#bryce marcus

“Blythe, two minutes,” Jared says. “I mean it.”

He already said this two minutes ago, and he meant it then too, but unfortunately, he doesn’t have a lot of leverage here. What’s Jared going to do if two minutes pass and Blythe still isn’t ready: drive off to her game without her? Ben's at Elaine's helping her with her garden, and Bryce is meeting them at the rink after he finishes up at the dentist with the twins, so it's just her and Jared, and it's her game they're running late for. Jared isn't going anywhere without her, and she knows it.

Blythe appears almost exactly two minutes later.

“Yeah, yeah,” Blythe she says as Jared applauds her arrival.

He glances outside to try to gauge what jacket to hand her, only to squint at the surprisingly beautiful day.

“Can you grab me a baseball hat?” Jared asks.

“Who’s slowing us down now?” Blythe says, but doubles back. They’re getting close to actually late by the time they arrive at the rink, thanks to a stretch of bad traffic — the kind of late where getting the remainder of Blythe’s equipment on becomes a team effort, Jared lacing her skates while her goalie coach and back up goalie work on her pads. Frankly it’s a miracle no one’s taken a blow to the head, but he supposes there’s still time.

He's also well aware that Blythe may well planning exactly that — Jared watched her use her head for a couple saves during her last practice, which was the single most horrifying development in his recent existence, and he has two toddlers, so he has so many other horrifying things to choose from. Obviously he told her, in no uncertain terms, that she was not permitted to intentionally stop pucks with her head, so he expects chances are 50/50 she tries to do today.

“I feel like I’m in some historical movie,” Blythe remarks. “Like some princess with six maids, all trying to get her into her ballgown.”

“Or a knight and her squires,” Jared says, because she’ll like that one.

“A knight’s way better,” Blythe says, already halfway down the hall, her back up literally on her heels. The two of them goalie shuffle with determination that makes Jared feel weirdly proud — he guesses it isn’t weird that he’s proud of his kids, but he always ends up being proud of the weirdest shit. The only person who’s proud of weirder shit than Jared is, well.

Bryce is attempting to juggle toddlers and popcorn when Jared finds them in the stands. Jared saves the popcorn just in time. “I’m confiscating this,” he says. He skipped lunch.

Bryce doesn't argue, staring at him in a way that might have made him self conscious ten years and three kids ago, but at this point, Bryce can just tell him. Jared needs popcorn more than answers.

“Girl Dad!” Bryce says.

Jared frowns in incomprehension around his popcorn, chewing as quickly as he can as Bryce hands him a terror.

He’s just swallowed when Bryce plucks the hat right off his head. “Hey!” Jared says, adjusting his grip so he can fix his hair without letting go of the popcorn or the already squirming kid.

“How did the dentist go?” Jared asks, and both terrors bare their teeth at him in unison. “Still all there, huh?”

Two nods, then the teeth go away, thank fuck. Jared’s got enough to handle right now — they don’t need to add biting to the mix again.

“Girl Dad,” Bryce says, and when Jared looks up from toddler level, he finally realizes what hat he’s been wearing since they left the house.

“Where did Blythe even find that?” Jared asks, then, looking at Bryce’s face, “Aw, fu — babe. Babe, are you — did you want me to —“

“I’m fine,” Bryce says, doing his own little shuffle so he can hold onto the hat, the kid, and dab at his eyes with some Kleenex he rescues out of his pocket. “I just — just look at how big she is now!”

Below them, Blythe’s cutting grooves into the ice, getting her crease to her liking, her shoulders set in a way that tells Jared she's dialled in, completely in the game now, that even though the puck hasn't dropped yet, if he called out her name right now she wouldn't hear. She looks like an impenetrable wall. Also like someone who would try to headbutt a puck out of the air just to get her fathers back for such horrible affronts as expressing fear for her safety.

“Most of that’s goalie equipment,” Jared says.

He presses his lips together as Bryce somehow figures out how to elbow Jared without jostling either terror from their unusual state of calm. Maybe they like the dentist. Blythe would probably say that was the most terrifying thing yet, and Jared might not even disagree.

It has been awhile since Jared’s seen this hat. Years, and not just a few of them either. After Blythe was born, someone got it for Bryce, just a simple black ball cap that said Girl Dad in vaguely cursive lettering. At least, Jared’s pretty sure it was a gift, since Bryce usually passes on the cheap online shit, but maybe none of his favourite designers had anything especially ‘Girl Dad’ oriented the year Bryce became one. Or whatever.

Jared has never uttered the words ‘girl dad’ unironically in his life, before or after having kids, but Bryce leaned right into it, and for years this was his default hat whenever they took Blythe out anywhere. It got him plenty of chirps when pictures of him wearing it inevitably surfaced online, along with the weird relationship the internet had with Jared’s husband being reignited once again.

Jared had resigned himself to seeing it as long as the thing held together, but after Ben was born, Bryce stopped wearing it. He didn’t buy a Boy Dad hat instead or anything, just swapped it out for one of the seventeen other hats he lying around, and Jared hasn’t seen it since. Hadn’t thought about it in almost as long.

He hadn't even known it was missing —if someone asked, he would have assumed Bryce had tucked it away with the other things he couldn’t bear to let go of.

It's a collection Jared admittedly makes a visit to once in awhile himself, usually to go over tiny little baby socks and shoes, the receiving blanket that somehow once swaddled Ben twice around, the smallest Canucks jersey ever made, to marvel that they had, in fact, been that tiny once.

Then they get teeth.

“You want me to take —“ Jared says, and then he has two terrors in his lap while Bryce retreats, hat in hand, to have his teary emotional moment a somewhere a little more private than in stands peppered with parents of Blythe’s teammates, some they’ve known half Blythe’s life.

He played well when he was called up for half a dozen games at the end of last season when half the roster they started with was out on IR. And he's been pushing himself to keep up with Bryce in training all summer, which he hasn't quite managed to do, but then again neither can most of the league.

It only didn't come up last year because Bryce was one of the half that were out, home with a separated shoulder while Jared played his first NHL games.

"We're not telling anyone anything" Bryce says, sounding worried and confused and Jared is fucking this conversation up.

"No, not like that. But like it's going to be pretty obvious we've met before," Jared says, because like, yeah, they're not sitting down and telling people about their relationship. They've had that conversation ad nauseum, and as much as he's not planning to hide, he needs to make the team first. He's not going to take himself out of contention with off-ice drama now.

"I don't see why," Bryce says.

"What, are you going to introduce yourself to me like we've never met before?" Jared asks. "Because that would be weird."

"I'm not part of the welcoming committee or anything. If I don't say anything, no one will bother with me about it." Bryce trails off, like he's not sure how to explain it to Jared.

Jared liked all the guys well enough last year, hockey guys are hockey guys, although he was too focused on trying to prove himself on the ice to really get to know anyone off it. But Jared gets enough to know that Bryce doesn't really have friends on the team. Jared kind of hopes that someone does notice something about them, not that Bryce and Jared are together, but that they were wrong about Bryce.

"Okay, but like, what if someone does notice?" Jared says.

"Lie about it," Bryce says, like it's just that easy.

"When have you ever known me to successfully lie about anything?" Jared says, because he can't lie to save his life. He's good at saying as little as possible when he doesn't want his parents to know something, and playing the pronoun game when guys talk about hooking up, but actual lying is something he sucks at.

"That's just because you don't want to lie to me," Bryce says, and it's sweet that Bryce thinks that.

"Um, no. If I could lie, I definitely would have told you I loved that pendent when you gave it to me." Jared reaches out to touch where he knows his initials are resting over Bryce's breastbone under his t-shirt. If Jared could lie he absolutely would have been appropriately thankful about like, any gift Bryce has ever spent too much money on. He thinks that's the sort of little white lie that would be good for a relationship. But he can’t lie, and the truth is that he likes the pendent a lot more on Bryce than he ever would have if he kept it for himself.

Bryce takes Jared's hand, twining their fingers together and letting them fall to his lap. "What do you want to say then?"

Jared shrugs. "I don't know. The truth, I guess, or at least a little of it. That we met at a hockey clinic you were helping to coach. That we're friends."

"Okay," Bryce says. "If someone notices, you can say that we're friends." Bryce pauses before continuing resignedly "But I bet no one will."

"What are we betting?" Jared asks, because that's too sad of a thought otherwise.

"Blowjobs?" Bryce offers, and Jared is suddenly startlingly aware of the way Bryce's thumb is stroking at the back of his hand.

"Giving or receiving?" Jared says, pretty sure they're getting this whole wager thing wrong if he can't tell the winning scenario from the losing scenario. He's not complaining either way. Everyone should have a boyfriend as into giving head as Bryce is.

"Winners choice," Bryce says.

"If you want to blow me, you don't need to lose a bet to do it," Jared says.

"I'm not going to lose," Bryce says, pushing Jared back on the couch. Jared reaches out to pull Bryce with him, so he lands sprawled on his back under Bryce.

"If you want to blow me, you don't need to win a bet to do it either," Jared says, grinning up at Bryce.

Bryce doesn't answer. He just kisses Jared instead.

Gabe knew the list would backfire the moment Stephen started making it. He even told Stephen as much, but Stephen just shrugged a shoulder and kept working on it. He got into it as it grew too, enjoying it so much that Gabe told himself he was probably worrying about nothing.

And maybe the list wouldn’t have been a problem if the only person he’d told about it was Gabe. Probably would have been fine even if knowledge of it extended to the Marksons and Petersens, which happened sooner rather than later.

But telling Gabe’s teammates — that was a mistake.

“A what list?” Jared asks when Stephen first mentions it.

“An anti-wedding list,” Stephen says.

Bryce sits up. “You guys aren’t getting married?”

From this angle, Gabe can’t see how withering the look Stephen gives Bryce is, but the kick Jared aims at his ankle is probably related.

“Obviously we’re getting married,” Stephen says, like he wasn’t panicking for a good few days after they got engaged, and only the potential wrath of Miriam Markson kept him from fleeing on the next flight out of Vancouver. “It’s a list of shit we don’t want at our wedding.”

“Um,” Bryce says.

“You know,” Stephen says. “The wedding traditions we’re vetoing.”

“We is such a strong word,” Gabe says.

“Unanimous approval or none at all, Gabriel,” Stephen says. "A veto only needs one."

He's right. And Gabe guesses he would know, consdiering he's the one vetoing everything.

“So wait, what exactly are you vetoing?” Jared says.

“Nobody’s wearing white,” Stephen says, starting to tick items off on his fingers. “I mean, white dress shirts are fine, obviously, but nobody’s a virgin here, we’re not doing any all in white shit. No flower girls or ring bearers. No little groom cake toppers. Fuck knows there aren’t going to be any garters involved. I don’t remember the rest off the top of my head, but I have it all written down."

“I like the little grooms,” Bryce says, sounding hurt. Gabe hasn’t seen any pictures from Bryce and Jared’s wedding, since it was very much on the down-low — and he truly wishes he could see how those two managed to put together a wedding on the sly when they couldn't even sit across from each other without Gabe figuring out they were married — but he bets there were little grooms on top of their cake. He also bets Bryce still has those little dudes hanging around somewhere.

“Can I see the list?” Jared asks. “I’m kind of curious how many our wedding had.”

“Sure,” Stephen says, with a hand wave. “I’ll email it to you when I’m finished. Have a few more items to add first.”

“Cool,” Jared says.

After Bryce and Jared leave, Gabe mentions it might not be a good idea to send Jared the list, but Stephen just scoffs.

“What’s he going to do?” Stephen says. “Wear white to my wedding? Put little grooms on his piece of cake? He’s a pain in the ass, but he’s not going to anything that actually fucks with the day, he’s not Dmitry.”

“Our wedding,” Gabe says.

“Oh come on, you already know what’s mine is yours,” Stephen says.

“You stabbed me with a chopstick over the last soup dumpling last night,” Gabe says.

“Stop saying I stabbed you,” Stephen says. “I didn’t even break the skin.”

“It hurt,” Gabe says, and Stephen takes his hand, planting an officious kiss on the back of it.

“Better?” Stephen asks.

“It was the other hand,” Gabe says, smiling when Stephen sighs dramatically before kissing it too.

“You’re really going to give Math that list?” Gabe says. “Blind trust isn’t usually your thing.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’ll lead to something hideous,” Stephen says. “But think of it this way: your idiot teammates are going to do something, so I may as well give them some parameters.”

“Huh,” Gabe says. “Good point.”

“I’m not exactly new to this, you know,” Stephen says.

“No, I know,” Gabe says.

At least whatever it is that’s coming, it won’t come out of the blue.

~

Gabe did not foresee this. Sure, when he gave Stevie and Dima and Bullet bachelor party planning rights he anticipated some variety of disaster, but he underestimated them, he thinks. Or overestimated them. There was some mis-estimation occurring.

He looks around. What initially looked like chaos seems oddly recognisable. Almost familiar.

It’s sort of wedding themed, which makes sense, considering the occasion, but everything’s slightly off, and not just because they’re in a venue more suited to clubbing than matrimony.

His eyes land on the big cake at the centre of everything. It looks more like the kind Gabe saw at Cup celebrations than a wedding one, decorated to look like a rink, with two little figures at centre ice. He’s too far to see the details, but he’s pretty sure they’re hockey figurines rather than grooms, and someone has decided to use the manipulable joints for, well, evil probably isn’t the right word, but maybe immaturity — Gabe’s pretty sure one of them is straddling the other. He guesses he should just be grateful no mounting is taking place, considering Dima’s probably the responsible party.

There are so many elements, and they don’t seem to fit together at all — elegant baskets of flowers that look almost painstakingly put together, surrounded by a scatter of rainbow confetti that feels like it's moonlighting from a completely different event. Some kind of crooner — Bublé? — playing, also from a completely different event. None of it seems to fit Gabe's picture of a bachelor party planned and attended by hockey players, even if the wives and girlfriends present also got involved in the planning.

It’s the guests themselves that help Gabe put it together. There was clearly a dress code, one that only Gabe and Stephen weren’t informed about, everyone all in white, neon bright under the black light. Like an item of a list come to life. Like one of many items of a list come to life.

He can see Stephen put it together a mere moment after he does, his eyes narrowing, mouth going flat. Playing at unimpressed for the — many — eyes currently on them, avidly waiting for a reaction.

“I’m going to fucking kill Jared,” Stephen says, and Gabe decides not to tell him just how proud he sounds.