Chapter Text
There’s something… off about the rookies.
Cliff clocks it as soon as he enters the locker room, the fading notes of Panda welcoming him in before Carmie's pick of fucking When I Grow Up starts blasting through the speakers. Someone whoops excitedly, the noise echoing off the walls, and Cliff's absolutely not going to ask about the almost-erotic hip swiveling that the entire third line is doing in the name of warm-ups. Duzek, in particular, is really getting into it.
Across the room, under the Boston Bears banner, Con grins from his usual place before his stall, his head tilted in to mutter to Sainty, but the typical gaggle of babies is huddled in a corner, far from their normal position of harassing the vets.
He squints at the duo, who shrug, before Sainty mouths nervous at him, the corner of his mouth kicking up, clear fondness sweeping through his expression. In support, Con wiggles his eyebrows, grinning broadly, and then presses a hand to his forehead and pretends to swoon. Cliff rolls his eyes even as he nods, understanding rushing through as he turns back to his stall to hide the smirk that appears on his face.
It's kind of hilarious and tooth-rottingly sweet that the rookies are all so anxious over meeting Roz's girl. Or, wait, should it be his boy? Fuck, his Jane? Shit, he doesn't fucking know. He probably should, though, but that's something to think about another day. He'll just stick with Roz's Jane for now—makes it easier for everyone, probably. Jane's been haunting Boston for for-fucking-ever, which, shit—he's definitely curious about how long their whole thing has been going on.
He glances over his shoulder, catching sight of Breezy's tense mouth, their nerves apparent as Los knocks his shoulder into Ovi's; all three are muttering together, clearly anxious for tonight to go well.
It's almost stupid how glad he is that they're here. That these three rooks in particular are the ones who've gotten to learn this earth-shattering secret. He thinks it probably boils down to how the babies’ earnestness and genuine delight make him especially glad they've got them in the room, rather than some of the assholes who've been on the team before. He doesn't particularly like punching his teammates in the face, but he likes homophobes even less than that; it's no skin off his back to see a little in-house justice doled out, despite how annoyed it would make their coach. More so because the assholes wouldn't just shut the fuck up, but also because Cliff wouldn't ever let it fucking go. It definitely doesn't help that Roz doesn't let it go either—Boston's definitely gained a reputation for trading out their shittier people these past few years. But, even with that, it’s always a gamble with the rooks, so he’s glad to have these three.
Fuck. He should’ve listened when Svetlana told him he was getting mushy in his old age.
“Dude,” Smithy says, yanking him from his meandering thoughts as he tosses his bag down. He appears behind him like he's been fucking lurking in the eaves for his arrival, the goddamn weirdo. “Kayla's been complaining to Shan about your fucking tweets, so I think I'm supposed to tell you to take ‘em down.”
Cliff doesn't really try to hide his laugh, glancing over his shoulder to meet Smithy's eyes. “Now, why the fuck do I think you're not gonna do that?”
“Because I wanna see you follow through, jackass,” Smithy says, mirth clear in his voice. “And no one in admin knows what to do with you. Kayla said that someone started getting fuckin’ weird about it, so she straight up asked him if he was a homophobe, and glared him down until he shut up.”
Cliff laughs, shaking his head. “Kayla's gonna have this place by the balls before she finishes her year out,” he says, and raises a brow when Smithy's grin gets even wider, his gaze darting away before returning. “What?”
Smithy tips his head towards Roz, who's leaning against the wall, a familiar smirk on his face as he texts, and Cliff swallows down the urge to heckle him for grinning like a dumbass. He squints at him, considering it, before deciding that, nah, he’ll let him live. Though it's just for tonight, since it’s such a big one—he's absolutely giving him shit for it later. He just definitely doesn't want to meet Roz's Jane with a black fucking eye from chirping. At least not from Roz. If a Metro punches him, he'll wear it like a badge of honor.
“Svetlana's apparently gonna take the girls out on Saturday as some favor for Cap, and somehow Kayla got invited, so god knows what the fuck the PR department is going to have to deal with on Monday,” Smithy says, dragging his attention back. “I wouldn't want to be the person facing down Kayla after she's through with her. Svetlana could tell me to step in front of a bus, and I'd do it—do you think it's like some Russian trait that they all have to be deeply charming and persuasive assholes?”
Cliff shrugs. “I think it's the Boston air making ‘em that way,” he says, with a grin. “God knows that I was an angel before this city corrupted me and turned me into a dickhead. Hey, watch the fucking goods—” He catches the mitten someone lobs at his head with a laugh and tosses it across the room, ignoring Vostel’s annoyed grumbling as it lands on his shit, before he turns back to look at Smithy. “And why the fuck is Kayla going? Doesn't she already have enough terrorizing capabilities in her heart? Svetlana's just gonna make her fucking scarier.”
“Svetlana and Kayla are fucking,” Carmie says, appearing out of nowhere. He's got an odd drawing of a half-rainbow, half-smudge streaked over his heart, something that Cliff pokes at, only to huff when his hand's slapped away. “Do you even pay attention to the newsletter she sends out?”
Cliff blinks, vaguely surprised. He figured Svetlana wasn't the type—although if she could make fun of Roz, she'd definitely do it. “Svetlana sends out a newsletter?”
Carmie arches a brow at him and shakes his head, wordless disappointment clear on his face. “You know, I got permission from Jenine to ask if you wanted to make out at center ice for Pride Night, but never fucking mind. ‘Does Svetlana send out a newsletter?’—of fucking course she doesn't. Kayla does; she sends one out every month. They're official somehow, but she only sends ‘em to the WAGs and us. Haven't you been paying attention to those fuckin’ emails? They're pretty funny.”
“That's only because you're not getting called out in it,” Vostel mutters as he brushes past them, heading out into the hallway as Feller shuffles in, a rainbow on his chest too. Smithy snorts when Cliff frowns, vaguely confused. He thought that newsletters were like fun, friendly things. What the hell is Vos getting called out for?
“No one emails these days,” Roz says from across the room, his eyes still on his phone, before Cliff can figure out how to reply. He's not exactly sure if admitting that he's been avoiding all of Kayla's emails since she started in on his ass at the end of last season will win him any favors. Probably not, given the looks already being slid his way. “Snapchat is the way to communicate.”
“Roz, Snapchat is for, like, hook-ups and the shitty dog filters and flower crowns,” Sebbin says, tossing an arm over Carmie's bare shoulders. He also has a smudged little rainbow over his heart, and fuck, Cliff definitely should have read his emails. This absolutely wasn’t in a group chat; the last thing they’d talked about was ranking the team’s Dunks orders. Mamrie from their fourth line had come in last place for his befuddling order of lemonade and cold brew—mixed together, which Cliff is still gagging over—and like six orders of their eggs on the side. He apparently eats them cold, the fucking freak. “Management sort of reaches out through email, you know? It's important.”
Cliff ignores the looks the three of them are leveling at him and nods at the rainbows. He just needs to get through this game and avoid Kayla, and then it'll be fucking fine. It'll all be fucking fine. Who cares if he's threatened like twenty-seven men online with kisses? Who cares if he told some asshole from Nowheresville, USA that he was gonna kiss him sloppy-style on the mouth? He doesn't even know what sloppy-style is, but the first guy he'd said it to had been so fucking pissed about it that he's been using it ever since. And, besides, no one from management has spoken to him about it. And he has an ace in his pocket: if they tell him to stop, he’ll call discrimination. They can’t make him stop if they think he’s maybe gay, or bisexual, or whatever. He’s got this in the fuckin’ bag; he can absolutely be gay online, and who knows? He's never kissed a dude. Maybe he would like it. If he hadn't known about Jane, he'd ask Roz to show him the ropes—objectively, the man's hot as fuck. Shit, he'd ask Jane for help too, if he didn't know that Roz would kill him for real about it. They haven't even really met him, and Cap's already territorial as hell about him, bragging about perfect Hollander in their team chat and bullying anyone who so much as mentions finding him attractive because he's a goddamn terror.
He shakes his head, dragging his attention back to the locker room and gestures a hand at the rainbows he can see, arching brow. “Showing support tonight?”
“It was Con's idea,” Smithy says, tugging up his shirt to show a rainbow. Somehow it's pristine, and Cliff can just tell he's smug as hell about it. “Said something about how even though it's hidden, support is still support for Cap and Jane.”
He nods and yanks his shirt off, glancing around for whoever's drawing the little rainbows—he can't wait to kick Montreal's ass with a little bit of gay. “Who the fuck—oh shit.”
“Hi, Cliff,” Kayla says, her lips curving into a satisfied grin as she wiggles her fingers at him from the doorway, ten little markers clenched in her other hand. Vos edges back into the room, a rainbow over his heart, clearly trying his best to keep a wide berth around Kayla as she smirks menacingly at Cliff.
She's dressed like she's going to kill him—sleek, fitted black slacks on, a deep golden satin shirt, her sky-high heels, blood-red lipstick slashed across her mouth—and then go to work; able to easily explain why he's a liability and it's good that he's gone and buried. Fuck, he always forgets how lethal she gets on game days—he's such an idiot for posting earlier today. “Get your ass over here.”
“No?” he says, glancing around for help, only to groan when everyone pointedly steps back, clearing his way towards her. “Fucking—fuck me, fine.”
Kayla smirks at him as he stomps his way over to her, shivering at the dark look in her eyes.
“So,” she says, as he follows her out into the hallway, the door swinging shut behind them. She gestures for him to step into better lighting, and he listens, standing still underneath the bright glow, waiting as she carefully uncaps the first of her markers. Her voice is half-searching, half-tease, and not for the first time, Cliff's struck by how goddamn glad he is to be on this team, to have this city as his home. As scared of Kayla as he is, it's only because she's probably gonna ream him out, not because she's a bad person. “You bisexual now?”
“Uh,” Cliff says, staring at the top of her head as she drags the first smear of purple over his skin. He has no idea how to actually answer that—it's not like he's done any self-reflecting in the last few weeks. Shit, maybe he should've thought about it outside of using it as an excuse to ragebait homophobic fans. Is he being a fucking homophobe if he calls out someone for being homophobic to him if he's maybe talking about kissing men, but he's not sure if he wants to? Like, he'd absolutely follow through for the bit, but does that actually make him bi? Fuck, maybe he's erasing bisexuals like Svetlana's talked about. Goddammit, being supportive is harder than he thought; every time he thinks he has it down, there goes his understanding, sending his ass flying. “Maybe? Or, well, uh, I dunno? What makes someone bi?”
Kayla glances up at him, an unimpressed look on her face. “Do you want to make out with men? Sleep with ‘em? Touch a dick or two?”
Cliff hums, tipping his head back against the wall. “I can think of worse things,” he says, paying only half-hearted attention to what he's saying as he tries to untangle his thoughts. He clenches his hand around his shirt, rubbing his fingers over the fabric. “I mean, like, hello, have you seen Roz? Who wouldn't want to kiss him?”
“Me,” Kayla mutters dryly, winking when he rolls his eyes at her. “Since I sort of only want to kiss girls.” She clicks her tongue as she swipes another color across his chest. “You don't have to have an answer, Marleau. I just want to know how truthful your intentions are with those guys online. Because right now it almost seems like you soft-launched being bisexual via fucking kissing threats on goddamn Twitter. And no one is really treating them seriously, but it also could make you seem homophobic as hell, like you're just doing it for the bit.” She hums, shaking her head. “Even with your past contributions to clearly pro-LGBTQ+ organizations. The judgment of the internet is forever, and often incredibly idiotic—I'm just annoyed that some people are acting like you killed someone and boasted about it in the office when you're just talking about kissing a dude.” She's quiet for a second, another color swiping over his skin, before she sighs, loud and annoyed, “Fucking Brent.”
She lifts her head, meeting his eyes. “And if you do need the support because you're coming out, I'm here. I'm not gonna let the Bears sideline your experiences even if you didn't come to the PR team and instead openly spoke about them in the most insane way possible because you live for messy, messy drama.”
“Right,” Cliff manages, even though he has no idea what she's really saying, before he brightens. “Dude, you and Svetlana? Hell fucking yeah.”
Kayla snorts, and he shakes his head. “I’m being fuckin’ for real,” he says, grinning at her when she rolls her eyes, dragging the fourth color over his chest. “She’s a fuckin’ catch.”
“What am I, chopped liver?” she snarks back, even as she bites down her broad grin. “And we’re just hooking up—neither of us wants a relationship with the other, so it’s all just for,”—she gestures, almost dragging a streak of orange across his entire chest—“you know, fun.”
“Sure,” he says agreeably, even though he sort of wants to pry. The two of them together sound hot as fuck—not that he wants to like, objectify either of them. He just can't help thinking about it—they're both hot, it's the literal truth. Sue him for noticing. “She's fun as hell.”
She smirks at him, smugness radiating from her. “Oh, I've heard about the shit you two have gotten up to,” she says, tilting her head. “And Svetlana is for the girls, so you'd better watch it, or I will blackmail you with her.”
Cliff snorts, grinning at her. “Damn, and I already thought you were fuckin’ lethal without.” He eyes her for another beat, hesitating as she pauses, her brows drawing up.
“You okay?” she asks, tilting her head. “Cause I won't actually blackmail you with your sexual deviancy, if you're worried about that.” She crosses her heart with a quick flick of her fingers; clearly practiced at swearing oaths. “And if you're into freaky shit, I promise I'll be chill. No rumors shall leave my mouth, Marleau—unless you're cool with it.”
He laughs, shaking his head, touched at the thought of her protecting him. “No, it's—I have a stupidly personal question.” She points at herself, narrowly missing smearing red across her chin, and Cliff sighs, shrugging. “It's for anyone who's uh, gay. Lesbian.” He wiggles a hand. “Not straight, you know?”
“Sure,” she says agreeably, whipping a tissue out from her pockets and blotting the ink on his chest dry before Cliff can even blink. “You gonna ask or are you just gonna waste my time?”
“Are you sure—”
“Cliff,” she says, capping her markers and stepping back, her heels clicking in the empty hallway, the low murmur of the locker room spilling out from under the closed doors beside them. She tucks a lock of her smooth brown hair behind her ear, her mouth curled into a soft half-smile, her eyes kind above her full cheeks. “Ask. The worst thing I'll say is I don't want to answer it.”
Cliff exhales, his head knocking back against the wall. “Right,” he says, and moves his gaze away from her face. He's pretty sure it'll only make him more self-conscious to see her watch him fumble with stupidity. “Uh. So. Hypothetically. Like—okay. Say you have someone who was maybe recently outed,” he starts, pitching his voice low. The last thing in the world he wants is to be caught sort of but not really spilling the beans. “And then you’re getting to meet their uh, partner soon. Is it—like is it kosher to apologize for being present in the forced outing that outed both of ‘em? Like I didn't out them, but I was there for it, and I feel kinda really bad about knowin’, even though I also think that it's sick as hell that—hm. That they can be themselves around me? I dunno if I'm explaining this right. I just—I wanna be supportive in the aftermath ‘cause I am supportive but also because being outed was real, uh, shitty. Cause, you know, they were outed.”
He sighs, letting his gaze slide from the painted Bears logo on the opposite wall back to Kayla's face. She's watching him with her arms crossed, a serious expression on her face.
“I dunno,” Cliff says, gesturing. “It's just sort of like—what can I do besides be there? It feels like I should be doing way more, you know? Like, it was a violation that they got outed even though everything went well.”
She steps forward, reaching out to touch his elbow, the pressure of her fingertips light and careful, as if he's breakable.
“All you can do,” she says, her whole face solemn, “is be there for them. You can't take away the fear they had—and you shouldn't try to. It's a lot of people's worst nightmare to be outed, and even when it ends happily, the burden of having the choice taken from you can fucking stick with you for a really long time—for forever, because it happened. As a friend—hell, even as an acquaintance—all you can do is linger in the eaves and listen and be there for them until they're ready to share with the world as a whole, if they ever are.” She shrugs, the right corner of her mouth quirking up. “It's sort of just like anything else bad that happens to a friend. I know it can feel more fraught because it's something that was shared without consent, but it doesn't change that you're their friend and you love them.”
“But,” Cliff starts and then pauses. He really doesn't have anything else to add, aside from his already stated want to fucking help. It's just so fucking shitty, and Roz hasn't—he's open enough for Cliff to know that he appreciates the support, but Cliff's not sure that he's aware of how much support he's got. If Roz asked, the whole team would do just about anything.
Kayla hums, tilting her head. “You're a good friend,” she says, patting his arm. “I think it's more likely that you'll drown ‘em in support than leave them feeling abandoned.” She meets his gaze. “And if they're on the Bears, then they've always got back up from me.”
“Thanks,” Cliff says, after a beat, before he frowns. “Now I feel even more shitty for dodging your emails.”
She laughs, bright and loud, the sound echoing down the hall. “I'll take it,” she says easily, her hand sliding off his arm as she steps back, narrowing her eyes at him. “But, for real—stop avoiding my fucking emails. I send them for a reason—even the sillier and more vulgar ones—and it's to foster a culture of inclusion and support.”
Cliff blinks at her before he tugs his shirt back on. “How much arguing did it take for you to get approved for the newsletter?”
“Dude, so fuckin’ much,” she says, grinning at him. She’s so smugly pleased that Cliff almost feels bad for the PR office, before common sense returns. “Good thing I spent so much time in debate society at BU, you know? They weren't fuckin’ prepared.”
“I bet,” he mutters, warmed through by the tendrils of care she shows. “Thanks for not killing me,” he says, meeting her eyes. “And for, uh, answering my questions.”
“Anytime,” she says, smiling at him. “And you know, your little rainbows? They're very cute.” A faint smirk plays around the corners of her mouth. “Very, uh, supportive,” she says. “Since you were the last to need them, aside from Cap, who seems not to be paying attention to this very clearly organized—”
The doors fly open, cutting her off as Roz steps out into the hallway, his shirt off and dangling from his fingers.
“Kayla,” he says, a broad grin on his face. He looks genuinely delighted, unable to suppress any of the glee shining through. “Light of my life.”
“Whoever taught you that stupid phrase that owes me a million dollars,” she mutters, and Cliff can only watch as Roz's mouth softens into a more genuine smile before she shakes her head. “Let me guess, you want a rainbow too, Cap?”
“Yes,” he says eagerly. “Yes, please. One bigger and better than these fakers.”
“As payment, will you please stop taunting fans of other teams by finding and posting edits of them getting their shit demolished by us to We Are Number One?” she asks, already uncapping her markers, as Cliff snorts, pushing off the wall.
“I make them too,” Roz says proudly, as if that makes it better, and grins even brighter when he and Kayla groan in unified, horrified tandem.
“I'm gonna do my usual lap,” Cliff mutters, rolling his eyes when they both wave him off as Roz immediately starts to try to negotiate about being allowed to post at least one a week—specifically the one he’s created, which, now that Cliff’s thinking about it, some of them are way more technical about the other teams on-ice failures and rudely accurate than others. The one Roz reposted of Hunter hitting the boards only to be intercut with genuinely good critique of the Admirals' passing and dinosaur facts had to have been made by him. He kinda feels like an idiot for not realizing sooner.
The fading echo of their voices—both clearly having the time of their life, since nine times out of ten Kayla does think that their shitposting is funny, even as it drives her crazy and makes the PR department spiral—follows him down the hallway until he takes a sharp right and heads for the quieter parts of the Garden.
He almost always takes a lap before their home games, just needing a moment to steady himself in the rush of anticipation. He mulls over everything that’s bubbling in his stomach, trying to pack most of his thoughts and worries away until there’s just the rush of hockey, hockey, hockey.
He sighs, coming to a slow stop, and leans back, his head knocking against the cement wall. Goddamn it’s cold down here—he should’ve grabbed a sweatshirt, rather than just his compression shirt, but that would’ve involved going back inside the locker room, and he knows he would’ve been sucked into another gossip session.
He almost wishes he had done it anyway. He just—shit. He has so much to think about, and Con and Sainty have that weird dance that they’re doing, so he thinks that maybe they’d be down to answer some of his questions about how to best support Roz. He should be better about it anyway, since his niece, Leigh-Ann, is always on his ass about being curating a more supportive workplace despite his claims that no one on his team is gay. Shit, he was totally wrong. He should’ve listened to her. Because she somehow knew, he guesses? Or, maybe she was just doing that thing she does when she just wants everyone to be gay? Shit, he doesn’t know.
Fuck, he’s really awful at shoving all his shit away today; something that’s unsurprising, but still unwelcome. He's gotta bottle it down. Roz will never let him forget it if he fucks up because he's thinking about—
His thoughts stutter out.
There’s a man at the end of the hall, staring at him.
It's not the first time he's stumbled over an odd soul in his walks, but this is the first person who's stopped to just stare at him.
Cliff straightens up, his brow furrowing as he gets a better look at the guy. In the shitty overhead light, it almost looks like his eyes are an odd, filmy grey, the lines of his face creased with age. He definitely doesn't look like any of the usual staff he sees down here—it doesn't even look like he's got a lanyard or an ID dangling from his waist.
“Uh,” Cliff says, blinking at him. “Hey, man. What—are you lost?” The guy shakes his head, which, okay—at least he seems lucid? He has no idea how to talk to old people. They always make him nervous, as if he's gonna somehow offend them simply by existing and then be lectured about the ye proper olden days like his grandma used to when he was a kid. “You supposed to be down here, then?” Cliff asks, frowning when the guy shrugs, before he rocks back on his heels and ambles around the corner.
For a moment, Cliff doesn't move, still staring at the space the stranger had been in, before he darts forward, glancing down the hallway the man had headed down.
It's empty, the long stretch of concrete hollow of any other people. None of the doors dotting the hall are so much as drifting shut, and there's no echoing click of a latch. There aren't even any indents for the guy to have ducked into to hide, though Cliff's not sure why he would need to.
Instead, it's just him, staring down the sterile white hallway, listening to the buzz of the lights.
He blinks at the emptiness.
That’s—hm.
He doesn’t like that one bit. Hates it, actually, if he’s being honest about it. Hates it enough to not call out, just listening to his quiet breathing. It's almost like how the air feels right before a lightning strike—static electricity filling the dead air.
He lingers for longer than he needs to, scanning top to bottom slowly, as if the guy is going to drop down from behind the pipes he can see lining the ceiling, as if there’s another answer aside from some random fucking man disappearing into the goddamn walls of TD Garden.
But no, the hallway stays still and empty, completely devoid of movement.
He gives it a beat, and then another just to be sure, before he turns on his heel and heads back for the locker room, resisting the urge to glance over his shoulder and see if someone’s watching him go. He doesn’t feel like there are eyes on him, something that makes his skin crawl a little.
He refuses to run on sheer principle alone, but man, he hates whatever the fuck just happened.
As soon as he gets back to their hallway, he glances at the humming voltage box that sits outside the locker room, halfway down the hall—the one that tracks the fluctuations in the magical reverb—just to see if it's pinged any higher than usual, only to groan at the bright red light. He almost forgot they were playing fucking Montreal—the fucking second Hollander steps into any arena, all flux reverb trackers max out.
It's crazy how much of Montreal's arcane thread is stitched into the man. The reverb always jumps when Pike and Boiziau enter, drifting up into yellows from the standard green that it sits at unless someone's casting something huge at them, which he's never seen.
It's weird as fuck too, because Hunter and Johannesburg don't spike the reverb tracker like Hollander does; all of New York or Toronto's first and second lines have to be here for it to climb into the red.
Truly, Cliff has no idea how the man plays such good fucking hockey when he apparently has to carry around so much goddamn weight. He sort of gets it, in the way that the rinks lock down all magic at the games, so Hollander’s unburdened for about two hours, but still. He can't even imagine how insane practices must be.
Fuck, but he's glad Boston drafted him. He'd go a little crazy if he had to worry about goddamn arcane weights tugging at his skates.
“Marley,” Roz calls as soon as he steps back into the locker room. “How was your walk?”
“Good,” he answers absentmindedly, before he remembers that—no, it really wasn't. He opens his mouth to fill Roz in, only to catch sight of his poorly suppressed excitement glittering in his eyes.
Shit, he can always fill him in later.
“Good,” Roz echoes, sharp-toothed happiness spilling across his face, before he turns to face the rest of the team. “Boston,” he says, his voice carrying just enough to grab the entire team’s attention in the easy way he’s always done.
The room settles, everyone turning to watch as Roz straightens up, predatory, lethal intent in his entire body.
“We are going to win tonight,” he says, slow and certain. “Montreal will be dust beneath our feet, yes? Shavings beneath our blades. We are going to ruin every single one of their lives.”
“Even Hollander’s?” someone asks, a waver in their voice.
Roz smirks, fanged and dangerous. “Especially Hollander,” he murmurs, like it’s a gift. He rolls his shoulders back, the familiar pride of wearing Boston’s colors, of being a Bear, thrumming through the room. “You want to win?” he says, gritty amusement in his voice. “It’s not just me you need to impress anymore, boys. It’s Jane.”
The room stills, everyone pausing for a beat, before Cliff groans and throws himself at his stall. “Shit, Cap,” he says. “Now everyone’s gonna skate like they’re drunk.”
Roz laughs, bright and joyful, more genuine than Cliff has ever heard.
“Well,” he says, tilting his head, when Cliff glances over his shoulder as he pulls his pads on, rolling his eyes at the smarmy grin playing around Roz’s mouth. “If we lose, no one can come over for movie night.”
“Oh fuck you,” Carmie shouts, and pandemonium breaks loose as everyone starts to boo, arguing and annoyed, but above it all, Roz’s laugh rises again, loud and boisterous and happy, like all his dreams have just come true.