Chapter Text
In the end, Marly does buy the shirt. Well, okay, not the shirt from the airport. What he buys in the end isn’t a crop top. It’s a men’s extra large black t-shirt with block white lettering. He has it made to order, printed up with the very same slogan stamped across the front. But he does still buy it. After two chaotic but ultimately very helpful nights out at a bar in Ottawa with all the PWHL players present at camp. Plus some additional support via text from one Leah Campbell, the most patient and least intimidating of his unofficial advice committee, he buys the shirt.
Then he posts it to Roz and tries not to fret too much about whether he’s done the right thing. Tries and fails mostly but what can you do. Its not like he can go wrestle the parcel back out of the hands of Canada Post. Its too late to back out now. Even if its been a whole week already and he’s had no response at all from north of the border.
He is about to pull out one of his many pre-prepared rice dishes when his phone vibrates, the noise high and shrill against his marble countertop. Marly snatches it up. Happy, honestly, for a distraction from facing down the same meal he’s eaten more times than he cares to think about. Leaning up against his kitchen cabinets, Marly glances down to see Leah has sent him a link with no accompanying explanation.
Fingers tapping against the countertop, he pulls up the text thread and opens the link.
A video of Roz in front of a post-game media scrum fills the screen and all other thoughts flee his brain.
Because Rozy is wearing the shirt. He’s wearing the fucking shirt.
He’s standing there, swarmed by reporters, wearing a shirt that says ‘My Husband Knows More About Hockey Than Yours’ and grinning like he’s just won a medal at the fucking Olympics.
Marly bites his lip to contain his grin and hits play.
[Video begins]
The media are at a fever pitch immediately, all shouting over each other, much as Harris is trying to re-install some semblance of order.
“Okay, okay, yes, thank you,” Harris says. “We will be taking questions now about the game and only about the game.”
As soon as Harris stops speaking, the reporters descend once more into overlapping chaos.
“Mr Rozanov, can you comment on your choice of attire tonight?”
“How does your husband feel about your new-”
“What has brought on this change to your post-game-”
“Whats the thinking behind your choice to wear this outfit today and what-”
“Okay, yes, yes,” Roz holds up a hand, barely supressing a grin. “One question at a time, okay? I cannot answer if you do not let me speak and I see you are all very keen to have me answer questions today in particular. So one at a time, yes?”
There’s a moment of tense silence then Harris gestures to a reporter near the front of the crush.
“Mr Rozanov, do you think as an athlete with a large following, you are being sufficiently professional in your approach to the game?”
“Ah, yes, thank you, is good question. I have been considering this and you are right. Is very unprofessional to be doing so many interviews shirtless, yes? Perhaps is not a good look. So I have decided I will be wearing new t-shirt instead. Is better choice, much more appropriate, more professional for media, yes?”
Harris only sighs, apparently unsurprised by this turn of events. “Questions about the game only please,” he says again, voice strained.
“But have you considered the message you are sending, Mr Rozanov?”
“Yes, of course,” Roz says. “I have considered very carefully. Is accurate message, no? Very accurate. True in all circumstances, yes? Is why I am wearing it now. Would not want to be responsible for spreading false media narratives.”
“Ah, yes,” another reporter tries, “but the slogan is- Well, as the only married couple in the NHL, do you think a t-shirt with this slogan is really appropriate? You are, after all, at work.”
Roz shrugs, his lip twitching. “Yes. As only person married to Shane Hollander, I think is very appropriate.”
“I, well, yes, I’m not doubting Shane Hollander’s grasp of hockey, its just that-”
“Ah yes, my husband, he has very firm grasp so is appropriate, yes? Is-”
Roz is interrupted by a cough from Harris and a very meaningful glance. Rozy loses his battle to keep a straight face and just beams at the nearest camera. Harris grabs him by the arm and begins to lead him away from the journalists, calling over his shoulder that media is officially done for the day. The noise spikes as all the reporters protest at once, then the video cuts.
[Video ends]
Marly pinches the bridge of his nose and dissolves into giggles, all alone in his empty kitchen. “Oh my fucking God Rozy. Only you dude, only you.”
He grabs his phone again and fires off a text to Roz, still buzzing with relief and grinning like a fool.
Marly: Looks like you didn’t hate the shirt then?
Roz: Marly you are idiot
Roz: Hate the shirt?
Roz: I will have them bury me in it
Roz: I am wearing this for every interview now
Roz: If Roger Crowell kicks me out of the league for this it will be your fault
He slumps down into a chair and rests his forehead against the cool glass of the table top.
Well, thank fuck for that then.
He sits up again and lets out a long breath, a smile stretching wide across his face. Thank fuck for that.
Marly snaps a quick screenshot of the texts and sends it to Leah.
Marly: [screenshot of text conversation with Roz]
Marly: Well that’s one thing I didn’t fuck up at least
Leah wastes no time in getting back to him.
Leah: Of course not. We did tell you 🙄
Leah: [photo]
He taps on the picture and is confronted with the grinning faces of three of the PHWL players he met at camp. They are standing together in their home locker room. All wearing full gear along with expressions that somehow manage to be very patronising and genuinely proud at the same time. The women are holding a large sign between them. A sign which reads ‘Boston’s Greatest Ally’ in sparkly pink lettering.
Okay, so, it looks like he is never living down asking for help with this.
At least its been more than fucking worth it.
His phone vibrates again. Marly gives up on dinner for the moment. He walks through to his living room and drops down onto the couch. Splays out his limbs, props up his ankle that’s still aching from a bad check and only then taps through to see what else Leah has in store for him.
Leah: Also you remember Harri?
Harri. Yes, of course he remembers Harri. Not someone he’s likely to forget.
She’d been nearly as tall as him in her boots and leather jacket. All sharp hand gestures and a sharper grin. Her bright eyes, edged with just a touch of makeup, had nailed him to the wall as she told him he ‘better not fucking forget all our little lessons, yeah?’ He had nodded, knowing they were all ribbing him a bit but wanting to look serious anyway. Then she’d bought him too many shots and trashed him at darts. Her laugh loud in the crowded bar as she’d squeezed his shoulder and told him not to worry, he was only a male athlete after all. He couldn’t be expected to win at everything, now could he?
Leah: Well, Harri says to tell you that she broke up with her girl and that the correct approach to finding out if a woman is also into guys is to ask, not just assume.
Before he has time to gather any coherent thoughts at all, there are two more messages waiting for him. One is Harri’s phone number. The other reads simply ‘Don’t mess this up dumbass’
Well, fuck.
He exits out of the text thread with Leah and pulls up his chat with Rozy instead.
Marly: [link to Harri’s instagram ]
Marly: So...
Marly: Got any advice for dating a hockey player Rozy?
He barely has time to set his phone down before its already ringing. He swipes to accept Roz’s call and delighted laughter echoes loud through his tinny phone speakers.
Marly presses the phone to his ear and grins.