WWW.THEPLAYERSTRIBUNE.COM. an independent ๏น private original character named marcos dufour, captain of the chicago firebirds. based around the nhl career of various legends. refashioned to mold easily within all sports narratives ๏น beyond. introspection-oriented with a number of alternative universes utilized for further adaptation. based on the idealized events of the 2010-2015 chicago blackhawks, with inspiration taken from the careers of anze kopitar, patrice bergeron, ๏น sidney crosby. depictions of the sacrifice of living your dream, the prevailing consequences of tragedy, ๏น the way your past informs your present. as beloved by sett, twenty-6 โ all pronouns๏น mid-activity at best. minors ๏น personals dni. please read carrd before interacting.
โ๐. please note, marcos is single-ship ๏น is either actively in a relationship with isak or presently married dependent on timeframe. his husband will be mentioned in interactions, headcanons, ๏น verse information of all kinds as he's a very important part of marcos' life ๏น story!
AN EXPLORATION IN... religious guilt, being the oldest child, the price of becoming a legend, loving something that's killing you, golden boy with a golden heart, the act of both feeling ๏น thinking deeply are cursing you, heavy is the head that wears the crown, if it's your calling / it'll keep calling, there is your dead father somewhere in you, feeling like a bad person since you were seven years old, ๏น what's left unsaid will always find a way to scream.
the stadium lights flare overhead, sharp and glaring, washing the arena ice in streaks of red and white. above the seating, an animated phoenix arcs across the massive screens, flames licking around its wings as it soars through a blaze, a perfect reflection of the disorder below. the roar of the crowd thunders in his ears, a relentless wave that makes his own teammatesโ voices impossible to catch. even if he could hear them, the cacophony of cheering fans, blaring horns, and the thrum of the arena would have swallowed every word. he picks out fragments here and there: norรฉn. real piece of work. itโs nothing new, nothing that alters the expectations heโs already formed. and yetโฆ somehow, norรฉn has exceeded them all. heโs a force of nature, unrelenting, a hurricane that refuses to dissipate. every move, every calculated aggression makes him impossible to ignore. marcos feels it in the way the other man occupies space, how he threads through the game like a living threat, a shadow at the edge of perception that never lets up.
from the opening faceoff to the current moment, norรฉn hasnโt left his awareness, always hovering, always there, a presence capable of bruising more than just pride. the heat in marcosโ chest intensifies, and itโs almost impossible to separate adrenaline from irritation from the kind of sharp, gnawing focus that comes with standing in the eye of a storm. he canโt make out what isak is chirping at him, the norwegian accent rolling thick across his tongue, swallowing whole syllables until even the english comes out warped and jagged at the edges. but he doesnโt need to understand the words to grasp the meaning. the curl of isakโs mouth, the sharp flash of teeth, the deliberate way he lingers just a second too long on marcosโ general area โ none of it is kind. every second on the ice reinforces the same truth: this isnโt just a game. itโs a collision of wills, a test of endurance. and norรฉn has made damn sure marcos knows it.
it isnโt as if he hadnโt expected it. the forecast for this event had been spoken long before isak ever skated his first regulation game. vid had warned him outright โ in that calm, matter-of-fact he always did โ that there would likely be blood spilt, and marcos would have to learn how to brace himself for it. how to stand firm when the inevitable finally came barreling down on him. he wonders now, fleetingly, if isak somehow senses the truth beneath his composure โ that he isnโt nearly as prepared as he once believed himself to be. heโd thought he was ready. he knew what heโd be facing across the ice for the next three periods. heโd studied the footage, memorized the patterns, prepared himself the way he always did. and still, something uneasy coils low in his chest, winding tighter with every shift. an anxious sort of anticipation hums beneath his skin, sharp and electric, making his pulse feel louder than the crowd itself. he canโt remember the last time he stepped onto the ice feeling anything other than steady certainty. even in the face of certain losses, heโd always been composed, unshakable, methodical. not like this. not with this restless current running beneath everything.
for the first time in years, chicago has found itself facing a rival in detroit that feels truly, dangerously even. a team capable of pushing back with equal force. but blaming that alone doesnโt quite sit right in his gut. thereโs something deeper stirring beneath the surface, something dark and unsettled lurking beneath the black water of his thoughts. because truthfully, marcos doesnโt think norรฉn feels an ounce of that same unease. which is almost the most unsettling part of all. itโs only the first month of isakโs nhl career, and yet he moves through enemy territory like heโs been here for years โ like this is his fifth season instead of his first. thereโs a comfort to him that borders on arrogance, an ease in the way he inserts himself into every moment without hesitation or doubt. no second-guessing, no restraint.
early in the second period, the tension finally snaps.
the score shifts to 0โ1 in favor of detroit. both teams had been defensive walls up until now, bodies throwing themselves into lanes, sticks clashing in sharp bursts of sound that echoed off the boards. but it only takes one mistake โ one small opening โ for everything to unravel. the puck slips free, skimming past the last defender before snapping cleanly into the back of their net.
courtesy of isak.
naturally.
he doesnโt even pretend at modesty. instead, he turns immediately toward the firebirdsโ end of the ice, coasting backward with maddening confidence as he throws his hands up, gesturing in encouragement for chicago fans to turn up the noise. his grin is sharp and merciless as he jeers at the fans clustered closest to the glass, his teammates raining down for their celebration, which he hardly acknowledges in favor of riling up not only marcosโ own teammates, but also the people gathered in support of them. boos rain down in a furious wave, loud enough to rattle the glass.
what a guy...
marcos exhales slowly through his nose, jaw tightening as the noise swells around them โ 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. heโs 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 hasnโt been playing at full intensity yet โ had been holding something back without fully realizing it.
he doesnโt want norรฉn thinking he canโt 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 doesnโt immediately recognize โ 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 โ last yearโs matchups, the relentless pressure, the irritating persistence that made every faceoff feel like a fight. thereโs a look in bellemareโs eyes now that marcos recognizes immediately, something sharp and hungry that prickles at the back of his neck. trouble, just like norรฉn.
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 โ 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 thenโ
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, whoโs already set and waiting. then the silence shatters. movement erupts all at once โ 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 โ 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 doesnโt 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. โ boards โ boards! โ someone shouts it โ he thinks maybe tate, maybe one of the defensemen โ 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 marcosโ 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, itโs nothing but chaos โ 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 bellemareโs reach. it squirts into open ice just beyond the scrum, sliding into the high slot like itโs 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 โ 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 โ rising, rising โ 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 goalieโs 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 defenderโs stick and the goalieโs outstretched glove. for a heartbeat, everything hangs suspended.
thenโ
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 โ 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 โ without even trying โ his gaze flicks toward detroitโs end.
toward norรฉn, 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. thereโs nothing sluggish about him, nothing hesitant โ just that same predatory focus that had stalked marcosโ periphery since the opening puck drop. even from across the ice, thereโs a sharpness to him, something intent and unyielding. and there it is again โ that crackle of unease, sharper now, more electric. it crawls beneath marcosโ 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 hasnโt faded, but the satisfaction heโd expected โ the bright flare of triumph, the easy relief of tying the game 1โ1 โ feels strangely muted. subdued beneath something heavier, something more anticipatory than celebratory.
norรฉn moves like a storm gathering strength, rolling his shoulders once as he glides into position, jaw set beneath the visor of his helmet. thereโs no visible frustration in him, no lingering sting from the tied score. if anything, the opposite โ something sharper flickers there, something alive and energized by the shift in momentum. like heโd been waiting for it.
marcos has the sudden, unmistakable sense that whatever comes next is going to hurt.
staying in your apartment instead of going to a hotel when you're not even there, because just being in proximity to your things brings me unimaginable comfort and security + i stole your shirt that i slept in because i miss you all the time we're not together (in a non-boyfriend way)
@rushplay asked: what time do you want me to pick you up?
a soft drizzle hangs in the air just outside the shinola hotel where the firebirds are staying, the kind that darkens the pavement to a dull sheen and beads against the tall glass windows facing the street. the city beyond is blurred slightly by it; headlights streaking through the damp evening, the faint glow of streetlamps trembling across wet asphalt. the clouds overhead are thick and heavy, swollen with rain that looks ready to break loose at any moment. watching it gather along the edges of the skyline makes marcos think, more than once, that he should call the whole thing off. it had been a bad idea from the start. impulsive. the kind of thing thatโs easy to want from a comfortable distance but far more difficult to face once the reality of it begins to close in around you. now that the moment is actually approaching, the nerves in his chest have begun to gnaw in earnest โ restless, insistent, and entirely impossible to ignore.
he doesnโt know what either of them had been thinking.
maybe they had simply convinced themselves it would be fine, that nothing about it would matter once the moment passed. or maybe the more troubling truth is that they both knew it wasnโt fine at all โ and neither of them cared enough to stop. over thirty minutes ago, isak had asked when he should come pick him up. marcos had answered almost immediately, the message sent before he could pause long enough to reconsider. whenever youโre ready for me. now, sitting with the quiet weight of that decision, he isnโt entirely sure why the words had come so easily. the irony of it isnโt lost on him, either. marcos hates being in cars when he isnโt the one driving. he dislikes the loss of control, the uneasy sensation of placing his safety entirely in someone elseโs hands. usually he avoids it whenever he can. some memories are better left buried. and they have an unfortunate way of clawing back to the surface when given something tangible to cling to โ an image, a moment, a familiar feeling of helplessness he would much rather keep sealed away.
this was a different kind of helplessness entirely โ a softer, far more humiliating kind of wanting that isak seemed to summon as effortlessly as coaxing the moon above the horizon. inevitable. as certain as the slow turning of day into night. and it wasnโt superficial, either. it wasnโt just the way isak looked or the seemingly careless charm he carried with him like a second skin. sometimes it was something as small as his name lighting up the screen of marcosโ phone. that alone was enough to make his heart slam into fifth gear, hammering against his ribs as if someone had injected adrenaline straight into his bloodstream. he doesnโt think heโs ever smiled so much in such a short span of time. and certainly not because of someone who, by all reasonable measures, wasnโt supposed to matter very much. but as it turns out, he did. marcos likes him and he was becoming more significant by the day.
by the minute. by the second.
truthfully, it had never really been a matter of marcos telling him no. the answer had been decided long before they ever spoke their first real words to each other. yes, yes, yes. a quiet mantra he repeated again and again โ sometimes through thumbs flying across his phone in the dead of night, sometimes in the easy agreement when isak asked him to watch one of his games, and nowโฆ potentially, heโd be saying it breathless and low against the shell of his ear in the privacy of his vehicle. he would tell him yes until his voice was hoarse with it. because hesitation didnโt change the truth of the matter: he wanted isak more than he feared the consequences of wanting him.
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. itโs a smart place to be without anyone thinking twice, especially considering they donโt want to be seen โ or rather, canโt 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 heโd 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 isnโt 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 โ partly to shield himself from the rain, partly for discretion. marcos remembers isakโs 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 โ 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 isnโt 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 โ the brakeman โ its light flashing faintly across the truckโs glossy windows. it suits its owner, somehow. but the sight of it makes marcosโ legs feel strangely numb all the same.
he swallows hard and approaches, hoping he doesnโt 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 โ remembers the necessity of discretion โ and climbs quickly into the passenger seat, pulling the door shut behind him. it isnโt the first time heโs seen him in person. but it is the first time theyโve 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 truckโs 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 thereโs 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 โ but not with anxiety. something gentler loosens inside him instead. the easy curve of isakโs 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 heโs taken in months had come the moment their eyes met across the small space between them.
he canโt 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 isakโs cologne lingers warmly in the truck โ something clean and comforting โ and where moments ago marcos had felt unbearably claustrophobic inside his own skin, he now feels light. almost giddy. โ hi. โ itโs perhaps the most underwhelming greeting imaginable for a man heโd been watching across the ice only hours earlier โ when the firebirds had lost 4โ5 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 bestโฆ well.
marcos isnโt entirely sure he regrets it.
โ i donโt want you getting used to bragging to me and then actually winning, โ he adds, a teasing edge creeping into his voice. โ that was a fluke, just so you know. โ truthfully, heโd been far more distracted during the game than he should have been. at one point heโd even found himself wondering โ somewhat seriously โ whether leaving between periods would earn him a fine. the anticipation alone had made him feel like he might burst out of his own skin. looking back now, he almost wishes he could tell that earlier version of himself not to worry so much. though he isnโt sure heโd change the outcome. because the happiness shining in isakโs eyes now โ whether itโs from the earlier win or simply from sharing this small, stolen moment together โ is something marcos finds he doesnโt want to take away. he exhales softly, his smile widening just a touch. โ but i suppose i should be more gracious than that, โ he says lightly. โ soโฆ nicely done, trouble. i definitely owe you that dinner now. โ
the question makes his eyes crinkle faintly at the corners, a quiet hint of amusement settling there. it isnโt really at robinโs expense โ more at the strange, impersonal world they both inhabit, where scrutiny is constant and very few things remain private for long. every detail is observed somewhere by someone, cataloged and repeated until it no longer belongs to the person it started with. โ you have about as common a name in your neck of the woods as it gets, โ marcos says, glancing over with a mild, knowing look. โ iโd be more surprised if people didnโt already know that about you. โ thereโs no sharpness to it โ only quiet pragmatism. anonymity is a luxury few of them ever truly possess. marcos understands that better than most. still, he sympathizes with him.ย
it isnโt easy having your personal life dragged out into public spaces where strangers feel entitled to consume it, regurgitate it, and dissect it endlessly, as though they know any of them at all โ or could ever fully understand the choices that brought them here.
โ this one is on me, though, โ he adds after a moment, the faintest shift in his tone softening the remark. โ iโll admit i didnโt know much about f1 before i realized we had the same sponsor. i was doing some research. โ the admission is offered with quiet, almost apologetic honesty. his dark eyes narrow slightly against the fading orange skyline stretched across montreal, the last of the evening light burning low along the horizon. the sun glances off the glass of nearby buildings and the metal barriers lining the circuit, scattering warm reflections that flicker across the asphalt below. even now the place hums with a subdued energy โ crews moving equipment, distant engines being tested, the occasional burst of laughter or shouted instruction drifting through the air.
it had been the most convenient time for them to meet: the firebirdsโ captain freed from the grinding pressure of the playoff push, and a narrow gap carved out of robinโs otherwise relentless schedule just ahead of the canadian grand prix. soon enough, the stands behind them would be roaring with thousands of fans and the track beneath them would explode with the deafening thunder of engines. for now, though, it exists in a rare moment of quiet anticipation. heโs never personally stayed to see a race, it seems like there was a first time for everything. โ i didnโt want to embarrass myself during our first official meeting, โ he adds, the words tipped with dry humor.
marcos leans back against the railing that overlooks the track, forearms resting comfortably on the cool metal as he steals a sidelong glance toward the professional driver. a faint grin pulls at his mouth. โ but i am sorry if itโs unpleasant for you to talk about, โ he continues after a beat, the teasing edge gentling into something more thoughtful. โ i only brought it up because it feltโฆ familiar to me, in a way. โ his gaze drifts briefly back toward the circuit stretching out below them, long and quiet beneath the dimming sky. โ leaving family behind for the chance at something better, even when thereโs no guarantee itโll work out... that i can understand. but you seem to be doing very well for yourself. โ
