ㅤ ˚ ⊹    𝐃𝐔𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑¹³ ﹒！

marcos exhales slowly through his nose, jaw tightening as the noise swells around them — horns blaring, voices shouting, the arena shaking beneath the weight of thousands of furious fans. and still, through all of it, his gaze finds isak again without meaning to. always drawn back, like iron to a magnet. he’s no longer surprised to see him looking back. marcos rises the moment his shift is called, the movement automatic, instinctive. he swings cleanly over the bench in one smooth motion, skates biting into the ice with a sharp scrape that vibrates faintly up through his legs. he knows, with quiet discontent, that he hasn’t been playing at full intensity yet — had been holding something back without fully realizing it.

he doesn’t want norén thinking he can’t keep up.

the center line approaches in a blur of white and red beneath his skates as he glides into position, the chill of the ice and the heat of the packed arena colliding in the air around him. he squares up across from a detroit player he doesn’t immediately recognize — a hard-looking guy with a jaw set tight, eyes flat and assessing beneath the brim of his helmet. to his right, he spots another familiar figure: smaller, scrappier, shoulders coiled like a spring ready to snap. bellemare. the name clicks into place alongside memory — last year’s matchups, the relentless pressure, the irritating persistence that made every faceoff feel like a fight. there’s a look in bellemare’s eyes now that marcos recognizes immediately, something sharp and hungry that prickles at the back of his neck. trouble, just like norén.

marcos draws in a slow, measured breath, lungs filling with cold, recycled arena air. he lowers himself into position, knees bending as he settles into that familiar half-cocked stance, body angled just so — balanced, ready, coiled tight with anticipation. the world narrows around the circle beneath his skates, the painted lines sharp and bright against the ice. the official steps forward. the puck hovers.

and then—

it drops.

for a split second, everything goes silent. the roar of the crowd vanishes, swallowed whole by the sharp tunnel of his focus. no fans. no boards rattling. no teammates shouting from the bench. just the firmness of his stick underhand, the flash of black rubber falling between them. his stick snaps forward like an extension of his arm, precise and practiced, muscle memory taking over. the puck connects with a clean, satisfying tap before shooting backward in a straight line toward mace, who’s already set and waiting. then the silence shatters. movement erupts all at once — skates carving deep grooves into the ice, bodies colliding in bursts of controlled violence, sticks clashing in sharp, splintering sounds. the arena roars back to life around him in a deafening wave, sound crashing in like surf against stone as the play explodes outward from the faceoff circle.

mace receives the puck cleanly, the pass settling against his blade with a soft, controlled tap before he pivots, shoulders turning as he scans the ice. everything moves fast after that — detroit pressing forward in tight formation, sticks jabbing into passing lanes, skates chewing rough arcs into the ice as they collapse inward like a closing fist. marcos doesn’t hesitate. he explodes forward off the faceoff, legs driving hard, edges biting deep as he cuts across the neutral zone. the air feels thinner when he skates like this, sharper in his lungs, adrenaline threading through his bloodstream until every movement feels brighter, louder, faster. the roar of the arena builds again behind him, swelling like a tide as the puck cycles along the boards. “ boards — boards! ” someone shouts it — he thinks maybe tate, maybe one of the defensemen — but the word slices clean through the noise. marcos angles himself toward the right side, anticipating the play before it fully forms. the puck rims along the glass with a hollow crack, skittering across the boards as two detroit players close in to contest it. bellemare is one of them.

the smaller forward throws his weight into the collision without hesitation, shoulder driving hard into marcos’ side the moment he steps in. the impact rattles through his ribs, sharp and jarring, but marcos absorbs it with a grunt, planting his skates wide to hold his ground. the boards shudder behind him as sticks clash low, blades scraping furiously for possession. for a split second, it’s nothing but chaos — shoulders grinding, gloves shoving, the puck pinned between skates. then it slips free. marcos reacts before the thought fully forms, jamming his stick forward to hook the puck loose from bellemare’s reach. it squirts into open ice just beyond the scrum, sliding into the high slot like it’s been placed there deliberately. opportunity.

he breaks free from the tangle, pushing off hard, legs burning as he surges toward the center. the ice opens up ahead of him in a wide, impossible stretch, the detroit defense scrambling to close the gap. one of them lunges forward, stick outstretched, trying to cut off the lane — but marcos shifts his weight at the last second, dragging the puck across his body in a smooth, practiced motion. the defender misses by inches. the sound of the crowd swells — rising, rising — voices stacking on top of each other until it becomes a wall of noise pressing at his back. he barely hears it. all he sees is the net. the goaltender squares up fast, dropping lower in his stance, pads tight together as he tracks the puck with laser focus. the crease gleams under the harsh arena lights, ice carved into jagged grooves from repeated stops and slides. marcos pulls the puck back, loading the shot.

time slows.

his lungs burn, chest tight with effort as he shifts his weight onto his back skate, stick flexing under the pressure. the angle is tight. the defender is closing. the goalie’s glove twitches upward, anticipating the release. with a sharp exhale, marcos snaps his wrists forward. the stick recoils with a satisfying crack, sending the puck flying clean and fast. it rockets across the ice in a tight, spinning line, slicing through the narrow gap between the defender’s stick and the goalie’s outstretched glove. for a heartbeat, everything hangs suspended.

then— the net ripples.

a sharp snap of rubber against mesh cuts through the roar like thunder breaking open the sky. the crowd detonates. sound crashes down all at once — deafening cheers, pounding boards, teammates shouting as they surge forward from every direction. marcos barely registers the impact of bodies colliding into him in celebration, the rush of adrenaline flooding his veins so hard it leaves him momentarily breathless. goal. he exhales sharply, chest heaving as he turns instinctively toward the glass, the bright lights overhead blinding for a split second as he lifts his head. and without meaning to — without even trying — his gaze flicks toward detroit’s end.

toward norén, who looks less like his discouraged teammates and more like a shark scenting blood in the water. he all but steps over the bench in his haste to get back onto the ice, sheer size unfolding into motion with startling ease. there’s nothing sluggish about him, nothing hesitant — just that same predatory focus that had stalked marcos’ periphery since the opening puck drop. even from across the ice, there’s a sharpness to him, something intent and unyielding. and there it is again — that crackle of unease, sharper now, more electric. it crawls beneath marcos’ skin the moment they share the ice at the same time, tightening low in his chest until it presses against his ribs. the adrenaline from the goal hasn’t faded, but the satisfaction he’d expected — the bright flare of triumph, the easy relief of tying the game 1–1 — feels strangely muted. subdued beneath something heavier, something more anticipatory than celebratory.

norén moves like a storm gathering strength, rolling his shoulders once as he glides into position, jaw set beneath the visor of his helmet. there’s no visible frustration in him, no lingering sting from the tied score. if anything, the opposite — something sharper flickers there, something alive and energized by the shift in momentum. like he’d been waiting for it.

his phone buzzes in the pocket of his hoodie and his heart immediately leaps into his throat. he fumbles lightly at the fabric, pulling it free with slightly and uncharacteristically clumsy fingers. outside the parking garage. logistically, it makes sense. it’s a smart place to be without anyone thinking twice, especially considering they don’t want to be seen — or rather, can’t afford to be. marcos draws in a deep breath that shudders its way through his chest before he stuffs the phone back into his pocket. he pushes himself upright from the cold steel beam he’d been leaning against, grounding himself for a moment before he starts moving. at this time of night, the hotel is strangely quiet. a few scattered guests pass through the garage, their conversations low and indistinct. marcos offers a small smile here and there, a polite nod of acknowledgment. this isn’t a city that would recognize him quite as easily as it would recognize isak. at least not without his name and number stitched across the back of a jersey.

outside, the rain has thickened slightly.

he steps into it with a faint wince as a heavy droplet lands against his cheek and slides slowly along the sharp line of his cheekbone before falling from his jaw. he wipes it away with the back of his hand and pulls the hood of his sweatshirt up over his head — partly to shield himself from the rain, partly for discretion. marcos remembers isak’s truck easily enough. a dark ram with tinted windows. isak had told him about it once, gleaming with pride through the static of their phone call — it was his first big purchase with his nhl paycheck. marcos had laughed at the time, amused by the boyish pleasure in his voice. it isn’t difficult to spot now. the truck sits along the quiet street like something massive and deliberate carved into the landscape, its dark frame reflecting the faint glow of a nearby streetlamp. a neon sign down the block flickers softly in the wet night air — the brakeman — its light flashing faintly across the truck’s glossy windows. it suits its owner, somehow. but the sight of it makes marcos’ legs feel strangely numb all the same.

he swallows hard and approaches, hoping he doesn’t look as nervous as he feels. his knuckles tap lightly against the window in quiet confirmation before the lock clicks open for him.

the moment he pulls the door open, warmth spills out into the cool night air, along with the soft glow of the dashboard lights. and isak. marcos freezes for half a heartbeat when their eyes meet again. just long enough for the moment to catch somewhere in his chest before he remembers himself — remembers the necessity of discretion — and climbs quickly into the passenger seat, pulling the door shut behind him. it isn’t the first time he’s seen him in person. but it is the first time they’ve ever been alone like this. not beneath the blinding glare of stadium lights. not surrounded by the deafening roar of fans or the relentless gaze of cameras. just the two of them now, enclosed in the quiet hum of the truck’s engine.

in the soft glow of the dashboard, isak looks unreal.

the low light gathers along the sharp planes of his face, casting them somewhere between shadow and gold. it softens the edges just enough to make him seem warmer, though there’s still something striking about the way the dim light catches in his dark eyes, turning them a deep shade of honey. his lashes are as dark as his hair, framing that gaze in a way that makes it difficult to look anywhere else. the scar along his jaw has mostly healed, raised with a soft pink hue, but far from irritated any longer. he finds that he wants to graze his thumb along it. marcos feels his stomach knot at the sight of him — but not with anxiety. something gentler loosens inside him instead. the easy curve of isak’s smile slowly unravels the tension that had been wrapped tightly around his chest all evening, easing its grip until breathing suddenly feels easier. until it feels, strangely enough, as though the first real breath he’s taken in months had come the moment their eyes met across the small space between them.

he can’t help the smile that forms in return.

warmth pools through his chest and dimples crease softly into his cheeks, leaving him feeling unexpectedly boyish with excitement he tries to subdue in order to not look like an idiot in front of his counterpart. the scent of isak’s cologne lingers warmly in the truck — something clean and comforting — and where moments ago marcos had felt unbearably claustrophobic inside his own skin, he now feels light. almost giddy. “ hi. ” it’s perhaps the most underwhelming greeting imaginable for a man he’d been watching across the ice only hours earlier — when the firebirds had lost 4–5 to detroit. ordinarily, losing to their greatest rival would have soured his entire night. but that game still bought them this moment together and even if he hadn't been at his best… well.

marcos isn’t entirely sure he regrets it.