It was cold out even for a winter in California, and his knees were beginning to ache in the crouch, but the Sharks' captain filtered all of that out the way he filtered out the score or the noise of an opposing crowd. Patrick Marleau was a man on a mission, and he wasn't about to let any stiff knees or cold win (or allergies from the juniper bushes he was hidden behind, or itchiness from the pine needles in his hair) get in his way.

He watched intently as the last two stragglers from that night's game left the arena, chatting as they walked side-by-side to their cars. Marleau had parked out in back with the season ticket holders, so that it appeared as if the players' lot was empty except for Joe's Wrangler and Cheechoo's BMW.

"...good tonight," Marleau heard Thornton say as they drifted within earshot. The big man grinned in the dimly lit night. "Hope we meet them in the playoffs, you could set a new record. Seriously, did Bryzgalov sleep with your mom or something?"

Cheechoo smiled, slow and lazy, leaning back against the trunk of his car. "You tell me, you're the one who was skating around like a maniac out there, feeding me a million passes." His grin turned teasing. "Seriously, did Bryzgalov sleep with your boyfriend or something?"

Marleau, who'd been dangerously close to dozing off in the nest of fallen leaves and pine needles, felt his ears prick and his attention refocus on his teammates.

"Better not have," Thornton was saying, stepping into Cheechoo's body with a smirk and bracing a hand on the trunk on either side of him. "Or someone's in trouble, and I'm not even sure who."

Marleau's eyebrows were twin arches of surprise high on his forehead.

Cheechoo flashed a grin, teeth a gleaming white promise in the lamplight. "Bet I could find a way to get out of it even if it was me," he said.

On-ice chemistry, my ass, Marleau thought, remembering Thornton's response when he'd asked the former captain what his secret was. Technically he supposed Joe hadn't lied, but the off-ice chemistry seemed equally important. Then again, when he'd talked about compatible styles of play, Marleau thought he'd maybe detected a hint of slyness in Joe's smile, but hadn't known what it might mean.

Marleau's thoughts had taken him away from his spying, and when he looked up again things had progressed well past banter. Cheechoo's shirt was hanging off one arm, Thornton's mouth on his neck, and there was a hand in the wrong (or right) pair of pants. That was all Marleau saw (and more than he wanted to) as he snuck out of the lot and made his way around the arena to his car.

Bernier was in his kitchen stirring something that smelled a little like heaven. He turned when he heard the door, smiling a greeting.

"'Ey," he said in his deep accent, "Christina say she is out with friends tonight, so I think I make some cooking." He paused and corrected himself. "Do some cooking. You hungry?"

"Later," Marleau said, easing the spoon out of Bernier's hand and dropping it carelessly back into the pot. "I've got a new move I want to show you first."

Bernier's eyes lit up, and he followed willingly as Marleau lead him down the hall. "Is real good move?" he asked.

"Oh, yeah," Marleau said, pulling him along. "Really good." He stopped and grinned. "In fact, you could say it's guaranteed to score."

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