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Looking back, of course it was obvious. Marlow felt both annoyed that he hadn’t realized it earlier, and generally appalled that nobody else on the team seemed to catch on at all.
Roz had always been obsessed with Shane Hollander. Half the hockey world was. The squeaky clean boy next door had a vicious shot, unparalleled speed, and about a million endorsements. But his best friend and eventual captain had a special focus for Shane that he didn’t give to anyone else in the sport. Not even Scott Hunter, who also seemed to hover on the top of his shit list.
The way he talked about Hollander was practically filthy, and the way he looked at him was even worse. Predatory. Creepy. Whenever the guy came on the TV Roz had something absolutely insane to say about him, and when they were in the same city it got X rated. When Shane Hollander showed up, everything else disappeared. Every face-off was like soft core porn. He even skated by the box to chirp at the guy when he wasn’t playing. Who does that?!
But Ilya was European, and English wasn’t his first language, and everybody knew that the only people crazier about hockey than Canadians were Russians.
Ilya was also loud, and demonstrative. He touched Cliff and the other guys on the team freely, clapping their shoulders almost violently sometimes, hanging off of them for pictures, leaning on them even when he hadn’t been drinking heavily. Ilya seemed to crave physical touch everywhere. When they went out to clubs and bars, he had at least one but usually two or three girls in his arms, sitting in his lap, draped over him like the world’s most exquisite and ever-changing wardrobe.
And he fucked women, of course. In the early days he snuck girls into the hotel during away games, and he had throngs of beautiful women in his seats at their home games. He didn’t share details like some of the other guys did. Cliff was pretty sure that his habitual respect for his sexual partners was probably a big part of why he had so many. A tactic that worked for him as soon as he started to copy his new friend. But the girls didn’t always share Ilya’s discretion, so over the years he’d heard things.
Having showered with the guy, he of course knew that Roz wasn’t lacking in the dick department. But he’d also known a lot of men who had that kind of gift and thought it was all they needed in the bedroom. According to various first-hand accounts, that wasn’t Roz’s style. One notable tabloid had called him the Kremlin of Cunnilingus.
The other Bears had teased him about it relentlessly while he blushed (Russians do so blush) and laughed and told them that it was a stupid nickname. “Is like being called White House of Wet Dreams. Makes no sense.”
He even had good girl advice for the rookies, later on. Many times Cliff would come into the locker room to find Roz holding court with some poor young man seeking wisdom from the master.
“You have to make her comfortable!” He was telling a particularly bone headed hayseed after practice one day.
“You are big, strong man, women like it, yes. But she doesn’t know you. You could be monster, do you know what I’m saying?”
The rookie’s eyes got big, “I would never.. I have never…” he stammered
“You are virgin, yes, I know. She does not. Pay attention.”
The rookie nodded, looking abashed and a little bit embarrassed.
“First of all, respect her space” Ilya went on and his voice faded out as Cliff got in the showers. When he got back out, their Captain was still sitting there, unshowered, continuing to game-plan the hayseed’s upcoming first date.
He was pretty sure the girl in that particular instance went on to be that rookie’s wife. They were happily married in the middle of nowhere with a bucket full of kids. He guessed the tutoring had paid off.
And Cliff wasn’t an idiot, at least he thought he wasn’t. He knew that bisexual people existed. Hell, he had a bisexual niece. He’d had bisexual girlfriends, he had lots of fun with his bisexual girlfriends. And their girlfriends.
The truth is that Marlow understood bisexual women, he understood lesbians. What’s not to get about being attracted to women? But men were big, stupid, smelly, rude and did he mention stupid?
Not for the first time since he realized this thing with Rozanov and Hollander was more than just a rivalry, Cliff Marlow thought to himself “is this straight privilege?”
If it was, he figured that deeper contemplation on that subject was probably outside of his mental abilities. Especially considering that he didn’t even put the pieces together until after Rose Landry.
Sometime in November, Roz’s downright erotic descriptions of what he wanted to do to Shane whenever his name came up suddenly stopped. Cliff would even try to rile him up, but nothing worked.
By January, the Russian was in an epic funk and the fact that he came from a frozen land of deep tradition, mystic enigmas, and faded glory clung to him like a bearskin cloak. He did everything with the air of a dethroned emperor, his bulk never more obvious than when he was hunched in on himself and sprawled across every surface, indolent and silent.
Rookies scattered like scared rabbits when he came in from the rink. Even some of the more seasoned players were afraid to look him in the eye.
Finally, Cliff broke. After Ilya threw a tantrum in the team gym and the poor gym attendant had to clean up the full water bottle he threw at the wall like a petulant child, he followed him into the locker room. “What is your fucking problem, Roz? You’ve been depressed or something for weeks now. Some girl finally dump you before you dumped her?”
And he saw the moment he was right… or mostly right.
“Fuck you Marly” but the insult was half-hearted at best. The only thing Roz did with energy at that time was play hockey, and he did that with a single-minded intensity that made him even more terrifying.
“Rozy, dude. There’s no way she’s worth this, my guy. You’re the clit kremlin or whatever.”
That got half a smile from his captain. “Kremlin of Cunnilingus” he said, pointing in the air with a lazy finger, then pointing down to himself.
Roz stared at the floor so long Cliff thought that was the end of it until he sighed heavily and mumbled “I think I will be sad forever, Marly.”
Marly had been dumped enough times to know how that felt. He sat next to Ilya and put a hand on his shoulder, slumped sideways as he was, he had to lean most of his body across the other man to get there. “It’s okay buddy,” He said as he absently patted his friend. “You’ll get over it.”
Which is what he thought was happening later that week in Montreal when Ilya announced they were going to a club. “Like old times!” He’d yelled in the cab with him, Carmichael, and Vic. Which was when Cliff realized that they hadn’t gone out after a Montreal game in years. Because Ilya had a regular hook up in Montreal. One that made him blush. Or at least he used to have one.
Cliff tried to be a good friend, he did. Once they got to the club, he made sure his boy was snuggled up with a hot blond before he found his own girl of the night. When he didn’t see Ilya anywhere after a few minutes, he assumed he’d gone home with option number one, and allowed himself to become thoroughly distracted for the rest of the night.
The next day on the plane, Cliff found his captain equally exhausted looking and wanted to revel in the shared joy of a successful hook up. Except that Ilya looked exhausted and sad.
“Still not over Montreal Girl?” He asked casually
“What girl? There is no girl in Montreal” Ilya’s tone was strained and awkward for some reason.
“Don’t be weird, bro.” Cliff answered slowly, trying to figure out if this was an extension of the sulking Russian royal, or a new strange personality the team would have to tip toe around.
Right.” Ilya looked around the plane as casually as he could. “Is nothing. I’m over it. Completely.”
“Dude,” Cliff soothed “It’s okay to not be a player all the time. I know you’re not used to being dumped.”
”Who says I was dumped? No one dumps me. I do not get dumped. I am the dumper.”
Cliff rolled his eyes and put his hand on Ilya’s leg, just as Ryan Carmichael stuck his big stupid head over the back of the seats in front of them and said loud as hell “Hey, did you guys see that Shane Hollander and Rose Landry were at the same club last night?! What are the odds?”
Cliff waved Carmichael off, making the ‘he’s in one of his moods’ eyes at the other man, but he also felt Ilya’s entire body flinch under his hand before it got brushed off.
“Quit touching me, Marly, I am not in mood for this shit today. I’m taking nap.” Then he pulled his hoodie over his head, turned towards the closed window, and started breathing far too evenly to actually be asleep. Leaving Cliff to connect the dots on his own.
Since at least Cliff’s first year with the Bears, Ilya’s second, he’d had a regular hook up in Montreal. The kind of girl he texted while smirking for days before and after their Montreal games. The kind of girl that had their captain walking on air whenever they were in town, even if they lost. The first few years, he didn’t disappear after every Montreal game, but Cliff couldn’t remember the last time they’d gone out in that city. It had to be more than two years now.
They’d also lost last night’s game, which usually bothered Ilya, but never bothered him in Montreal. Except last night had also been different for many reasons. Ilya had hardly played. He didn’t chase after Hollander like a man possessed, he didn’t chirp at anyone, and especially not Shane. Hollander for his part had hardly given him or anyone anything to chase. After months of hockey being the only thing Ilya seemed to show up and do, he’d absolutely shit the bed last night.
Next to him Ilya was properly asleep, making little snoring sounds into the window shade. He looked miserable wrapped in his old black hoodie, one little curl escaping the confines of the fabric. How can one man seem to occupy so many different shapes and personalities.
There was the party time Ilya, large and loud but not threatening, who laughed easily and made others laugh, who was tactile and sweet and had to be sure everyone was having a good time.
There was Captain Ilya, who could whip them into a frenzy before a game, but then turn around and help a rookie find his wife of many happy years, while also advising and growing players, some of whom had 10 years experience on him and were not impressed by his fame or his youth.
For the press and the other teams, Ilya was cocky and arrogant. Mean as hell, his chirps cut like a hot knife through butter, and his fists were fearful for someone who wasn’t an enforcer. He’d laid men out with one punch, broken noses and teeth, and most of his own teeth were implants and partials after years of brutal take-downs on and off the ice.
Then there was the petulant, depressive, hulking Russian mess they’d been dealing with for two months now.
And finally this miserable man stuffed into his threadbare old hoodie, gently snoring on the plane with his hair everywhere. He looked almost like a lost little boy.
Whatever was going on with Ilya, it had something to do with Rose Landry. Except that Rose lived in LA and there’s no way her grueling movie schedule would let her fly to Montreal every time they played there. Besides, if you wanted a clandestine location to hook up with your movie star girlfriend, Montreal was too public and too large. Cliff would pick somewhere lame like Ottawa. Or Buffalo.
There was something he was missing, something he suspected he’d been missing for a long time now. But for the life of him he couldn’t figure it out. Not until it was so obvious he was afraid that he got the concussion instead of Hollander.
Because the moment he slammed into Shane and watched in horror as the other man’s head bounced into the boards and then onto the ice at a brutal angle, he knew two things extremely clearly. Ilya hated him, and Ilya loved Shane.
Now they were sitting at the hospital, and he was hovering because he had fucking assaulted his Captains boyfriend and he didn’t know what else to do but apologize over and over and get shitty hospital coffee and hide from the Metros players who littered the halls. Not that they didn’t know Cliff and Ilya were there, just that they were nearly as murderous as Roz had been, and they didn’t have to hide it from anybody.
It had been a couple of hours, they knew Shane had a concussion and a broken collar bone, but they also knew that he wasn’t waking up and he should have by now. Cliff couldn’t take it anymore.
“Roz, I’m so sorry.”
Ilya had his arm over his eyes and his head tipped against the wall, he was sprawled halfway out of an uncomfortable hospital chair around the corner from where a few Metros players still lingered, waiting for Shane’s parents to fly in from Mexico.
“You didn’t do it on purpose.” He replied, for probably the hundredth time.
“No,” Cliff said “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”
Roz slowly took his arm off his face and looked at Cliff in semi-terrified bewilderment. But Cliff had to get this out or die trying.
“I knew you were having a hard time back in December, and I tried to cheer you up, but I had no idea what was going on. I had no idea what was going on the whole time and it was right in front of me and I… I could have been a better friend, Rozy.”
Ilya’s face had grown cold and blank. He looked away and said “what are you talking about, Marly you make no sense.” But he spoke the words to the other end of the hall. His lazy sprawl hadn’t changed, but it looked tense now. Deliberate. Unmoving.
“I’m not going to tell anybody.” Cliff said.
“There is nothing to tell.” Ilya answered too quickly. Too sharply.
“Look man.” Cliff started
”No, you look, man” Ilya enunciated every word clearly. “I am Russian citizen. I have work visa to be here in the USA. If I were to do anything to jeopardize my employment, I would go back to Russia. In Russia, things like this get you prison or worse. Do you understand what I am saying to you right now?”
Cliff nodded, feeling like there was a stone in his throat.
“That doesn’t change the fact that I’m here for you, whenever you need me. For anything. No matter what.”
And if Roz buried his head in his hands and if he maybe cried, and Cliff rubbed his back and told him what a good friend and good captain he was, and how he deserved to be happy, nobody had to know.