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2/18/2016 - Better as A Twofer
A month ago, the things Claude Giroux - our very own G - was best known for were probably:
1) groping a Mountie on Canada Day (July 2014)
2) injuring his index finger when his golf club exploded (August 2013)
And tied for 3):
pairing his ginger hair with eye-searingly plaid suits (always)/winning Worlds gold - yay! - with Crosby - boo! (May 2015)/being part of the Briouxes (2010-11)
Now, today's news has basically every other hockey blogger leaping to write a 'what the groping incident means now/first for the NHL' piece, but I'm going to skip that one (I trust you can read one of the others if you don't feel like just thinking about it for yourself) in favor of doing a hometown take and asking: Claude, if you were going to sign us up for this media circus, couldn't you have at least given us the Briouxes back?
So, the situation is this: Claude's in Montreal, the day before a game, and he's not even allowed to leave his room, let alone the hotel, for dinner or drinks with the guys or his family. He bets he's gonna have to cancel tomorrow's plans with Danny's mini-mes, too. There's a whole secret code song-and-dance he has to go through whenever someone shows up to bring him food. Basically, he would very much like to return this reality and exchange it for the one he had when he went to bed the night before, where the Flyers PR team wasn't in spin mode on account of him and he was allowed to go places besides his hotel room.
It's a perfectly nice hotel room, but today, when he's stuck there hanging fire, with his phone off - and the TV off - and the lights turned down low, it feels claustrophobic.
But leaving the room won't be much of an option until PR finishes prepping and brings him back into the loop, either. Which makes it even funnier that he doesn't think it would feel so small, so closed-in, if there was somebody else here with him. But there isn't, because nobody who doesn't need to know knows where exactly he is. And the rest of his team, god love 'em, don't actually make that list. And Flyers management is otherwise occupied, not that he really wants to hang out with Hakstol or Hextall or Holmgren right now; he was thinking more, well, things that are dumb to think considering the situation.
And anyway, he has his orders: lay low - and don't call us; we'll call you.
Laying low, Claude has discovered after only a few hours of it, is boring as fuck. He's already finished reading every last bit of the two magazines he bought before the flight from New York - and he's not quite desperate enough to try the book of word puzzles that came with his lunch, though at least they're in French. He's stretched. And taken a shower. And jerked off. He's got a whole workout planned for right before bed, just in case he needs tiring out in order to sleep. But that doesn't help with now, when there're still hours to go 'til then.
And, okay, 'keep your phone off' was part of the orders from management, but they didn't say anything about TV - that one's all Claude and the fact that he is fully aware that if he did turn it on, he wouldn't be able to stop himself from checking out the news, and he doesn't want to know what they're saying any more than he wants to know what twitter is saying, or what people are filling his notifications and his inbox and his voicemail with.
He already knows what Perez titled his post - he can imagine what the hockey bloggers are naming theirs. Because he knows they're writing them, and it doesn't take a genius to fucking understand /why/. He uses twitter, and he's sat through the same pre-season 'dos and don'ts of social media' lectures as everybody else in the league. But he still doesn't really understand how things like this happen, how a couple shitty pics someone drunkenly snapped with their phone camera get from there to being headline news. Just that inevitably that's exactly what'll happen if they get loose on the internet.
It's exactly what happened here, despite Claude taking every precaution he usually takes when he decides to pick up a guy.
Really, he's wondering what's taking them so long - he knows they're not trying to deny anything. They'd asked Claude point-blank if he'd maybe spent that evening at a different bar, maybe with some teammates. And the guys would've lied for him, if he'd asked, no question. But as shitty as the picture was, there wasn't any question of whether it was him, making out with a dark-haired guy, their hands disappearing suggestively out of frame. No, it wasn't just a trick of the light. No, Claude didn't want to talk about it. He can still remember exactly what it felt like to push the guy up against the wall outside the men's bathroom, brace one hand on the cinderblock, curl the other around the guy's hip.
Kissing so intently his Phillies snapback had gotten knocked askew, and maybe it'd been a flimsy sort of disguise - Claude gets it, okay? - but luck's always been on his side before.
The knock, when it does finally come, almost doesn't seem real. It's been Claude and the silence for so long that he's started making up sarcastic and/or ridiculous answers to the inevitable questions coming his way just to pass the time.
He can't quite decide whether it's a daydream - or reality - when it's Danny's voice that begins half-singing, "Frere Jacques, Frere Jacques - dormez vous, dormez vous?" Because someone in Flyers PR has a ridiculous sense of humour. No, Claude isn't sleeping.
Still, if that's actually Danny out there, and not an hallucination, Claude definitely wants to see him. "Sonnez les matines, sonnez les matines," he recites dutifully. Because /he's/ not singing anything, and definitely not a kids' song when there aren't any actual kids involved.
Danny's just saying, "Ding, dang, dong - ding, dang, dong," when Claude starts undoing the lock and chain.
"Giroux's Pleasure Palace - how can I be of service?" he says with a leer, as he swings the door open to reveal Danny, looking tired and rumpled, but oh-so-good all in shades of blue.
Danny snorts and raises an eyebrow until Claude moves back enough to let him in and close the door again. And he waits until the locks are back in place to talk. And, of course, what he wants to know is, "Are you doing okay?" Because the not-such-a-secret about Danny is that he's a fucking sap who cares too much.
Claude's not counting on the hug that follows, but it's the best thing that's happened to him yet that day, even if it doesn't have much in the way of competition - and he knows that he'll have to let go eventually, that if Danny's here doing the stupid password, he probably has a message to deliver, but Claude's gonna take what he can get and not feel even a little bad about it.
Anyway, Danny's saying fondly, "Can't let you out without a chaperon," because retirement has brought the dumb dad puns out in force with him.
To which Claude protests, "I was wearing a hat," and, "I don't need a keeper." Though he knows that second one is probably fruitless at this point - he hasn't seen PR's plans for him, but he can bet that he won't be going to any clubs by himself for the foreseeable future.
February in Montreal is not a thing Claude normally minds missing out on - it's colder than in Philly, and there's more snow, and really, there are better months for visiting - but this time, Claude finds himself wishing he were out there feeling the wind cut through his coat, tromping through slush and dancing around patches of black ice. Because the alternative is being in this hotel room, by himself - again - reading over the list of things the PR people want him to do. Oh, Danny said he'd be back - he's gone to get Claude emergency poutine and pick up the statement PR is still working on - but still, he won't be allowed to stay for long even then. One of the things on the list from PR is /be careful to not spend too much time around Daniel Briere in public/.
Because Brioux - no matter that it's never come closer to being true than Claude's long-standing crush - is going to follow them around for basically forever, fuck the everloving fuck.
And normally Claude can deal with that - both the crush and the chirping from the vets about his and Danny's 'relationship' - but the events of the past 24 hours have made it all a little more real than Claude is really ready to deal with. He's never been sure whether Danny was just politely ignoring Claude's crush, on the grounds that Claude would probably grow out of it eventually, or whether he'd actually never noticed the huge, ginger emotional elephant in the room. But whichever it is, the fact that Claude definitively is interested in guys is well and truly out in the open, now, so Claude can't help but imagine that something's gonna change there.
Which, fuck - the last thing he needs right now is to have one of the best, most stable relationships he's got taken away from him, especially if it means he doesn't get to see Danny's mini-me's, either; and who knows? That might be exactly what's about to happen.
He'll grit his teeth and deal with the media - there's a few print interviews they want him to do (Out, ESPN, the Gazette), plus a couple TV appearances (Hockey Night In Canada, Ellen) - and put his head down and play through the chirping. He'll make nice with Brian Burke and the You Can Play people, and do whatever gay youth charity shit passes muster with both management and Brisson. He'll keep it boring with the beats, because he fucking well knows the drill at this point. But he refuses to date anybody just to improve his image (the Flyers WAGs would probably roll with it, just fine, but that's not the point), even though he doesn't mind staying away from the clubs for a while. And, yeah, there's more to the PR plan than that - Danny's supposedly bringing back a draft of a statement they want him to give before the game tomorrow - but most of it's not worth his worrying about, and Claude's sticking to that position for the duration.
He'll have plenty to worry about, just worrying about the things he can actually change, without getting into the shit that he couldn't give two shits about, even if other people think it's important.
Hopefully it won't be too weird when Danny gets back - it wasn't when he brought the list - because Claude wants Danny to help him look over the statement and think through what he'd want to say if he were really getting a choice in the matter. Because Danny's better at that kind of thing, probably because he's spent more time helping his kids with homework than Claude has. And, anyway, Claude remembers from helping the mini-Bs with their homework that it's way easier to help somebody else figure out what they're trying to say than to figure that shit out for yourself. There's just something about not having to try to sort through your own thoughts that makes it all seem clearer, but fucked if Claude knows why.
Really, it doesn't matter much, anyway - as long as Danny is willing to help.
Claude doesn't actually tackle Danny when he gets back with the bag of poutine, but that's mostly because he wants the poutine in one piece. They end up sitting on the spare bed, with the poutine on top of the paper bag it came in, the best to protect the bedding from gravy stains. Claude doesn't really want to talk, just stuff fries and cheese curds and gravy into his mouth. He can't actually live on poutine long-term - the team nutritionist would throw a fit - but if there's a day he's allowed to stuff his face with it and fuck the consequences, well, it has to be today.
Danny talks, though, easily, companionably, the kind of thing that filled dinner prep when they shared the Haddonfield house. Claude doesn't take in much of it, but he tunes back in when Danny says, "I apparently dreamed a game once. Tigres at Olympiques." He laughs and adds, "Well, I was in the stands, but you remember being thirteen. You never get enough sleep."
Claude smiles, surprising himself. "It might just be worse now. What a waste - ," he says, patting the bed. "I could've slept all day if my brain would just -"
"Shut up?" Danny finishes for him. "Well, at least you've never fallen asleep in the stands during a Q game. My friends never let me live it down, thinking the kid who scored the game-winner pointed at me after he did it. There weren't even any gingers on the team that year. Still, I doubt I could do that now."
There's no way, Claude thinks. But it's a funny coincidence, that Danny dreamed a ginger kid pointing at him after scoring a GWG in an Olympiques game. Because, as he tells Danny, "That's something I did sometimes, back in Junior, picking a kid out of the crowd and making sure the puck got to them after - too bad you weren't actually at one of my games."
"Yeah, too bad - bet the puck would be worth, eugh, something now," Danny says, and he's clearly trying for a chirp, but there's something off about the look on his face.
"Captain of an NHL team - they'd better be worth something." Claude chirps back, but his heart isn't in it. Because he's the captain for now, but he can't help but wonder about the future. His career could be on the line. Philly has a habit of shipping 'troubled' players as far away as they can send 'em. And Danny's still smiling, fondly, a touch worriedly, like Claude's a wayward boy still.
Maybe he is, at that - though he can't help but wish Danny saw him as more.
02/19/2016 - Come Out, Get Sidelined
"I'm bisexual."
There was more to Flyers' Captain Claude Giroux's statement at the press conference the team held this afternoon - assurances that this wouldn't affect the room, reminders that Giroux is the team's leading scorer - but that was the historic piece. With those two words, Giroux officially became the first NHL player to come out. He didn't add to his point total tonight, as he played his equally historic first game as an out player, but all signs point to the room still being with him: when a stray elbow, courtesy P.K. Subban, took their captain out late in the game, the rest of the Flyers were quick to bring their words and fists to his defense. Though Subban attempted to make sure Giroux wasn't injured - and to apologize - even as the medical team was helping him off the ice.
Subban also made it clear during post-game press that the elbow was an accident and not meant as a statement regarding Giroux's sexuality - no surprise, given the supportive tweets he'd already posted.
The Flyers have Giroux listed as day-to-day - and in the meantime, his teammates expect to have to step up to fill the hole he leaves in the line-up. As rookie defenceman Shayne Gostisbehere says, "he makes everything happen. He's the head of the snake, you can kind of say." There's no telling, at this point, when Giroux will get to play his second game as the first out NHLer, but there's no question his teammates would prefer it to be sooner rather than later.
They lose to the Habs - in the shootout - and Claude finds himself feeling grateful for the press conference he had to sit through beforehand. Because right there at the end of the game, PK gets him with an elbow and Claude ends up falling awkwardly to the ice, hitting his head, and getting pulled to do concussion protocol. PK gets a penalty - the refs have been handing them out freely all game; Claude collected three - which the Flyers don't manage to capitalize on, Condon outlasts Neuvy, and when Claude is finally released from answering questions and following lights with his eyes, they make it clear that his marching orders are shower, dress, and get himself out to the bus.
Hakstol and the As can continue handling whatever questions the beats wanted to throw his way.
After that, it's a bit anticlimactic, the way the season just continues. Claude rides along for the rest of the road-trip: a win against the Leafs, a loss against the Canes - and then back to Philly, for a six game homestand, featuring five wins punctuated by a loss to the Oil. He's back in the line-up in time to play five out of those six games - and notch two goals and four assists in the doing. The biggest change is the signs people hold up in the stands - and what fans of rival teams shout at him.
He's never gotten the 'Cindy Crosby' treatment before - and he's not even getting it much now, though 'Claudette' has come up as a chirp a time or two - he guesses because, well, what's he gonna do if they give him shit about doing guys, deny it? The pics are out there.
The main worst thing is actually that for the most part, he doesn't get to see Danny. They occasionally cross paths at Voorhees or Wells Fargo Center, but Danny leaves town twice during the two weeks the team's home, off on official team business elsewhere in the league - and even when they're both in town, it's not like they got less busy in the wake of Claude's outing. So, when he finds out about the second trip. Claude says 'fuck PR' and offers to stay with the boys instead of messing up their schedules and sending them off to Sylvie.
If he can't have time with Danny, well, he'll take the mini-Bs and be happy about it.
It's like taking a trip back in time, doing the whole pick up from school, run to practice, take them home after thing. He didn't manage to keep his plans as on the DL as he would've liked, so he's there on official business, as well - doing talks with the kids' teams about acceptance and all that shit. There's flashcards and everything, because who expects Claude to actually know how to talk about that? Nobody with any kind of sense is who.
So, point to PR.
The talks go about the way Claude expected them to - it's not that different from talking to kids' teams about sportsmanship and hard work and all the usual things that come with these kinds of visits, except for how it's weirdly personal. Like, Claude can't imagine that they don't all know about him. And while the coaches keep them in line - and being an NHL player is clearly still good for something - he can see them all thinking about how he's that hypothetical player they should be thinking about when they choose appropriate language on the ice and in the room.
It's weird, because he'd never really thought about that being him before it suddenly became a big, public deal - he was just a guy who hooked up with guys sometimes, but still liked women, and who needed a word for that?
When the boys are finally all off in their rooms, theoretically going to sleep, Claude drifts down to the massive couch in the rec room and turns on the TV, tunes it in to a game. Danny told him to just use the master bedroom if he didn't feel like making up the guest bed, and Claude can't help feeling a little weird about that. Because, like, he wants to sleep there a little too much, and not just as a guest.
And he's pretty sure Danny didn't mean it that way - he could've, Claude guesses, but...probably not.
So he sits on the couch with a beer, and watches other guys play hockey, and tries to ignore to the stuff his dick wants him to think. The thing is that the couch has absorbed the smell of Danny's cologne and his soap, and beneath that the smell of his sweat - it smells of the boys, too, but it's clear that Claude has ended up (unconsciously) gravitating to Danny's usual seat. And it's almost as bad as sleeping on Danny's sheets, using his pillow. He can almost imagine Danny's there, just out of sight, coming back from a kitchen run with more beers, that they're going to go up to bed later - together - once the game's over and they're sure the boys are asleep, that it's their bed.
Which is exactly what he shouldn't be thinking about - what he won't think about, because there's hockey to concentrate on.
When Claude drifts up out of sleep, reality comes back to him in pieces: the squashy couch in the Haddonfield house rec room, the twinge in his back from falling asleep on it slumped at an odd angle, the sound of the TV in the background, the warm body he's leant against… He cracks his eyes open at that - there hadn't been anybody to fall asleep on when he'd settled there, earlier - and turns his head just enough to get a look at who it is. Then he blinks.
Danny, asleep against the arm of the couch, with Claude's weight pressing him further into it - it's the kind of couch that eats you if you let it - and Claude isn't entirely sure he isn't dreaming.
"You're home early," Claude says, but quietly, because sure, he's glad to see Danny, but he's not actually a dick enough to just wake Danny up - if Danny's not already mostly there, himself - if this isn't a dream.
Anyway, he's enjoying this illicit moment of watching Danny sleep - on this even more illicit visit to Danny's Haddonfield house. It's a stupid little thing to enjoy so much, but Danny's cute when he's asleep, looking even younger than he does on the regular, like he could still be in the prime of his career. And it's not something Claude has had the chance to do very often since he moved out, or something he let himself do much even when he lived here for real.
Danny doesn't wake, though - and Claude doesn't notice when he falls back asleep himself.
All he knows is that Danny's not there in the morning, when Claude wakes to his phone alarm telling him that it's time to roust the boys out of bed and get them out the door to school. It must have been the kind of dream where you wake up in the dream, but really you're still dreaming, Claude guesses - but it seemed so real. And he doesn't feel the kind of rested he should if he slept the night straight through, even if it was twisted up into a weird position on the rec room couch.
Danny shows up at Voorhees, later, conferring in the doorway to the video room with Hakstol - and he's clearly come directly from the airport - so, just a dream.
Two games in Florida, in March, is exactly what the doctor ordered - even if they mostly see the insides of rinks, hotels, and planes. Then it's back to Philly to beat the Wings at home - and on to Chicago, to hopefully do the same to the Hawks. Chicago in March is a lot less fun, but the game more than makes up for it.
Claude's not on the ice when things go down - Coots' line is out there, taking the face-off after Guds scored what will turn out to be the game-winner - so he doesn't actually hear what Shaw says. All he knows is that the ref tosses Shaw out of the face-off, leaving him in the vicinity of Guds, waiting for the puck to be dropped again. And everyone knows Shaw is a mouthy little shit, so it's no surprise when he starts yapping at Guds, probably about the last goal. What nobody's expecting is for Guds and Shaw to start going at it, right then and there.
But that's exactly what happens.
Claude guesses it's not a surprise, really - Guds and Shaw are both known for throwing down - but he doesn't know what Shaw thinks he's gonna get out of it for his team. They're only one goal down, and the Hawks are a good enough team that they don't need a fight to get them the momentum back on their side. And that means playing every last second on the clock left like they're down rather than up on the home team.
Which works - and later, when he gets a chance to ask Guds about it, in the visitors' room, the story turns out to be even weirder than he was expecting: Shaw started in about the goal Guds had just scored, talked some shit about Vandy elbowing Toews earlier in the game, and then - and this is what made Guds see red - started going on about Claude and how the 'fag captain' maybe couldn't keep his team in line.
And it's not the first time someone has said shit, not by a long shot, but the way Guds tells it, it's weird. Like, did Shaw actually mean it? Or was he just running his mouth about that because he thought it would get Guds to go. It's kind of a mind-fuck, if Claude's being honest.
It's the first time it's felt like it was about him.
03/18/2016 - He Can Play
Claude Giroux's been scoring at a point-per-game pace - despite being briefly side-lined by an upper-body injury - ever since his outing, back in mid-February. I'd be tempted to claim they were coming out points, just like the daddy points guys score when their wives give birth - if we had more data to back that up. As is, I can more than justifiably say that Giroux is having a great season.
Is it too much to ask that he might get to run away with the Hart - or the Lindsay - at the end of it?
Well, probably - there hasn't been much backlash from the hockey press (aside from Don Cherry, of course) or the players, but minding their manners in print and in public is different than voting from voting a guy in for an award. And the public haven't all been that charitable. Still, a Flyers fan can dream - though I'm keeping my mouth shut about just how far my dreams go…
...don't want to attract the Hockey Gods' attention, after all.
He ends up filming with You Can Play exactly a month after he got outed. They come to Philly for the shoot - Burke said something about wanting to capture Claude on his home turf, make it clear that this isn't just a league initiative.
Claude's supposed to have read the script for the thing ahead of time, and he's skimmed it, but not actually read it. Because the words are going to be some variation on the stuff they've been trotting him out to say over and over again for the past month. And he's never going to know what he'd want to say if he isn't saying those words - so what's the point?
He can read off cue cards - or a teleprompter - just fine without memorizing things ahead of time.
They trot him out on the ice in a Flyers home jersey - after a run-in with a stylist, who sighed over his hair and skin, and attacked it all with an array of brushes - to do some skating and shooting, then pose at the center ice faceoff dot and read his lines. And he knows what the words mean, that they're going to be meaningful for kids out there - but he can't quite get his head around what he would have thought if there had been guys saying this stuff back when he was in minor hockey. He wouldn't have though they meant him, for sure - he didn't think the way he looked at guys meant anything. He doesn't think he would've objected.
But.
But he hadn't met Danny, hadn't had his world turned on its head, hadn't had the world define who he is - so he guesses he's glad he's doing it. It still doesn't feel like it's about him, properly. But this says it is, and maybe that's true.
Or maybe it will be, anyway.
Saturday will involve a game against the Pens, in the Flyers' barn - which will end up being complete shit - Claude skating a lot of minutes while failing to help his team get on the board - but that's still in the future.
Really, the only fucking saving grace of the weekend is that - after he's finished with the YCP shoot - Claude does get to see the mini-Bs again. Who, as he's recently been reminded, aren't so mini these days, but Claude figures it's his prerogative to think of them that way for the rest of his life if he wants to. They may not actually be his kids, but he's fed them and played ball hockey with them and picked them up from practice - and even found himself saying shit like 'stop touching your brother' and 'opposite ends of the couch - now!'.
That said, when did they get to be basically as big as Danny? Who allowed that to happen?
Caelan is even saying, right this second, "Just wait - I'll be taller than you before you know it."
And Danny is rolling his eyes and replying, "That might help if you want to make the NHL."
And Claude knows that Danny is just as internally boggled by when his kids suddenly started sprouting like weeds - well, probably more internally boggled, since he's known them since they were actually small enough to hold in one hand (Claude's seen the pictures, because Danny knows an effective parenting strategy when he sees one) - but he also knows better than to let that show most of the time. Also, he's not wrong: Danny would be considered on the small side by current NHL standards, so being taller than him isn't just normal teenage annoyingness on the boys' parts. It could make or break their career chances in North America.
And Claude did have a good time playing in Germany during the last lock-out - until he got hurt - but he knows that it's not any Canadian (or American) kid's first-place dream, hockey-wise.
Now Carson is getting in on it, though, all "Yeah, Dad - soon we're all gonna be taller than you, even Cameron." Because he has good aim, that one, when he chooses to. Also, ouch - Cameron is not allowed to be as tall as Claude any time soon.
They're having dinner in a hotel room, because the PR people are fucking firm in their insistence about not letting people start thinking about Brioux again - not if there's not anything there to think about - and Claude used up his one freebie visit on going to the boys' practices. Which, to be fair, if Claude could make himself stop thinking about it, too, that would be amazing. Because all it is is like poking a bruise. Danny is awesome, okay - Claude will never not be glad to know him - but he's awesome that Claude wasn't allowed to have last he checked. Not the way Claude wants to have him. As recent events have only made too clear. But Claude hasn't figured out the trick to that one, yet - and, really, he's not sure he'd take it even if he knew it.
If food alone could do it, the boys hitting their height stretch goals wouldn't be in question at all. Because next to what Claude and the boys are eating, Danny's dinner - a steak and potato, grilled asparagus and a salad - looks like a snack. They each have a plate of pasta and an entree salad on top of the steak and potato and veg. Ten meals off the room-service menu. For five people.
For the closest thing Claude has to a family, outside his own parents and sister - and they aren't really his, even if the way Danny is looking across the table at him is making him think things that he shouldn't be thinking.
They've just run a gauntlet of road games - Long Island and Columbus and Denver - in hostile barns, and Claude is fucking tired. But there was no question of him ever turning down the chance to Skype with Danny, see his face and catch up on news about the boys and just get a moment, an hour, where he doesn't have to think about anything he doesn't want to. So of course, the Skype call has ended up with Claude complaining to Danny about, well, everything.
"It sucks," Claude says. He kinda hates saying it in the first place, and putting it on Danny, besides. But it's not something he can say to the guys. They need him to be all up for anything about it, not feeling beaten down by the signs at games and the chirping and fucking Don Cherry's endless opinion pieces about how he always knew letting Quebecois guys be captain was a bad idea. Which, he tells Danny, "It's not like the fact that I speak French better than English is why I'm into guys sometimes."
Though, well, to be fair: the accent on the guy was part of why Claude had ended up doing inadvisable things in the hallway outside the club bathroom that time (the guy sounded like home, and he didn't seem to recognize Claude, and, well, so sue him - he was weak for it).
Danny laughs the way he's supposed to, though, and says, "I never heard any rumors about Roy and men - except the usual that he was an asshole - so, no, it doesn't seem likely." On the laptop screen, he's looking sleepy - which makes sense, since Philly is two hours ahead of Arizona, and it's late enough where Claude is already.
Claude grumbles, "Well, why can't fucking Cherry get that through /his/ head?"
"...well, he is Don Cherry," Danny replies, his voice a seductive, sleepy rumble. The expression on his face, well, Claude wants to say it looks like he wishes there weren't two laptop screens between them.
...and then, between one blink and the next, there aren't. The Skype window on Claude's laptop is showing an empty bed where Danny used to be, and there's a second body on the hotel King Claude's enjoying. Danny. And this time Claude is one hundred percent sure that a) he's awake and b) Danny is actually there.
"Claude?" Danny mumbles. Then. "Claude?!" And he's sitting bolt upright next to Claude
"Missed me that much, huh?" Claude says, then, "I'm gonna guess I wasn't dreaming the other week, either." Because chirping is a better alternative to freaking out, as far as he's concerned.
Danny doesn't say anything for a moment, but "No." Then he continues, "Or, well, yes - I did miss you. No, you weren't dreaming. And, well, this is nearly as new to me as it is to you. Knowing about it, that is. Doing it? That's apparently been happening for decades."
And suddenly things click into place and Claude has to ask, "If I asked if I could kiss you, now - that wouldn't be our first time, would it?"
That gets him a shake of his head from Danny and a, "No, we've done a bit more than that."
"Well, I don't have a glass slipper for you to try on to prove it, but a kiss would probably do it," Claude says, because fuck if Danny isn't Cinderella in this whole stupid mess. Claude certainly doesn't think he'll ever forget how that night felt. Or he hopes he doesn't, anyway.
When their lips meet, this time, Danny proves that Claude hasn't forgotten yet. He's hoping Danny will prove a bit more than that, besides, in the time they get before the universe takes Danny away again.
04/10/2016 - Yet Another Historic First for Claude Giroux
Giroux has already racked up a lot of firsts this season. First out NHL player. First out player to captain an NHL club. First out NHL player to do a You Can Play spot. First, first, first. You might imagine that he's a little tired of people talking about it.
But this particular first should be one that he'll be just as happy to celebrate as the city he plays for: first out NHL captain to guide his team to a playoffs berth.
And what a way to go…
The final score is 3-1, Flyers. Simmer got them two of those goals, including the game-winner. All Claude had to do was assist on the one that got them on the board.
When the final buzzer goes, he's on the bench - and he looks up to the box where management sits, hoping for a glimpse of Danny; there's no way he's not watching, not considering what was riding on the game.
And they haven't talked about things, what might come next, but Claude would like to think that this was what they were waiting for, or at least part of it. Because he's ready for the circus his life has become to pay off for him. He's ready for Team Brioux to ride again, for real this time.