Show me (how big your brave is)

by Philyra

Merida Dunbroch might be a legacy player in the NHL, but she'll create her own destiny, thank you very much. Hockey AU with an integrated NHL. Part 4 of the Harder, better, faster, stronger series.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the ideas rattling in my head!

---

Zhou Hua chuckles as he rattles the morning newspaper. "It looks like the press is going crazy over draft speculation."

"When are they not?" Mulan asks dryly, sipping her jasmine tea. Whenever life gets particularly stressful (and let's face it, it doesn't get more stressful than playing pro hockey in Montreal), she's glad that she has the option to shut herself away in her parents' house and just forget for a little while. She glances wistfully out at the garden, wishing it wasn't the dead of winter so she could sit beneath the magnolia blossoms with her father.

"Yes, but now they're wondering whether or not your coach is going to draft his daughter," her grandmother says pointedly, refilling her cup.

"Grandma, you know very well that Coach Fergus has no say over what players will be drafted to the team. That's the GM's job."

Grandma Mai's eyes sparkle mischievously as she pokes Mulan's cheek. "And surely the fact that Merida Dunbroch is one of the best, if not the best, rookie defenseman in this year's pool is not attractive? Especially when her father has made it very clear that rebuilding the Habs' defense is his main priority when it comes to making the team great again?"

Zhou smothers a laugh and even Li covers her mouth to hide her smile. When Mulan started playing hockey, Mai Hua had known absolutely nothing about the sport except that it was played on ice. Now she talks like a seasoned GM.

"I don't know a thing," Mulan replies stoutly, and goes back to savoring her tea.

The face of Montreal's hockey has certainly changed over the last few years. First was Mulan's own draft, then the trades that brought them Lance and Merlin. When Coach Fergus was hired, she'd wondered more than a few times if the city would simply implode.

Now, Mulan is a very diplomatic person, and she's had media training up the wazoo since juniors. She would never, ever say that the hockey culture was insular and a little backwards in Montreal, but suffice to say, for a long time the Habs looked, talked, and played a certain way. Both the fanbase and the organization itself were very, very slow to change and indeed, why fix a system that wasn't broken?

But the system was indeed very broken and it had taken Coach Fergus to fix it. Montreal lost its collective mind when he was hired, an ex-NHL player who broke onto the scene in the 1980s, sweeping up two Stanley Cups with the New Jersey Devils in the process. His credentials weren't the problem but his background was because Fergus Dunbroch was not French Canadian. He wasn't even Canadian. He was Scottish. And loud. And ginger. And unconventional.

Yet he worked. Even with a shortened season to work with last year, he'd managed to get the team to the playoffs for the first time in two years, which didn't seem like much but this was Montreal. Original Six. Twenty-two Stanley Cup championships. Dynasties galore. More star players than you could shake a stick at. Two years without entering the playoffs in Montreal was like sounding a death knell.

So, Mulan is firmly on her coach's side. It helps that they're outsiders in a town they're trying to call home, trying to bumble along in French and play some good hockey.

Grandma Mai is right, anyway. Coach Fergus is very keen to make their defense stronger, and his daughter is the top prospect in that regard. She won't be surprised to see some jockeying so that the Habs score higher draft picks this year.

She's seen some of the game tape on Merida, and she's certainly heard Coach Fergus wax poetic about his daughter many a time (he's so, so proud that she's followed in his footsteps). She will be a great addition to the Habs, if they manage to get her.

Mulan glances at her watch. "Oops, I'd better not miss dinner." She stands up and kisses her family goodbye. "I'll see you guys at the next game, right?"

"As if we'd miss a game," her mother scolds gently. "Say hello to Phillip and Aurora for us."

She winks. "Will do. Bye!"

---

Merida and her mother argue over how she's going to wear her hair to the draft. "You should have it tied back and out of your face," Elinor counsels, braiding the massive fall of ginger back before bed. "Can ye imagine having to pull yer jersey over yer head with it loose like that?"

"That's the point, Mum," she points out. "If I havna let those idiots in juniors bully me into cutting me hair, why not leave it?"

It's not that she's particularly vain when it comes to her hair – hair is hair, it grows. But when she started playing with the boys, they would sometimes pull on her braids or ponytails to try and slow her down or get her to fight. When her mother advised her to keep her hair short, she'd dug in her heels like the stubborn mule she is (she gets that trait from both sides of the family, no matter what her mother says): "If I cut me hair, that's lettin' them win, innit?" she'd asked, wide-eyed and all of eleven. "I'm no gonna let them win, Mum."

So Merida kept her hair long until it was a point of pride for her to let it flow free beneath her helmet if she so chose. The older she got, the fewer times it happened. All it took were a few looks of disbelief and exclamations of, "Pulling hair? Really?!" for them to flush with shame and never do it again.

Therefore, when she enters the arena in Detroit with her mother and the triplets, she's dressed in a somber navy dress and her hair is spilling like fire down her back. She wishes so fiercely that her father could be sitting with them, dwarfing her hand with one of his and then crushing it when some team calls her name, but it's not to be. At least he's here on the floor with the Habs' front office staff.

Merida knows her place in the standings very well and she knows where the Habs stand in the lottery. Still, she has her mother to thank for the media training, though she's very, very happy that she no longer has to spout some variation of, "I'd love to play with me father, but it will be an honor to play for any team in the NHL because it's always been me dream."

The truth is that she would do just about anything to be on the Habs. Her father has taught her everything there is to know about hockey. He took her out onto the ice when she was but a few days old, cradling her to his chest as he moved in graceful swoops across the rink (her mother has video evidence). She can think of nothing better than having him as the voice in her ear and waiting for his tap on her shoulder to send her over the boards.

The accusations of nepotism are frankly ridiculous. Don Cherry was bleating like the goat he is about the sanctity of the pick or some crock like that. Sometimes she wonders if these commentators have forgotten how hockey works but at the end of the day, it doesn't matter.

The only thing that matters, she thinks, sitting up straight as Robert Gold enters to a customary chorus of boos, is that she's finally here at the NHL draft. Some team is going to choose her and she'll get to play against Regina Mills and Kathryn Nolan and Ruby Lucas. She would test her mettle against theirs but it's really just about becoming the best player she can be and prove that she's her own woman, one who can step out of her father's shadow and be known for her own accomplishments.

A goalie is the first to go overall this year, something that hasn't happened in quite some time. But Elsa Ahlstrom is exceptional, a talent the NHL has been dying to take on for the last two years. Elsa has been biding her time playing for Frölunda, waiting until her younger sister was eligible for the draft so that they could come over to the NHL together.

Elsa goes first overall to the Avalanche while Anna Ahlstrom, a dynamic and wily left-winger, goes second overall to the Dallas Stars. At least they're in the same conference. Their fate could have been like that of the Nolan triplets, flung between the farthest possible corners of the league. Merida wonders if her brothers will face the same fate, but they're still at the stage where hockey is nothing but fun, so there's time yet.

"And now the Montreal Canadiens are on the clock."

Merida reaches out and takes her mother's hand. Elinor squeezes it reassuringly. "Have faith, my love," she whispers.

Gods. Her throat's gone dry. She wants Montreal, wants it more than she's been able to admit to anyone. She knows the fans and the media are brutal, but what else can you expect with the oldest and most decorated team in the league? She wants to be a part of that history and tradition and most importantly, she wants to be a part of what her father's helping to build there.

Of course, she'll happily play for any team in the league because it's NHL hockey, but she can't help but think that she can truly give her heart to Montreal.

Finally, finally, the team stands from the table and makes their way to the stage. Her heart starts beating double-time when she spies the red sweater tucked against her father's elbow. Could that mean what she thinks it means? Are they really going to-?

"The Montreal Canadiens are proud to select Merida Dunbroch."

Elinor squeezes the breath out of her, and Ruaridh, Ninian, and Ealair are all but climbing the seats to fling themselves at her before she's allowed to go to the stage. Merida barely remembers shaking anyone's hands, but she definitely remembers accepting the sweater from her father and the tears in his eyes as he sweeps her up in a bone-crushing hug, pleasantries be damned.

She runs on autopilot through the interviews, blathering on about it being a dream come true and it being an honor, blah blah blah. She probably looks ridiculous, ginger hair against a red sweater, face pale and eyes wide. No doubt emotion has thickened her accent, but the NHL is used to that.

Elsa and Anna are waiting for her in the green room once she finally runs the press junket. Elsa presses a bottle of Gatorade into her hands. "You look like you need it," she explains kindly. "I sure did. Anna needed two."

"I'm going to have to pee so badly later – sorry, was that too much?"

"I daresay we're used to it by now," Elsa teases her. Merida grins. As the top draft prospects, they've been to a few NHL events together, including a trip to see the Stanley Cup Finals, where they met Emma Swan and Mary Margaret Blanchard. Elsa, Anna, and Merida bonded quickly, and Anna bemoans the fact that they're now in separate conferences.

"We're never going to see you! Although you'll be on the same team as Mulan, so that's going to be amazing."

Merida snorts. "Let's no get ahead of ourselves, right? I'm a defensemen, I'm goin' to spend at least two years in St. Johns before I'm called up."

"Ruby wasn't sent down and Kathryn was only in the AHL for a year," Anna points out. "Oh, did you check the group message, by the way? I think Emma added us the moment our names were called. Everyone's so happy!"

In the furor of being drafted, Merida's completely forgotten about her phone. She scrambles for it, grinning.

On the TV screen in the corner, the Habs are onstage once more. "The Montreal Canadiens are proud to select Eoghan Macintosh."

The smile slides off her face. No. They can't possibly-

"Macguffin ya idjit!" Merida roars as her partner allows the turnover on a sloppy pass. There's no time to curse now, all they can do is catch up and try to win back possession.

She sees the play almost before it happens, in the way that their defense lines up with the forwards. Her eyes track the movement, waiting for the just the right moment – there, right there – she abruptly changes direction and nabs the pass from the defenseman to the winger waiting by the wall.

And then it's a breakaway. She can hear the swears of the other side behind her and she knows, she knows what's about to happen, she just needs to get into the right position-

Sure enough, the stick comes up from behind, trying to nab the puck from her tripod. She falls just at the dot, can feel her body moving forward but she already has the puck right where she needs it. The goalie has come out to meet her towards his left, so all it takes is a little catch with the blade and a swing to her left even as her body hits the ice-

The puck slides in just past the goalie's right skate and into the net.

Someone – Macguffin, probably, yanks her to her feet, whooping loudly in her ear as he crushes her against the boards in his enthusiasm. "What a save, Dunbroch, what a goal!"

The Sting's audience doesn't like it at all, booing loudly as they skate back to their bench. Merida's so flushed with excitement over actually making the goal that she doesn't hear the boos, nor does she notice the player who comes up right behind her.

She does, however, notice when someone shoves hard at her back. "Twas naught but a lucky goal, Carrots," Macintosh taunts, sidling close with a nasty grin on his face. "When we're done with ye, it will be but a sweet little memory."

Growls go up from all her teammates as they take exception to the tone of the threat. Merida has to slap her arm in front of Macguffin to keep him from charging, but the refs are already there, skating between the players and pushing Macintosh back towards his own bench. "And how do ye propose to follow through when ye cannae even catch me?" she sneers, the disdain dripping from each word. "Ye think ye're so scary but they're naught but words."

His face contorts and he lunges towards her. "Ye talk so high and mighty, but ye're the one hidin' an' lettin' yet teammates fight yer battles for ye."

That's it. She's going to destroy him for even daring to imply that she's a coward. Merida throws her stick and gloves to the ground. Now Macguffin is the one trying to hold her back but she easily dodges around him as the crowd roars. "I've never shied from a fight in me life, laddie!" she bellows. "So, ye wanna go? Let's go!"

Unfortunately, one of the referees gets to her before she can knock all of his teeth out. He steers her over to the bench, muttering some kind of nonsense about keeping her head and avoiding the penalty box, as though she hasn't fought before.

The high of her goal is ebbing off, tainted by Macintosh's presence. Damn him. He's just bitter that she broke up their little play and that she's always messing up their plays because she's just that good and always has been.

Honestly. He's the reason why she can't have nice things, the idiot with his crooked teeth and stupid idea of flow. Who does he think he is, Jaromir Jagr?

One day, she prays they'll be in different conferences. She hopes he goes to the Kings, he'd fit right in.

"Merida, isn't that the guy you hate?" Anna asks, staring at the screen, her head tilted thoughtfully.

Her knees wobble but like hell if she's going to sink down into the chair like some swooning maiden. Hate is such a small word for it. Loathe, maybe. Abhor. Eoghan Macintosh has been a thorn in her side since juniors. He's a dirty player who thinks nothing of slashing and tripping. The giant fool has no idea how to stop running his mouth and whenever they're on the ice together (which is far more often than she likes), one or both of them ends up with a penalty.

She doesn't understand why she's been the focus of his vendetta for the last few years. It's not like she's the only girl in the O the way Regina Mills was the only girl in the QMJHL – far from it. He doesn't seem to give the other girls even half the shit he bestows upon her. She's given up trying to make any sense of it long ago, he just seems to have a grudge against her.

And now they've been drafted to the same team.

"Yes," she says shortly, before she launches into a rant that's likely to leave her blue in the face. Maybe the hockey gods will be kind to her and he'll develop in Brampton while she does the same thing in St. John's. Maybe there will be years in between the times when they're called up to play for the Habs. Maybe he'll even be traded.

But as he swaggers into the room, she feels a sinking sense of foreboding because no matter how much she hates him, he's still a very good defenseman. There's a reason why Montreal used their only other pick in the first round on him, rather than a forward.

She's still better, though.

"Well, well, Dunbroch." Rats. He's noticed her. "Looks like ye cannae escape me."

"Oh aye." Her voice absolutely drips honey and venom, but she's well aware of the cameras in the room. "A lifelong dream, it is."

That, of course, is the moment the NHL crew comes over. "Merida, Eoghan," Merida takes satisfaction in how they continually mispronounce his name (this time, it's OGAN) and the way his smile freezes on his face. "You've been rivals playing in the OHL, so how does it feel being drafted to the same team?"

Merida's media training kicks in and she instantly inches in closer, pasting on a smile as wide as it is fake. "I would say that it's a honor just to be chosen by Montreal and we'll do whatever we can to help the team." Then she rams her heel into his foot, hard. Anna muffles a giggle in the background.

Macintosh grunts softly, his own media smile in place. "Aye," he rumbles, his burr noticeably thickening. "T'would be a pleasure to play with this lady for the Canadiens."

Luckily, the next draftee stumbles in, wide-eyed and shell-shocked, catching the attention of the media crew. Merida breathes out slowly as they swarm the poor lad, allowing the smile to fall from her face. Beside her, Macintosh opens his mouth and she holds a hand up. "For once, just keep yer fool mouth shut if ye cannae say anything nice, ye ken?" she hisses under her breath.

He just smirks and bounces back on his heels. "Oh, I was just gonna congratulate you, Carrots," he says innocently. "Enjoy the moment, ye know? Since we'll be battling for spots and I think we both know who's gonna win in the end."

"Aye, me," Merida shoots back. "And 'Carrots?' Ye're about a hundred years too late to be original and Gilbert Blythe did it better."

"Who the bloomin' eck is Gilbert Blythe?"

She is so very much over this entire conversation. All she wants to do is check the group message and see if Ruby Lucas and Kathryn Nolan have any advice. "Oh, go and read a book, ye uneducated swine!" she snaps before making her way back to Elsa and Anna.

Elsa's eyes dart between Merida and Macintosh, who makes his way over to some of the other lads. "So, Anna tells me you have an…enemy?"

"Arch nemesis," Anna corrects enthusiastically.

Merida sighs and rubs her forehead. "I've no arch nemesis, thank ye very much," she says tiredly. "Just a constant pain in the arse." Her stomach growls, giving her the perfect segue. "Now, what are ye two doing for dinner? If ye can stand being around eight year old triplets, ye're more than welcome to join us. I'd love the company."

She's going to enjoy this moment if it kills her, damn it. It's her draft day.

Later, in the car to the restaurant, she finally gets a chance to open her phone and browse through the messages. There is a particularly long one from an unknown number and she opens it, frowning.

Hi Merida, it's Mulan Hua. Congratulations on being drafted and welcome to the Habs! I got your number off of Emma, if you don't mind. I just want you to know that I am always available to talk if you have questions. Montreal's a tough city but it's worth it, I promise. I have a spare room in my apartment if you need a place to stay during rookie training camp – that is, if you're not staying with your family or elsewhere. I am so, so happy to have you here.

---

She always thinks better when she's on the ice. Out there, all the extra noise and sound just fades away until all she can hear is her father's voice.

Ye're gonna be a new kind o'defenseman, me girl. Ye cannae be waitin' at the blue line fer a clean lane to open up, ye cannae always outmuscle the players at the corner, and ye cannae rely on a hard slapshot. So ye gotta be fast and ye gotta be smart. Ye gotta know when the join the play.

In many ways, she almost plays like a forward. She's always circling, always waiting for an opportunity. She works on skating backwards and forwards until she can transition from one direction to the other in the blink of an eye and without losing any speed.

While she might not have sweet hands like a forward, she drills herself like she is one, practicing in tight little corners and working until the stick is a seamless extension of her hands. She's quick enough in her puck handling to take advantage of those times when she can catch someone on the pokecheck and turn the puck over for her team. She likes being able to get passes when no one expects them.

Ye gotta be ready to play long, hard minutes. Ye gotta be the best-conditioned player out there, me girl. Yer coaches gotta know thet ye can play fer as long as they tell ye to and ye will still be willing to skate more.

When she was thirteen, she started tying car tires to a rope around her waist and running across the yard. Her mother had been horrified because she'd shredded the entire garden. Fergus just roared with laughter, proud of her dedication. Her family's favorite off-season activity is hillwalking and she and her dad like to see who can get to the top the quickest.

At the draft combine, she beats out every single one of her competitors at the VO2 max test, placing her in the 99th percentile. What it means for games is that she can play more than twenty-five minutes a night without blinking an eye.

Merida keeps all of this in mind the day she shows up for rookie training camp. The Habs chose her in the first round for a reason. She'll show them that they made a good decision and she will make it to team training camp.

She cannot forget that this is a competition. Of course she has to show the coaching staff that she knows how to play with a team, but she has to strike that delicate balance between being a team player and standing head and shoulders above the rest.

At least they can't miss her with her hair.

"Oy! Carrots!" Merida wheels around, her eyebrows arching upwards as Macintosh jogs her way from across the parking lot.

"What?" she says warily, eyeing him. Like everyone else, he's packed on weight and muscle over the summer. She's also a little surprised to find that she has to tip her head back a little to look him in the eye when they've always been of a height. His hair is still awful, though.

Macintosh smiles at her, and it's not friendly. "Ready for practice, then?" he inquires snidely. "Better keep up."

"We're on the same team, Macintosh," she says flatly

The look he sends her is patronizing, like she cannot even tie her own shoes. It sends her hackles up. "Aye, but it's still a competition, isn't it?" An ugly look crosses his face. "That is, for those of us whose father isna the head coach."

Her hands ball into fists at her side. She's been accused of favoritism ever since she entered juniors, never mind that there are so many legacy players in the O. It makes her so uselessly angry because her accomplishments are never her own. She's either there because her father pulled some strings or because she used her feminine wiles to get there. It's never about her own talent and skill, so it's no wonder she's constantly working to prove herself. The other guys can skate by on their family connections, but that's a luxury she cannot afford.

But this isn't an argument she's going to make right now because she'll just be wasting her breath. It's not like Macintosh wants to hear a word that comes out of her mouth unless it's something admitting to his greatness, which needless to say will never, ever happen.

"What, nothing to say, Carrots?"

Merida just rolls her eyes and hefts her gear bag over her shoulder. "Why should I say anything when it's clear yer no gonna listen?" she demands. Dear gods above, it's only the first day of training camp and she needs to get through a few more days. It's best to pick her battles.

Whatever he's expecting, it's not that, because he actually seems to be struck dumb. Merida just huffs and makes her way into the training center as quickly as possible.

No one invites her out after training, which isn't exactly a surprise, but it's disappointing nonetheless. She misses her teammates from the Spitfires, especially Macguffin. But he's at training camp with the Islanders now and there's really nothing she can do about it.

"Hey! You with the ginger hair!"

Her head jerks up and she stares at the car idling in front of the training center. Mulan is in the passenger seat. She's holding her face in one hand while the other one is punching a grinning Phillip Delaval. Phillip Delaval. "Please ignore him," she calls through the open window. "He's not exactly cleared for interaction with normal human beings."

Merida just stares at them. She's never really met her father's players – between the Habs' schedule and her own in juniors, she was only ever in Montreal in during the off-season, and even then her family tends to spend as much of it in Scotland as possible. And though she and Mulan have texted and even chatted on the phone over the summer, she's still never actually met her. "Erm, hello."

"Are you busy? We were thinking we would take you out to dinner and show you some real Montreal hospitality," Mulan says. "What do you say, rookie?"

She just grins and hops into the backseat. "Well, if ye're going to feed me…"

Phillip's eyes twinkle at her in the rearview mirror. "I'm pretty sure we can afford to spot you a meal this once, rookie."

Unsurprisingly, they end up at a poutine place. "Regina brought me here the first time we had dinner," Mulan explains as she ushers Merida inside. "I figured it was fitting. I won't tell the trainers if you won't!"

"And you allowed me to tag along?" Phillip gently hip-checks her, both teasing and touched. "I am truly honored."

They're recognized, of course, and sign several autographs and take a few pictures. "Please don't put them up on social media until tomorrow! We don't want the coaching staff to know we're already corrupting the rookie!" Phillip requests with a charming wink, winning them over.

"Don't keep her out too late," a motherly woman scolds good-naturedly in a thick Quebecois accent. "We're looking forward to seeing her do well." This she says directly to Merida, nodding solemnly. Merida can only nod back, feeling a little overwhelmed. The media has been divided since the draft and it boggles the mind to know there are people who are solidly behind her.

"So," Phillip begins conversationally, once they've settled down with their food. Merida has compromised, getting a small bowl of duck fat fries poutine to go with her giant chicken salad. "Mulan has been sulking because you haven't moved in with her."

Mulan swats him on the shoulder. "Don't listen to him," she tells Merida, digging into an enormous plate of poutine. "I completely understand your reasons for living at home right now."

"It's not that I don't want to," Merida explains because she really, really does. Mulan seems like the perfect mentor. She's driven but not consumed and looks like she knows exactly when to push and when to back off. She's been nothing but accommodating and understanding in all their conversations, which just convinces Merida that she's truly ended up on the perfect team. "But I'm certain I'll won't be asked to stay longer than the preseason and it's easier to move between here and St. Johns when all me stuff is at home."

"See?" Mulan asks Phillip pointedly. "She's practical." She points her fork in Merida's direction. "But I've already informed the front office that I have dibs once you're officially called up. I don't want to risk Lance or Merlin sneaking in and adopting you."

"It's a miracle we've gotten to you first. They're such suckers for rookies," Phillip laughs.

"Please." Mulan rolls her eyes fondly. "You've been dying for a rookie yourself. Phillip and Aurora live right across the hall from me," she informs Merida, who's watching the back and forth between the two with great interest. It's clear that they're really close and comfortable with one another, and she can't wait until she has that here, too. "Once you move in, they'll be over all the time making sure you're all right. Aurora's probably already knitting you a blanket."

Merida perks up. Most of her wardrobe consists of hand-knitted objects because her nan and aunties are still not convinced Canadian winters won't turn her into a block of ice. "A Habs blanket?"

"Surely you've enough Habs merchandise at your house, including blankets?"

"No such thing," she replies stoutly, digging into her food with a grin.

The next day they're actually out on the ice. Merida absolutely dreads the thought of playing with Macintosh but they're never paired together during the drills. Still, they have all the defensemen running drills together down on one end of the ice and she admits – albeit under extreme duress, mind you – that once all the stupid diversionary tactics and plain cheating are stripped away, he's a good player. With his bulk, he's more of a traditional defenseman and his skating isn't pretty at all. It looks like he's almost running across the ice, but for some reason it seems to work because he's fast.

When they're matched against the forwards, Merida goes to work stopping the rush on the net. More often than not, she's successful and the forwards definitely aren't pleased. As they file off towards the locker room, one of them, Arthur, shoves her hard against the glass. Some of the others crowd behind him, effectively blocking the view.

"Trying to show off for daddy, are you?" Arthur hisses, his eyes glittering with hatred. "Well, it's not going to work here, so why don't you just crawl off where-"

"Crawl off where?" Merida shoots back. "At least I've earned me place here, with good old-fashioned hard work." Despite the fact that Arthur's father is the owner of the organization, everyone knows that Arthur's mediocre at best and a petty, entitled brat at the worst. He was drafted last year in the fifth round and nothing, not even his father's influence, has elevated him beyond a miserable season in the ECHL. He won't make it to the Show.

Arthur lunges forward. "You bitch-"

"What is this?" Coach Mark wades in amongst them, shoving players back. "Get to the showers, especially you, Pendragon." Arthur shoves back but obeys, glowering at Merida. Coach Mark keeps Merida behind with a hand on her shoulder. Once the boys are all out of earshot, he sighs. "I'm sorry, Merida, we should have realized something like this would happen. Mulan was hazed too and we've given talks at the beginning of every year, but…anyway, we'll make sure to keep an eye out."

"I don't need a watcher," she says quietly as she follows him down the tunnel. "I can handle meself."

He chuckles. "I know you can, but the organization has a responsibility towards you as well. What kind of staff would we be if we allowed you to get hurt? I'll appraise the trainers on the situation so that this doesn't happen again. Now, off to the shower."

She doesn't quite know how to take that, because while Coach Mark talks about responsibility, no one's said a damn thing about the way the other rookies have been treating her on the ice. This whole week, the other players have been treating her like a stranger, like she doesn't belong and she's had to work herself to the brink just to make up for it. At this point, she wonders if she has a chance in hell of making it to team training camp because they've been doing their very best to make it look like she sucks. No matter how good an individual is, hockey is still a team sport and she can't do a damn thing if she can't get a hold of the puck.

She's not sure she can trust anyone here but her father, and Fergus has been kept away from the rookie training camp, probably so that it doesn't stir any talk of favoritism.

Merida's wary when she finally exits from her shower because Arthur is such a petty bastard she's sure he'll stoop at nothing to get back at her. Luckily, he and his posse are nowhere to be seen and she packs up her gear as quickly as possible.

Macintosh, however, is still in the locker room, and he lists forward like he has something to say and honestly, at this point Merida's had it.

So the explosion was inevitable and at least she waited until now, when it's someone like Macintosh who's been on the receiving end of her tirades for years. "Come to have a go at me?" she demands, taking some small satisfaction in the fact that he steps back. "Well, get on with it, I'm sure ye cannae say anything I havna already heard!"

His expression hardened. "Well, far be it from me to stop ye from committing career suicide!"

"Oh, am I supposed to believe ye're concerned fer me, when ye've never given more than a rat's arse before?" She shakes her head with disgust. Out of everyone, Macintosh has the most to gain if she somehow washes out. He's the other top pick and the one most likely to take her spot.

"I may not give a rat's arse about ye, but I give a rat's arse about this team," he snaps back.

"Aye, ye're just concerned about the team," is the scornful reply. "If ye truly thought that then why haven't ye been playing with me? Why haven't ye said anything to the other players?" She refuses to take any of the bullshit that she's not a team player because goddamn, she will do absolutely anything her team asks of her. Team is family. "Don't ye dare suggest that I havna been trying."

He crosses his arms, staring down his nose at her and she absolutely hated that he even had that little bit of height on her, small as it was. "It's a wee bit hard to be on a team with someone when they're no with the team," he says pointedly. "We've all seen ye with Hua and Delaval."

"Because no one was asking me out with the team here, ye jackass!" she roars. "Mulan and Phillip were the ones who actually reached out to me. Every time I try to talk to someone here, they act like I don't exist! At least they want me to be here!"

Her voice cracks on the last word and she clamps her mouth shut, horrified. She's always been free with her emotions – they shoot to every extreme because she really doesn't believe in anything like a middle ground. But like hell if she's going to break down and cry in front of him.

Something in her expression must give her away because he blanches and steps back. Thank god for emotionally constipated male hockey players who cannot handle female emotions. Merida just throws her stuff back into her bag and motors her way out of the locker room as quickly as her legs can carry her.

---

It's no surprise when she's sent to St. John's at the end of the preseason. What does surprise her is the speech the coaching staff gives her when they break the news. Her father never says a word, just sits at the head of the table and looks like he has a bad case of indigestion.

"We've noticed how hard it was for you to integrate with the other players."

"There needs to be more of an effort to help with team building."

"This has been a problem before and we just want to make sure it's not going to be a precedent."

That particularly clueless, idiotic statement earns killing looks from Merida, her father, and Coach Mark. The assistant coach blinks, flushes red, and sinks down in his seat a little bit.

Coach Mark tells her that defensemen always need more time developing anyway (like she didn't already know that), and that they're curious to try her and Macintosh together because they have a feeling they'll work well. Merida shoots a look at her father at that one and he gives her the tiniest of a nod.

Great. So not only is she being sent down with Macintosh to the IceCaps, they're probably going to end up as a pair. They haven't spoken since that one conversation, which is something Merida's not complaining about in the slightest. While it's strange to get silence from him, it's better than him running his mouth off and her being forced to punch him.

She's packed off to St. Johns with Aurora's Habs blanket and an ungodly amount of chocolate, courtesy of Mulan and Phillip. Since she's living alone, she can curl up in the blanket and eat all the chocolate she wants while watching Scandal, with no one to judge. The girls' group message also makes her feel like she's not alone, because everyone is just so hilarious.

It's not like she expected everyone to be stuck up or anything, but everyone and their mother know just how intense Regina is. Or how Emma Swan will fight you on the ice. Merida knows and sympathizes with this.

But behind closed doors, those almost mythic figures are down to earth and real and oh, does she appreciate that. They've been nothing but welcoming to her and Anna and Elsa. And besides Mulan, Ruby and Kathryn have been quick to take her under their wing as a rookie defenseman.

Today, however, it's not about hockey…well, sort of.

Look, don't take cooking advice from Emma unless you want your kitchen to go up in flames, Ruby counsels.

Fuck you, I have never set a kitchen on fire in my life! I've scorched some of Granny's pans, yes, but not that!

What they mean is that if you want to eat, don't go to Emma for advice unless it's 'how to get your teammates to cook for you,' Kathryn writes.

I hate all of you.

Merida bites her lip, laughing as she types out a response. I actually know how to cook, so…

We all know the one who needs instruction is my sister.

Elsa's response shows up soon after. I'm all right Anna, I told you. Kristoff is a very good cook and he doesn't let me starve. Stop worrying.

I'll believe it when I see it.

Regina sends her a private message. I'm sorry for all the chatter, but everyone's a little worried about you all the way out there in St. Johns. They just want to make sure you're all right on your own.

It's a very roundabout way of hiding her own concern, and honestly, she just can't get over it. Regina Mills is worried about her.

The camaraderie makes Merida even more determined to do well so that she can get back to the Show.

That of course means playing nice. Luckily, most of the rookies who gave her problems at camp were sent down to the ECHL. The others who've made it to the IceCaps are outnumbered by guys who've played with Mulan once or twice, so they're more inclined to accept her.

Surprisingly enough, she's not paired with Macintosh right off the bat. Instead, she's paired with Ector, a player from Slovenia who's been up and down between St. Johns' and Montreal.

They manage just fine during practice, but in the first game against the Comets, they just don't seem to connect. Ector is never where she needs him to be and their coverage is just sloppy. When the deficit widens to three in the second period off a horrifically stupid collision during their own power play, their coach decides he's had enough. "This isn't working," he snaps, and confers quickly with the defensive coach. "Dunbroch, you're on the power play instead of Ector, and Macintosh will be playing with you on the top pair."

Macintosh's head snaps up a few seats down, and the two of them look at one another in mutual horror and dislike. Merida wants to shout that it's the worst possible thing that he can do, but who is she to argue against her coach? She just jams her helmet back onto her head and nods grimly. "Aye, sir."

Merida nudges Macintosh with her shoulder when they go over the boards for their next shift. "We've got this," she says grimly, her tone leaving no room for argument.

For once, there's no sassy comeback. When Merida glances over her shoulder at him, his mouth is pressed in a hard, determined line. "Aye, we do."

They score twenty seconds into the shift, when Macintosh steals the puck from one of the Comets' defensemen and slides it over to Merida, who ferries it over to Lionel for the breakaway.

"That's what I'm talking about!" Lionel crows, slinging his arms over both of their shoulders for the celly. "Do us all a favor and do that again, all right?"

She glances up and meets Macintosh's eyes, and they give one another awkward, acknowledging nods as they skate back to the bench, where the rest of the team is whooping and tapping their sticks against the boards.

It happens again minutes later when they're in the Comets' zone. This time, Macintosh wrestles the puck away in the corner and Merida sees the lane open up almost right before her eyes. She pushes in hard, shaking away her cover and taps it in cleanly just over the goalie's left elbow.

Merida's too shocked to even celly and only belatedly raises her hands when Lionel crashes into her and promptly gives her a facewash, screaming the entire time. Her dazed eyes meet Macintosh's over Lionel's head and this time her nod is more genuine, and grateful. His lip curls the tiniest bit as he returns the gesture, like he's actually smiling at her.

The IceCaps take the win and Merida goes out with the team that night for drinks. There are more than a few speculative looks tossed her way when she enters the bar with the guys, but she's definitely not looking to be picked up, not tonight. It's easier to just bury herself at the back of the booth and accept drinks as the guys go round for round.

"That change-up was what we needed," Ector says admiringly. He's nothing but sincere in his praise, which is unexpected but nice. "We didn't think you and Macintosh would play so well together." He shrugs at the look Merida sends his way. "We've noticed that you don't get along. Is it a…did you two…" He wiggles his hand in the air, wincing as he does so.

She nearly sprays beer over the table, coughing up one hell of a storm. Lionel pounds on her back. "What's this?" he asks, scowling at Ector. "Try not to kill our star rookie, please."

Merida waves a hand over Ector's protests. "Tis nothing, really," she wheezes. "It's not that at all. Macintosh is…" She glances off to the side, where he seems to be doing a fairly good job of picking up. She pities the girl. "A constant pain in the arse, is what he is. Tis just the natural order of the universe." He skates by her bench with an insulting comment, she ignores him. He goes for a dirty penalty and she makes his team pay on the power play. It's simply something she's gotten used to over the years, and one good game doesn't mean that things are going to change.

"You don't mind?" Ector tips his head to the side curiously.

She snorts, covering her mouth because that sounds so terribly rude, but- "Lots of people don't like me," she points out. She's a woman, which is already one strike against her. The second strike is how good she is. The third is her father. By those reasons alone, there's going to be someone out there who doesn't like her. "And at the end of the day, it doesn't really matter so long as my teammates respect me and we play well together." The guys nod, accepting the explanation because it's true, not everyone can be expected to get along.

Her relationship – or lack thereof – with Macintosh is not ideal, but it's been the status quo for so long that she can see no way around it, really. She doesn't see it changing, but as long as she has hockey and as long as she has a shot at Montreal she'll deal.

Besides, it was one good night. It's probably a fluke.

It's not a fluke. The coaching staff puts them together on the top pairing, and every bit of ice time she has since the Comets' game is with him at her side. Macintosh seems to know what play she's running with their forwards and where she's going, and if he were anyone other than one of her teammates she'd be worried. It's a baffling turnaround, as though years of being at one another's throats and always competing has made them more cognizant of each other's playing style. They have an accord on the ice, one where they always seem to find one another, combining for points almost every single night.

Even their playing styles seem to mesh, no matter how different they appear on paper. It's a change from the status quo and Merida's not quite sure what to do with that.

"Just go with it," Mulan suggests when she calls for her weekly check-in (apparently she's taking her mentor duties very seriously, which Merida finds both touching and hilarious). "He has your back, doesn't he?"

The odd thing is, he does. It's not like they talk, because they really don't. Merida honestly cannot get over her innate suspicion of him, but slowly, ever so slowly, things begin to change between them.

The reaction to her presence in the AHL is to be expected. She faces the usual barrage of sexist taunts, the checks that are harder than they have any right to be, and the deliberate interference on the ice. She fights back through her play or the occasional fight, but where she really gets them is her language. In a league where most of the chirps are in English, French, or Russian, Merida has a tendency to chirp at her opponents in Scots. Even the most dedicated chirpers, the ones who take the time to learn insults in Czech, Finnish, or Swedish, are somewhat dazed and confused in the face of Scots.

It's a point of pride for Merida. Even though she was born in the US, not Scotland, and has a passable American accent when she's not in the presence of her family (or angry), this is a part of her heritage that she knows and uses. Even Macintosh doesn't know Scots as well as she does.

She notices all the little sideways looks when she uses Scots on the ice. It isn't long before the rumors start circulating that she's a witch and she's cursing them. At first it bothers her because if she really were a witch, she'd have better things to do than curse hockey players. But as the season goes on and the IceCaps' record gets better and better, she finds she doesn't mind it so much. If the other players are psyching themselves out over the possibility of her being a witch, then she's not going to complain.

When they play the Hershey Bears, she notices a heated conversation between Macintosh and one of their defensemen. Before she knows it, the two of them are circling, spitting insults until the referees come to separate them. Her interest piques when he refuses to catch her eye as they skate back to the bench.

She lingers in the shower, catching the threads of conversation in the locker room. "This a new trend of yours, Granny Smith? Going after guys who go after Merida?" Dagonet asks curiously. The team has been cycling through apple varieties as nicknames for Macintosh. She's grateful that all she's received so far is 'Lassie.' "You've never gone after people for talking shit about her before, and it's not like you don't call her a witch sometimes, too."

She tilts her head, intrigued. So, the Bears' defenseman must have called her a witch. Now that she thinks about it, Macintosh has been somewhat protective lately. She just hasn't noticed because she's usually the one getting in the opponent's face.

Macintosh lets out something that sounds like a growl. "She may be a witch, but she's our witch, ye ken?" he demands. "So we watch her back."

Well. That's incredibly strange, coming from someone who's been taping her gloves together up until the last week or so. She starts rustling around, making a lot of sound coming out of the shower, and when she gets back out into the locker room Macintosh is already gone.

So, in true Merida style, she confronts him. She waits until the next away trip and very pointedly takes the seat next to him. "Standing up for my honor isna exactly yer style, is it Macintosh?" she asks idly, ignoring the startled looks they're receiving.

He shifts back warily in his seat before lifting one shoulder with studied negligence. "Well, yer me partner now, aren't ye? And we play well together. Stands to reason I'd stick me neck out fer ye every once in a while."

"Do ye really expect me to believe that? When ye've had it out for me since juniors?"

"We're no in juniors now, are we?" His lower lip juts out almost petulantly.

That, more than anything, pulls her out of the simmering stew of confusion she's been swimming in since the game against the Bears. "No," Merida says slowly.

The moment drags out, leaving the two of them staring at one another. Macintosh's shoulders are up by his ears, his hands clenched in defiance. The dynamic isn't a stretch, not for them, but the context certainly is.

"Well?" Macintosh says finally.

"Well?" she parrots back. "What do ye want, Macintosh? A few good games and a fight doesna mean anything. I'll have to wait and see, won't I?"

He rolls his eyes and scoffs, reaching for his headphones and muttering something about her being a foolish woman. Merida just ignores him and settles down with her book.

All she can do is wait and see if he proves himself.

---

Mulan pulls open the door with a wide, happy grin. "Welcome home, roomie!" She hugs Merida and reaches for her suitcase. "Let's get you moved in…oh, hey boys!" she laughs, watching as the triplets come in, each loaded with a bag. "Coach! Mrs. Dunbroch!"

Merida just stands back and watches the parade, resigned. "I'm so sorry," she says to Mulan in an undertone. "I told them all I really needed to bring was clothes and linens, but they wouldna listen."

"Good thing I have a lot of storage space," is the cheerful reply. "Besides, the place can always use a bit more personality."

"Oh aye, a jumbled Chinese-Scottish personality," she snorts, taking in the delicate silk screens and the collection of fans mounted on the wall in the living room. It's not exactly how she pictured Mulan's decorating style, but it suits her all the same.

"Like I said, character." Mulan easily hefts the suitcase and takes it down the hall. "This is your place now too, you know!" she calls over her shoulder.

Elinor sheds a few tears once all the boxes and suitcases are in, which horrifies her. "Mother!" she exclaims. "Ye didna even cry when I went to St. Johns last year, and yer shedding tears when I'm in the same town?"

She dabs at her eyes. "I daresay you'll understand when you've children of yer own. 'Tis but a wee little thing, I'll get over it soon."

"My mom was exactly the same when I moved here and they've been following me around since juniors." Mulan's already unpacking Merida's kitchen gear, which is incredibly embarrassing. "Will you be staying for dinner? I can call for takeout-"

Fergus waves a hand. "Dinna worry, Mulan. We'd best be getting back so the boys can get some rest." He presses a bristly kiss to Merida's forehead. "Settle in, me girl, and I'll see ye at training camp. Make sure to visit so yer mother doesna worry so."

"I will, Da," she promises, then goes to hug her brothers (Ealair sniffles a little bit, he's always been more attached to her) and her mother.

"So…" Mulan raises an eyebrow once it's the two of them. "Takeout? Tea?"

"Tea sounds lovely," she says longingly, flopping back onto the couch. She really does not feel like unpacking just yet. "As long as it's a proper cuppa."

"Hah!" Mulan raises a box of black tea from one of Merida's boxes. "I hate to inform you, but this does not make a proper cup of tea."

She snorts. "Oh, and I suppose that wee little kettle of yers can?"

"My sweet summer child, tea is Asian. You're the ones who've messed it up by putting milk in it."

She's going to love living here.

Coach Mark elects to keep Merida and Macintosh together when they come up, and in the top four no less. The change from dominating in the AHL to defending against some of the best in the NHL is no small thing. It's apparent that they both need to bulk up, to be stronger, and to skate faster in order to make their pairing work in the show.

Some things still work though. Like when Macintosh screens the Canes' goalie and throws Phillip's rebound back to her so she can slap it in.

"Atta girl, Carrots!" he crows during the celly, provoking a howl of laughter from Phillip. Merida scowls, but doesn't punch him that hard in the gut – he did give her a very nice assist, after all.

Nicknames aside, Merida trusts him just enough to have her back when they're playing and….well, she kind of needs it.

Merida is kind of an asshole on the ice, she fully admits it. She enjoys chirping, especially because she knows she has the skills to back up her promises. Her speed and her skating are pretty much the only reason she isn't always black and blue from head to toe, just because opponents have a tendency to gun for her. She finds it so much easier to deal with the people that go after her for those reasons, rather than the fact that she's a Girl. Those guys are a special kind of asshole.

Like the winger from Detroit who asks her, "So tell me, dollface, do the curtains match the drapes?" Merida steals the puck and passes it over to Macintosh, smiles, and hauls back and punches him right in the face. When she's sent off for the misconduct, she breaks her stick in the locker room.

"You have got to do something about that anger," Mulan tells her that night. "It's one thing to let it fuel you, but it's another thing to let it control you. There are always going to be guys like that…well, hopefully not always, now that there are more and more of us coming through. But you're going to have to be able to deal with it."

"What," Merida scoffs, "Just because I'm a girl I havna the right to get angry? I should just smile and accept it and play? No, I canna accept that. I canna be like you and Regina, with yer pretty hockey."

It's easy enough to say that she can use her hockey to shut up the haters, but some days that's just not enough. Not for her. Not when the media cannot seem to see her as anything but her father's daughter rather than a hockey player in her own right.

She hears the question, posed to Macintosh of all fucking people, as she steps out of the showers: "What's it like playing with Coach Dunbroch's daughter?"

Merida's fingers clench around her towel. Anyone else, she thinks. They could have asked anyone else, but him? All she needs is one sound bite and PR is going to make her suffer for weeks just to try and turn it around.

Macintosh runs a hand through his hair, the sweat making it even curlier. "Merida is more than the coach's daughter," he says slowly. "She's me teammate, me partner, and will be one of the best defensemen in the league. So, I can tell ye it's a pleasure playing with her."

That statement hits her like a hammer to the head. It's so completely unexpected, so utterly unlike pretty much every other opinion he's had of her since day one and she's completely flummoxed. What's he going to do next, she wonders, yell at the people who put up insulting signs during warm-ups?

"He's a good guy," Lance comments beside her, making her jump.

"Is that yer doing?" Merida asks curiously, because while she's living with Mulan, Macintosh is being billeted with Lance and his family. "I never thought he'd ever have a good thing to say about me."

Lance laughs, loud and full. Macintosh glances up from the scrum, spots them looking at him, and turns red. "Look, rivalries can make idiots out of anyone. I think he's just growing up and learning what it's like to really have his partner's back."

Well. If Macintosh can grow up then so can she. She can work on not being quite so wary of him and his motivations because they're working for the same thing now and have been for the past year. So she nods, gives him a little smile, and goes to get changed.

(Macintosh does end up telling off some people for their signs at the next few games. Merida's actually a little tickled by it.)

So, the next time they all go out she buys him a drink. He glances down at the pint then back at her, his eyebrow raised. "What's this?"

"Fer being a good teammate," she replies. It's slow going, but the Habs are sitting pretty comfortably towards the top of the standings, only ten points away from the top of the Atlantic division.

"Oh." He taps his glass against hers. "Cheers. It's better than I expected, playing with ye, Dunbroch."

She smirks. "Likewise."

Two days later, she has her first real "welcome to the NHL" moment when the Caps come to town. She and Macintosh aren't given much icetime with Regina - that mostly falls to Lance and Bors. But there's a shift change and suddenly they're both out there with her, trying to break up the play. Regina stickhandles past Macintosh easily, powering up the ice like everyone else is standing still.

Merida catches up to her, knows she can keep up with her, and if she can just get in close enough, she can-

Regina laughs. "Not a chance, rookie." Then she does something absolutely ridiculous, some combination of dekes and fakeouts that has Merida twisting to try and follow her and nearly breaking her ankles in the process. It's even worse when she manages to score on Merlin.

They lose in a shootout, another victim of Regina's unbelievable skill. Merida's furious with herself as she goes through the handshake line, thinking about all the ways she should have been able to stop Regina-

A hand lands on her shoulder and it's the woman herself. "Good job tonight, rookie." Regina's so short. How did she miss that when they were playing? Out there she seems larger than life. "If we weren't flying straight out to Ottawa tonight, we'd be going out." Her eyes are dark and understanding. "Chin up, okay? You held your own tonight, no matter what you're thinking."

Her mouth opens but no sound comes out. How does she know?

"We all go through it," Regina continues. "Mulan will tell you. Trust her. And in the meantime, welcome to the NHL." She grins. "I look forward to playing you again."

"Regina is right," Mulan tells her when they're in the showers. "Don't let one game with her get you down. Honestly, we all have a Regina clause anyway, since a game against Regina is always more than just a regular game. You can't judge them by the same criteria. Hell, she still makes me feel like a rookie. I think it's her way of keeping us humble."

Merida scowls. She knows Mulan is right. Hell, she knows Regina's right too, but she still can't shake the feeling that she should have been better, especially when she knows the media will be making all the comparisons tonight and tomorrow, coming up with all the ways that she falls short.

Mulan twists her hair up in her towel and gives her a long, considering look. "I'll hitch a ride home with Phillip," she decides. "Do what you need to do, all right?"

Sometimes Merida's embarrassed at how transparent she can be, but not tonight. "Thanks, Mulan." She figures it's going to be one of those nights where Mulan not so-subtly spends the night at Phillip and Aurora's, not that she'll call her out on it simply because it's not her place to do so. If Mulan wants to tell her that she's dating their teammate and his girlfriend, then she will.

The ice at the Bell Centre is already smooth, but it takes very little persuading for the last of the arena and security staff to open the doors and let her take the Zamboni out. It's a holdover from when she was a kid and refused to go home with her mother and insisted on staying with her father after games. The maintenance guys would take pity on her and show her how the Zamboni worked. When she was old enough, they would let her drive it herself. Over the years, it's become her favorite way of working off the stress of a bad game, so she always makes a point of buttering up the staff whenever she ends up at a new place – usually with trays of her nan's shortbread.

The Bell Centre is no different, even if there's more security. Merida steers the Zamboni onto the ice, relishing the monotony, the simplicity of going back and forth, back and forth. She's not really one for meditation but here, it's easy to imagine her slate being wiped clean.

She pauses right at center ice and turns off the engine, tipping her head back to stare at the scoreboard. Even though it's been a few weeks, it's still a little hard to believe that she's finally here, and she'll do whatever she can to stay, to create her own legacy in her father's city. Montreal will be her city soon enough.

There's a quiet swish of footsteps towards her, and she cranes her neck around.

"Ye know, I'd heard rumors about a ginger being set loose on the ice at St. Johns, but I didna believe it until now."

"What're ye still doing here?" she asks, bewildered, as Macintosh hefts himself up onto the Zamboni and slings himself onto the front, lying down on his stomach so he's facing her.

He shrugs and rests his chin on his hands. "Ye only did this after really bad games in St. Johns. Wanna talk about it?"

Merida glances around to make sure she's still in the same universe. She pinches herself for good measure. "Are ye checking up on me?"

"I canna check up on me own partner?" he returns easily.

"Oh? And I suppose this is a thing we do now?" It comes from a place of curiosity more than anything else. Hating someone – especially the way she's hated him – is somewhat exhausting, not to mention unrealistic.

He grins. It's not a bad look for him, especially without the sneer. "It could be."

"Regina made me feel like an idiot, all right?" And there they are. "I should have been better. I need to be better, if I even want a chance to-"

"Stay up? They won't send ye down fer one bad game and ye know it, Dunbroch." He taps his fingers against the engine. "We'll just make sure there are no more bad ones."

She huffs. "I know that." She does, she really does. But sometimes her thoughts get a little too loud in her head and it's hard to see anything past that.

Macintosh is looking at her like he knows exactly what she's thinking. "Ye think too much, ye know that? Perhaps you should try lettin' go a little."

"What, and join the yanks of ye?" Merida scoffs.

He grins and points at her. "Ah, there she is. Now hurry up and clean the rest of the ice. Ye have to drive me home. Lance worries, ye know."

The chirping so familiar, so easy, that she relaxes. "Aye, better get on then," she says sweetly, and pulls the Zamboni forward. Macintosh squawks and scrabbles for a hold, before shimmying down next to her.

"Ye're a right pain in the arse, Dunbroch."

---

That year, Burns' Night falls during a three-day break and the Dunbrochs go all out. They haven't been able to celebrate a Burns' Night together in years and this time, the entire team is invited. Elinor uses the old family recipe for haggis and trifle, and the triplets spend a good portion of the day peeling rutabagas and potatoes for the neeps and tatties. Merida, luckily, is in charge of putting together plates of oatcakes and cheese, whilst Fergus has the most important job of all: procuring the whisky for the night's festivities.

Lance and his family are the first to arrive, of course, with Macintosh standing at the very back of the group. Gwen takes one look at Merida and turns to Lance, punching his shoulder with absolute glee. "You owe me!"

Lance and Gwen's oldest, Celia, tugs at the tartan tied over Merida's skirts. "Why is your pattern different from Eoghan's?"

Merida ushers them both to the side so everyone can come in, and crouches down so that she's at the same level. "Well, that's because this pattern here represents me own clan of Dunbroch, whilst Macintosh's is specific to his clan. In Scotland, each clan has their own special tartan as a way of showing their identity."

"Do we have a pattern, Daddy?" Celia asks, turning to her father.

He chuckles. "Baby girl, we're about as New World as you can get. But with a name like Dulac, we probably have a coat of arms."

"What's a coat of arms?"

Ruaridh spirits away their coats, whilst Ninian leads them to the kitchen over excited exclamations about his outfit ("You're not going…ah…full Scottish, are you?" Merida hears Lance inquire.).

Macintosh sniffs the air, his eyes lighting up. "Peat?" he inquires, smoothing out his kilt.

"Well, we couldn't have tonight without it!"

"It smells like home."

She has to agree. There's nothing like the warm, smoky scent of peat on a cold winter's night, especially the nights they get here. Merida grins at him. "So ye're to lead the 'Toast to the Lassies,' eh? I hope ye're ready to be slaughtered."

"How can you be so mean, when all I intend to say are good things?" he returns. "Ye know Robert Burns had nothing but love for women."

The doorbell rings again, and she shoos him off to the kitchen as more and more teammates arrive. It's a tight squeeze, but the Dunbroch house is well suited for the challenge.

Ealair starts the festivities off in grand style, marching in and playing "Ae Fond Kiss" on his bagpipes. More than a few kids clap their hands over their ears, but everyone else is delighted as he makes a circuit from the living room, the dining room, the kitchen, and back. Aurora clutches at Merida's sleeve. "I can't believe one of you can actually play!" she exclaims, her eyes shining.

"Aye, it always falls on someone to learn! Luckily, Ealair volunteered!"

As the song fades out and the applause dies down, Elinor clears her throat and a hush falls over the gathering. "Thank you, everyone, for joining us tonight on this most Scottish of nights. People all over the world are gathered tonight to honor the memory and works of the poet Robert Burns." She goes on to briefly outline his life and his accomplishments, finishing with a recitation of "A Red, Red Rose." The words take on a life of their own through her strong, clear voice, and everyone is left spellbound. Everyone raises their glasses at her prodding, and toasts to the immortal memory of Robert Burns.

Not to be outdone, Fergus parades out of the kitchen, bearing a platter of haggis. An interested, worried mumble goes up from the crowd, which Merida and the triplets take as their cue to start topping up glasses. Merlin catches Merida as she passes by, his eyebrows raised in speculation. "What's in haggis again?"

Macintosh chuckles. "Never ye mind, Merlin. All ye need to know is 'tis delicious."

Once all the glasses are full – whisky for those drinking, and Irn Bru for those not – Fergus steps up for the Address to a Haggis. He's such a handsome sight in his tartan, and his cheeks are already rosy red from the festivities. "Now, for all ye who don't speak Scots," he thunders, then pauses, chuckling. "I say ye Google it later, an' just listen t'me fer now. Haggis is a dish dear to our hearts and Mr. Burns wrote the most wonderful ode, so we say it before we serve it." He takes a deep breath, and launches in."Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, / Great chieftain o the puddin'-race! / Aboon them a ye tak your place, / Painch, tripe, or thairm: / Weel are ye worthy o'a grace / As lang's my arm."

With the last line ("But, if ye wish her gratefu prayer, / Gie her a Haggis!"), he brandishes his dirk high over his head and plunges it into the haggis, provoking more than a few squeals of delight from the children.

Plates of haggis and neeps and tatties come out and are devoured, and everyone is slightly sly on the subject of what is in the haggis – but it's so delicious no one even wants to question it. "Never tell me," Lance tells Merida as he slices himself another portion of it. "Otherwise I'll probably start crying."

She places a finger over her lips and winks. "I'll never tell a soul," she promises. "Besides, Ma has yet to pass on the recipe to me, so even I dinna know exactly what's in it."

Once the dishes are cleared, Macintosh stands up to give the "Toast to the Lassies," and it's at turns wry, witty, and surprisingly gallant. He has also clearly done his research: "But Burns knew what it was to love a lassie, as he said: But to see her was to love her; / Love but her, and love for ever. And I know that for many amongst ye here, ye know how that is." Around the room, couples are grinning and smiling at one another, and Merida spies the way Phillip, Aurora, and Mulan are very discreetly holding hands. "Therefore I ask all ye to please raise your glasses, and toast the lassies!"

He very clearly raises his glass in her direction, and Merida gives a little curtsy as she steps up. "It will be hard to follow that, but I shall try," she says, and launches into a toast that is equally affectionate and teasing in its roast of the men. She is, after all, delivering this to a hockey team. "But, I must admit, life would be a wee bit drearier without ye! And so I leave the last of this to Mr. Burns himself, who said: We will big a wee, wee house, / And we will live like king and queen. So let us raise our glasses one more time and give a toast to the laddies!"

This time, she raises her glass to Macintosh, laughing out loud as he bows in his seat towards her. Ealair takes up the bagpipes again, space is cleared for dancing, and the cèilidh goes on and on into the night.

---

Merida's new and strange camaraderie with Macintosh continues into the next season, though they don't end up playing together for the first few months. Bors goes out with a broken ankle, leaving Merida to take his place on the top pair with Lance.

It doesn't take her long to figure out the difference between getting advice from Lance and watching him play, and actually being there on the ice with him. Sure, both she and Macintosh had their moments swapping out last year, but it's one thing to play 26 minutes for one game in every twenty as opposed to every single game for three months.

"Gotta keep up, Dunbroch!" Lance shouts at her on the ice.

"I got him!" she yells back, pushing herself despite the fact that her thighs are burning, and there's still one more period to play.

She doesn't have him, and the Habs lose to the Isles, 4-1. They're off to New Jersey next, so she can't even try and see if she can talk someone into letting her take the Zamboni around.

Instead, her father finds her in one of the training rooms once the media have cleared out. Fergus settles into the chair beside the examining table, his frame still so large and strong even after all these years. "What can I do, m'girl?" he asks softly.

She sighs and hangs her head. It's hard not to feel like a failure, blinking into those bright lights and having to explain herself and everything that went wrong tonight. All the media training in the world doesn't make interviews like that any easier, and there is no circus quite like the one in Montreal – even when you're not in Montreal. "I don't know, Da. Maybe tell me I'm not screwing up?"

He chuckles. "Ye most certainly are not screwing up, darling girl. Ye're just determined to do everything, which is no bad thing, but ye also want to do it as quickly as possible."

"Because I can help," she insists.

"Aye, lass, ye can, and everyone in this organization knows it, else ye wouldna be here. It's a hard lesson and we all learn it, but one person alone canna turn around the whole team. " He grins. "Not even me."

That makes her laugh, exactly as he intended. "So what do I do?"

"Keep learning. Keep pushing. Keep playing, because Merida-" Fergus places his hand on her knee and squeezes, smiling broadly. "This is where ye belong, and ye know it."

Merida smiles. Trust her dad to put everything into perspective. She's never been able to resent him – or if she has, the feeling fled quickly. No one understands her better, and no one supports her the way that he does. Sure, it might have been an easier go for her with pretty much any other team in the league, but she can't imagine being anywhere else. This is a journey she wants to share with him. "I know, Da."

He ruffles her hair. "Come now, lass. Let's go. And call yer mother, ye know she worries."

Professional hockey is not the life Elinor Dunbroch would have chosen for her daughter. If she had her way, Merida would be in college right now, studying to become a doctor or something equally respectable and stable. But she never stood in her way, not when she realized Merida was willing to work for that dream. And next to Fergus, she's Merida's biggest fan and source of support.

So it's a relief to see her face, even over the spotty Facetime connection. "Hullo, Mum."

"Dear girl." Elinor's in the kitchen, no doubt making her customary pot of tea. Ninian is sitting at the kitchen table finishing his homework, but the other two are missing, probably playing NHL16 in the basement. "What can I do fer ye?"

Merida lets out a laugh. "Well, a cuppa would be nice. Ye know there's no making a proper one in a hotel. Or Starbucks." The first and last time she'd ordered tea there she'd scorched her tongue. Tea should never be served at that temperature.

"Well and ye know I would make ye one if I could."

She sighs and pushes her hair back. It's grown even longer and more unruly this season, so much so that she rarely bothers to tie it up anymore because it escapes everywhere. "I'm doing me absolute best, Mum."

"And sometimes that's all ye can do, love. Ye know it takes time to adjust to a new partner, even one so good as Lance." She smiles fondly as she pours the tea into four mugs. "Lord knows ye've never chosen the easy path in life, but that's how I know ye'll succeed."

God, she hopes so.

The next game is against her father's former team, where his number hangs in the rafters as a reminder of his illustrious career there. They have to win this one for him, Merida's determined.

Macintosh taps at her shinpads with his stick before they exit the locker room. "I know ye miss me, Carrots, but that's no excuse for shoddy playing," he teases, dark eyes glinting with humor. "Tis hard to find another partner as good, aye?"

She rolls her eyes. "Oh, go and deflate that head o'yers, I'm perfectly fine without ye." Granted, she's missed how easily she can read him and how well they've grown to match one another on the ice, but she's playing with Lance now, not him, and she has to adjust.

"Oh? Ye best prove it, then." He smirks and boy doesn't that just get her. She's all but thrumming with annoyance and anticipation as they skate out for the national anthem. She's restless, always moving, feeling like she's about to explode.

"You okay?" Mulan asks under her breath as they prepare for the face-off. "You seem…"

"Twitchy?" Merida asks.

She looks at her carefully, then shakes her head with a small grin. "No. You look ready. Go get 'em."

Is that what that feeling is? Merida wonders as she skates away. This bubbling tension, this utter focus and determination?

"This ain't your daddy's house any longer, witch," her opponent drawls.

Her lips peel back from her teeth, half snarl and half grin. "Perhaps not," she replies, and when she meets his eyes he blanches. "But tonight, it's mine."

She proves her words true only minutes later, battling hard for the puck in the corner. She has her guy up against the boards, kicks out the puck with her skate and pivots hard for the net. One stride, then two, and she bats it in, glove side.

"That's it, baby!" Lance roars in her ear, jumping on her for the celly. "That's how you do it!"

Then she intercepts a pass and speeds up the ice, drawing the goalie out to her and passing the puck over to Mulan, who absolutely buries the shot.

She makes her second shot of the night by screening the Devils' goalie and taking the rebound that bounces off his blocker. "What was that ye said about shoddy playing?" she asks Macintosh after the game, oozing smugness.

"Lit a fire under yer arse, didn't it?" he asks and she blinks. Well hell. It looks like he definitely knows how to push her buttons. He laughs at her befuddled expression. "Ye knew ye could do it, Carrots. 'Twas only a matter of time."

From there, the only way to go is up. The Habs rise steadily through the ranks of the Atlantic division until January, when they face down the Bruins at the Winter Classic. The winner of that game wins the first spot in the division, which lends even more pressure to already loaded game. The Montreal-Boston rivalry is legendary within the annals of professional hockey, and this game is no different.

Except this time, Montreal's coming for the win. They'd lost their last game to the Bruins, and on home ice, no less. They're looking for some payback now, knowing the victory will be even sweeter because it's in front of hundreds of Boston fans.

"Did you see the comments from Ruby and Emma?" Mulan asks as the bus makes its way to Gillette Stadium. She hands her phone over so Merida can see her Twitter feed.

preds_shewolf Don't know who to cheer for today my hometown Bruins or my girls mulanhua gingermerida

RealEmmaSwan Habs or Bruins? Never thought that would be hard for a Boston girl like me!

Merida laughs. "We'll make it easy for them. Let's light it up, eh?"

Mulan knocks her head against hers. "That's a promise."

The Winter Classic is the first game where she and Macintosh are together as a pair once more, and Merida would be lying if she said she wasn't looking forward to it. She's learned so much from Lance and playing with him has been an unbelievable experience, but…Macintosh is her partner now, for better or for worse.

Macintosh extends his glove out to her before they head down the tunnel, out to where she can already hear the boos directed their way. "We're back."

She taps him back. "Damn right we are."

The atmosphere is exhilarating. Once the cold air hits her face she can't see anything but the ice, and the boos just melt into one all-encompassing roar in her ears. Tears rise to her eyes during both national anthems and she feels it again, that inexplicable tension that brings with it the knowledge that yes, this is going to be a good game.

The sky overhead is grey and heavy with clouds as the teams assemble for opening faceoff. Just as the puck drops, fat, white flurries begin in drift down. Merida holds her glove out in delight, catching snowflakes in her palm. "Now that's what I call an outdoor game," she proclaims.

Her father's hand drops to her shoulder briefly and she twists around to smile at him. He taught her how to play this game, this maddening, joyful, brilliant game, on a day much like this. From the look in his eyes, he remembers it too.

He doesn't need to worry about a thing. They're bringing the win today, she can feel it in her bones.

Mulan opens up the scoring in a move that proves just why she's the Habs' top line center, taking a feed from Lance and stickhandling the puck through the legs of one of the Bruins' defensemen while staying ahead of the other. She fakes the high shot and switches, easy as you please, to knock it in five-hole.

The Habs' bench erupts. "Fucking beautiful goal, Mulan!" she bellows as Mulan skates by for fistbumps.

Because it's Boston, the game is faster, a little dirtier. Merida loves it because she's usually fast enough that she can get out of the way before the hits connect, leaving her opponent cursing in her wake. "Aw, cheer up, laddie!" she says with false sympathy to a Bruins rookie who just tried to slam her into the boards. "Ye may be able to catch up in, oh, ten years or so." She cackles as she skates off.

Her laughter is short-lived when hands grab at her, pulling at her hair so hard she's yanked right off her skates and onto her back. She's more surprised than anything else, but her scalp is on fire because it's been years since anyone's had the audacity to pull her hair.

The crowd is roaring and when Merida blinks again, one of the linesman and Merlin fill her vision. "Merida!" Merlin shouts through his mask, his face scrunched up in concern. "Are you all right?"

She allows them to pull her to a seated position, then the linesman is off. "I'm fine, I didn't hit me head." Judging by the sounds behind her, there's definitely a fight. "Please tell me it's not as bad as it sounds."

Merlin's eyes flash angrily. "It's exactly as bad as it sounds. That was fucking scary, Merida."

"Oh, don't ye start," she groans as some of the trainers come over and help her to her feet. When she glances over, most of the fight is already broken up. Macintosh's helmet is lying on the ice, and he's bleeding from cuts above his eye and on his lip, his knuckles bloodied. Gawain and Galahad are holding Kay back as he curses every Bruins' players' lineage back three hundred years, which would be funny if it weren't for the fact that their faces are set and murderous. Lance is over the boards, furiously negotiating with the referee.

"Back to the bench with you, Dunbroch, we want to check you over," one of the trainers tells her.

"I'm fine," Merida insists. "Me arse hit the ice, not me head. Ye can check me when the period's over, there's only seven minutes left and ye cannot keep me off the ice." She shifts her gaze over to her teammates. "Back to the bench with ye, all of ye!" she shouts. "I'm fine."

Lance doesn't take his eyes off the referee, just points back to the bench like the team dad he is. When she gets there, her own father's face is pinched and tight. "All right?" he grunts, and she's not offended. She knows her father is keeping a tight rein on his temper, otherwise he'd be howling.

"I'm fine, Da," she insists. She takes a breath and feels the way the fire lights under her skin. "Just put me back in, I want the puck."

He looks her at her, long and hard, before he nods. "All right."

The player who pulled her hair gets two majors and is sent off for a game misconduct. Macintosh gets one major, leaving both teams with a four-on-four for the first five minutes.

True to his word, her father puts her on a shift with Galahad, Gawain, and Kay, rather than substituting Bors. "Get me the goddamn puck, boys!" she shouts as she goes over the boards and they do, every single time.

Gawain slides her a sweet little pass while she's out at the point and she takes it in, angling her hips like she's going to pass to Kay, who's streaking in towards the crease. Instead, with her body angled like she's passing, she fires off the shot, whistling in high over the goalie's shoulder as he turns to anticipate Kay.

"Fucking right!" she screams as the boys slam into from all sides. She makes sure to skate by the penalty box and tap her stick against the glass for Macintosh. He's on his feet and sends her a jaunty little salute in response. His little smile sends a wave of butterflies through her stomach and well, that's certainly new.

During the intermission, the trainers have her in the same room as Macintosh as they check them both over. They mostly sit in silence as the trainers fuss, but Merida's gaze keeps straying over to where he's sitting on the opposite table, scowling as the cut over his eye is stitched. It's funny, she thinks, how far they've come, from fighting each other to fighting for one another. "Can ye give us a minute?" she asks once everything is finished up.

Macintosh raises an eyebrow at her once the room clears. "Goin' to ream me out fer fighting that idjit over ye, Dunbroch? If ye are, then I'm not gonna listen."

"Don't be ridiculous," she scoffs, jumping off her table and coming over to stand in front of him. "'Tis nothing I wouldn't do fer ye." She says the last bit almost contemplatively, trying to figure out the puzzle in front of her.

He cocks his head to the side, dark eyes considering. "Is that what's had ye so quiet?" he asks, a little amused and perhaps, a little hurt. That in and of itself says more than just about anything else he could possibly do. "We havna been enemies fer years now."

"Ye think I don't know that?" Merida asks, noticing that he's split his lip again. "Now look what ye've done. Moron." She grabs for the bottle of antibiotic ointment and a cotton ball. "Don't complain," she warns as she presses the cotton ball to his lip.

Macintosh rolls his eyes at her, hissing a little bit at the sting.

It takes Merida a good moment or two to realize how intimate the moment is. She's standing between his legs with her fingers pressed to his lips with naught but a small wad of cotton between them. She's always known that he was bigger than her, but it's never been clearer until now, when she's faced with him in nothing but his pants and socks. Blue tattoos swirl over his shoulders and upper arms, like the Picts of old, enhancing just how solidly he is built.

She wants to touch, she realizes. To trail her fingers along those curls of blue, to test his strength. She doesn't even know her other hand's fallen to his thigh until she feels the fabric of his pants beneath her fingers

He lets out a low, shuddering breath, and out of the corners of her eyes she can see his own fingers curling around the edge of the table. "What are ye doing, Merida?" It's the first time he's said her name.

She's been staring at his lips, but when she lifts her eyes to his she's not surprised to find how dark they are. Partners, she thinks. Except now there's the possibility of them being so off the ice as well. The thought of it is new, exciting, and a little heady. "Just considering the possibilities. Nothing ye need to worry about," she continues, stepping back and dropping the cotton ball into the trash.

A bark of laughter follows her towards the door. "Who says I'm worried?" When she looks over her shoulder at him, his smile is soft. Admiring. And a little challenging, but then again, that's their relationship through and through. "I'm willing to wait. After all, Gilbert Blythe gets the girl in the end."

And oh, if it's a challenge he wants, a challenge he will get. "Keep dreaming, laddie." But she grins at him as she walks out.

The Habs beat the Bruins, 5-2. Two of those goals are Merida's, which put her firmly in the spotlight during the media scrum.

"Can you tell us your opinion on the game misconduct?"

She shrugs. "Tis not the first time I've had me hair pulled, though it hasna happened since juniors. I was a wee bit surprised, but not hurt."

"How did your father react? Surely he didn't like it."

She gives the reporter a bit of a side-eye, as he so deserves. "Aye, no more than he likes any of his players taking a hit like that. He asked if I was all right to play and I told him to put me in. He trusts me." It's so important to convey that she's more than just her father's daughter, and it feels like she's taken big steps towards that today, because the other reporters press forward and don't even linger over the subject.

"You came right back after that to score a goal."

She chuckles. "Oh, I certainly wanted a wee bit of me own back, 'tis certain. But I also wanted to get one fer Macintosh, since he stood up fer me." She sees him startle a little bit, just beyond the press of journalists and cameras.

"The Canadiens are now sitting on top of the Atlantic division. How are you feeling about that?"

Merida glances around the room, at her father standing in the doorway with the assistant coaches, his beard bright against the white leather jacket. At Mulan, sitting in her own little junket, as focused and intent as she is on the ice as she answers questions. Of Merlin, sitting in his stall and laughing as Lance tells a joke. And Macintosh, sitting just a stall away. Her partner. "I feel like…the future is bright."

---

Please review!

The Habs go on to win the Stanley Cup that season.

Well, this is certainly long overdue. Many, many thanks to InitialA and KaviLeighanna for helping me through the rough patches, and to lawgeeks the wonder beta!

Burns' Night is one of my favorite occasions and hands down one of the best formals I ever went to. Also, haggis is freaking delicious. Trust me on this. Also, please tell me someone else has noticed the Merida/Macintosh and Anne Shirley/Gilbert Blythe parallels.

On pronunciation: Eoghan (Owen), Ruaridh (Rury), Ealair (Hee-lair).

As always, I'm on tumblr at: somanyfandomssolittletime.