Chapter Text
There is a certain glow to their captain as he struts into the locker room, fashionably late and a shit-eating grin on his face. Marlow exchanges a look with St. Simon over his shoulder, but says nothing - Carmichael has said it to Roz's face once that he plays better when he fucked and almost lost a tooth over it. So, he stays quiet, but winks at Connors as he meets his gaze.
"Sooooo," Carmichael drawls after a while of uncharacteristic quiet, and because he apparently has no sense of self-preservation, nudges Roz's shoulder as he waggles his eyebrows suggestively. Marlow sees his captain inhale through his nose and decides to intervene. Wedging himself between the two other players, throwing an arm around each of their shoulders, he grins at both of them, giving Carmichael's forehead a not-so-gentle nudge with his own.
"What he means, dear captain, is that you look especially happy today."
Roz snorts at that, but says nothing. Carmichael, in an attempt to get murdered by their captain, mutters something that sounds like it includes the words fuck and goal.
"It's a fact," Hammersmith injects, nodding wisely. "Sex helps you to play better."
Vicky snorts. "As if you had experience with getting laid before a game. You couldn't get–"
Hammersmith squawks in outrage and throws a water bottle at Vicky, which misses and leads to another round of ribbing from the other players.
After a while, one of the rookies, Fournier, a lanky 19 year old right wing from Bordeaux, sighs into the silence, sounding a bit wistful.
"There is something better," he says, a lilt to the words as he rolls them around his mouth.
"Better than sex?" Carmichael asks, sounding incredulous, and Marlow smirks into his jersey.
The rookie nods. "At home," he says, "I have a girl. There is nothing better than sleeping with her."
Carmichael leers at that, but St. Simon takes pity on the boy.
"Sleep next to her, you mean."
The rookie frowns, then nods. The rest of the locker room hums and nods in various degrees of agreement.
"He is right," someone says. "Nothing better than waking up to see… someone special."
Marlow looks up to see his captain shrug, and, because he's Roz, he grins and adds, "After you fucked them all night, of course."
The locker room, predictably, erupts into laughter and cheers, and two of the older players even pat Roz's back, but over his shoulder Marlow exchanges a silent look with St. Simon, who raises an eyebrow in return.
Marlow shrugs, and with a grin, nods to his captain.
"How would you know that," he says, still grinning, "did your conquest last night make you breakfast?"
Roz looks at him for a moment, then hums. "I know," he says slowly, "because I woke up today with someone special."
Marlow's eyebrows shoot up.
"Jane," he exclaims, and watches as half the heads in the locker room turn their way - like dogs when you mention treats, Marlow thinks a bit unkindly.
"She is here?" Vicky's grin stretches to his ears. "Will she come see the game? Can we finally meet her?"
Marlow swears Roz blushes at that, but he shakes his head.
"She has, uh, how do you say, work from home. She has injury so she will not come, but watch game at my house."
"She really must be something," Carmichael snickers, "when you let her stay at your house even though you can't f–"
Hammersmith and Vicky at the cubbies next to him turn simultaneously to swat at his head, as Marlow says loudly, "I think it's romantic."
Roz levels him with a borderline disgusted look. "Russians do not do this," he says, probably trying for stern but ending on petulant. Marlow smirks.
"Is not bad injury," Roz adds, "just so she has to work from home."
"And you graciously offered your home," Carmichael snickers.
Roz shrugs. "Is better than calling after game, no?"
With that, he reaches over Marlow for his helmet, then walks out of the locker room without another word.
On Marlow's other side St. Simon snorts.
"Russians do not do this," he says, exaggeratedly rolling the R in an attempt of a Russian accent, and Marlow laughs.
Practice, predictably, is torture. Roz seems to be determined to get back at Carmichael for the sex comment, and the rest of the team is getting caught in the crossfire.
After an especially evil order St. Simon sidles up to Marlow. He is gasping for air, as are the rest of them, and his face is red.
"Do you think," he pants, as Roz turns his back for a moment, "that we should visit her?"
Marlow turns to him, incredulous. "Jane?" St. Simon nods. "Are you nuts? Do you have a death wish?"
It takes Vicky a moment to catch his breath, then he shakes his head. "I'm serious," he says, "imagine how that must be for her, in a strange house in a strange city. All alone."
Marlow snorts. "And you want to offer her company?"
Vicky rolls his eyes. "I am not that stupid," he says. "But we could drive her to the arena, so she can watch the game. I know Roz won't leave after training, so we have time."
Marlow looks over to the other side of the ice, where Roz is currently looming over one of the rookies, a scowl on his face.
Sighing, he nods. "Can't be worse than that," he says.
Vicky grins and skates off.
Their afternoon game against Nashville is scheduled to start at 4, so when Roz marches out of the locker room at noon, heading into the direction of LeClaire's office, Vicky and Marlow exchange a look. Marlow nods. Taking their time with undressing, they watch the rest of the team file out of the locker room. When they are left alone, Marlow turns to Vicky.
"Are you sure you want to do this? Roz is probably going to kill us."
Vicky grins. "He will see her during the game, and then it will be too late. And since we are going to beat Nashville he will be much too happy later to murder us."
Marlow snorts. "I hope you are right," he says.
"I'm always right," St. Simon laughs.
The drive to Roz's house is uneventful, if you don't count the shouting match Vicky has at one point with a radio station, which carelessly announced that the Bears would have to give it their all today to beat Nashville. He is still incensed when Marlow turns into the driveway, stopping the car directly in front of the entrance.
At Vicky's raised eyebrow he shrugs. "If she has a broken leg or something she might not want to walk far. And I'm not carrying Roz's girl anywhere. I'm not suicidal."
Vicky snorts, then climbs out of the car. Together they approach the white door, massive and solid, and ring the bell. Marlow rolls his eyes, then leans forward to knock as the door opens.
The first thing Marlow registers is the Bears jersey with a large C on the front, slightly oversized so it slips down a pale shoulder. Then his gaze travels over the black sweatpants, bare feet, until it stops on two wide eyes under a towel and slightly damp hair.
Marlow feels all oxygen leave him at once.
The door slams shut.
After a few seconds of staring at it, St. Simon turns his head to look at Marlow.
"Did you… Was that…" His voice croaks and he swallows hard.
Marlow doesn't feel much better. "Did you see that too?" he asks faintly.
Vicky shakes himself like a dog. "Did I see Shane Hollander with a Bears jersey, freshly showered, in our captain's house?" He turns to Marlow, his eyes wide. "I have no idea what I just saw."
Marlow takes a few fortifying breaths, then lifts his head to face the door.
"Uh," he says, haltingly, towards it, "we, uh, we didn't want to shock you. It's just that, Roz said his girl-" Vicky gives him a shove that almost makes him stumble "-I mean, he said Jane was at his house, and since she was injured she couldn't come to the rink. We, uh, we wanted to offer to drive you, but…" He trails off. St. Simon rolls his eyes.
They stand in silence for a few minutes, staring at the pale wood. Marlow is about to turn around to walk back to the car, when the door opens.
He exchanges a look with Vicky, then takes another breath and steps inside.
They have been to Roz's place more than a dozen times, and he has never quite felt the amount of trepidation he does now. Behind him he hears Vicky close the door. Hollander hasn't said anything, just nodded in the direction of the living room and turned, heading towards the upstairs bathroom.
Marlow can't help but notice his bare feet, the familiar t-shirt with the 81 on the back, the way he confidently makes his way up the stairs. He looks at Vicky to say something, but forgets it as soon as he sees the other's face. In all the time he's known him, Marlow thinks, he has never looked so shellshocked, and he silently laments the fact he cannot take a photo.
The sit down next to each other on Roz's wide sofa, avoiding to look at the stairs.
"I," Vicky begins, but snaps his mouth shut as Hollander walks back into the room. He is still wearing the black jersey, but his hair looks significantly less damp. He sits down on an armchair across from them, not meeting their eyes, his head lowered.
Marlow clears his throat.
With a sideways glance at St. Simon he says, "We, uh, we're sorry."
At that, Hollander's head lowers even further. He looks so much younger like this, Marlow thinks, without all the pads and layers he looks almost fragile, despite being as tall as Vicky. Now he has folded all of his six feet into the armchair, his shoulders drawn up to his ears, looking for all the world like a middleschooler expecting a scolding.
Marlow clears his throat again, then sighs. "Look," he says, "we really didn't want to stir up shit. We just thought, you know, Jane would be happier if she saw Roz in the arena, and Roz is always in a much better mood when he is with you, so we thought…" He trails off.
Hollander looks up, a tiny smile on his face. "He is?"
Vicky snorts. "You bet," he says and Marlow nods. "He was downright evil when…" He pauses to look at Hollander, then Marlow, then back at Hollander. "Oh."
Hollander sinks his head again, but Marlow can see that his ears are read and he is trying to hide a smile. He decides to save them both.
"He is," he says, "and he never stops talking about you." Hollander raises an eyebrow and Marlow chuckles. "Well, not you-you, but Jane. This morning he said it was great to wake up next to someone special."
Vicky nods eagerly as Hollander hides his face in his hands. "Seriously," he adds, "he is always talking about how great Jane is, and we give him shit that she must be blind to put up with him."
At that Hollander chuckles, his hands sinking to his knees, his shoulders relax slightly. "I'm not," he says with a faint smile.
"Nah," Marlow agrees, "not blind. More like… Very patient." He shrugs at the incredulous gazes he gets from two sides. "What, he is my best friend, and even I want to strangle him sometimes."
"Fair," Hollander and Vicky say at the same time, then look at each other in shock, before bursting out laughing. Marlow shakes his head.
"But seriously", he says to Hollander, "we didn't want to cause any kind of trouble. We just thought, I don't know, it's been so long and we never met Jane, so…" He trails off, raising both eyebrows in realisation. "He has been texting Jane for years. Was that, was that always you?"
Hollander exhales through his nose, then lowers his gaze. "It was," he says quietly."
Vicky exchanges a look with Marlow. "I don't want to pry but-" he ignores Marlow's huff"-but how long exactly? I mean…"
Hollander is quiet for a long time, looking at his knees. Then, as if he came to a decision, he straightens, his shoulders lower as he raises his head.
"Since the beginning," he says, and before anyone can ask what that means, he clarifies, "since our rookie season."
Marlow feels his jaw drop. Next to him, Vicky makes a noise somewhere between a gasp and a wheeze. Hollander smiles at their obvious shock, then shrugs – shrugs! – and leans back in his chair. "Ilya would probably say that wasn't right, but yeah, give or take." His face stretches into a boyish smile and Marlow suddenly understands something. He clears his throat.
"That's, that's a long time," he says weakly. Vicky snorts, but says nothing when Marlow jostles his shoulder.
"It is," Hollander agrees. "Which is why I would appreciate it if you didn't-"
Marlow scoffs. "What do you take us for?"
"Yeah," Vicky nods, "we won't tell anyone." He exchanges a look with Marlow who grins. "Except…"
Marlow turns to Hollander. "Can we text Roz?"
Hollander sinks his face into his hands and groans, but he nods. Vicky grins.
