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October 2013
Ilya Rozanov is blushing, deep, unmistakable, not the usual post-practice flush or sunburn glow. He stares at his phone, gold chain clenched in his teeth, a giddy smile betraying him. He might as well be on his bed, twirling a phone cord, scrawling Mrs. Jane Rozanov in his notebook.
Cliff knows he shouldn't stir things up, but it's impossible to resist when Ilya is so easy to tease.
“Wow, this Montreal girl works you up, brother,” he says, turning to face Ilya as they continue putting on their gear in the locker room.
“Shut your idiot face, Marly,” Ilya retorts, immediately defensive, and it’s the exact reaction that Cliff was hoping for. It’s just so fun to get Ilya riled up. It doesn't hurt that he always plays a little better when he’s angry.
“You’re straight-up blushing, Roz,” Cliff says, grinning at Rozanov’s glare. The blush fades, replaced by annoyance, but Cliff doesn’t care. He saw it—real, vulnerable blushing.
“Uh, no, never in life have I blushed, Russians do not do this,” Iyla informs him, clearly incredulous at Cliff’s —completely true—accusation.
Cliff laughs and pulls on his pads, but notices Roz is now pointedly avoiding his phone, eyes flickering toward it and away, silent and scowling again.
December 2016
Something changed in Ilya last month. Cliff can feel it. Before November, Ilya liked vodka, fast cars, and beautiful women. Post-November, Ilya still does, but with a forced edge, like he’s chasing feelings that aren’t there.
He plays hockey with an edge that feels lethal. They go to clubs together, like they used to, but Ilya is—off. He flirts with women, dances with them, kisses them, but never takes anyone home. He even turns down a threesome with Cliff and a stunning brunette with freckles, which he knows is Ilya’s favorite. And his mood is just abysmal.
Most people in the league think of Ilya as a bit of a, well, asshole. But he’s usually pretty great. He may be a bit abrasive to those he doesn’t know, but he’s fiercely loyal to his friends and his team and just genuinely fun to hang out with. Or at least he was, before the November catastrophe occurred.
He thinks he has figured it out by the end of December, when the news of Shane Hollander and Rose Landry reaches the Raiders locker room. Ilya is clearly upset by the articles about the two of them, and at first, Cliff thinks it’s just the typical “rivalry” bullshit that he and Hollander have. Shane finally has a toy that Ilya now wants, but then he looks more closely.
Ilya isn’t just annoyed. He looks… wounded. That’s when it clicks.
Ilya must have had a thing with Rose Landry.
The timeline mostly works. Ilya has been texting that Montreal girl for years, and Rose films there often enough. Maybe Jane had been a code name in his phone all along.
Still, the puzzle piece doesn’t quite fit. The picture isn’t fully aligned.
Has Rose Landry even been in Montreal that long? And if she was the Montreal girl, what about all the other women Ilya’s hooked up with over the years? Cliff knows for a fact there have been plenty of them — hell, he and Ilya have even shared one or two tall, strong brunettes over the years.
Was Ilya cheating?
Or was the thing with Rose casual, too?
Maybe they broke it off in November, and now she’s with Hollander.
Cliff snorts quietly to himself. She sure has a type.
Even then, something about the theory still feels a little off. Rose Landry is stunning, obviously — Cliff isn’t blind — but she’s not exactly Ilya’s usual type. Roz tends to go for tall, strong brunettes with a nice collection of freckles.
Still, it’s the best explanation Cliff has.
Admittelty, he’s a little hurt that his best friend didn't tell him about a dalliance with the hottest movie star of the moment, but he decides to forgive him. A man is entitled to a few secrets, he supposes.
January 2017
Cliff was so, so wrong.
It clicks into focus in a crowded club in Montreal after a win against the Metros. Rozanov is in a shit mood, but dragged the team out anyway.
The music is blasting through the dimly lit space, colored lights flashing over bodies packed too close together. Cliff is wedged between two lovely women and a few of his teammates, drink in hand. All in all, it’s shaping up to be a good night. Cold drinks, beautiful women, good friends — that’s what it’s all about, right?
When he spots Shane Hollander across the dance floor, swaying with Rose Landry, he doesn’t think much of it. It’s Montreal. The guy lives there, and Rose is filming here for a few months. Still, Cliff looks for Ilya, just to take stock of his reaction. He doesn’t want him getting worked up seeing Rose with her new boyfriend. A fight in this club would absolutely kill the vibe.
He finds him on the outskirts of the dance floor, pressed up against a girl who’s grinding against him like it’s her job. Leave it to Roz to have someone clinging to him ten minutes after they walk in. Cliff almost laughs, lifting his drink — and then Hollander moves across the floor, cutting through the crowd, and the whole picture shifts.
It snaps into place so suddenly that it almost feels stupid that he didn’t see it before.
Oh.
Oh.
It had been murky when Cliff was watching Ilya, seeing him look at Shane and Rose with something that could have been jealousy or anger. It was hard to pinpoint where those looks were landing. But now, in reverse, it’s obvious.
Because now it’s Ilya on the dance floor, hands on some woman’s hips, and Shane Hollander is the one watching him.
And that look — Cliff knows that look. It’s not hatred, not rivalry, not anything you’d expect after years of trying to take each other’s heads off on the ice. It’s something else entirely.
It’s want.
Cliff glances around the room, half-expecting someone else to have caught it too — the way the two of them are locked in on each other through the flashing lights and moving bodies. But no one’s paying attention. The music keeps pounding, people keep dancing, and the night moves on like nothing’s happened.
Cliff looks back at them. Still staring.
Jesus.
The puzzle pieces that didn't quite make the right picture with Rose suddenly work when swapped out with Shane. Shane Hollander, who has lived in Montreal the entire time that Ilya has been texting Montreal girl, Jane. Oh my god.
Jane...Shane.
What the fuck.
Shane, who—besides being a man, which Cliff will circle back to in a second—is absolutely Ilya’s type. Dark hair, freckles, athletic. Athletic, he laughs to himself, try the best player in the fucking league.
Okay, so Ilya and Shane have some kind of romantic history. Something that ended in November and has Ilya punishing the fuck out of his team on the ice. Thanks a lot, Hollander.
He mulls it over a second, trying to figure out what to do, and settles on doing, well, nothing. It’s not really his business, and it’s not something that Ilya has told him. He’s half tempted to shoulder Hollander at the bar and tell him to fix things so Roz can stop throwing temper tantrums at practice, but that’s probably not a great idea. Again, starting a fight here would really kill the vibe.
So he doesn’t do anything that night, just enjoys the rest of the night, eventually leaving with two of the girls and leaving Roz behind to deal with his Shane Hollander drama alone.
April 2017
Four months have passed since Cliff formed his… hypothesis. An informed guess, really. But one that he’d be willing to put some money on.
Rozanov hasn’t said anything to confirm it, but he hasn’t said anything to deny it either, and Cliff has learned over the years that silence from Ilya usually means you’re closer to the truth than you should be. And, honestly, the theory holds.
When the rumors about Hollander and Rose Landry start to fade, Ilya’s mood improves almost immediately. Not all at once, not enough for anyone else to really notice, but Cliff does. The edge softens. The forced energy drops away. He’s still an asshole, but he’s his asshole again.
Then he comes back from All-Star weekend in Florida, practically glowing. Cliff had written that one off as sunshine, alcohol, and a break from the grind of the season, but now, in hindsight, it fits too neatly into the same pattern.
So yeah. The Shane thing makes sense.
At least, it does off the ice. Because on the ice, there’s nothing to betray any messy feelings or history. Hollander and Rozanov go at each other the same way they always have — fast, sharp, unforgiving. No hesitation, no softness, no cracks in the rivalry. Just hockey.
And Cliff knows hockey.
Whatever is happening between them, if anything is happening at all, it doesn’t bleed onto the ice. It can’t. Not at this level. Not with players like them.
Hockey comes first.
Cliff knows the second it happens that it’s a bad hit.
You develop a feel for these things after so many years in the game. It’s a clean hit, he knows that, but there’s something about the way Shane hits the ice that has Cliff clenching his teeth and cringing.
Retaliation comes almost immediately after the whistle is blown, with Hayden Pike charging at him, flinging his ineffectual fists at Cliff. He dodges the blows and holds Hayden back with a single arm. Honestly, it’s like fighting a toddler; going against Pike just doesn't feel right to hit him back.
When the refs finally intervene and pull Pike off him, Cliff looks back at the ice, expecting to see Hollander skating off toward his bench.
But he isn’t.
He’s still splayed out on the ice, surrounded by the medics—and Ilya.
Ilya stands just off to the side of the medics and Shane, ignoring the referees' orders to head back to the bench. And Cliff doesn’t know how they don’t see it. Ilya is… despondent. It’s not the feigned assholery he likes to demonstrate on the ice. It’s not the intimidating determination he displays during most games.
Right now, he just looks… lost. Like he’s the one who took the hit.
They’re loading Shane onto a backboard, and Ilya is still there, asking for answers, begging to know if he’s awake—if he’s okay. And it’s obvious now.
Ilya isn’t acting like a concerned captain, checking on an injured player. He’s not acting like someone checking in on their supposed “rival” after a bad hit. He’s acting like a spouse in a hospital waiting room, just waiting to hear if everything is going to be okay.
Shane is wheeled away, and the game goes on. Ilya is playing like a ghost, his mind clearly elsewhere, expression distraught. They win the game, and Ilya doesn’t celebrate at all, immediately showering and changing, pulling out his phone and staring at it aimlessly, like he’s not sure who to call.
The whole locker room feels a little subdued. It always feels like this after a win where the other team lost a key player to injury, like it wasn’t earned properly.
Cliff approaches him quietly and asks simply, “You okay, man?”
Ilya straightens almost imperceptibly, slipping back on his careless mask. “Yes, of course. We win the game. This is good,” he says, still staring at his phone screen like he’s unsure how to work it.
“Yeah, but it doesn’t feel right with Hollander getting hurt. I feel terrible. I might swing by the hospital when we get the all-clear,” Cliff says quietly, mulling over the idea.
“It was not your fault. It was a clean hit,” Ilya says stoically, and then adds—almost unconsciously, “I’m going to the hospital. I’ll let Shane know you did not mean to hurt him.”
Ilya is still staring at his phone, and Cliff is pretty sure he didn’t mean to say it.
And it wouldn’t be jarring if Ilya had ever said it before. But he hasn’t. Because he didn’t say, Hollander. He said Shane.
Marleau lets it go; it’s not the time to press Ilya, not when he looks so disheveled.
“Do you want to ride together to the hospital? I could come with you,” Cliff asks, offering the bare minimum. He wants, badly, to be there for his friend, even if Ilya won’t admit why he is so out of sorts.
“No. I’m the captain. I will go,” Ilya says, and his voice almost sounds shaky, a side of him Cliff has never seen before.
“Okay, Roz,” he relents. “Tell Shane I’m sorry and that I hope he’s better soon. It’s no fun beating the Metros when he’s not playing,” Cliff tells him before grabbing his bag and making for the door.
Ilya just gives him a small, forced smile and nod as he walks away.
And even when Cliff reaches the locker room door, he looks back and sees Ilya still standing in front of his locker, rigid as a statue, staring down at his phone.
Like he doesn’t know who to call.
March 2021
Cliff is a little drunk. Not gone, not sloppy—just enough that the hallway feels softer around the edges, the laughter from the elevator bank carrying a little louder than it should. A bunch of players are wandering the hotel halls, collecting their friends and teammates to head out for drinks.
He knocks on Rozanov’s door harder than necessary. “Rozanov, you in there?”
There’s a pause. Not long, but long enough. Cliff shifts his weight, frowning slightly. He only gets to see Roz every few months when their teams play each other. Finally, they have a night together, and the All-Star Game gives them the perfect excuse to go out and have some fun.
Then, muffled through the door, not quite audible, Cliff hears something. “We’re going out,” he repeats, louder this time. “I need my wingman, let’s go.”
There’s movement inside. A thud. Something that sounds like a curse, but it’s too muffled to make out.
“Where?” Rozanov calls back.
“I don’t know. Some club. Can you open the fucking door?” he says, leaning his body against the wood as more voices fill the hall. A few players are lingering by the elevators, watching him. Cliff lifts a finger. “Give me a minute,” he mouths.
Another pause. Cliff exhales through his nose, about to knock again—and then he hears it. A voice. Not Rozanov. Muffled, strained, but unmistakably Shane Hollander.
It’s one thing to have a theory about your teammate’s very secret relationship with his rival for four years. It’s a completely different thing to have it confirmed by hearing them doing… whatever the hell they’re doing in there.
There’s another sound—sharper this time. A breath, or something cut off too quickly. “Shh,” Rozanov says, low, like he’s trying to quiet something. Cliff blinks at the door.
A couple of players start drifting closer, curious now, and Cliff’s stomach drops. If he can hear Shane through the door, there’s a good chance they can too.
There’s a beat, and then Rozanov again, louder now: “I can’t right now. Sorry.”
Silence stretches half a second too long. Cliff lets out a quiet huff of laughter, leaning back from the door. “Shit,” he says, loud enough to carry down the hall. “You’ve got a girl in there with you, right? Sorry, man.”
“Maybe,” Rozanov says, and he technically isn’t lying. Cliff fights the urge to roll his eyes.
He snorts. “Probably two or three. Have a good night, you fucking legend.” He pushes off the door and rejoins the group, already making jokes about Roz and his Playboy ways, like he didn’t just hear Shane Hollander in Ilya Rozanov’s hotel room.
Cliff presses the elevator button and shakes his head, a small grin tugging at his mouth.
April 2021
Cliff’s phone starts blowing up before he even knows why. Texts, group chats, missed calls, more texts. Links. Screenshots. Someone just sends: holy shit. Another: IS THIS REAL??
Cliff frowns, sitting back on his couch, and opens the first video. It’s a little unbearable to watch at first. It’s Hayden Pike doing one of those “fanmail” videos, wishing some guy a happy birthday and rambling. He should really use a script for those. And then, in the background—clear as day—Shane Hollander kissing Ilya Rozanov like they’re the only two people in the world.
Cliff leans back, letting out a long, satisfied exhale. “Well,” he mutters to himself, “that’ll do it.”
He doesn’t hesitate. Just hits Roz’s contact and lifts the phone to his ear. It rings once, twice, then clicks.
“…Hello?” Ilya’s voice sounds tight, like he’s bracing for the worst. He already sounds exhausted, like the day has taken everything out of him.
Cliff grins. “Hey, man.”
There’s a beat. “You saw it,” Ilya says, his tone still defensive.
“Yeah,” Cliff says easily. “Hard to miss you with your tongue down Hollander’s throat.”
Silence. Cliff can practically hear him preparing for it—for questions, for judgment, for something worse. Cliff doesn’t give him the chance.
“Took you long enough to go public,” he says. “I’ve known for years.”
Another pause, a long exhale, and then, “…You have?” Ilya asks carefully.
“Yeah, man,” Cliff says, like it’s obvious—because for him, it has been. “Since Montreal. The club. You two were staring at each other like idiots.”
A sharp exhale. Not quite a laugh. “And you didn’t say anything?” Ilya says incredulously, like it’s ridiculous to keep your best friend’s big gay secret.
Cliff shrugs, even though he can’t see it. “Wasn’t my business. Figured you’d get there eventually.” He pauses, then adds, “Also overheard you two at All-Star, so that really sealed it.”
“Cliff—” Ilya groans. “You were not supposed to know that.”
“Oh, I knew,” Cliff says, grinning. “Covered for you, too, by the way. Said you were in there with a few girls. You’re welcome.”
There’s another pause, but the tension is different now—loosening. Cliff can practically see Ilya’s shoulders lowering, his expression softening into something like a smile.
“So,” Cliff continues, “you and Hollander, huh?”
“Yeah,” Ilya says, quieter. “Me and Shane.” And he sounds happy—happier than Cliff has heard him in years.
Cliff huffs a laugh. “I’m not gonna lie, man. I’m impressed.”
“…Impressed,” Ilya repeats flatly, like he’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“Yeah,” Cliff says. “Best player in the league? That’s a solid pull.”
“Second best,” Ilya corrects automatically.
Cliff snorts. “That’s sweet, Roz, but I’m not better than Hollander.”
Ilya laughs, actually laughs, and Cliff feels like he’s won something, getting that reaction out of him on what has clearly been a fucking day.
“Idiot,” he mutters.
“Hey, I’m just being realistic,” Cliff says. “But seriously—good for you, man. I mean it.”
The sincerity lands. Cliff can tell by the quiet that follows.
“Thank you,” Ilya says, softer.
Cliff leans back into his couch. “So what’s the plan? You two gonna keep pretending you hate each other on the ice, or are we done with that now?”
“We’ll see,” Ilya says, a hint of bite returning. “Do not expect me to go easy on him.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Cliff replies. “Would ruin the brand.”
There’s a pause, and then Ilya says, almost casually, “We are getting married in July.”
Cliff blinks. “Wait—seriously?” Holy shit, Ilya Rozanov was officially off the market.
“Yes.”
Cliff lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Jesus Christ. You really don’t do anything halfway, do you?”
“No,” Ilya says simply.
Cliff grins. “Well, I expect an invite.”
“You are invited,” Ilya says. “Obviously.”
“Good,” Cliff replies. “I want a front row seat for that.”
“You will behave.”
“Absolutely not,” Cliff says immediately. “I’m gonna tell everyone I knew before it was cool.”
“You are unbearable,” Ilya says, but Cliff can hear the smile behind the words.
“And you’re marrying Shane Hollander,” Cliff shoots back. “I think you’ll survive.”
There’s a small, quiet laugh on the other end. “Yeah,” Ilya says. “I think I will.”
Cliff smiles to himself, phone still pressed to his ear, already thinking of all the shit he’s going to give Roz for this.
And also...if Rose Landry will be at the wedding.