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Brad had a habit of not knowing when he needed to leave a situation. Whether it be on the ice or just in general. Marchy’s spacial awareness was questionable at the best of times. But that was why he had Patrice. Well, not the entire reason why but it was a large part of his duties as Marchy’s self proclaimed soulmate.
And maybe they were soulmates, but that was something to think about at a later time. Not right now when Brad had, once again, gotten himself in the middle of a scrum with a handful of Red Wings players that were a head and a half taller than he was. Bergy sighed and skated over, pushing his way to the middle of the scrum.
“Get fucking off him,” he growled, pushing one of the WIngs players away. Marchy beamed up at him in a way that only he could do when he was in very real danger of getting his head ripped off and used as a soccer ball.
“Hi, Bergy,” he said, still smiling. Patrice pursed his lips and pushed him out of the scrum with a firm hand on his numbers.
“Yeah that’s right,” one of the Wings players chirped.
“Ignore him,” Bergy said, leaning into Marchy’s ear.
“Gotta get your boyfriend to get you outta trouble.”
Fuck.
Marchy wheeled around, freeing himself from the grip Bergy had on his stick. When a pair of black gloves flew into Patrice’s field of vision he knew he couldn’t do anything to get Brad out of trouble this time. He sighed and turned around to watch.
Brad held his own for the first few seconds, but he ended up flat on his back at the end. Patrice sighed and picked up Brad’s gloves and stick and followed him to the penalty bench.
“You’re a fucking idiot, you know that right?” he asked, passing Brad his discarded equipment.
“Yeah,” Brad sniffed, wiping the small trickle of blood coming from his nose. “But I’m your idiot.”
Bergy rolled his eyes and skated back to the bench.
They ended up winning. It was close, a one timer from Pasta from his office sealed the deal in the waning seconds of the game. Marchy was unnaturally hyper going through the post game motions. Bergy watched, entertained as he skipped around the locker room from teammate to teammate.
He was cozied up next to Jeremy before moving on to Fliggy. Bergy acted before thinking, something he usually didn’t do. His arm shot out and grabbed Marchy’s waist. A surprised noise escaped Brad’s mouth as Patrice ducked and lifted him over his shoulder. He linked his hands around the back of Brad’s thighs to keep him in place as he walked him back to his locker.
“Bergy!” Marchy exclaimed, lightly beating Bergy’s lower back. “Put me down, you dumbass!”
“Oh yeah,” Bergy scoffed. “I’m the one that’s a dumbass.”
He paused in the middle of the visitor’s locker room in Detroit, Marchy slung over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. He could practically hear the scramble of people trying to get their phones out as they tried to capture the moment. Nick was the first one he saw. Bergy took a hand off Marchy’s thighs and gave the camera a thumbs up.
“Bergy?” Marchy said, voice muffled. Patrice hummed for him to go on. “Will you put me the fuck down?”
“Fine,” Bergy huffed and placed Brad back on his feet. “You know I should write a book.”
“Oh?” Brad asked, raising an eyebrow. “What would this book be about?”
“Ways to remove a pest,” Bergy smirked.