanov watch him from the corner of his eyes, too, and Hayden doesn’t really like the knowing glint in the man’s eyes.

But when he thinks he is save, hidden enough, he looks at Marleau’s hands, at the small mole on the top of the back of his hand or how he jiggles the leg that is not ever so slightly touching Hayden’s. He wonders how it might feel to run the tips of his fingers over Marleau’s arm and feel the hair and soft looking skin, and if he might break out in shivers the way Hayden mostly does with every touch.

He wonders where on Marleau’s body he might find the soulmate mark, wonders if it is on his back or also on one of his legs, and if he’d be allowed to touch it, to press his lips against it in quiet reverence.

That night, when he is back in his house and in his bed room, long after Jackie said good night and went to her own room, he thinks about Marleau by his side. He thinks of the scent of him and the sound of Marleau’s quiet exhales. And it’s easy to feel Marleau’s gaze on his skin again.

In the darkness of the night, he lets his hands wander, following where he’d felt Marleau’s eyes on him. His ear, his cheek, eyebrow, eyelid and down over his lips, dips one finger between his lips, and imagines that Marleau would have looked there too if he could have. By the time his hand brushes from his neck to his chest, Hayden is panting and his erection is straining against his pyjama bottom.

Hayden hasn’t touched himself with Marleau in mind since he and Jackie became official ten years ago. Barely did that before their relationship, too. There had been nothing enjoyable about the bone deep shame and guilt twisting his gut back then, but it’s different now. He doesn’t feel ashamed of his own feelings and desires anymore, has worked through that tiredly for years until he’d been comfortable enough to say out loud, “I’m bisexual.” Without wincing, without jerking away from his own reflection in the mirror.

Hayden’s alone in the dark. He’s still hard, and even if God or the Holy Spirit is here and witnesses his arousal, he doesn’t care anymore. He feels like he is floating somewhere above himself as he runs his hands down his stomach and shifts around until his pants are off. He takes his time, stroking himself slowly, wondering how it would feel to kiss Marleau. Would he put his hands on Hayden’s chest or on his neck and pull his head back or would he cradle his cheeks with too much affection?

He runs a finger along the underside of his erection, the pad of his thumb slipping over the slit on the head to gather the precum before he moves his hand further down and behind his balls to tease his hole. It’s not something he does a lot, penetrating himself when he masturbates. It takes so much more time and preparation and with everything going on in his life there is barely enough time for more than a simple hand job most of the time, but the feeling of his wet fingers pressed against his rim is so good. He grows harder, breath coming quicker with every second and leaking all over his thigh.

Marleau’s hands are so much bigger than Hayden’s, and he can barely imagine how it would look to have them against his skin, his waist and thighs, can barely imagine how it would feel to have one of his fingers pushing into him.

He groans at the thought and wraps his other hand around his jerking cock, breath stuttering at the pressure. His hip jerks into his hand and then back against the fingers still teasing his hole, the slick sound of skin on skin driving him almost insane.

His teeth close around his bottom lip, not only to stifle his lewd moans, but because he feels so empty. Would Marleau let him suck on his fingers, push them deep into his mouth and press his tongue down until he’s full and completely taken over by him?

Swiping his thumb over his wet head, Hayden whimpers through his closed lips, and before he knows it, he’s coming. His vision whites out. He throws his head into the pillow, arching his back, and his hand grabs his thigh automatically and presses against his soulmate mark. It pulses underneath his palm, and Hayden exhales hard through his nose, lets the lingering sensation run through his whole body.

For a moment, the only thing that exists is Hayden’s heavy pants and the come cooling on his stomach and chest. Then the guilt settles in, and he comes back to reality, remembering himself and that Marleau wouldn’t let him touch him, let alone wants to talk to him.

He swallows hard and lifts his arm over his eyes.

When he gets a message on his phone a few weeks later from an unknown number and he then realises that it is Cliff Marleau, he freaks out enough that he isn’t able to pick up his phone again until late into the night.

In the end, it’s all about Shane’s wedding and their duties as best men and chairs and flowers, and Hayden subtle trying to figure out if Marleau comes alone or brings a date.

In the end, it’s the most thrilling, but horrible little exchange he’s had with anyone in a long time.

In the end, he lies awake for hours, reading and re-reading each message, wondering what he should have said instead to get Marleau to interact with him a bit more.

And in the fucking end, it’s so late that Hayden considers getting out of bed and starting his day early when he breaks and sends that humiliating question.

Are you going to talk to me this time or ignore me again when you’re in Canada?

He doesn’t know what he expects from this to happen at all, what he wants Marleau to say to him. He thinks both confirming and denying would feel awful. Of course it could be that Hayden’s just hypersensitive to all things concerning Marleau, while that man didn’t even realise he’d been ignoring Hayden, but that feels a bit unlikely. And what would Hayden even do if Marleau confirms it and says, Yes, I’ve been ignoring you for most of our careers.

What could he even say to this but a mortifying little, Why?

It doesn’t really come to a surprise when Marleau stays quiet and doesn’t answer this one. He reads it, types, the bubble pops up a few times, and then vanishes again. And later that day, Hayden gets a handful of pictures of potential picnic blankets and a screenshot of Marleau’s speech.

That’s it, and Hayden might be stubborn sometimes, and a bit too into finding ways to hurt himself, but he gets the hint. All their other messages are only about the wedding and the stag night, and if Shane would hate them if they give away dildos during the party. (Yes)

Or if they should get Rozanov a handmade coupon for late-night, stealthy fast-food drives around the city that exclude Shane and promise discretion. (Also yes.)

And Hayden promises himself to not fall apart and break and approach Marleau once he is in Ottawa for the wedding, promises himself to leave him be and respect the distance Marleau’s putting between the two of them.

July 2021

When the door bell rings, Hayden doesn’t even get a chance of getting up and opening the door himself, because Jackie throws the apple she’s been slicing into his lap and runs for it, ignoring Moss’s waving from the laptop screen on the kitchen counter. A few pieces of the core fall to the floor and now, Hayden has a wet spot of apple juice on his fresh trousers.

“I get it,” she shouts and cackles when Hayden doesn’t manage to say anything back but an indignant splutter. That sets their kids off as well, because of course it does, and all four race after Jackie like a horde of overexcited corgis to greet Cliff by the door, too.

While Hayden crawls across the floor to pick up the apple pieces and seeds, he hears six voices from the door, all of them talking at once, and then Amber’s giggle and Cliff’s nervous, but friendly, “Thank you for having me.”

He hears shoes being put away and Jade’s insistent ramble, asking Cliff if he wants to play orc again, and then Arthur comes running back into the room only to grab his miniature fire truck and to send Hayden a funny look that clearly says, “Why are you on the floor, dad?” before he runs back to the hallway.

And Hayden’s heart is ready to burst because without knowing at all, his kids welcome Cliff in their home with much more fanfare than Hayden ever could. Because, in their chaos and excitement, Hayden sees the potential for love for his soulmate. The potential of him being a part of Hayden’s family, unconditionally.

He gets to his feet again the moment they all spill back into the room, and Hayden can’t help but admire the little flush on Cliff’s cheeks, waving his apple sticky hands and saying, “Hi.”

“Hey,” Cliff answers and stops by the door frame, looking a bit unsure what to do now. They’ve only seen each other a few hours ago in Cliff’s hotel room, where Cliff pressed both his palms against Hayden’s cheeks to give him a deep kiss before he let Hayden go home to pick up his kid and go to the dog park.

He can see over Cliff’s shoulder Jackie making kissy faces at him and rolling her eyes at them for standing there like two idiots, and when neither of them make a move, her hand lifts and seems to push Cliff a bit further into the room, “Sorry, lemme just squeeze past you for a moment.”

The laptop makes a loud static noise, the video call with Moss still going on, and then Moss says, “What’s going on? Hayds, is your soulmate here? Bring him to the camera, I wanna see him, too.”

Before he remembers that his hands are still sticky with apple, he brings one up to rub over his forehead in embarrassment, effectively smearing a bit of fruit on there, and says, “Yeah, Cliff is here, let me wash my hands real quick.”

He turns around to the sink, more to hide the furious blush spreading from his cheeks all the way down to his chest, and washes his hands.

“This is Moss,” Ruby tells Cliff, the sound of shuffling feet coming closer, and then his oldest daughter, by only twenty minutes, jumps on one of the bar stools and moves the laptop around. “Mom’s soulmate. Moss, say hello to Cliff. He plays for Boston.”

“Hello Cliff, who plays for Boston,” Moss says with a laugh in their voice.

“Nice meeting you, Moss,” Cliff says, and he’s far closer to Hayden than he even realised, close enough that he feels Cliff’s low chuckle more than he hears it. And sure enough, when he turns back, wiping his wet hands on his shirt because he can’t find the towel, again, Cliff is right by his side. And he tracks Hayden’s movements with a judgemental twitch of his lips, but when Hayden scrunches his nose at him, he smiles.

“Hey,” Hayden says again before he can stop himself, and tilts his head a bit back to look Cliff in the eyes, but before they can lean in for a short peck on the lips, something clatters to the floor and then Ruby shouts something, and Jade shouts back. And Hayden has to intervene before their little scuffle turns into a big fight and they have to deal with tears or worse, another baby tooth lost.

While he tries to break up the fight between the twins, Jackie manages to grab the laptop, one of the now many, many books about space laying around their home and Amber and makes her way to the couch, quietly talking with them; and Arthur shows Cliff his fire truck and the little play mobile figuring with the handmade hockey stick Rozanov crafted for him a while ago.

Less than five minutes later, the girls are in their room upstairs to watch their favourite National Geographic show, and Arthur flits between Jackie, Amber and Moss, Cliff and the twins, racing around the house as if Hayden wasn’t out with him for three hours, playing with random dogs. That kid will sleep well that night.

It does give him a bit more space in the kitchen to make dinner, though. And to have a semi-quiet conversation with Cliff, sometimes interrupted by random thrown questions from Jackie and Moss.

Beside him, and only after a lot of persuasion, Cliff is allowed to cut the bell peppers, tomatoes and cucumber for the salad.

“Are you still okay with this?” Hayden asks him over the counter, cutting the onions and garlic for the Bolognese, pointedly not looking at him in case he might see something horrible in Cliff’s eyes, like this is all a big mistake and he wishes to be somewhere else entirely. “Because, I would really understand, it’s all a bit much. And I know, I said, last night when we were, you know-“ He stops cutting for a moment, taking a deep breath through the nose and immediately regretting it because the sharp onion smell brings tears to his eyes. “When we were intimate, I said that I choose you, and that is not a lie. I want you to know that, but if I have to pick between you and my kids, I can’t-“

They’re quiet for a long moment, and then Cliff’s hand comes to rest on top of Hayden’s wrist, “Look at me.” His tone is so incredibly gentle.

Slowly, Hayden places the knife on the cutting board and looks up, trying to blink the tears out of his eyes before Cliff can see them and think he’s a big softy, who’s going to cry in the kitchen now.

“I would never make you choose between me and your family,” Cliff says and his hands cup Hayden’s cheeks, rubbing along the creases of his laughter lines. “This is your life. I want to be part of it, but not at such a cost. When you said, you’re choosing me too, I knew you meant accepting our soulmate marks and me, as a person in your life. I wouldn’t want you to choose me over your family anyway, because that’s not who you are as a person. And I like the person you are.”

“I like who you are, too,” Hayden whispers and leans closer, stealing a quiet kiss. Their lips are insistent, a bit intense for where they are, and Hayden has to grip the counter so he doesn’t lift his hands and run his like onion smelling fingers through Cliff’s hair or tangle them into the fabric of Cliff’s hoodie.

“I’m gonna tell Dad!” comes Ruby’s shout from above them, followed by her loud footsteps running to the stairs and making her way down to them.

There is more banging, another pair of feet racing to the stairs, and then, “Well, I’m gonna tell Mom!”

And even if Hayden doesn’t want to stop kissing Cliff, he needs to stop the twins before one of them either trips and falls down the stairs or they have a whole fight on their hands, again. So, he leans far enough back so he doesn’t accidentally shout into Cliff’s ear, and throws a warning into the hallway, “Girls! No running on the stairs.”

“And no bothering Mommy about National Geographic when she’s talking to Moss,” Jackie adds at the top of her lungs.

“But bothering Moss is okay about that,” Moss says loud enough for their audio to cut off once or twice, and then Jade shouts, “Ruby said it’s octopussis, but that’s not true. It’s a swear jar word!”

“I did not say that!” her sister lies, not even looking a bit ashamed.

“Swear Jar, Swear Jar, Swear Jar,” Arthur shouts from his place on the couch at the same time Amber says, “Octopussis.”

“Oh god,” Hayden says, trying not to laugh.

“You did!”

“I did not!”

“Yes, you did!”

Hayden turns back to Cliff, already saying with fake exasperation, “Are you sure all of this is okay?” But before he can finish the entire sentence, he can see a smile forming on Cliff’s lips. It’s small at first, like he can’t believe it’s happening, like his lips move on their own accord. It grows the longer Hayden looks at him, sweet and open and almost blinding by how bright it is.

He leans into Hayden’s personal space, lips brushing his forehead for a gentle, short kiss, that is loudly commented by Moss because Jackie, the traitor, lifts the laptop up into the air so they can see what is happening in the kitchen area, and then Cliff whispers against his skin, “Your forehead is a bit sticky.”

“Oh god,” Hayden says and tries to get away, already reaching for the faucet behind him to clean his face, but Cliff pulls him back, nose pressing against his forehead now.

“Smells like apples.”

“Oh god,” Hayden repeats, but still can’t stop the laugh bubbling inside him that spills out and echoes in the small space between their bodies. He is so happy.

November 2011

Hayden isn’t entirely sure how he and J.J. managed to get Shane into the club with them, but there they are, in one of these chic, expensive nightclubs people sometimes get turned away from when the bouncer doesn’t like their shoes.

Most of the Metros are there tonight, even some of the vets and married guys. Most of them are standing around in small groups, chatting up some of the women in the club, drinking. J.J. is on the dance floor, sandwiched between two pretty girls, just grinding to the beat of the music.

The lights are bouncing around, purples, blues and greens in the otherwise dark room, and the music is so loud and the bass so heavy Hayden feels it reverberate in his bones. He and Shane are by the bar, both of them mostly quietly nursing a beer and just watching the chaos around them. For the last thirty or so minutes, Hayden has seen Shane fish out his phone out of his trousers, opened the messenger, typed out something to a girl named Lily only to delete it again and put his phone back into the pocket with a frown.

It’s a bit pitiful, if Hayden is being honest, and he really doesn’t know how to start a conversation about it, or if he should leave it well alone. But he gets the feeling his friend is pretty taken by that Lily girl, and doesn’t want to seem too desperate.

So, to talk about anything else, he says, “I still can’t believe both you and Rozanov managed a hat trick tonight.”

Next to him, Shane splutters around his mouthful of beer, coughs a bit and then only says, “It was a good game.”

Hayden laughs, still a bit giddy from their win, “Yeah you can say that.”

“You were on fire today,” Shane says, angling his upper body more to Hayden now that they have a good conversation going. Or good in Shane’s eyes. After a year playing with Shane Hollander, Hayden learned that nothing interests his friend more than hockey. And maybe yoga. And, though mostly hidden from everyone else, Russian literature.

“Thanks,” he says and lifts his beer to his lips to hide the proud little smile.

They won 6 - 4, and Hayden assisted four of their goals. It really was a good one, but his games are always on fire when he faces Marleau on the ice. In his desperation to hide his emotions and that his thigh always throbs whenever he’s close to Marleau, Hayden focuses even more on the game. Sometimes, he thinks it’s also because he has that bone deep urge to prove himself. To Marleau, to his team, but most importantly to himself. That just because Marleau is his soulmate doesn’t mean he can show weakness on the ice or something like that. It is a bit stupid and filled with toxic masculinity, but he can’t really help it.

One bad belief system at a time, right?

“You always play like a beast when it’s against Boston,” Shane laughs, cheeks a bit pink from the beer, and Hayden gets the impression he wouldn’t say it like that if they weren’t already a bit tipsy.

“A beast?” Hayden teases and grins when Shane’s flush spreads.

“Oh, fuck you, you know what I mean.”

Hayden clicks his beer against Shane’s bottle before replying, “Yeah, I know. It’s because Boston is a special challenge, if that makes sense.”

Shane’s hand moves to his phone in his pocket and he says, “That’s one way to put it.”

They fall quiet again after that, Shane wiping his phone out again, typing, while Hayden nurses his beer and watches as Comeau follows a tall blonde to the bathrooms. Yuck.

It’s because of this that he doesn’t notice the woman approaching them until she stands right in front of both of them. She is absolutely gorgeous, and Hayden feels his heart skip a beat when her eyes scan over him.

For a second, he thinks she’s probably going to talk to Shane, who’s more recognisable and more handsome than him, but she only sends Shane a small smile and then turns fully to Hayden.

“Wanna dance?”

Hayden’s mouth drops open and he’s just really grateful he has his hand around the beer bottle or else he would probably lift his finger to point at himself in a questioning gesture. The look on his face must have been enough for her, though, because she bites her bottom lip in an unsuccessful try to hide her grin, and nods, “Yeah, you.”

“I’m not a good dancer,” he says, but places his beer on the counter anyway and takes her outstretched, welcoming hand in his. When he glances to the side, Shane nods at him enthusiastically and waves him off.

“Me neither,” she laughs and pulls him after her to the dance floor, past Mitty and J.J. and the group of women around them, who holler and throw thumbs up his direction as if it’s his first time dancing with a woman. Which it isn’t, he’s just not a big dancer, barely knows how to move his body off the ice.

But she makes it work, her arms around his shoulders, one leg pushed between his, so one of his is pushed between hers. She definitely lied, her hips move sensual and it is fun, and she definitely knows how to move her body to the beat of the music around them, even when it changes to something more upbeat, and then to something slower, and then upbeat again.

They barely stop looking at each other, and Hayden allows himself to enjoy this, to stare at her pretty, bright eyes, wondering what colour they have because with the neon lights in the club he can’t tell if they’re blue or grey or maybe even green. He smiles at her when one of her hands moves from his shoulders to the back of his neck, fingers tangling with the sweaty hair there, unbothered, unflinching.

Hayden doesn’t know how long they’re on the dance floor, his hands on her waist or arms, and follows her lead as if she’s gently guiding and teaching him how to dance. Time goes completely fuzzy for a long time, and he only comes back to himself a bit when J.J. stops by their side to say good bye, and Hayden looks around the club to see that most of the Metros are already gone.

“Do you wanna drink something?” he asks her once J.J. is gone and tries not to look too defeated when she tells him she should leave soon, too.

“I’ve got classes in like-,” she says apologetically and lifts her arm to check the tiny, copper watch on her wrist, “- five hours.”

“Oh, okay, that makes sense,” he only says, standing there in the middle of the dance floor with his hands still on her waist and not knowing what to do with himself. Should he ask her for her number? He thinks he would like to meet her again, maybe talk this time. Which they didn’t do, at all. He doesn’t even know her name.

Before he can ask her, she de-tangles herself from his embrace and takes his hand, “Walk me home?”

His heart jumps in his chest, and he knows he must be blushing, “Are you sure?”

She laughs and starts pulling him off the dance floor to get their jackets, “Just walking.”

“Okay,” Hayden says and can’t suppress the small smile that’s stealing itself on his lips. “Just walking, then.”

The air outside is like a punch to the lungs after the hours in the club breathing in sweat and recycled air and the smoke from the fog machine. He stops short for a moment once the door to the club falls shut behind them and tips his head back to inhale the sharp late-autumn air.

“Good?” she asks next to him and curls her arm around his, starting to move down the street.

“Hell yeah,” Hayden says and doesn’t tell her the air reminds him of the rink, that sharp coldness that always clears his head. It started freezing and he can smell the incoming snow in the air, knows that it won’t take long anymore until Montreal is covered by a white blanket. He simply follows her, puts his other hand in the pocket of his jacket and matches her long strides that somehow feel like she’s skipping a beat here and there, like dancing down the cobblestones.

When they’re quiet for a while and Hayden can’t make himself ask her the really private questions like her name, her age, where she actually lives, feeling like it might be too invasive, he asks, “What are you studying?”

“Can’t you tell?” she asks and lets go of him, takes a few fast steps forward and twirls around as if to show off her whole person, and intrigued, Hayden looks, examines her.

She has shoulder long dark blond hair that’s wavy and a bit frizzy, and he can see some pink hair dye at the end that looks almost completely washed out. She wears a leather miniskirt and black nirvana shirt underneath the wine red puffy coat. He knows her fingers are decorated with too many rings, and while her make up is a bit smeared after the night in the club and sweating, he’s pretty sure there was quite a lot of black eyeliner on her face.

“Definitely not law or something like that,” he says and feels the corners of his lips tug up when she laughs.

“Or something like that?”

“You know what I mean,” he says and sprints a bit to catch up. “STEM and finance stuff.”

“Are you saying I look too stupid for STEM related studies?” she asks when she takes his arm into her’s again, patting his hand.

“God, no,” Hayden shakes his head vehemently in case he accidentally offended her. “I meant you look a lot more, I don’t know, sounds kinda weird, but Free Spirited?”

“Free Spirited?” she echoes with a scoff, and then adds, “But you’re completely right. I study Art.”

“Ha!” Hayden says, mostly to make her laugh again, because it is a really pretty sound. And it works.

“What gave it away? My doc martins or the pink hair?” she asks with a smirk.

Hayden pointedly looks down to her feet and raises an eyebrow and then lifts his free hand to wiggle his fingers, “The rings.”

“Ah, damn, I knew they would out me,” she says and drags him across the street to round a random corner. Hayden doesn’t even know where they are anymore, and he doesn’t really care. He hasn’t had this much fun in a while. “And you?”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you? What are you studying?”

For a second, he wonders if he should tell her a lie, to keep it low and not seem like a douche or something, but she asked, so he answers, “I don’t. I’m a hockey player.”

“Uh - so, like most Canadian men. Are you any good?”

Hayden makes a funny grimace and wiggles his head from one side to the other, as if contemplating, “Mmh, sometimes, I guess.”

“So, you have a job, but you focus on hockey sometimes?” she asks and they stop at a red light even though there are no cars around and they could cross the street without issues.

“You’re not a hockey fan, then?” he throws a question back, probably the first one since they started talking, and watches her shake her head.

“No, not really. I mean, my dad likes it, but I never really-“ she waves her free hand around in a flare, ”- got into it, you know. Art kid and all.”

“Isn’t that very stereotypical?”

She snorts again, and Hayden thinks he might like this sound even more than her laughter, “Maybe, but it’s true. Not my fault all I can think about is sniffing acrylic markers and I don’t know, oil paints?!”

“Oh, so you’re studying art is just a way for you to get high?” Hayden laughs, a bit too loud for how late in the night and how quiet the street is, but it seems to make her smile brighter, so Hayden wants to do it again.

“Kind of, yeah, but stop deflecting,” she says and then suddenly stops, turns them around until they’re face to face and looks at him. “Wait, you’re deflecting about hockey, so that means you’re either really, really bad or really, really good.”

“Oh, can’t you tell?” he echoes the earlier question back at her and takes a few steps away to give her the opportunity to examine him, too. Which she does, one of her hands coming up to her chin to mimic a private detective or something.

She even walks around him once, checking him out from all angles, before she says, “Okay, hear me out: you definitely have that body, but you could be a gym bro.”

“I could,” Hayden agrees and takes her hand back into his, not wanting her to get cold.

“You have all your teeth, and your nose doesn’t look like you’ve got enough hits in the face yet.”

“Is that a pro or contra argument?”

“Both,” she says and starts walking again. “Contra for hockey, pro for that pretty face of yours.”

He tries not to blush, and when he fails, he throws the compliment back at her, “You’ve also got a pretty face.”

“Ha, thanks, I was hoping you’d say that. But back to hockey. You’re very polite about it, very modest, but again, this could be a Canadian thing, right?” she says and drags him around the next corner. “But I think you might be good at it. I can’t explain why, but you look like a guy who is good at the things he does.”

“Oof, that is probably the best compliment I’ve ever got,” Hayden says, and then gives in and says, “But yeah. I’m not the best in the league, but definitely good.”

“Best in the league? Which league?”

He grins to himself and replies, “Which league does your dad watch?”

“I’m an art kid, remember,” she whines and then stops to step in front of him again. “We are here.” She points over her shoulder to one of the houses there, doesn’t specify which one is hers, and Hayden doesn’t ask, doesn’t want her to feel uncomfortable.

“This was nice,” Hayden tells her, suddenly feeling nervous again as he sees her eyes roam over his face as if committing it to her memory.

“It was,” she says softly and then she leans in to kiss his cheek, just a for a moment. “Thank you for walking me home.”

“Thank you for letting me,” Hayden whispers back, and then finally asks, “What’s your name?”

She snorts again, and really, he thinks this might become one of his favourite sounds in the world. “I’m Jackie,” she lifts her hand and Hayden takes it, shakes it gently and runs his thumb over one of the rings.

“Nice to meet you, Jackie. I’m Hayden.”

“Good night, Hayden,” Jackie says and bites her lips, turns around to go to her house, but then turns back again to press a soft kiss on his lips, biting hers after. “Let’s meet again, Hayden.”

And then she runs to her house, opens the door and is gone.

He stands there for a moment like an idiot, still feeling her chapped lips against his and her name on his tongue.

It’s only hours later, when he’s getting ready for practise that he realises they didn’t exchange numbers, and while he knows her name and her address, he doesn’t want to lurk around her home like a creep.

But that’s fine, because Jackie said Let’s meet again, Hayden.

And it’s okay, because for the first time in months, Hayden really enjoyed a nights out, and for the first time in years, he didn’t think about Marleau once.

A few days later, when he’s leaning against the boards to drink some water, Shane skates up to him and grins, “You didn’t say she would be here.”

“Who?” Hayden asks, frowning, and then follows Shane’s outstretched arm, pointing to the left side of their training rink, and there, in her fluffy, wine red coat and a black bubble hat on her head, sits Jackie, grinning at him.

He drops his bottle behind the boards and, with Shane pushing a hand into his shoulder, he skates up to her.

“So, you found out which league,” he calls out to Jackie, who gets up from her seat on the bench and comes closer. In the bright lights, he can see that her eyes have the lovely shade of the Caribbean sea, a swirl of light blue and green and turquoise.

“Nya, had to ask my dad, it was horrible. I, now, know what a hat trick is,” she says and leans against the boards.

“That is, in fact, very horrible,” Hayden says, and then it suddenly gets to him. Jackie is here. She found out who he is and where she might find him again, and she kissed him, twice, that night and he really want to meet her again. “Can I have your phone number?”

The grin on her face turns a bit softer, now more like a very bright smile, and she says, “What would you do with my phone number?”

“Send you good morning messages and ask you to share your favourite artworks with me?” he says, surprising himself by how smooth this line is.

Jackie tilts her head to the side, looking like she might say no, but he can see her reaching for her coat pocket already.

“Pike!” Theriault shouts behind him, and Hayden grimaces, calling out over his shoulder, “One second,” and then he gives Jackie his number, fast, trying not to get the numbers confused, and even leans over to double check.

“Pike!” his coach shouts again, and Hayden knows if he doesn’t move away from Jackie now and get back to his training, he will have to run lapses all afternoon.

“See you,” he says, and then leans in closer to kiss her cheeks as fast as possible and doesn’t let himself linger. He does cherish the blush on the apples of her cheeks after, though.

He skates back to the team, tries to ignore the hollering and shouts and all the crude, stupid jokes from the guys around him, and then tries not to be too giddy when he sees Jackie’s text messages on his phone after practise ends later.

After that, it’s easy. They talk every day on the phone when they’re having breakfast. Or when they’re getting home from hockey, work, college or generally whenever they have a minute time at all. And when they don’t have time to talk, they text. Non-stop. One conversation merging into the next one with ease, and then goes back to the first one to clarify something because something completely unrelated comes up.

Two weeks after they exchanged numbers, Hayden tells Jackie about his soulmate mark while he’s on the road in San Francisco and alone in his and Shane’s hotel room.

He lays on the floor, feet propped up on the bed and the phone on his chest to give his lower back a small rest when the topic comes up as Jackie tells him about the mark on her best friend’s shoulder, “It really says Do you like fish? What kind of stupid thing is that?”

Hayden laughs and then stops, his right hand automatically reaching out for his thigh, “Well, it could be worse.”

“Really?” Jackie says with something, probably a pen or brush, between her lips.

Hayden hums and tries to ignore his heart going double the speed in his chest, right underneath the phone, and he wonders if Jackie can hear it, the fast-paced thumpthumpthumpthump. He licks his lips nervously, and then says, “Mine says Your hands would be more useful around my cock than around that stick, rookie.”

He hears her loud inhale and the clatter of her pen possible brush falling to the floor, and after a minute of silence or so, she says, “Would you hate me if I’m having a little laugh about this?”

“No, it is kind of funny.”

“Okay, then I don’t need to feel bad,” she says, and he can hear the amusement in her voice. But only for a moment, because once she speaks again, she sounds serious, “Are you and your soulmate friends, then? Is it Hollander?”

“No, and no, it’s not Shane,” Hayden says slowly, a bit too quiet so he fears she might not be able to hear him.

“Damn, I thought it might be him, would be fitting.”

“No, he has his own soulmate, though,” Hayden says and stares at the ceiling fan and how it turns round and round. “It’s another player from a rival team.”

“Rival, as in Boston?” Jackie asks.

“How do you know about the Boston rivalry?” Hayden replies, trying not to feel too proud of her for learning about hockey and Montreal and what he does for a living.

“My dad said if I’m gonna date a hockey player, then I need to learn about it,” she answers and it sounds like she’s pouting. “I think he’s even more excited about it than I am. Maybe I should give him your number?”

“Maybe,” Hayden says quietly, smiling around the word. “Not to be rude here or anything, but I think you’re more my type and than he is.”

“Oh, are you sure? He’s not bad looking for a white dude in his fifties. If you ask my mom, she’d tell you he’s a super model,” Jackie teases, and there’s another clatter and then a quietly hissed, “Ah fuck. I dropped the brush on my shirt.”

“No, thank you about your dad, and don’t you have one of these, what is it called, capes?” he waves his hands around, not really caring that she can’t see it while he tries to come up with the word he’s looking for.

“Cape?”

“Like a bib, but for artists?” Hayden explains.

Jackie’s laugh is high pitched and so loud, he has to lower his phones volume for a moment, grinning to himself.

“You mean a fucking apron?” she wheezes.

“Oh, yeah, that’s the word,” he says

“Jesus, and you said I don’t give STEM vibes,” Jackie tells him.

He shifts a bit to the side, feet hitting the floor and curling up in a comfortable position with his head pillowed on his arm, his free hand touching his soulmate mark, “Too many pucks to the face for STEM.”

“You nose is too straight for that,” Jackie says, and then there’s a lull in their conversation. Long and quiet enough that he can hear the music playing in the back in Jackie’s room and the slow, deliberate strokes of the brush against the canvas. And then she asks, “Does your soulmate know?”

Hayden’s breath hitches and for a second he feels like he can’t get enough oxygen into his lungs. He told her, of course he should have expected questions. And, even though it still scares him a bit, he thinks he can be open with her; wants to be open and honest with her. So he says, “I said something back, but he ignored me. It’s been a few years.”

“That fucking sucks,” Jackie says quietly.

“Yeah, it does.”

He hears her inhaling, exhaling a few times, and then, “Thank you for trusting me with this.”

“Thank you for listening, Jacks.”

“Okay, so, back to my dad and why he would be the perfect fit for you even though he’s happily married to my mom,” Jackie says and lifts the heavy tension by telling him all the benefits of a half-bald man in his fifties. It’s like this, Hayden holding his stomach, laughing about the bullshit Jackie tells him about, that Shane finds him and, after a short strange glance, joins him on the floor to talk to who Hayden suspects is his girlfriend.

Seven months later, they move in together. In a small, two-room apartment with a tiny balcony, because Jackie doesn’t want their home to “smell like money.”

It does have a walk-in closet and a big window front in the living room for Jackie’s easel.

Jackie’s parents buy half of the furniture even though Hayden’s bank account is overflowing with money he doesn’t know how to spend. They tell him to put it aside, in case they ever want to have kids, “because art school and such is expensive shit.”

He and Jackie’s dad really get along very well, and one evening he tells her that she might have been right and he should have picked Pierre over her. It only makes her cackle, and they make out on the hallway floor, because she wants to show him that she was wrong, and she is definitely the better fit than her dad. He can’t find it in him to disagrees.

They exchange vows a year later in a big ceremony with all their family members and friends witnessing then saying yes, even though both he and Jackie don’t really want his parents there. Not after they make a huge drama about the lack of a priest and that Hayden doesn’t invite most of the congregation he grew up with. They’re also not really happy about the fact that Jackie is pregnant with twins, or that they’ve been living with each other before he even asked her to marry him.

Generally, they have a lot of issues with her, and because Hayden loves Jackie, with him, too. Which, in the end, doesn’t come as a huge surprise to him, because he knows they would probably hate him even more if they knew who his soulmate is.

Which is fine. He gave up wanting to be perfect for them years ago, and with Jackie and her parents, and his own kids on the way, he forms his own family, his own home.

After Boston wins the Cup in 2014 and the guys leave for the night, he tells her that Marleau is his fucking soulmate. They’re flat on their backs on the sofa, both of them have a toddler on their stomach each and hold hands in the space between them while they watch one of Jackie’s favourite movies.

She laces her fingers with his and squeezes tight even when his wedding band must cut against into the flesh of her fingers, and says far too tenderly, “Watching him play today must have been weird then.”

“Yeah,” he says and kisses Ruby on the head, buries his nose in the soft plum of her hair. “A little bit.”

“He must be an idiot, like seriously the dumbest person alive, hundred and twenty percent not made for STEM,” she says, staring at him over Jade’s head.

“How do you mean?” he asks, smiling despite the heavy pit in his stomach he’s been carrying with him since he saw Marleau lift the Cup above his head and couldn’t react the way his body wanted to; a quiet private smile, tears, maybe even a few heartfelt sobs in the bathroom. Not with half his team in his living room.

“Because he didn’t make you his, which is good for me,” she says and lifts their hands to press a gentle kiss on the ring on his finger, “Because it means you’re mine now, and he gets nothing but a stupid copper Cup.”

Hayden pulls their hands back to his and repeats the motion, the gentle brush of his lips against her fingers, “I’m the luckiest man alive.”

“Yes, you are,” she smiles and squeezes his hand again.

“I do want that stupid copper Cup, too, though,” he says with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

“Oh, don’t be greedy,” Jackie retorts, teasing, and then adds, “Next year it will be you.”

And then her head turns back to the Fifth Element playing on their TV and she starts rambling along the actors, knowing Leeloo’s lines by heart.

The year after, Montreal actually wins the Cup and Hayden helps Jackie and his two little girls on the ice, and kisses them there, buzzing with happiness.

Little over nine months later, Arthur is born, and Jackie threatens to divorce him if she gets pregnant again.

A year later, he starts a fist fight with Marleau on the ice, shouting, “Marleau, you motherfucker!” which Jackie finds absolutely hilarious once they know Shane is okay and it’s just a broken collarbone and a concussion and nothing too serious.

“Marleau, you motherfucker!” she throws at him with a snort, round belly jiggling up and down with how pregnant she is, and then makes him drive to a gas bar to buy cookies, ice cream and a cucumber.

A few weeks later Hayden finds out about the Rozanov Thing, and slowly comes to term with his best friend’s boyfriend by inviting him over more often than Hayden likes. Even worse is that he actually enjoys hanging out with Rozanov, especially after he finds out how much his kids love him. He still gets the distinctive impression that Rozanov likes Jackie a whole lot more than him, which is okay. Hayden likes Jackie a lot more than Rozanov, too. And more than himself, if he’s being honest.

In August 2019, Jackie goes to New York for a week to work with a small gallery on an art exhibition, and comes back withdrawn, snappy and wearing turtlenecks in the height of summer.

It takes about a week until both of them snap in the middle of the night and their back and forth of the week ends in the biggest fight they ever had up to that day.

“Can you at least tell me what the fuck I did wrong?” Hayden says, standing by the dresser in their bedroom, hands thrown in the air, breathing through his nose to calm himself. They’ve been fighting for days none stop, and he’s at his wits end.

“Nothing!” Jackie whisper shouts back and climbs into the bed with a bit too much force, punching her pillow like it personally offended her and their entire family.

“Then what the fuck is going on here, Jacks?” Hayden asks, swaying in place because he doesn’t know if she will allow him to come closer just yet. “And what the fuck is this new thing with the turtlenecks and hoodies? It’s in the middle of fucking August with a record summer.”

“I’m cold,” she snipes back, glaring through her lashes at him. “Also, swear jar!”

“You’re sweating like a pig!” he raises his voice and points at her forehead and the thin film of sweat on her upper lip. “Like what the fuck are you hiding?”

“I’m not hiding anything,” she almost shouts, but her eyes doesn’t meet his. A fucking lie. She’s lying at him.

Like being slapped, he takes a small step back, his mind racing through all the possibilities why his wife of eight years and mother of his four kids would hide her body from him, and none of these possibilities agree with him in the slightest. He wouldn’t mind that she wants to wear a fucking fleece hoodie in August if she wasn’t so damn secretive about it, less even if she wasn’t walking around him like a bomb might go off any minute.

Something is deeply wrong, and she isn’t honest with him, and Hayden is tired of it.

In the beginning of their relationship they talked about cheating, about getting to know new people and set a lot of boundaries, but it’s been such a long time since they’ve talked about it that Hayden doesn’t know if she’s still cool with it, the exclusivity of their relationship.

He thinks he would like to be cool and let her have her fun with other people, but at least, he wants to know.

He takes a deep breath, lets it out like a balloon because words don’t come easy at this moment, and then tries again, “If you met someone in New York-”

“I didn’t!” Jackie cuts him off, definitely shouts this one loud enough that they both take a moment to listen closely if any of the kids woke up from it. She crosses arms in front of her chest, and glares at him.

“If you met someone and had a snog or whatever and now have a hickey, I just don’t want you to lie to me, Jackie!” he says and second later, her pillow hits him hard in the chest and he watches her scramble to her knees, face tomato red with fury or how fucking hot she is in his huge, black hoodie.

“Don’t you fucking dare and insinuate I cheated on you, Pike!” She throws another pillow into his direction, but this time his reflexes work just fine and he catches it and drops it to the floor. “I have carried all your four kids and worked my ass off while you have your fucking hockey career, and host your get together parties with friends and I manage everything. So, don’t you fucking dare!”

“Then why the fuck are you hiding? It’s not like it’s a massive fucking pimple, isn’t it? And even if, it can’t be worse than that thing in 2012!” he shouts back, hoping his ill attempt of humour helps them diffuse the tension a bit.

Of fucking course it doesn’t help.

“Fuck you!” Jackie calls out and jumps to her feet, and then points a finger to the door, “You better fucking leave right now.”

And unsure what else to do, he lifts his hands up into the air again, like a shield, a sign of his surrender, and leaves their bedroom. He doesn’t even go to their guest room, just goes down, grabs his sneakers and leaves the house for a walk. To walk it all off, cool his mind, find some kind of order before it can escalate even more than it already did.

His entire skin is tight with anger, and he feels so fucking clueless what just happened. Yes, it wasn’t fair to insinuate her cheating on him, but what else could it be?

He always prides himself that he and Jackie, next to a strong and communicative couple, are best friends, and can talk about everything. They have been talking about everything all the time, about the guys he finds hot, about the girls she finds hot, about the religious shit of his childhood and how fucking much Hayden hates his brother, now that they’re all grown up and Brandon turned out as this massive bully and arsehole.

And about Jackie’s insecurities about her art and paintings, and that she feels like an imposter and like she’s sometimes feels like she’s throwing away her education by being such a young mom. This had been a hard fought confession, a secret Hayden knows has been eating her alive for a long time, like his still existing feelings for Marleau. But they shared it with each other and reassured the other, made sure that its okay to feel the way they feel. Because emotions are complicated and sometimes fucking ugly.

So, he doesn’t understand why she can’t just tell him what the fucking hell is going on since she’s back from New York. Except, maybe…

Oh god, what if something happened, but Jackie didn’t want it? What if she’s holding it back because she is scared and hurt?

He stops in the middle of the street and bends over, hands on his knees and heaving by how horrible the thought feels in his stomach.

He turns around and runs back home, door banging open and close again too loud for the time of night. He runs up the stairs, shoes still on, not caring that she will be so pissed at him for this, only to find the bedroom and bathroom both empty.

“Jacks?” he calls out, racing down the stairs to check if her car is gone, knowing she wouldn’t do that, not with the kids in their beds and Hayden not home.

He hears a quiet sniffle from the living room, and when he runs in there, he finds her sitting on the couch, two blankets on top of her and hugging her favourite throw pillow to her chest. Her eyes are red rimmed and there is a bit of snot on her chin.

“I thought you left me,” she says through her tears, and Hayden’s heart skips a beat.

He takes a slow step closer, now that he knows where she is and that she is safe, here, in their home. He kneels down in front of her and leaves some space between them in case she doesn’t want him to touch her. He studies her face for a moment, trying not to cry with her, because when Jackie cries, he always cries, too. It’s like an infectious disease sometimes.

“I would not leave you, Jacks,” he says quietly and holds out his hands, palm up and open in case she wants to take them. “I have just one question, and then I won’t ask anymore or try to make you talk. Okay?”

She nods, sniffles loudly and it’s a little bit disgusting, but they have four kids, Hayden can live with that, and then she takes both his hands into hers, “Okay.”

“In New York, did someone hurt you?” he tries to keep his voice even, to be the strong person here in case this horrible thing might have happened to her and she needs him to be carry this burden, this pain with her.

Her hands tighten around his, immediately understanding the fear he’s trying to express. She shakes her head.

“Can you say it out loud, so I can really believe it?” Hayden asks her quietly, rubbing both his thumbs over her skin.

“I’m okay, no one hurt me. Nothing like this happened,” she says and blinks through another wave of tears. “I’m sorry.”

The words lift a weight so heavy, it feels like he can suddenly breathe again, like he’s hundreds of pounds lighter, “Oh thank god. I was so worried. I thought maybe someone touched your without your consent.”

“I’m sorry,” Jackie repeats and he can’t help himself but reaches out to brush the tears off her cheeks. “I also didn’t cheat on you.”

“I know you wouldn’t, I’m sorry I implied that,” he whispers, feeling his own eyes fill with tears. “I love you, okay?”

She nods, huffs out a small laugh, and then leans back a bit to wipe the back of her hands over her wet face, “Can you promise me you won’t be angry if I tell you?”

“Of course, I promise,” Hayden says without hesitation, and then watches Jackie drop the blankets and pillows and slowly removes the hoodie.

It takes him a few heart beats until he sees the green ink, with how intensely he watches her face and the shift of her tense shoulders.

“Oh,” he only says once his gaze lands on the soulmate mark underneath her collarbone.

“I’m so sorry,” Jackie starts crying in earnest again and Hayden finds himself shaking his head so fast it almost makes him dizzy.

“No, oh god, no, don’t be sorry,” he says hastily and cups her cheeks in both of his hands, “That’s wonderful, Jackie.”

“It’s not!” She shouts at him, but it doesn’t really land because there’s a bit of snot under her nose and she’s hiccuping now. “It’s not okay. I don’t want them. I only want you.”

“You don’t need to want-“ his eyes land on the mark and he reads, “Moss, right?”

She tries to nod, but with her face still held in his hands, it’s more of a little jerk.

“You can be friends with Moss, or whatever you feel comfortable with,” Hayden says quietly.

“I don’t want anything to do with them,” Jackie says equally quiet, and Hayden’s gut twists painfully.

Is this how Marleau felt when Hayden said his words to him? Is this what happened, the ugly crying, the denial of Fate and a potential connection, the vehement rejection? Did Marleau sit on his couch, helplessly crying and shouting that he doesn’t want Hayden in his life?

He hopes he never finds out, and for a moment, Hayden’s heart hurts. For Jackie, who is put on a crossroad in her life she clearly doesn’t want to face. For himself, because there might be the possibility that Jackie chooses her soulmate over him. Which he would understand and respect. For Marleau, who has a soulmate he doesn’t want, and has to wear Hayden’s words every day.

And for Moss, whoever they are, because like Marleau, Jackie refuses them and wants to go against the universe, and if they’re unlucky, they will never get to know his beautiful wife.

He doesn’t say any of it that night, only holds Jackie in his arms, and tries not to feel the small hopelessness creep up on him.

He says something similar a few weeks later and tells her she should reach out to Moss, get to know them, give them a chance.

He says that it’s not really fair if she leaves them hanging and that makes them fight again. And then again, and again, and again, until Shane thinks they’re getting a divorce because Arthur tells him and Rozanov that “Mommy and Dad sometimes don’t talk with each other.”

It gets so bad that they’re walking on tip toes around each other, and Hayden sleeps more often on the couch than in their bed, and Jackie is getting frustrated with him over hockey, the kids, hockey, Marleau, his socks in the drawer, hockey, him snoring sometimes, hockey, that he gets a black eye during hockey, and hockey again.

When he finally asks her if she wants to break up, divorce him, because it seems like this is not working anymore, they have another big cry together, and Jackie says, “No, never.”

And despite wishing it to be true, they both know its a lie.

A week later, Jackie calls Moss the first time, and Hayden gets to know them a month later, too.

He adores them. They’re perfect for and with Jackie. As friends or something more, doesn’t matter in that moment. Moss is perfect.

He and Jackie don’t talk about divorce again, but they both know they’re slowly falling out of love with each other while at the same time their friendship deepens until Hayden sometimes thinks they are soulmates. He cannot imagine that the universe sent him this wonderful person with this connection for it not to be a soulmate bond. Who even needs some fucking words on their skin for it to mean anything at all?

It’s not always easy, unlearning to be lovers, and learning to be friends, and both of them slip, with an easy kiss to Jackie’s naked shoulder and a feather light touch to Hayden’s ass, but they start talking through it, again. Like they used to before life got a bit too hard all of a sudden. And they include Moss in these talks, don’t lie when they sometimes kiss because it’s easy and comfortable, and better than being alone. But at one point, they finally recalibrated their relationship, and thinking of kissing Jackie doesn’t interest him anymore than it interests her.

They still don’t talk about a divorce, but when he sees Jackie’s eyes when she tells her parents about Moss, he knows it is coming, sooner than later. And, unsurprisingly, it’s okay.

When Dallas Kent and Marcel Houde beat the shit out of him so bad he’s been put off the ice for two weeks, and he, high on painkillers and a bit out of his mind, whines that he won’t be able to watch Boston in front of Rozanov, Jackie and Moss make fun of him so bad, he doesn’t even feel ashamed of it after.

And Hayden loves Jackie. He really fucking does. Not only because she is the mother of his kids, and not only because she gave him one of the best years of his life, but because she is the soulmate he chose himself. She is the person who taught him to dance, to appreciate art and quiet days, and that sometimes, love comes from the most unexpected corners. She is the person who told him who she is before she even said her name. And most importantly, he loves her because she and their kids are the home they built together.

Jackie is his home, and Fate and soulmate bonds or an astrobiology professor named Moss from London could never change this.

Though, he really does adore Moss. It’s a strange dynamic, one they mostly keep to themselves as people sometimes are too judgemental, and they don’t want their kids to feel bad, but that’s how it works out. In his home, with his kids and best friend who is his chosen person and also still his wife, and her soulmate, thousands of miles away on another continent.

And Hayden tells himself that this is perfect, and he doesn’t need more, and he has found happiness in his life. And when he, sometimes, lies awake in the dark and thinks about Marleau or listens too intensely when Rozanov talks about his best friend, then it’s his own little secret.

August 2021

“Gentle hands only,” Hayden reminds Amber as she reaches out for Mayo on the couch to pet her and his daughter immediately becomes much calmer, hand carefully approaching the black cat, who lazily turns her head and then exposes her chin to be scratched.

On the other side of Cliff’s living room where the ceiling high cat tree stands is Cliff’s sister Clara showing the twins how to play with Sriracha by using the feather on a stick. He hears Cliff from the kitchen, talking to Clara’s soulmate, another med student with a french accent and one of the funniest hair cuts Hayden’s ever seen on a guy, occasionally interrupted by both Jackie and Arthur.

He thinks, if someone would be able to get Moss on a call now, it would be kind of perfect - or as perfect as the Pike-Marleau chaos troop can be.

On his lap, Amber yawns loudly and with a blink to the clock, he lifts her into his arms and gets up, ignoring her grumbles that she hasn’t even finished petting the Mayo yet.

When he rounds the corner and sees Jackie holding Arthur in a similar embrace, with his forehead knocking against her shoulder every time his eyes full shut, he says, “I think its time for them to sleep.”

Jackie hums, reaching out a hand to brush Amber’s curls out of her face when she mimics her brother and falls cheek first against Hayden’s shoulder, starting to drool a bit, “It was a long and exciting day.”

They landed in Boston around noon and Cliff immediately dragged them to the Museum of science, knowing he would win at least Amber and Arthur with this move, if not all of them. Which is adorable, and lovely, and absolutely unnecessary, because after not even three weeks, Hayden’s kids are already idolising Cliff.

Hayden thinks its because Cliff is like their dad, but cooler since Cliff doesn’t tell them no more ice cream before dinner or learned how to say No yet.

“Do you want help getting them all back to the hotel?” Hayden asks quietly, shifting from one foot to the other, careful not to jostle Amber too much or else the Great Wail™ might start.

“Gabriél said he and Clara can help me get them back, if that’s cool with you,” Jackie says and he can see her peer to the side, making sure that Cliff doesn’t look before she adds much quieter, “I’m pretty sure you can’t wait to have the apartment for you alone.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Hayden murmurs back, blushing a bit, and then even more when both Amber and Cliff say, “Swear jar.”

Jackie laughs with her front teeth digging into her bottom lip and says, “But seriously, we manage. Tomorrow, ten o’clock for breakfast, right?”

He nods, and then its a flurry of limbs, and kids not wanting to say goodbye to the cats, and then not wanting to say goodbye to Cliff, but all of them being okay that Hayden doesn’t go with them, and carrying backpacks and suitcases down to the street to the personal driver Cliff called for them and Ruby asking far too loudly, “What is Herpes?“

And somehow, it takes them less than half an hour, but it feels like five minutes or two hours until he and Cliff are back in the elevator and on their way to Cliff’s apartment again, starring at each other through tired eyes.

“What a fucking day,” Cliff says and underneath the exhausted exterior, Hayden can see the contentment and excitement.

Relishing the sight, he asks, “Did you have fun?”

“Very cool dinosaurs in that museum, so, yeah,” Cliff replies and leads the way out of the lift once they’re at his floor. “I also think Roz is right.”

“About what?” Hayden asks, closing the door to Cliff’s apartment behind him and throws his shoes on the shoe rack by the door.

“Your wife is much cooler than you,” Cliff says with a shit eating grin.

For a moment, Hayden wants to argue that he is cool, but then he gives in, “I mean, she’s the artist. I’m just a stupid jock.”

“Pretty jock, though,” Cliff murmurs and steps into his personal space, crowding him against the shut door in the dim, quiet hallway. Their lips meet in the middle, Hayden slightly on his tip toes and his arms curl around Cliff’s shoulders to pull him down for the kiss.

They didn’t have any opportunity to kiss earlier after landing and exploring Boston, and with the kids and Cliff’s sister and kind of boyfriend around. They haven’t had any opportunities to touch each other since Cliff left Ottawa in July three weeks ago to go back to his home in Boston, and while they talked almost every day, Hayden still missed him.

After a moment Cliff puts enough distance between them to say, “Missed you, too. It’s kind of ridiculous.”

“We gonna have to get use to this,” Hayden says, licks his lips to chase the taste of Cliff on him and watches him with half-lidded eyes.

“Fuck,” Cliff breathes, and lifts his hand to Hayden’s face. His fingers skim across Hayden’s jaw but his thumb presses at Hayden’s bottom lip, over the wetness where Hayden’s tongue was a moment ago.

Hayden parts his lips with a tiny smirk and takes Cliff’s thumb into his mouth, sucks it in with a pounding heart, swirling his tongue over the soft pad before bobbing forward just slightly, teasing what he might want to do now that they’re finally alone and have the space all to themselves. Until the next morning at least.

Seeing Cliff’s dark eyes fixed on his mouth and feeling his fingernails scratch lightly at his jaw, sends hot, electric shivers through his entire body. He shifts a bit forward, head and shoulders leaning back against the door and spreads his legs far enough for Cliff to have enough space to move between them.

“I still cannot believe I got to be this shit ton lucky,” Cliff says, breath hitching as Hayden runs his tongue over the pad of his thumb, kisses it gentle and then sucks it into his mouth again. “Bedroom, now.”

They make it into Cliff’s bedroom and crash into each other at the same time, bodies meeting right next to his bed. Cliff’s hands fly up to Hayden’s face and he drags him in for another kiss before he presses his mouth to Hayden’s throat, groaning into his skin.

Hayden shudders at the contact and melts against Cliff’s body as if he’s trying to crawl inside him, tossing his head back to give him a better angle and throwing his arms around Cliff’s neck to pull him even closer.

Cliff’s hands find Hayden’s ass and he grips hard, digging his fingers into the muscle and moving his lips from Hayden’s throat back up to his lips. “I wanna be inside you, tonight,” he groan against Hayden’s mouth, biting out the words before tracing his tongue from Hayden’s neck to his collarbones.

Hayden moans and shoves his fingers into Cliff’s hair, tugs at it hard enough to earn another groan, and then chokes out, “Yes, please.”

“Say that again.”

Hayden huffs, and then repeats, slower, with more intention, “Please fuck me tonight.”

“Oh my god,” Cliff shudders, and his voice sounds like a prayer, as if he’s thanking whichever god he might believe in for having him here. And then Cliff slides his hand from Hayden’s ass up to his chest, tugging at his shirt until they disconnect long enough to yank it over his head. Cliff’s follows a moment later, falling to the floor somewhere. And then it’s pulling and tugging until they’re both completely naked, standing in front of each other, breathing heavy.

They’ve seen each other naked before, but Hayden is still a bit in awe, probably always will be by how beautiful Cliff is.

He wonders if his heartbeat is audible between them, or if Cliff can feel his body heat radiating in sync with the steady thrum behind his rib cage.

“Good?” Cliff asks and then places his hands back on Hayden’s hips to cup his ass, a finger trailing between his ass cheeks.

“Yes,” Hayden lets out a shaky exhale, hands finding Cliff’s peck and then his left side, pads of his fingers and nails trailing along the words there only to make Cliff’s muscles spasm and for Cliff to pull him in, grinding their cocks together in slow, sensual movements.

“You did that before?” Cliff asks, biting into the juncture of Hayden’s neck and shoulder, probably leaving marks before gently licking over them.

“Kind of,” Hayden rasps. “Not with another man.”

Cliff stills for a moment, freezes in his arms, but his cock against Hayden’s betrays him, jerking and smearing a drop of precum on Hayden’s side, “You haven’t been with a man before?”

“Don’t get funny now,” Hayden says and leans in to kiss along Cliff’s chest, lets his teeth run over a nipple and then the other. “I’ve had anal before.”

“With a toy?”

Hayden rolls his eyes in amusement and lets his mouth wander further down, looking up at Cliff, slow blinking in the way he found out makes Cliff go almost insane, “And Jackie.”

“That’s kind of hot,” Cliff groans out and one of his hands falls to Hayden’s neck, not to lead him, push or pull him, but to hold on, to rub his thumb over his spine and along his scalp.

Hayden hums and moves to his knees only to look up to Cliff and drops his mouth open, tongue lolling out and dropping hot, open-mouthed kisses down Cliff’s adonis belt and on the sensitive skin right next to his heavy erection.

“Oh shit,” Cliff watches him, breath coming in shallow gasps as Hayden nuzzles his face against Cliff’s erection, gathering his courage to finally do what he’s been fantasising about since he was a teenager. Back then, he always stopped himself with dread weighting down on him, but now, he lets this desire run free.

Here, in Cliff’s embrace, with both their soulmate marks pulsing underneath their skins, Hayden lets himself have what he wants. He presses a soft kiss to Cliff’s stomach and pants out a harsh moan when Cliff’s cock jerks under his chin, leaving a smear of wetness where it touched him seconds ago.

The first delicate lick to the underside of his cock makes Cliff jump, but then his other hand drops on Hayden’s head, too. Fingers threading gently into his hair, and Hayden’s lips slide over the head with purpose. He licks off the salty precum before surrounding Cliff with heat and slow suction, relishing in the sharp gasps of pleasure above him.

“Baby, that’s good,” Cliff says, voice already wrecked and his hands tighten in Hayden’s hair.

He hums around the length and drags his tongue from the base to the tip again before bobbing his head a few times. He’s not entirely sure if this is skilled enough or to Cliff’s standards, but just tries to mimic what he likes for himself.

As if he heard Hayden’s thoughts, Cliff murmurs in a low voice that goes straight to Hayden’s groin, “Just like that, a bit more tongue.”

Hayden tries to suck and lick at the same time, slow but steadily bobbing his head up and down the length. He knows it can’t be too good, there’s too much spit and he’s a bit erratic with how nervous he feels, but Cliff still gasps loudly.

“Steady,” he guides Hayden, one of his hands running from Hayden’s hair to the back of his neck to rub his fingers into the tense muscles deep enough to get Hayden to moan lewdly around the cock in his mouth. “Oh - you like that?”

Mouth occupied, Hayden doesn’t answer but shudders when Cliff massages his neck again, and then drag his fingernails across his skin from the back of his neck to the crown of his hair. Hayden’s eyes close in pleasure and he whines loudly.

“You really do like that, that’s good to know,“ Cliff murmurs, voice breather, and Hayden swallows around him, trying to urge him on to take his pleasure from him. He places one hand on Cliff’s hips to move them faster, hoping Cliff gets it and just fucks into him.

Cliff’s hand in his hair tightens, and when Hayden manages to open his eyes again and looks up to him, he shakes his head, “Can’t do that if you want me to fuck you.”

Hayden whines again, and he’s not entirely sure how he manages to lean back and drag the cock out of his mouth, because he feels a bit fuzzy around the edges, and so fucking good.

Somehow, Cliff manages to get him back to his feet and then on the bed, lips at his throat and fingers on his hipbones, his weight pressing Hayden into the mattress. He lifts his hip to get some friction, to move against Cliff, but Cliff leans back a bit, hand sliding up Hayden’s bare thighs and then to the back of his leg, curling possessively around the soulmate mark there.

The touch sends heat through Hayden’s bones and he shivers almost violently, goosebumps raising all over his body.

“You’re so fucking sensitive,” Cliff murmurs and moves closer again so Hayden can hook his arms around his neck, fingers in Cliff’s hair and canting his legs open, spreading them wide, his own cock heavy against his thigh.

“Please,” Hayden whispers, a bit dazed.

“Okay, yeah,” Cliff says, “wait,” and leans to the side and the drawer of his nightstand, and comes back a moment later with a string of condoms and a half-empty bottle of lube. He drops them beside their heads and leans down to run his tongue over Hayden’s neck and down to his nipples until Hayden squirms beneath his touch.

“So beautiful, baby,” Cliff says and his hot breath sends another wave of shivers through Hayden’s body. “And so fucking sensitive.”

“Touch me,” Hayden says, wanting it to come out like a command, but instead it’s nothing more than a breathy whine. “Cliff, please.”

He wraps his legs around Cliff’s waist, hooks his ankles above Cliff’s ass and draws him in until their cocks brush again. Hayden sighs and tilts his head to expose himself for more hot open-mouth kisses down the column of his neck. He hears the sound of the lube opening, but doesn’t really care beyond the hot skin against his and the gentle give of Cliff’s muscles under his hands, roaming freely and trying to touch every last corner of him.

“Legs up,” Cliff whispers against his sternum, and Hayden complies, raising his legs and opening himself up for him and the first touch of Cliff’s finger against his hole, circling the rim and pushing in slowly.

“Fuck,” he gasps. The touch is everything and more he ever imagined, and so fucking gentle as Cliff slides one knuckle at a time into him it’s almost unbearable. He bucks against him, just enough to get Cliff deeper already, not willing to ease himself slowly into it. He wants to feel Cliff now, has been wanting this for too long already.

“I don’t wanna hurt your, baby,” Cliff’s mouth is hot against his chest.

“I can take it,” Hayden says and spreads his thighs as far as possible, relaxing his body to take more. When Cliff doesn’t move again, Hayden starts moving his hip in small circles. He feels absolutely debauched, and for a short, horrifying second he wonders what Father Benedict would say if he could see Hayden just now. But then he feels Cliff pushing a second fingers in alongside the first and that intrusive thought of his childhood priest is gone, and all Hayden can think about is how much the touch burns. Cliff’s hands are so much bigger than his, Hayden knows this, so he should have remembered that it wouldn’t be so easy to take all of Cliff as it is for his own fingers.

“Okay?” Cliff asks, as if sensing the almost painful ache.

“Slowly,” Hayden whispers and grabs a handful of Cliff’s hair to pull his head up and back into a kiss. There’s the sound of the lube bottle opening again and he feels the cool, sticky sensation of Cliff adding more of it to his fingers inside him, pushing slowly in and out before crooking them up against Hayden’s inner wall. He moans into Cliff’s mouth, low and filthy, and just kisses him and lets himself be fingered open for what seems to be hours.

He can feel sweat on his neck and the back of his thighs, and then a third finger entering him, and the whole thing starts from the beginning, the arch, the burn and cool lube. He moves his fingers slowly, careful, but with purpose, and when he flicks his hand just so, his fingers brush against Hayden’s prostate, and Hayden lets out a low, strangled noise, hips jerking against the hand.

“You’re so fucking tight,” Cliff breathes, teeth scraping over his jaw and his lips, swallowing each moan from Hayden’s lips like it’s water and Cliff is dying of thirst. “So tight, you’ll feel so good.”

He pushes back in and angles his hand the same way, and hits Hayden’s prostate again, still gently, careful, and Hayden feels like his lungs are about to explode, mouth falling open in a silent gasp.

“Good?”

“Stop fishing for compliments,” Hayden croaks out and his hips twitch with every movement of Cliff’s hand.

Cliff chuckles, low and pleased, “Think you can come like this?”

“Maybe” Hayden says, another brush against that sensitive part inside of him and he lets out a strangled moan, “Fuck, yeah, I think so.”

Cliff slides his fingers out of Hayden’s body and leans back on his knees, making Hayden whine from how much empty space is between them. “Just a moment,” Cliff says, and Hayden hears the condom foil opening and the scent of plastic and latex fills the air, and it’s a little bit like a Pavlovian response, but Hayden’s cock jerks against his stomach, precum dripping on his skin.

“Wanna turn around, or like this?” Cliff asks, one hand reaching for Hayden’s cheek and brushes his palm over it ever so gently.

“This,” Hayden says and moves to lie more comfortable, knees almost hitting his own chin. A second later there is Cliff’s cock on Hayden’s entrance and he begins to push himself inside. He goes maddening slow, giving Hayden enough time to adjust to the stretch and feeling of Cliff inside him.

“Tell me when you want me to start moving,” Cliff says and peppers tiny kisses on anything of Hayden’s body he can reach. On his knee, the curve of his leg, his neck and throat and then down to his pecks and nipples.

Hayden wiggles a bit, breathes through the stretch, and then wraps his legs around Cliff’s waist again, moving his hips a bit, “Come on.”

Cliff’s hand digs into Hayden’s cheek and Hayden turns his head to suck Cliff’s thumb into his mouth the moment he bottoms out. He stays there for a heart beat, pushing the pad of his thumb hard against Hayden’s tongue, down and then begins to move, thrust, and Hayden’s mouth falls open, unable to keep the suction because he needs to breath somehow, needs to moan.

Cliff fucks like he plays hockey - fast, sharp, gorgeously smooth and like he knows this dance inside out. His hips settle into a rhythm that punches all air out of Hayden, each time goes deeper until Hayden moans with every single thrust.

“Fuck, you’re absolutely perfect,” Cliff chokes out against Hayden’s shoulder, nips the tender skin before biting harder into it and then licking over it like soothing over the teeth mark.

There are so many things Hayden wants to say, like Yes, fuck, yes, harder and Love you, love this, don’t stop, but all that comes out of his mouth between Cliff’s finger and his rapid breathing are tiny little, “Oh oh oh.”

Cliff’s thumb leaves his mouth and when Hayden manages to open his eyes, sees Cliff leaning back again, grabbing both of his thighs and pushes them further into Hayden’s chest, opening Hayden up even more. He angles Hayden’s right leg so it touches Cliff’s soulmate mark on his left side, and then presses the palm of his hand into Hayden’s mark. The triple sensations for heat and desire almost overwhelms Hayden and he gasps when Cliff starts fucking him like he means it, fast and hot and deep.

His cock bobs against his lower belly, caught between them and even if Hayden had the mental or physical capacity right now to think about touching his hard length, he wouldn’t be able to with the way Cliff moves above him, inside him and his hands press Hayden’s thighs together. With the way Cliff’s cock brushes against Hayden’s prostate with every thrust, he doesn’t think he needs a hand on his own cock anyway.

Everything goes fuzzy for a while, just skin slapping against skin, and sounds so obscene they would make him cringe if he wouldn’t live through this right now, and he still wants more. Wants Cliff to fill him inside out, fuck him hard enough he can feel it long until he needs to go back to Montreal.

“Come on, baby,” Cliff pants, low and Hayden can’t speak, just moans shaky and opens his eyes to take him in. The eye contact feels almost as physical as Cliff moving inside of him. Really seeing Cliff, chest sweaty and hips moving hard into him, is almost enough to tip him over the edge, hips stuttering, toes curling.

“I’m so close,” Hayden gasps, and Cliff lets go of Hayden’s left thigh so he can bend forward to drag him into a messy, open-mouth kiss that is less a kiss and more breathing each other’s air and gasping and panting into each other’s mouths, and with the new angle, Cliff’s lower body puts a little bit of pressure on Hayden’s cock.

“Hayden, fuck-“

Hayden comes, loud, messy, hips bucking wildly into Cliff, a whole body curling orgasm that goes on and on and doesn’t seem to end, with his brain shutting off, his come hitting his stomach and chest and even his neck. He clenches up around Cliff’s cock hard enough that Cliff can barely move, and then moans Hayden’s name into Hayden’s mouth, one thrust and another, and his body tenses up, too.

He slams his hips into Hayden once more to drive in as deep as possible, and Hayden swallows around Cliff’s panting, unable to stop kissing him even when his ears are ringing and he feels like he’s all floaty and his brain is filled with cotton or something other soft and airy. He’s not sure how he moves his hands to Cliff’s neck, but he holds him there, soft and tender and doesn’t stop kissing him even when Cliff begins to soften inside of Hayden’s body and he settles between Hayden’s spread legs like he is there to stay.

“Can I say something sappy?” Cliff asks quietly, shifting a bit, but Hayden clams up his legs so he can’t get away, doesn’t want him to move away.

He hums and runs his nose along Cliff’s jaw and to his ear and into his sweaty hair, and doesn’t care when the sweat hits his skin and everything feels a little bit disgusting. He moves his hands through the hair, and holds on to Cliff’s neck and jaw thumb brushing across Cliff’s cheekbones in silent reverence.

“I love you,” Cliff whispers, rough and so raw.

Hayden moves them so he can look at Cliff. His eyes are wet, and Hayden cups his face between both of his hands, says, “I love you, too. Every day a bit more.”

“Every day a bit more,” Cliff repeats quietly with a soft smile and rubs his cheek against Hayden’s chest, presses a tiny kiss against Hayden’s shivering skin and then stays there for so long, Hayden feels them drying against each other.

He groans, “We’re absolutely filthy.”

“Yup,” Cliff says, but doesn’t get up, and instead moves on top of Hayden until he’s laying down on him with his full body weight.

Once Hayden really can’t stand their sticky bodies pressed against one another anymore, he makes them both take a shower and then eat a post-fucking snack, because his entire body shakes and he feels like his blood sugar level is all wrong, his legs like jello and his ears are still kind of ringing from the orgasm.

They’re sitting on the couch, Hayden caged between Cliff’s legs, and share a truly huge cup of granola with berries and yogurt because the only other option would have been to eat cottage cheese straight out of the container or order in Chinese, which Hayden would have liked, diet and pro-athlete be damned, but Cliff vetoed.

“I still can’t believe you considered eating cottage cheese with a spoon as a valid option,” Hayden grumbles around a mouthful of, actually, very tasty granola. It has chocolate in it, so it scratches the post-sex munchies at least a little bit.

“It’s healthy,” Cliff laughs against Hayden’s neck, chin digging into the dip of his shoulder.

“Not for my mental health,” Hayden says and lifts the spoon to give some of the granola to Cliff to share. The crunch of his chewing is amplified by how close his mouth is to Hayden’s ear, but he doesn’t mind it because every now and then, Cliff presses a small kiss to his neck or the top of his ear.

“Can I ask you something,” Cliff says once he’s swallowed and one of his hands winds around Hayden to his stomach and his naked leg, just tracing the curves there.

He only hums, mouth already full again and leans back into Cliff even more, doing a little shimmy to make Cliff laugh a bit.

It works, so the next words don’t register for a moment, “How comfortable are you with sharing our relationship with other people?”

Once the words land, Hayden stops his movements and swallows hard around his mouthful of granola. His first instinct is to ask Cliff to keep it private, not tell any more than already know. For the most part he tells himself that he simply wants to have this thing for himself, to let it sink in and become something bigger first. But when he is being honest with himself, he knows it’s because he doesn’t want anyone to scrutinised their connection like Scott Hunter or Shane and Rozanov had to deal with it. And because he is scared.

It’s just - he doesn’t want to be scared anymore. Also doesn’t want to hide Cliff like a dirty little secret, not after he’s kept all of this to himself for so long already.

So he swallows around the last traces of granola, fruits and yogurt and says, “The Metros will be horrible about it and it might make hockey a whole lot harder, but I don’t want to lie about us.”

Cliff stills behind him and then tightens his arms around Hayden’s midsection more, “Fuck the Metros.”

Hayden laughs, quiet, a bit forlorn and nods, “Yeah, fuck them. We can figure this out, maybe with Jackie and Farah, that’s Shane’s and Roz’s agent and they’ve been trying to get me to work with her for a while now.”

“That would be a good idea,” Cliff says, nose rubbing along Hayden’s neck. “What about the rest of our families? Is it okay if I call my parents and sisters?”

Hayden places the snack bowl on the coffee table and carefully moves around until he’s facing Cliff. He’s hair is a half-dried mess on his head, all fluffy and untamed curls, and his lips are a bit stained by the berry juice. “Of course you can tell them,” Hayden smiles and lifts a hand to brush over the corner of Cliff’s lips. “They’d be cool with it, right?”

Cliff nods as he leans into the touch and then blinks a few times, seemingly realising something, “Yours wouldn’t? Be okay with us, I mean?”

“No,” Hayden’s throat clicks loudly and then he shakes his head, “No, they wouldn’t.”

“Because of Jackie?”

“Because of God,” Hayden corrects and feels how his shoulders automatically curl into himself. He doesn’t resent anyone for their religion, not anymore, not after years of working through these issues, but sometimes he feels ashamed of his parents when he tells other people their believes. Because it is 2021, and yes, they’re allowed to believe in something mightier than them, but grasping onto their backwards worldviews so tightly and expressing their hatred through the false cover of God, shames him.

“Oh,” Cliff says and studies Hayden’s face carefully. “Are you okay?”

Hayden laughs, but takes a moment to think about it. Is he really okay about this? He thinks, most of the time, he is. Of course there are moment where their, even only imagined, rejection hurts, but he had more than a decade to come to terms with it, and more than a decade to understand that he doesn’t want to chip away his pieces to be formed into something that isn’t him at all. If they don’t love him for him, they don’t need to love him at all. “Yes,” he says, and adds when Cliff looks at him doubtful, “I love my parents for being my parents, for some of my memories and the upbringing I had, but I don’t like them as people, if that makes sense. I don’t need their approval or support or their presence in my life if they wouldn’t even want to look at me if I’d be hundred percent open with them. So, yeah, I’m okay. Mostly.”

“Okay,” Cliff echoes quietly, but Hayden knows he’s not really okay with this. This quiet hurt for him, the disbelief that anyone wouldn’t want to love Hayden for who he is, it’s all clearly written on Cliff’s face, and if not years of therapy and breathing exercises, Hayden thinks this moment, witnessing these emotions, might be a bit healing, too.

To change the topic, Hayden says, “But we can tell our friends. I mean, Carmichael already knows anyway, and I think everyone else will be more than fine with it.”

Cliff’s eyes immediately brighten again, and there is a small glint and the same smirk Hayden saw on his face the first time they played against each other and Cliff just said the words that are now embedded on Hayden’s skin, “Can we tell Rozy and Shane now?”

“Now?” Hayden asks incredulous, and watches as Cliff pulls out his phone from where it was hidden in the crack of the couch cushions, and already dials what Hayden assumes is Rozanov’s number.

“Now,” Cliff grins and puts the phone on speaker.

After only three rings, Rozanov’s voice breaks through, “What happened?”

“Why do you think something happened?” Cliff asks, holding the phone between their faces.

“Marley, you’re a texter,” Rozanov snipes and Hayden can hear Shane talking to his mother in the back. They’re probably over at Yuna’s and David’s for dinner and game nights. “You only ever call when something happened, never to just talk.”

“Nothing bad happened,” Cliff says hurridly.

“Okay.”

Cliff looks at him, and to Hayden’s surprise, he can see a bit of nervous energy on his face, in the way his eyebrows are a bit too far up and he blinks a bit too fast.

“And?” Rozanov asks, drawing out the word.

“Hayden is here,” Cliff simply says and the line goes quiet for a moment.

“Come again?”

“Hayden is here,” Cliff repeats, and Hayden adds with a smile, “Hey.”

“Holy shit! Shane! Holy SHIT!” Rozanov shouts and they hear a crash and then the distinctive muffled sound of the phone falling to the ground, cushioned by the Hollander’s thick carpet, and then, “Shane! He’s there, he’s finally there!”

“What?” Shane shouts back, clearly confused but excited by Rozanov’s excitement. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Pike, he’s with Marley. Finally.”

There’s another very confused, “What?” and then Rozanov shouts, “Marley’s soulmate, Solnyshko. They’re soulmates, and together,” and then he must pick up the phone again because their voices becomes clearer again, and asks, “You are, right? Together now?”

Hayden looks at Cliff who looks like he can’t decide if he wants to vanish into thin air due to embarrassment or start shouting with Rozanov with excitement.

“Yeah, we are,” Hayden confirms and places his hand on Cliff’s naked knee.

“Hell fucking yeah,” Rozanov shouts again, and then much quieter, “Hurt my best friend, and I will kill you, dismember your and send your body to Russia in thousand packages, okay?”

Hayden laughs, relieved, and nods, “Sounds like a plan, Rozanov.”

“Good, now I must win in Monopoly. Marley, tell me everything that is not about Pike’s cock later.”

“Ilya!” that is Yuna, or Shane, or both of them combined, and Hayden drops forward to hide his laughter in Cliff’s chest.

“You don’t really think you win against Shane Mr Real-Estate Hollander?” Cliff teases and Hayden hears an undignified gasp.

“I will win and send you evidence.”

“Sure, Rozy.”

Almost six hours later, Hayden gets a picture from Shane that shows him standing over the Monopoly board, holding the fake cash in his hands in victory while Rozanov has his head on the board, looking defeated.

December 2022

Hayden’s fingers thrum against the dashboard, trying his hardest neither to scream, cry or open the car door and jump out or do something equally stupid.

Next to him, Jackie looks out of the windshield, and Hayden just knows she’s burning to say something, to give her support or to shout out her rage, too.

They met up with Hayden’s parents. For the last time ever.

His brother became a dad a few weeks ago, and this had been his obligatory visit to greet his little nephew into the world and then dinner with his parents. He cancelled the last four times, and this time he couldn’t find any excuses, not with the kids being with Jackie’s parents for the weekend, with no art show for Jackie and no game or training for Hayden.

And of fucking course, his parents started about his and Jackie’s wedding again, asking them over and over again when they want to repeat their vows under God’s watchful eyes and in the arms of their congregation.

And Hayden snapped, and told them, that, “actually, we’ve signed our divorce papers two days ago.”

Needless to say, everything went downhill from there, because once he’d opened his mouth, Hayden couldn’t stop himself from arguing and, to his shame, shouting. He wishes he’d been a bit more composed, but years of this verbal abuse and quiet disregard had been enough. And when his father started to talk down on Jackie, and on his kids, and then on Hayden’s male soulmate, he had enough. He couldn’t keep it in anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he says to his hands, knowing Jackie hears him anyway. “For shouting.”

“I’m sorry we had to go through that,” Jackie says immediately, and her hand falls on his shaking fingers to squeeze them tightly. “Are you okay? Some of the things they said were horrendous.”

“No,” he bites the inside of his cheeks to keep the tears at bay. “But I will be, tomorrow or next week or whatever.”

Hayden’s really not surprised or even hurt by what they said. He always knew this would happen one day, but the shock of being the main bull’s eye for their hatred claws through his intestines, and he doesn’t really understand how he is able to breathe just now.

“Is it okay if I express some of my thoughts right now or do you want me to do that with Moss later?” Jackie asks, so deeply considered of his emotions, and Hayden nods. He wants to hear what she has to say, thinking it might help him to digest the last hours a bit, too. “I didn’t know it was that bad with them.”

“I didn’t want you to know it,” Hayden says quietly and rubs his hand over his face and through his beard.

Jackie takes her hand back for a moment to shift gears, and then presents her palm again for him to take if he wants the closeness. He does.

“I mean, I knew they were very strict and deeply religious, but you’re so-“ she stops for a moment to sigh, “-so different. I couldn’t tell from the person you are today that this was how you’ve grown up.”

“I was like this before I went to Montreal, too,” Hayden confesses, deeply ashamed still for his believes and thoughts he once had, for the disgust he had for anyone who wasn’t like him and his family, for thinking anyone not believing like them deserved to go to hell. “You would have hated me back then.”

Jackie shakes her head, “But you’re not like this. It must have been hard to get out of this mindset, and so fast, too. You weren’t even a little bit like this when I met you.”

“I was,” he says monotone. “I just didn’t want you to think I wasn’t worthy of your time.”

He doesn’t tell her about the rosary that is still in the back pocket of his wallet, doesn’t tell her about the Bible he didn’t bring with him into their first ever together home, and he doesn’t tell her how many nights he’s stared at the ceiling and prayed, begging to God to face a different path, an easier one.

“But that’s the thing, Hayd,” she says and squeezes his hand so tight, it hurts, “If you’d really been even a little bit like them, then you wouldn’t have wanted to be worthy of my time. Maybe you wanted to believe all of this, but you fought your ass out of it. You’re so much kinder and stronger than you give yourself credit for.”

“Thank you,” he only says and they stay silent for a moment, both staring at the road ahead.

And then Jackie shouts, “I can’t fucking believe your father said all this shit, like what the hell was he even talking about?”

Hayden can’t help but laugh around the sob in his throat, still hearing his father’s booming voice and the sound of his leather bound bible hitting the table, clinking his cutlery against the plate.

Whoever receives one such child in my name receives me, but whoever causes one of these little ones who believe in me to sin, it would be better for him to have a great millstone fastened around his neck and to be drowned in the depth of the sea. Woe to the world for temptations to sin!

“Actually, just that,” Hayden says and tries to send her a grin. “Hell. He was talking about hell.”

This is evidence of the righteous judgment of God, that you may be considered worthy of the kingdom of God.

“What a fucking arsehole,” Jackie shouts, cheeks pink with anger.

Depart from me, you cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels.

And you will burn, his father had said.

It doesn’t scare him like it used to, the thought of being trapped in hell’s eternal fires. Yes, sometimes, his heart skips a tiny beat when he thinks about it, wonders if he will really suffer then, once he is dead, but it doesn’t scare him anymore.

If being a decent person who tries his best will take him to hell, then the God creating it, isn’t even worthy of his worship at all.

“I don’t want our kids to see them ever again,” Jackie says apologetic, and from the corner of his eyes he sees that she started to cry, the way she so often does when she’s angry and doesn’t know how to express it otherwise.

“Pull over,” he tells her, not wanting them to accidentally crash because she doesn’t see anything through her tears.

“God, I fucking hate it when instead of wanting to hit things, my body decides to have a cry when I’m angry,” she says once the car is in park and she slams her hand into the steering wheel. She starts pouting when Hayden cracks out a laugh at the pathetic sound of the car horn. “Stop making me laugh.”

“But it’s so much better than crying over my parents,” Hayden replies and leans his head against the backrest to look at her.

“I really don’t want them to see our babies ever again,” Jackie says through a sniffle. “What if they get their grabby little hand into their minds and make them doubt their worth or tell them they’re going to hell? We can’t let that happen.”

“We won’t,” Hayden reassures her, nodding. “I’m with you on that. They’re not gonna get to see them again. Ruby already said a few time she doesn’t want to visit them, because they’re always so boring and serious.” He makes air quotes to emphasise what Ruby said a while ago, only to make Jackie giggle.

“She’s such a smart one, our oldest,” Jackie says and leans her head against the backrest, too, looking at him.

“She’s got that from you, obviously,” Hayden says, suddenly feeling incredibly exhausted.

Jackie shakes her head, “Definitely not. She got it from my mom, I’m telling you.”

He shrugs his shoulder, doesn’t tell her he disagrees on that one.

“Love you, Hayd.”

“You, too,” he says and means it. “You’re the best wife I’ve ever had.”

It makes her snort, a bit ugly and the way he’s loved since day one, “Best husband, too.” She stares at him for a moment, and then says, “Just imagine what we could have archived as a polycule with Moss and Cliff in between.”

He giggles and slaps his hand over his face, hiding the spilling tears, “I think that would have killed my parents.”

“Straight to fucking hell,” Jackie snorts.

“Straight to fucking hell,” Hayden echoes.

When they get back home an hour later the kids are already there with Jackie’s parents, watching a movie and eating too much chocolate. No matter how often they ask them to stop feeding their kids sugar after dinner, Jackie’s parents never seem to remember, and to be honest, Hayden wouldn’t want them any other way.

He accepts Juliette’s tight hug after telling them in quiet voices what happened, and then lets the love these people have for him spill over and fill his bones until Hayden actually thinks he’s going to be okay again.

“Your boy’s gonna be here soon,” Pierre tells him, peering at his phone where he was watching Boston play against Ottawa while the rest were singing along the Aristocats soundtrack. It is such a simple sentence, such a small thing, but it tells Hayden how much they support and love him, and while he knows it will never be the same than it coming from his actual parents, he thinks he can live with this substitute just fine.

“Did they win?” Hayden asks, already knowing the answer.

Pierre lifts an eyebrow and snorts, almost the same sound Jackie and both Jade and Arthur do now, too, “Against Hollander and Rozanov? What are you dreaming about?”

He’s already in bed when Cliff finally slips under the blanket beside him and buries his winter cold nose into Hayden’s hair.

“Sorry it took me so long,” he murmurs and presses his whole body against Hayden’s. “Rozy wouldn’t let me leave until Shane threatened to sleep at his parents place if they wouldn’t go home, too.”

“Is that so?” Hayden asks and turns around to wrap his legs around Cliff’s waist and pull him even closer. He’s still wearing his outside clothes and they’re a bit cool from the winter air, but he doesn’t mind it, has been wishing for Cliff to be there with him for the last hours. “When goes your flight tomorrow?”

“Around noon,” Cliff whispers and brushes his icy hand against Hayden’s forehead. “Moss told me what happened today.”

“Moss?”

“Jack’s told Moss who sent me a twenty minute long voice rant,” Cliff confirms, already reaching for his phone in his pocket to show Hayden the message. “Oh, no, sorry, look, it’s twenty-four minutes long.”

Hayden huffs out a laugh and grabs the phone to forward the message to himself to listen to it later, and then drops the phone somewhere to their right before Cliff can press play.

“Should they not have told me?” Cliff asks, leaning on his elbows to study Hayden’s face, reading him to find out if he feels uncomfortable about this.

Hayden sucks his bottom lip between his teeth before saying, “No, it’s fine. This means that I don’t have to repeat it now and we can drop it and make out for a bit.”

“Is that what want?” Cliff raises an eyebrow and rubs the stubbles of his chin against Hayden’s jaw.

“I don’t know,” Hayden sighs, tightening his arms around Cliff before he can even think of rolling off him and going somewhere else. “I don’t think I want either of it today, just hold me?”

“I got you, baby,” Cliff murmurs and turns them both around so Hayden lies on top of him, face pressed into the crook of Cliff’s neck.

They stay like this until Hayden feels himself drift off to sleep, his heart beat in sync with Cliff’s and his jeans starts feeling scratchy against Hayden’s naked legs.

“You need to change clothes,” Hayden says into Cliff’s skin, but doesn’t move away.

“In a minute, we’re not done cuddling.”

“We can continue when you’re wearing less street clothes and more nothing,” Hayden says.

Cliff chuckles, “Then get up and let me take them off.”

“No.”

“Okay.”

And then Hayden remembers something Jackie said earlier, “How powerful do you think would be a polycule of us with Moss and Jackie?”

“What?” Cliff breathes out in a huff, amusement already lacing his voice. “As in a poly relationship?”

Hayden nods.

“Holy shit, we would be unstoppable, like, I don’t know, the Power Rangers,” Cliff says excitedly.

“Power Rangers?” Hayden repeats and lifts his head to looks at his boyfriend judgemental. “Really? This is the best you can come up with?”

“It’s not my fault I’m hanging around Hayes all the time now, and that dude is a fucking nerd,” Cliff protests, but only a little bit.

“Eh, says the guy who knows all sixty-one episodes of Avatar the Last Airbender by heart.”

Cliff starts to push Hayden off his chest, “Excuse me for having taste, also, you know how many episodes the show has, so you’re not allowed to call me a nerd.”

Hayden rolls off him with a cackle, “Yeah, well I can call you all I want, because you’re my boyfriend.”

“I am,” Cliff confirms, suddenly turning serious, “Would you like this thing to be a polycule?”

Hayden stills, and while he already knows his answer, he lets himself think about it for a moment, only to be fair, and completely honest. And yes, he loves Jackie, and he loves Moss, but not romantically, not anymore for Jackie. He wants them to be a permanent part of his life, but not in this way. He shakes his head, “No, not really. I just thought you might find that funny, too.”

“I do,” Cliff says with a small smile.

“Would you - I mean,” Hayden starts, coughs, “Would you want something like this? Not necessarily with Jackie and Moss, but someone else? Do you miss being with a woman?”

Cliff leans on his side and looks at him for a long time, also taking his time to answer truthfully, “I’ve never thought about this before, but no, I don’t miss being with a woman. Do you miss it?”

Hayden shakes his head, then tilts it to the side, reconsidering, “No, but also, yes, a little bit. But not because you’re not enough for me or anything, it’s just, you know. Boobs and stuff.”

Cliff laughs, warm and says, “Okay, I think I get what you’re saying here. We can have threesomes sometimes, if you want. Go to Paris, as they say?”

“Please don’t use that phrasing,” Hayden snorts and moves closer again, reattaching himself to Cliff to hug him. He tries to imagine having to share Cliff with someone else in bed or in his life, and everything inside him squeezes tight. “I don’t think I can do that, though. Threesome or even having a poly relationship.”

“Jealous much?”

“Yeah,” Hayden breathes out, a bit embarrassed by how intensely jealous he feels towards this faceless, non-existing person kissing his soulmate.

“Me, too,” Cliff says into his hair. “I sometimes get irrationally angry at Jackie for being with you for so long, and I like her a lot, you know. Thinking of you touching anyone else, I know it’s stupid and like overly possessive and all that bullshit, but I don’t think I want that now. Maybe one day, we can talk about it again?”

“Maybe,” Hayden says, but somehow knows that he won’t be interested in opening their relationship anytime soon. Secretly, he thinks they’ve shared themselves with too many people already, and now that they have each other, he doesn’t want it to ever happen again.

October 2023

”Say that again, please,” Cliff says with his hip pushed against the kitchen counter, frowning at Hayden.

“I said that I want this to be my last season,” Hayden repeats, mirroring his stance by the door frame, arms folding in front of his chest. His left eye throbs and his shoulder twinges after the last hit two days ago on the ice.

“Okay, so I did not misheard your fucking words and you’re actually saying you wanna stop playing hockey?” Cliff says, and he sounds - offended. Angry, in a weird way.

Hayden nods and moves to the freezer to get an ice pack out of it to press it to his swollen eye, licking his slit lip, “Yes.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Hayden repeats, feeling his blood boil. “Why the fuck are you prissy with me about that?”

“I’m not,” Cliff says, and sounds even prissier than before, turning away from Hayden to fiddle with one of the used plates by the sink. His shoulders lift and fall with each deep inhale.

“No, no, you’re not allowed to turn away from me like that and ignore this-“ Hayden starts and reaches out to pull Cliff back to face him, “Fight? Argument? You’re angry with me about something, and we’re not playing the fucking guessing game because you have a hard time vocalising your emotions. Talk the fuck to me.”

“Why the fuck do you wanna stop playing now?” Cliff asks, taking a step away from Hayden to bring more distance between them, but he does look at Hayden. Which is some type of improvement.

Hayden waves a hand around to point out the obvious injuries, at his eye, his lips and the bruised shoulder, “I’m fucking thirty-tree and feel like hundred.”

“You’re thirty-two,” Cliff counters with a grimace. “You’re birthday is not for another month.”

“That’s not the point, Cliff,” Hayden snaps back, dropping the ice pack on the counter. “I’d like to hang out a bit more with my kids, and Jackie said she got that offer to organise this huge exhibit starting next summer.”

“Oh, so, it’s about Jackie,” Cliff huffs and rolls his eyes at him. “Because she wants to do something, you jump, yeah?”

“What-? Do you even hear yourself right now?” Hayden asks, voice starting to tremble with suppressed anger. “She sacrificed most of her career for mine, and it’s only fair to switch, especially since she got this offer. And Moss is going to move to Vancouver, too.”

“So, what, you’re giving up about five or so more good years to play? Because she asked you to?”

“No!” Hayden hears himself shout, ugly and raw, and then lowers his voice immediately. He doesn’t want to shout at Cliff, “She didn’t asked me anything. It’s my idea.”

“Why?”

“Because I feel like it’s a good time to stop. I’m still fit, I’m in the prime of my life, my knees are not fucked yet. And my kids are still young enough that they want to hang out with me, and I want-“ he stops himself for a moment, not wanting to share it like this, in a fucking argument. But they’re on a run now, and if he stops, he thinks they might not resolve this argument at all, “I want to go out with you in public and hold your hands and not act like we’re nothing to each other in fear that one or both of us gets traded away or whatever.”

Cliff goes very still.

“What?”

“You and me, open about our relationship, kissing somewhere that’s not like a fucking box, hotel room or in the stupid safety of our homes. Me in your fucking jersey at your games, and finding a way to see each other more often than just once a month or whatever. Maybe really live together, you know?” Hayden says, still shaking. “So, I don’t get why the fuck you’re so angry with me for wanting to stop playing hockey.”

“Because I don’t wanna play hockey without you!” Cliff hisses out between clenched teeth, looking a little bit embarrassed with his own admission.

Hayden feels the tension in his shoulder sack and he can’t stop the disbelieving laugh form in his throat, “Seriously?”

“Shut up,” Cliff says, but his body loses all the tension, too. There’s a deep red blush on his cheeks now.

“You’re seriously angry with me because you don’t want to play without me, which, is what? About ninety percent of your games anyway, ‘cause, last time I checked, Marley, we aren’t on the same team,” Hayden says, trying to hide the smile that wants to creep on his face.

“Stop saying it like this,” Cliff mumbles, and lets his arms fall to his sides only to cross them in front of his chest again.

“Like what?”

“It sounds fucking pathetic like this,” Cliff says, and when Hayden raises an eyebrow at him, he cracks, too, a small, abashed grin appearing on his face.

Hayden takes a step closer to him and leans on his tip toes to press a kiss to the corner of Cliff’s lips that is immediately returned, gentle to not hurt Hayden, “Did we really just had our first real argument because you’re a whiny baby?”

“Oh, shut up,” Cliff grumbles against his lips, and then admits far too quiet, “I don’t know why my brain got all messed up. You say you want to stop playing hockey, and all I could hear was that you don’t want me anymore. Because it’s always been like you, me and hockey, since day one.”

“Oh,” Hayden exhales and lifts both his hands to cup Cliff’s cheeks, ignoring the strain on his shoulder for now. “That wouldn’t happen. It’s actually quite the opposite, we’ve spend so many years apart and I’d like to work something out so we can be closer and see each other more.”

“What if I’m not ready to stop playing hockey?” Cliff asks, brown eyes wide and honest.

“We can find an easier solution to only one pro athlete’s schedule than two,” Hayden says and kisses him again, only for Cliff to grab his waist and lift him up to the counter, finding his place between Hayden’s thighs.

“Shoulder okay? You lifted the arm pretty far up earlier,” Cliff says into the space between then, and Hayden scoffs.

“You’re not that much taller than me.”

A slow, appraising kind of smile changes Cliff’s face into something promising, something Hayden knows will end in them fucking here, in the kitchen, if he’s not putting a stop to it, “Only about seven inches.”

“In your wildest dreams,” Hayden whispers against Cliff’s lips and gasps when they meet for a slow, wet kiss and then hisses when the contact stings.

Reluctantly, Cliff moves far enough away to stare at him, checking in if this is still okay even with the pain added. Hayden likes the way Cliff’s eyes are fixed on his mouth, pupils already dilating with desire. He shivers.

“Not in the kitchen, you caveman,” Hayden whispers and wants to jump off the counter, leading them back to the couch in the living room or to the bedroom, but Cliff holds him tight, shaking his head.

“Yes, in the kitchen,” he says and drops to his knees. “Lemme make you feel good,” he whispers, looking up at Hayden. His hands slide from Hayden’s hips to his fly.

“We really shouldn’t,” Hayden says, but his heart isn’t in it. Both of them know it. Cliff unzips his fly and yanks his jeans and boxers down enough to pull Hayden’s cock out. He is already half-hard, and aching, a little wet spot on his boxers where his cock pushed against the fabric.

Cliff pumps him once, twice, smears his thumb through the precum at Hayden’s tip. Then he opens his mouth and swallows him down.

Even after being together for more than two years, the feeling of Cliff blowing him takes his breath away. Cliff loves it, doesn’t mind the taste or when Hayden’s hips buck too hard into his throat and his hands find their way into Cliff’s hair and hold on a bit too tight. He flutters his tongue over the tip, sucks at the head and groans when he looks up at Hayden.

“Holy shit, Cliff,” Hayden chokes out, trying his hardest to hold still and to not come right away. But Cliff knows him far too well by now, knows all his little trigger points and sensitive places. He tips his head back, Hayden’s erection popping out of his wet mouth and then slides up the side of his cock, tongue dragging against the wet, oversensitive skin before swallowing him down again.

It’s only a few more bobs of his head and one low moan before Hayden gasps out a warning, fingers tugging at Cliff’s hair and then comes hard, his whole body folding over, raking his free hand over Cliff’s shoulders as far as he can reach. They stay like this for a few moments until Hayden’s heart calms down again and then Cliff pulls himself up to a standing position, back between Hayden’s legs and they share an open-mouth kiss, Hayden chasing his own taste on Cliff’s tongue while Cliff tugs Hayden back into his clothes and lifts him up to walk them both to the living room.

Hayden lets him, legs curled tightly around Cliff’s hips.

When they’re cleaning the kitchen a bit later, because of the dirty plates by the sink, but also because Hayden feels a little bit disgusted by their make-out session in the kitchen, Hayden returns to their conversation before Cliff distracted him with an orgasm.

“Do you really think like this about Jackie?” he asks quietly, putting the plates and cutlery into the dishwasher.

“Huh?”

“That I jump when she wants me to,” Hayden clarifies, repeating what he remembers Cliff saying earlier.

Cliff stays quiet for a moment, brushing the sponge over the counter a few times too many before saying, “Sometimes, but -“ he lifts a hand to stop Hayden from saying anything when he automatically opens his mouth to vindicate his actions. “- but every time you do, it’s justified. Or every time she asks something off you, it’s also completely justified. And I really need you to understand that it’s okay, and I don’t really, really mind it, it’s just the fucking jealousy sometimes. It gets to me, but I’m working on it. And I don’t want you to feel like you have to change anything, because you don’t, okay?!”

Hayden nods, closing the dishwasher and leaning with his side against the counter.

“And if you ever feel like I’m too much or say something unjustified and mean, I need you to tell me so I can redirect my emotions and-“ Cliff stops, struggles a bit and lifts his shoulders helplessly. “I don’t want to be that kind of person who’s so fucking jealous that he puts their partner off and you leave me.”

“Okay,” Hayden agrees. “I will tell you if you’re out of line, but I also want you to tell me when you feel jealous, so I can validate your emotions and talk with you about it.”

Cliff finally stops cleaning the counter and looks at him, a bit ashamed, but also relieved, “Promise, I will.”

“Good,” Hayden says.

“Can you talk with me about life choices before you come to a decision next time?” Cliff asks, looking at the sponge in his hand and then at Hayden, then behind him to the wall before his gaze lands on Hayden again. “I want to be part of your decision making, and not just be confronted by the outcome, if that makes sense.”

“That makes sense, yes, I will,” Hayden promises and moves closer so he can take the sponge out of Cliff’s hand, throwing it into the sink. “I haven’t spoken with anyone else about the hockey thing, but you.”

“You haven’t?”

“No, of course not, I wanted to talk it through with you, get your input, figure out how we wanna tackle the public and the league and all that,” Hayden tells him.

“About coming out?” Cliff asks, and Hayden nods.

“Yeah, you and me, making it official, and maybe, if you want, we can find a way to be closer to each other, and-“

“Wait, are you considering moving to Boston?” Cliff asks, suddenly a bit too excited.

“Hell no!” Hayden shakes his had, “I’m not moving to the U.S. with four kids. I love you, really, but no. Just, no.”

“Oh, yeah, no,” Cliff echoes him, starting to laugh. “Yeah, you’re right. It’s dumb. No, but we will figure something out.”

“Yes, we will figure something out that is not moving to Boston,” Hayden confirms and reaches out with his good hand, slips it under Cliff’s shirt and puts the palm of his hand against the soulmate mark on Cliff’s side. “You and me.”

“You and me,” Cliff whispers with a smile.

January 2024

Cliff lays on the black table, in deep conversation with Niki, their tattoo artist, while she leans over his side, tattoo machine rattling. From his place on the chair, Hayden can see the blue ink of his words You’re everything I never knew I wanted form beneath their soulmate mark.

“You know, I remember you,” Niki tells Cliff and lifts her tattoo gun when he flinches, turning to Hayden with a shit eating grin on her face. “Your man came in here in 2017, asking for the most generic hockey tattoo to cover the mark and then couldn’t go through it.”

“Really?” Hayden asks slowly, trying hard not to feel and look too smug.

Niki hums and puts the needle back on Cliff’s skin, “Tipped me three hundred dollars, though.”

“Yeah, that was not a tip,” Cliff says through gritted teeth. “It was hush money, and you’ve broken it now. I want it back.”

“You’re a millionaire, so hell no,” Niki counters. “Oh, by the way, can I take a picture of both your tattoos together after? I think it might be nice promo for my socials.”

“If it’s okay that you can’t tag us,” Cliff says, sends Hayden a question glance, and nods when Hayden does the same.

“Yeah, sure, I don’t care about you being semi-famous, Marleau,” Niki says, another grin. “I just think people will think this is cute, and that’s good promo enough.”

The picture turns out great, Hayden’s thigh next to Marleau’s left side in the perfect light, and perfect filter only to enhance their handwriting and the colours of the writing.

Marleau, you motherfucker!

And underneath:

You’re everything I never knew I wanted.

Your hands would be more useful around my cock than around that stick, rookie.

You are so beautiful to me.

It makes circles online for all the right reasons: for it being romantic and cute, and showing that love can sometimes grow out of spite and anger and other ugly emotions.

It goes viral for all the wrong reasons: the words on their bodies too specific to be from just two random people, especially not when the Boston Raider’s captain is called Marleau.

Some hardcore hockey fans piece it all together, placing the picture from Niki’s instagram next to compilation videos of Hayden shouting, “Marleau, you motherfucker!” in 2017 from multiple different angles. Showcasing not only in great detail Hayden saying the words, but also Cliff’s reaction to it.

And then, a shaky video taken in 2009 pops up, showing both of them in their rookie year during their very first game against each other, and while the words are not audible in the clip, Hayden’s face as his soulmate mark burns itself on his thigh is very clearly visible in the low quality of the video.

After that, all their carefully crafted plans of Hayden coming to Cliff’s games the next season to support him and slowly coming out to the public go down the drains.

Obviously, because the league and Crowell are still fucking arseholes, they’re benched, and Jackie takes over kids duties for the entire week so Hayden can fly to Boston and be with Cliff while they go through the outing and public scrutiny. It is by far not as bad as what Shane and Rozanov went through, their on-ice relationship barely anything more than the typical Boston against Montreal rivalry, but it’s bad enough.

Far too many times, Farah calls Hayden and asks them if they want to proceed with legal actions against specifically vile comments that mostly go against Jackie and the kids. Which, yes, of course. Hayden thinks he can live with the scrutiny and stupid comments, as long as his kids are save. As long as Jackie is okay, too.

Most of the comments are supportive and while this wasn’t what Hayden and Cliff wanted, it’s nice to be a tiny wave in the change around the sport. Some other comments are actually very funny, pointing out the similarities between the Hollanov and Pikeau situation. The Boston-Montreal-Captain being soulmates and fuck thing.

It doesn’t take long before the whole thing becomes a joke among the hockey community, and people start to speculate who’s going to become the next captain for both teams, wondering if they’re ending up together in a few years, too.

On day four of hiding out in Cliff’s apartment, the front door opens while they’re having dinner in the living room, watching Hayden’s favourite movie.

“Did you invite someone?” Hayden asks, chopsticks halfway raised to his mouth.

Cliff shakes his head, “No,” and then louder, “Clara? Is that you?”

Hayden hears the sound of shoes and a jacket thrown to the floor and then heavy, a lot more heavy than Clara Marleau, approaching, and when he turns his head, he sees Emil Stephenson in the hallway.

“You haven’t changed your door code since 2020,” Stephenson says to Cliff, nervously, and with bright pink cheeks. He looks at Hayden only for a moment and then back to Cliff. “It’s a fucking emergency, captain.”

“Okay,” Cliff says slowly, very much confused. “And you couldn’t call?”

“I did, you have your phone turned off,” Stephenson replies, pushing his massive hands into the pocket of his hoodie, and Hayden is utterly surprised how a man of Stephenson’s statue is able to look like a told off kid.

“Okay,” Cliff repeats again and sends Hayden a short glance, then moves a bit to make more room on the couch. “Sit down, talk. And don’t be fucking rude and say hello to my boyfriend.”

“Pike, hello,” Stephenson says, drawing out the o nervously and plops down on the couch next to them, looking at both of them before his gaze wanders to the TV, “Is that Kiki’s Delivery Service?”

Cliff points at Hayden, and says smugly, “It’s his favourite movie.”

“I have four kids,” Hayden says as if this would explain it. It doesn’t; and it’s a lie, too. Cliff knows that. It’s just the first movie they watched together, almost three years ago.

“Cool,” Stephenson says and stares ahead for a while, clearly chewing on the insides of his cheeks.

“Emil,” Cliff says after a while, slowly, and then reaches for the remote to put the movie on hold. “What is the emergency.”

The poor guy looks like he might actually puke any minute, “You- I- I’m Boston’s AC.”

Hayden and Cliff exchange another look, and Cliff shrugs his shoulder when Hayden raises a questioning eyebrow.

“I know, it was my idea after Carmichael left for Switzerland,” Cliff says.

Stephenson gets up from the couch again, paces a few times around the living room, bends down to greet Mayo first, and then scratch Sriracha’s ears. “If you’re not Boston’s captain anymore, I will.”

“Yes,” Cliff says slowly as if speaking to a very old, senile dog. “That’s how it mostly works, but if you don’t want to be captain, you can tell management about it.”

“And let a chance like this go? Do I look stupid to you?” Stephenson yelps, quiet enough not to spook the cat by his side, and then gets up again and paces another round through the living room.

Hayden finally places his chopsticks and plate to the side, “Should I leave you guys alone for a bit?”

“No,” Stephenson says immediately, a bit too loud this time and winces, repeating, “Nope. Don’t go.”

“Okay,” Hayden lifts his hands in surrender and moves a bit further into the couch, legs crisscrossed under him.

Suddenly Stephenson comes to a halt and he pushes the sleeves of his hoodie up, claps a fist into his palm a few times, then plays with the leather band around his wrist nervously and repeats again, “I might become Boston’s captain!”

Hayden hears Cliff inhale sharply, holds in his breath for a few seconds and then he starts roaring with laughter so bad, Hayden fears for a moment, he’s going to throw up.

“What the fuck?” Hayden asks at the same moment Stephenson whines, “It’s not fucking funny!”

“It is fucking hilarious!” Cliff shouts, coughs, starts the barking laughter again until his face is tomato red and Hayden gets really worried for a second.

“It’s really not funny, captain!” Stephenson says and pushes his hand through his hair, accidentally opens the half-up man bun he’s wearing. “I’m swearing to fucking god, Marleau.”

“Can anyone please explain to me what the fuck is happening?” Hayden asks, looking between the two of them.

“His soulmate.” Cliff starts through pained gasps and laughter. “- was a rookie from Tampa.”

“Okay,” Hayden says slowly, turning back to Stephenson, who looks absolutely mortified. “And he’s not in Tampa anymore?”

Stephenson shakes his head, eyes too big in his young face.

“Where is he playing then?” Hayden asks, already starting to feel like he’s on the edge of a realisation here.

“In Canada,” Stephenson says, looking pained.

And then Cliff stands up, still laughing and claps his hand on Stephenson’s back, “In fucking Montreal!”

Hayden’s mouth falls open, and he blinks a few times.

There is only one player on his roster who played for Tampa before right now. Eduardo Martinez, 23 years old, really great goalie, and Hayden’s assistant captain since the start of this season.

Eduardo Martinez, who has a soulmate mark on his right butt cheek that says: Gurr Gurr, you fucking pigeon.

“Oh Lord,” Hayden says and tips his head back, trying and failing not to laugh, too. He gets himself a whole lot faster under control again, though, and rubs a hand over his face.

“What am I supposed to do right now?” Stephenson asks both of them, moving the leather armband around a bit. The leather armband, where he’s probably hiding the soulmate mark under it.

Cliff pushes a glass with vodka into Stephenson’s hands and says, “Drink, sit down, watch the movie with us.”

“But.”

“Nope,” Cliff says and pushes the kid towards the couch again. “Not tonight, we’re figuring something out tomorrow.”

Stephenson stays the night in the guest room after he had one too many glasses and started to rant about Martinez and how fucking much he hates the guy.

“He doesn’t,” Cliff tells him later when they’re in bed together. “Hate him, I mean. You can’t imagine how often I had to cover for him because he would slip out of the hotel to meet up with Martinez while he was still playing for Tampa.”

“No way,” Hayden says, and then starts laughing. “Oh my fucking god, it really is a thing. The universe wants all Boston and Montreal captains to be soulmates and hook up.”

“I can’t wait until Rozy knows about this, he’ll have a feast,” Cliff chuckles.

“Well, the way it looks right now, he’ll be one of the only people who will be cool with it,” Hayden says, sobering up again.

Cliff stops laughing immediately, “Not if we make waves, all of us. Make it easier for the younger generation, you know?”

“Do you have a plan?” Hayden asks, and Cliff shrugs his shoulders.

“Nope, not really, but maybe someone a lot smarter than me can figure something out.”

The next day, they make a huge breakfast for Stephenson, and then connect him with Farah and Yuna Hollander. Hayden is pretty sure, among the two women, they will come up with a plan.

April 2024

Hayden sits on the floor, wearing a flower crown and yellow princess cape and has smeared purple eye shadow on his cheek.

Next to him, Cliff looks even worse. Black lipstick, one false eyelash slowly falling off with each blink, and wearing the tiniest bear ear hat, Hayden has ever seen.

But it’s fine.

Because Amber stands in front of them, her white flower dress fluttering in the spring breeze and holds a magazine about ponys in her hands, reciting from her own mind, “We have gathered here today…”

From somewhere in the house, Hayden can hear Jade and Ruby arguing about something, and Arthur sits in the shade with a capri sun and starting and ending and restarting the song Steal the Show by Lauv when his tablet doesn’t want to connect with the speakers.

But it’s fine, because Cliff reaches for Hayden’s hand and brings it to his lips, ignoring Amber’s scandalised, “Stop, you’re not even married yet.”

But it’s fine, because Moss comes running to them, two crafted rings made out of the plastic of their water bottle in their hands, shouting, “Have them, we can begin!”

But it’s fine, because Cliff smiles at him when he takes one of the ugly plastic rings and slips it on Hayden’s finger, saying, “Yes, I do,” when Amber asks him if he wants to marry her old dad.

And Hayden can see a tiny tear in Cliff’s eyes when he does the same, slipping the blue bottle ring around Cliff’s finger and says with earnestness, “I do!”

And it sounds a whole lot like, “I love you.”

The End

Chapter End Notes

some more headcanons:
- the soulmate mark on Moss (who uses THEY/THEM pronouns) says "Oh fuck, no!"
- personally I imagine Carmichael's soulmate to be his brother's soulmate/wife or something, but I'm totally open for interpretations
- Clara/Gabriél have a FEAST explaining Herpes to the Pike kids
- when Cliff and Ilya smoke in Ilya's garden, Ilya takes a 30 min long shower afterwards, brushing his teeth like 5 times and inhales mouthwash, and Shane is still: UGH, you smoked.
- Haycliff talk about threesomes every other year or so, and they have one sometime when they're more secure in their relationship
- both of them have "Steal the Show" as their ring tone
- Stephenson/Martinez come out around 2026, hockey social media goes CRAZY
- Cliff plays one more year once Hayden stops, and then stops too, because, "I hate the ice without you." (he doesn't, but they both work for the Irina Foundation after that, sooo)
- they're only added to the queer!Hockey groupchat some time around 2026 because Ilya is a menace and makes everyone believe Haycliff is not a real thing (but only after checking in that they don't really mind it)
- Haycliff don't have any more kids, but are great uncles to Cliff's sister's kids and Hollanov's
- Luca Haas, once his knee is fucked up and going on the ice becomes a chore, creates a queer!hockey webtoon that gets a TV adaption

 

that's it, thank you SO FUCKING much for reading/listening.
Haycliff pulled me out of a 2.5 year long writers block/burn out, so this was genuinly a BLAST.

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cover for Marleau, you motherfucker! by gravollet