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If it were any year other than 2010, Cliff would love to haze the rookie. Not just because Carmichael’s been planning since last year, when he was the victim, but since it’s more than just a rite of passage. It’s a slightly fucked-up method of team bonding, a way to test personality and personability, and to assess what the future is going to look like with the new crop of players. Except the problem is, the year is 2010, so the rookie in question is Ilya fucking Rozanov. Cliff would never claim to be the smartest guy on the Raiders—he received too many concussions in high school for that to ever be true—but he’s certainly not dumb enough to fuck with the kid.
The same, unfortunately, cannot be said for the rest of his teammates.
He wishes he could say he’s suspicious when they come off the ice and the locker room doesn’t smell like a mix of sweat and Axe body spray, but he’s talking with Cadyn and simply… doesn’t notice. His locker is directly across from Cadyn’s, and he glances over as Hammersmith starts peeling off his compression shirt.
“I’m serious, man,” Cadyn’s saying. He drops his gloves in his locker and sits down to remove his skates. “It goes a long way.”
“Where the hell do you even get that?”
“Indian grocery stores. They’ve got a ton of shit you’d never even think of,” he replies. “Eastern markets are generally pretty good; try putting nigella seeds on a salad and thank me later.”
Cliff nods to himself, making a mental note to find black cardamom before the weekend. Rozanov is billeting with him for the pre-season at minimum, as ordered by Coach Reilly. Rozanov had apparently tried to get out of it, but Coach had told Cliff that he didn’t want the kid to be on his own for the first year. Not when he was still learning English and hadn’t ever been to America before, let alone fucking Boston. Training camp was the compromise they’d reached, and Cliff would like to believe he’s doing a good job at hosting, if Rozanov’s current lack of apartment hunting is any indicator. It might be another part of why Cliff is hesitant to haze him. Plus, the kid’s never had filet mignon. Cliff is taking his duty of introducing Rozanov to good food seriously.
“You’re still on that?” Johansson asks, wrinkling his nose. “Dude, the last time you added sumac to cod and it sucked.”
“Cook for yourself if you’re going to complain,” Cadyn shoots back, grinning.
“Johansson’s not allowed near open flame, remember?” That’s from Aud, in the shower. The three of them were all drafted together back in 2005 and have lived together since. Cliff is already dreading the day one of them is traded away.
“Oh, fuck you!”
“We need to start enforcing that again.” Cadyn glances at Cliff and rolls his eyes, indicating that yes, actually, he is completely serious. “You fucked up spaghetti.”
“The timer was broken!”
“You somehow managed to make half of it too al dente and the other half soggy.”
“Ladies, please,” interrupts Connors. “Leave the bickering in the kitchen.” Of course, they all choose to turn on him, and Cliff shakes his head before turning back to his own locker to wiggle out of his own gear. There’s a slight floral scent to his left, where Rozanov’s locker is. Huh. Not what he expected, but maybe it’s different in Russia? The kid is already a bit weird about having indoor and outdoor clothes, as well as not wearing shoes in the house, so maybe it extends to the locker room. Cliff really isn’t sure; it’s their first practice together, so he’ll ask Rozanov about it at home.
Except Hammersmith gives him a smug little glance as Rozanov walks into the room, and Cliff widens his eyes at the older player to signal that he gets it. Christ, they didn’t even come up with anything good. Maybe Cliff should help out with the hazing.
A couple of the guys clap Rozanov on the back as he passes them, and the kid gives that same fucking smirk he wears after deking the rest of them—converting a winger to center is, apparently, a dangerous choice that Cliff is so glad the Raiders’ made—before crossing and standing next to Cliff as he begins the process of shedding his gear.
Cliff wrinkles his nose involuntarily as the arrangement is unearthed and the scent wafts through the air. Rozanov pauses, staring at the plants, and then glances around the room.
“What are these?” Rozanov asks, genuinely confused.
“You’ve got a secret admirer,” says Hammersmith, shit-eating grin in place.
“What is ‘secret admirer’?”
Cliff watches as the joy is sucked right out of Hammersmith’s expression in real time. Apparently, he did not consider the not-insignificant language gap that lays between the rest of the team and the Russian import.
“Uh…”
“yH’ESCHHoo!”
Rozanov startles. Half the room ignores him, and the other half offers Cliff a distracted “bless you” and then moves on, busy watching Hammersmith fumble around for an explanation that won’t make what they’re doing sound dumb as fuck. Fair enough; Cliff’s pretty sure he only got the amount of attention he did because he’s standing right next to the rookie.
Carmichael rescues Hammersmith. “A secret admirer is, like… someone who likes you, but doesn’t want you to know who they are.”
“Is lihH!–like stalker, then?”
“Hang on, why do you know what a stalker is, but not a secret admirer?” asks Aud, having emerged from the showers twenty seconds ago.
Rozanov shrugs, brow pinching slightly as he sniffs. “The manager said to be careful.”
“It’s not a stalker,” Hammersmith protests.
Cliff would love to contribute to the conversation. Really, he would. Except whatever shit Hammersmith put in that arrangement is apparently trying to wage a war on his sinuses, since his nose is tickling right up near the bridge and the sensation won’t cease. He brings up a hand, trying to rub it away, and ohfuckthatwasamistake—
“HSSCH’oo!” He genuinely does try to clamp down on it, but only succeeds at nearly catching his tongue between his teeth. Cliff’s eyes tear up with the force, and he gasps into another harsh, “iESCHh’oo!”
“Bless you, Marly.”
“Thangks,” he mutters, sniffling briefly to try and keep the congestion at bay as he roots around in his locker for a towel, or even a T-shirt. He can just throw it into the laundry basket when he’s done; no harm, no foul.
Then Rozanov sneezes.
More aptly, he starts sneezing. And doesn’t fucking stop.
“nKtch! ngKT’sh! heHh–gkt! h’KSHH!”
“Bless—”
“hh’gKTSh–ihgkt–ishh’KT—!” The last in the fit catches, as if he lost control and tried to regain it again too late. Rozanov twists further away from the room, his face buried in his elbow with the other arm up to brace the first. “eh’HKTSH–TSHh–schh’iuh!”
It’s as if a rare double from Cliff opened the fucking floodgates. Rozanov’s eyes are squeezed shut like the time it would take to open them again isn’t even worth it. With the pace and intensity of his sneezing, Cliff doesn’t blame him.
“Fucking bless you,” Cadyn says. Most of the room seems too stunned to respond. Aud, thankfully, has maybe half a brain cell and steps in between them to grab the offending bouquet. Half a brain cell is unfortunately accurate, since he moves with zero spatial awareness and practically smacks Cliff in the face with it.
“Oh, what the—h’YESCHH’uh!—fugck?!”
Next to him, Ilya barely manages to shoot him a glare before dissolving into another fit. “iH’TSHh! gKTsh! NKSH–KSHh’iu!”
“Bless—”
“ih’TSHiew!”
“Jesus Christ, rook,” Johansson says. His eyebrows are nearly up to his hairline, and if Cliff hadn’t spent the last three years playing with him, he’d assume the guy was exaggerating. But his face is just that expressive. It’s nice when they’re on the ice, when he’s excited after assisting on net. Right now, though?
Cliff doesn't like the worry he can see there. It means they might’ve actually gone too far.
“Rozanov, can you fucking breathe?” asks Cadyn, standing and walking over to the kid. Aud is quietly yelling at Hammersmith across the room. Connors is digging around in his locker for something. The rest of the room is just… watching.
Rozanov nods, then gasps into a rough triple. “igK’TSHh! hH’EZZSH–ZSHh’iu!” Mercifully, his breathing doesn’t catch again, and he’s left panting, face streaked with tears, nose pink and twitchy. Cliff is sure he doesn’t look much better—his throat aches from sneezing, and the itch in his nose still hasn’t fully dissipated. He scrunches his nostrils, hoping to quell it.
“What the fuck was that?” Feller asks, his eyes wide. He’s only a bit older than Rozanov, and probably counting his lucky stars Carmichael only decided to be a dumbass after they were both drafted and safe on the team.
“What do you think, idiot?” says Aud, a cowed Hammersmith next to him. “He’s clearly fucking allergic.”
“Yeah, but he, like, exploded.”
“Fuck off,” Rozanov mutters, but in between the congestion and his accent, his speech is barely comprehensible. He sniffles heavily, makes a slight face of disgust, and then stalks off toward the showers. A second later, the water starts running.
Cadyn glances at Cliff. “You should probably do the same, yeah?”
He nods. “Uh, yeah. Yep. I’mb—” He gestures, then goes.
Rozanov is already in a stall, the curtain pulled shut. His breath is catching in false starts every couple of seconds, but never tips back over.
“You alright, roogk?” Cliff asks. Mostly as a formality, but he is concerned. Plus, Rozanov’s coming home with him after practice; he’d like to make sure they're not going to have to worry more than necessary.
“Mhm,” grunts Rozanov. “ih–hiH!”
“Fair enough,” he says, turning on the next shower over from Rozanov’s stall and leaving his clothes in a heap on the bench just outside before stepping under the spray. He usually isn’t a fan of hot water after practice, since it tricks him into thinking that he’s done for the day when he’ll just have to shower again once he’s home, but today, he fucking deserves it.
Once he’s blown his nose and had a moment to settle, Rozanov speaks up again. “Everyone is upset?” he asks.
“What?”
“They are upset with us,” Rozanov clarifies.
“What?”
“They are—”
“No, kid, I fucking heard you. Just—what?”
“We cause disturbance. Annoying for no reason.”
“Kid, what the fuck?”
Rozanov huffs frustratedly, then curses around another false hitch of breath. They both wait a beat to make sure it’s not going to convert to another fit. When he talks, it’s like he’s trying to explain something to a small child. “We cause disturbance after practice. Practice is over, so we do not have to get along. So, everyone is upset with us.”
And Cliff—
He can understand the train of thought. That doesn’t mean it makes any damn sense.
“Kid—Rozanov. I promise you, they’re not upset, they’re worried. They just don’t want to show it because that means Hammersmith needs to admit he fucked up, and he’d rather break his hand than do that.” The bar of soap is slippery in his hand, and it nearly slides out of Cliff’s fist as he clenches it unconsciously.
Rozanov is silent.
Cliff sighs, and then his breath snags as the tickle at the back his nose finally crests. With the freedom to do so, he slaps a hand against the tile wall of the shower to brace himself, and then sneezes openly at the ground, leaning into it.
“YSSHh’oo!”
“Bud’te zdorovy,” says Rozanov.
“yhH’ATSSH’oo!”
“Bud’te zdorovy. That is not usual for you, no?”
“What, two in a row? Not really.”
“Must be nice.”
They’ve only been living together for two days, so Cliff is pretty sure he can be forgiven for not realizing the rookie’s funny, even while actively suffering.
“Definitely better than whatever the fuck you have going on,” he replies. “Is it ever just once?”
“Never.”
He sniffles, and a second later, Cliff can hear a faint clicking noise as Rozanov presumably rubs at his nose. Then—
“ikt’sch! tshh–tshhiu! iesHh’iew!”
Counterinuitively, they’re much softer now that Rozanov isn’t fighting them. Cliff grins. “Bless you.”
“Please shut up.”
He barks out a surprised laugh, but drops it all the same. If Rozanov’s been operating on whatever Russian logic he displayed earlier, Cliff’s at least going to be smart enough to know when to let go.
“Hey, are you both alive over there?” calls Connors.
“Debatable,” Cliff jokes.
“Har-har. I’m leaving antihistamines in your lockers. Don’t keel over, alright? We need Rozanov for the season, and we can’t have that if his roommate dies.”
“Oh, fuck you!”
“Get in line,” Connors yells back. Rozanov laughs as his water shuts off.
2010 is going to be a good year.