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Cliff Marleau was not a complicated guy. He liked things to be straightforward. Clear. Simple. Play good hockey. Good, casual sex. Work hard, play hard, no stress.
Ilya Rozanov had never been clear, simple, or uncomplicated a day in his fucking life. He was intense about everything, even if he pretended not to be. He felt everything deeply, even when he didn't want to. Cliff had clocked these things about his friend during his rookie year, and from then on, he'd taken Ilya under his wing a bit. Gave him some guidance. Some outlets. Not that he needed help finding outlets, fuck no. That guy was a legend. He'd had Bostom girls frothing at the mouth Day One.
But Roz was still complicated. Private in ways that Cliff couldn't explain. He would talk about sex and his wild nights, his most embarrassing stories, all day long. And not a soul knew that his mother was dead. He would rant and rave about his favorite places to eat and shit in Boston. Cliff didn't know he had a brother until Roz's fourth year on the team. Cliff could tell you the exact type of woman Ilya would go for, his coffee order, his favorite sandwich spot, his preferred flex on his hockey stick, how hot he liked his showers, his favorite brands for clothes and shoes. Fuck, Cliff even knew what cologne he wore and the product he put in his hair. But he never once suspected Ilya was bisexual. That he was having family trouble. That he'd been secretly hooking up with Shane Hollander for a decade.
Which was crazy to think about because Ilya knew everything about Cliff. He'd met Cliff's family. Knew about his ex-girlfriends and his hang ups about not getting into college. He knew all the same things Cliff knew but more and better, and it broke Cliff's heart.
But at least some things made sense now, and he knew how to fix things now. Maybe he didn't get it; he certainly had said awful things in the locker room and on the ice, but he could do better. He wanted to try. So he was glad Ilya took his call after being outed. Excited to be invited to the Game Changers Summer Camp to coach. Even more excited to be invited to his wedding to Hollander.
Well. He was excited for Ilya because Ilya sounded excited and happy, and generally just enthusiastic in a way Cliff hadn't seen him be in a really long time. So if Shane Hollander was the reason for that, great. Cliff was on board.
He was just…confused.
Look, Cliff was a straight as they come, but Ilya was hot. He was hot, talented, wealthy, and hung like a goddamn horse. He could have literally anyone he wanted. And sure, Hollander was attractive. Good looking guy. He was the best fucking hockey player Cliff had ever encountered, but Ilya sure made him work for it. He was wealthy, famous. Whatever. But he was just…blah. Like toast. Maybe toasted sourdough with some good butter but still just toast. Could he even keep up with Ilya? Did he make him laugh? Was the sex that good or was Ilya just getting off on fucking his rival? He'd get bored of that eventually. He had to. Ilya had left broken hearts all over Boston, and for what? The Hockey All The Time Guy who had a reputation for eating boiled chicken and not partying?
The other part was, and Cliff wasn't proud of this thought, was that Hollander was the absolute opposite of what he knew Ilya went for in women. He wasn't soft or feminine, he wasn't ditzy and fun. He didn't have the same hedonistic tendencies. He was a big, jockey dude. He was all man, all business, and behaved like it. And again, Cliff had witnessed Ilya's preferences repeatedly with his own two eyes for years. They could've found a guy like that in Boston! Boston was a huge gay town. Fuck, he and the guys went to Pride every so often because it was a good time and the girls were fucking wild. Hollander was a manly dude, too serious, complicated, and lived in a different country. Ilya could've been tearing up the gay scene in Boston instead of…whatever he had going on with Hollander. He could've stayed right there with Cliff and found some buzzy, fun twink to settle down with who would hang all over him and gush about his hot hockey player husband to anyone who would listen. In Cliff's head, that scenario made way more fucking sense than his best buddy running off to Ottawa to be with Shane friggin' Hollander.
Whatever. Cliff was happy that Ilya was happy, and that's what mattered. He went to the wedding and coached at camp, and it was great. It did bother him that he didn't get much of a chance to talk to Hollander. Barely saw him at the wedding and he was running around like a lunatic at camp, which meant Cliff didn't get to know the guy who'd married his buddy. Everybody seemed to like him, spoke highly of him. He was nice guy. Ilya was a goddamn delight to be around when he was this happy. It was good. Great.
Cliff was glad when Ilya told him that he and Hollander were flying into Boston a day early before their first game against Ottawa that season. Ilya wanted to show Hollander some of their old haunts, and then meet up for dinner. He invited Connors, St-Vincent, Hammersmith, and a few other Raiders. Svetlana was coming too, and Cliff loved Sveta. She'd never give him a shot in a million years and he'd never get over it.
Whatever, it was good. They all met up at Ilya's favorite Italian place. Ilya and Hollander arrived shortly after Cliff and Conors and the three of them spent way too much time hugging in the foyer until Sveta showed up to mock them. They had a private room reserved, and Cliff was gratified to find out that this was a surprise from Hollander, who had wanted to make sure Ilya had exactly what he wanted.
"What?" Hollander scoffed at Ilya's surprised face. "I'm not going to make sure we can get in to my husband's favorite restaurant when we visit his friends? Come on."
Cliff nodded to himself as Ilya smacked a kiss to Hollander's cheek. Damn right.
Dinner was great. Ilya was energetic and talkative, telling them all about Ottawa and the horrors of having to deal with Canadian wildlife. He gushed about their dog and Hollander's parents. Demanded stories and details from everyone. Meanwhile, Hollander was…quiet.
It was fine. It was just bugging him. It was bugging him that the other guys kept ragging on Ilya, saying Hollander was a legendary pull. That Sveta was leaning on Hollander, engaging him in side conversations when she never gave any of the Raiders the time of day. Cliff even remembered so many guests at the wedding saying Ilya was so lucky, Hollander was so great. Fuck, camp had been a never-ending conversation about how crazy it was that Ilya managed to lock Hollander down. Managed? People were "so confused" about why Hollander picked Ilya. Picked Ilya?!
It just kinda started swirling in Cliff's head like those tumbleweed things that piled up and got sorta dangerous out in the desert. It was just eating and eating and eating at him.
And it wasn't until later, until they were all filing into this dive bar Ilya loved that Cliff got the nerve to say something. Hollander offered to go grab pitchers for them, more than happy to foot the tab. Svetlana tossed her arms around Hammersmith and St-Vincent, steering them back to a booth.
"I'll go with you," Cliff offered quickly. He shot at look at Ilya, who was immediately suspicious. "What? More hands. I'll drink one by myself anyway."
Conors groaned. "We literally have a game against them tomorrow Marly."
"Whatever, I've played with worse."
They just laughed at him and Cliff followed Hollander to the bar. He waved down the bartender, ordered four pitchers of a decent lager. Ilya's preferred brand, actually.
"Shit, should've asked what you guys wanted. Ilya convinced the owners at Monk's to stock Sam Adams. Which is like the least Canadian thing ever."
"He's honoring his roots," Cliff nodded. Hollander chuckled.
"That's exactly what he said too."
"It's fine. If you live in Boston, you drink Bud or Sam."
"Right."
They both fell silent, just standing there waiting for the pitchers. But all those thoughts kept bopping around Cliff's head and he couldn't get them to shut the fuck up. The bartender brought the pitchers, Hollander opened a tab, and it just came out.
"You know how lucky you are, right?"
Hollander's eyes whipped right to his, big and shocked. He looked like a startled deer. He blinked hard.
"What?"
Cliff cleared his throat. Maybe he should have kept his mouth shut, but as far as he could tell, nobody else had said it. Certainly not Ilya's piece of shit brother. Or these new teammates. Cliff figured he had the right.
"Roz—Ilya is the best guy I know. Like absolutely the best. He's a good man, he's got heart and his worst is twice as good as everybody else's best. And maybe you met him first, got to see stuff I didn't, but that's my brother. He could do anything, go anywhere, have anybody, and he picked you. So I hope you understand that you're the luckiest motherfucker on this goddamn planet. And if you break his heart, I will personally make sure you can never physically play hockey again. Cause I know that would hurt you the most. You hurting him means me ending you, got it?"
Hollander hadn't said a word the entire time he spoke, and now that Cliff was looking, the guy's eyes looked wet. He looked like he had been slapped. Shit. Maybe he'd overdone it. But whatever! It needed to be said. Someone needed to—!
Before Cliff could finish his own internal spiral about how Ilya was going to murder him, Shane Hollander was throwing his arms around him and hugging him. Like, a full on hug.
"What-?"
"Thank you for loving him," Hollander said, firm and quiet.
Oh shit. Oh damn. That…fuck. Cliff hugged him back.
"What is this?" Ilya demanded, coming up behind them. Hollander pulled back and batted at his eyes.
"What it's gonna be is you minding your damn business, Rozanov. Carry these," Hollander lobbed back, handing him two pitchers, grabbing glasses, and walking off to where their friends sat. Cliff just busted out laughing and Ilya whipped his head between him and his husband's back a couple of times.
"What the hell was that?"
Cliff chuckled and picked up the pitchers.
"You know what, I'm starting to get why you picked him."
Cliff got a few steps before—
"Starting?!"