Archive of Our Own

WINTER 2011: ROOKIE SEASON

Cliff Marleau had already played four AHL seasons for his home province’s somewhat middling team when he found himself dropped into negotiations for being called up to the MLH. To Boston of all places. The call-up inspired little fanfare, overshadowed by the buzz around the #1 draft pick, a star rookie being imported from Russia. Marleau's interviews with the Boston Bears stressed that the team restructure that they had in mind would capitalize on Ilya Rozanov’s strengths, but they needed a solid, seasoned forward to keep their investment from crashing out under pressure.

Marleau didn’t mind. If Boston wanted to pay him seven figures to babysit a hockey prodigy, he'd be happy to sign on the dotted line. He had grown up in the Maritimes—an eldest son too good at hockey to end up working the lobster season. The rougher texture of his upbringing meant that he could hold his own against Rozanov’s somewhat antagonistic personality. He understood the way that "fucking asshole" could be said with great affection amongst teammates. Marleau at least respected that the rookie had the talent to back up his attitude and could take as good as he gave as far as chirping went.

They roomed together on the road in those first few seasons almost exclusively, allowing him to get glimpses of who Ilya Rozanov was outside of hockey. He didn't talk much about home, but Marleau gathered hints over time. He was able to sketch out the vague shape of a hard-ass father along with an older brother with money problems, along with a mysteriously absent mother. Phone calls overheard were short bursts of tense Russian followed by equally tense silences.

Marleau was content to take over when Rozanov's English capacity for the day had been exceeded. He could fill the quiet with easy stories from home: domestic scenes of family life around Halifax, his youthful mischief and hockey shop talk. When his own words ran out, they settled into the physicality of fraternal affection familiar to Marleau who grew up surrounded by loving shoves and playful aggression.

Rozanov was increasingly on his phone during that first season—texting constantly, all flushed face and dopey grin. Marleau figured it had to be a chick from the obvious, bordering on comical, way that he would bounce toward his phone at every text notification. Casual espionage is certainly easier when the target is both a few inches shorter and usually distracted by a screen. Still it did take Marleau a bit to figure out that the blush-inspiring texts were mostly with the same girl—contact name "Jane" (no last name).

This "Jane" seemed an exception to what Marleau observed as Rozanov's easy affectation of charming fuckboy personality. Flushed from a win or eager to cut loose after a loss, the two teammates could be spotted surrounded by booze and any number of girls. He could admit that his younger teammate was reliable for a good time. Marleau certainly didn't mind the increased sexual opportunities to be had from orbiting near Rozanov's considerable gravitational pull.

They both kept it professional though. Staying out of trouble and far from scandal, they had no issue with putting hockey before getting drunk or getting their dicks wet. They tended to brood over losses the same way—Rozanov buried in his phone and Cliff usually with something mindless on the TV. Sullen princes sulking on their identical queen-sized beds, lost in their own thoughts until the morning brought a new day, another game, or the journey home.

A couple of months into that first season, they were in New Jersey. The loss wasn't embarrassing, 4—3 in regulation, but it was a loss that found them glumly sharing a pizza with an action movie on in the background. Cliff whole right side throbbed after taking a check against the boards late in the third. Then on the bus after the game, Rozanov had gotten a call from back home that plunged his mood into darkness. Marleau watched him send off a few texts to "Jane" before chucking his phone facedown on the mattress with a heavy sigh.

"Jane busy tonight?" he asked as casually as possible.

"What?" Rozanov spat out, appearing slightly panicked.

"Jane. The chick you're always texting."

"How d'you? She's—no one. Just some girl in Montreal," he was quick to dismiss.

"Whatever, man. You done with this?" gesturing to the pizza box after deciding not to push. When he got a grunt in response, he got up to put the box out in the hallway. When he came back into the room, his teammate had his phone clutched protectively to his chest, as if Marleau was planning on inspecting it for government secrets.

"Hey, you mind if I make a quick call? It's my kid brother's birthday."

"Yeah, sure," he said, not looking up from his phone screen.

Marleau kept the call brief. His brother Jeremy was turning 19, so he assumed that he would be too busy with his friends to carry on a long conversation anyway. The sound of a party filtered through the phone, and the voice that answered on the second ring was bright and boyish. Jeremy expressed sympathy about the game loss, but also complimented an assist that Marleau had made in the second period. Marleau asked about his brother's classes and whether he was getting along with his roommate. Another round of birthday wishes before they hung up, along with the usual closings: I miss you. I love you. See you at Christmas.

"You sound—hmm, close?" Rozanov's voice was quiet and unusually tentative.

"Oh, yeah. I mean, I'm pretty close with all my siblings, but I've always been closest to Jeremy. He's 19, like you. Got the brains in the family. He's studying at Simon Fraser over in BC—that's the western part of Canada. Sometimes he tells me about some book or class he is taking and it just goes—whoosh—over my head. But then I can talk about hockey and it's like he knows his shit about that, too. Hate that he can't come to as many of my games since he started school, but I'm happy for him. He really likes it out there."

"That's, ah, he's lucky—to have brother like you."

Marleau turned his head at the slightly wet quality in Rozanov's voice which was immediately smothered with a cough. "You good, man?"

"Just tired—New Jersey sucks," he replied gruffly, reaching over to smack at the bedside lamp until it turned off. Marleau didn't comment that the younger man had rolled over instead of getting up to move back over to his own bed. Marleau stayed up for another half hour flipping through channels with the volume down until it was clear that Rozanov was asleep. He made sure the door was locked, their phones plugged in, and set an alarm for the morning. He took the blankets from the other bed and lay back down, pulling the covers over both of them before turning off the TV.

SPRING 2014: FOURTH SEASON

Marleau had undressed for bed and sobered enough that the ceiling in the hotel room that he didn't have to share had finally stopped spinning. He had had one too many with his teammates celebrating their Stanley Cup win at the annual MLH awards night in Las Vegas. Fuck tequila. Never again. He was nearly asleep when a text came through, rattling loudly against the nightstand.

Marleau plugged his phone back in and turned on the lamp. Rubbing his eyes, he got up to prop open the door with the latch before flopping back in bed. He hoped Rozy wasn't planning to take his time because his head was pounding. He finished off the last of an open water bottle. His Russian teammate made it down in just a few minutes, gazing out the large window for a moment before pulling out a set of keys from his pocket. He walked over to set them on the nightstand, looking a bit unsteady, maybe even a little sick.

“Ah, here, my keys. And I texted you a number. A friend—Svetlana. Let her know when you are coming by. She knows how I like to leave my cars for the summer.”

“Svetlana, eh? Sounds sexy," Marleau cracked a tired grin.

“She is a friend—from back home.”

“S'that code for don’t make a pass at her?” Marleau teased.

Rozanov chuckled lightly, a sound that made Marleau’s heart warm. “Svetlana—ah, I think you say, will eat you alive?”

“Ah, a feisty one.”

“Yes, that.”

“Hey, Rozy. Stay a minute. You look like shit, man,” Marleau stretched out a long arm to tug Rozanov down next to him on the bed. There was a brief resistance before he flopped down heavily. He reached over to the nightstand to grab an unopened water bottle and passed it to his captain. “There you go. Better. So talk to me. You skipped shots with the rookies, Captain. Did you find some fun?”

“You are my babysitter now, Marly?” he said after taking a swig of water.

Cliff snorted before moving on, “You know, my dad won’t quit about the cup—bragging to everyone. ‘My son the champion’ or some shit.”

“I think we have very different dads, Marly.”

“I still can’t believe it though. I never thought I’d be on a team where we win the cup, you know? Thanks to you, Mr. MVP.”

“You are stupid when you’re drunk.”

“Who pissed in your borchst, dickhead?" Marleau said with a crooked grin, "But seriously—you did good. Getting us here.”

“Okay. I got us here. Sure.”

“-M’proud of you, brother.”

“Shut your face, Marly.”

WINTER 2017: SEVENTH SEASON, Part 1

The game sucked. Boston in Montreal, 1-0 for the Meteros. Cliff would have been happy to stay at the hotel room and sleep in until their late afternoon flight the next day, but the order came down that apparently Roz needed to get laid and who was Marleau to cockblock his captain? They were dropped of at a club called Le Ciel and Cliff got the first round for everyone. Bourbon for him and some fancy vodka for Rozanov which the latter sipped with a tight jaw while circulating the space with all the coiled energy of a panther on the prowl.

Maybe an hour after they arrived, the woman that Marleau had in his arms was too short for conversation while dancing which suited him just fine. She had been perched on a bar stool the last time it had been his turn to order drinks. She was pretty, probably late twenties, dark makeup around light eyes, long ponytail that Cliff thought about wrapping a fist around later.

She had put a hand on his chest and introduced herself as Sophie then asked him if he wanted to dance in lightly-accented English. He wordlessly passed drinks off to St-Simon standing behind him (he would thank him later if he ended up lucky tonight). His muscles were still warm and loose from the game and he had a good alcohol buzz going—the kind that made a soft body feel like heaven.

Marleau's mind began to wander, sizing up if this was a make out in a back hallway situation or a kick St-Simon out of their hotel room for the night situation. He scanned the room for his teammates—Hammersmith and St-Simon locked in some animated discussion at the bar, Carmichael dancing with a leggy brunette. Then he almost did a double take when he glanced over and saw Shane Hollander. He was surprised that the Metros captain looked pained, as if it wasn't the Bears that had lost tonight. He could see that Hollander wasn't looking at girl that had her back to him while she bounced along to the beat. "Is that Rose Landry?" he overheard somewhere nearby. Marleau followed Hollander's intense stare across the room which eventually landed on—fuck. Rozy. Shit. Buzz kill.

To a casual observer, Rozanov was completely focused on the blonde grinding against his hips. But Marleau intimately knew the way that Rozanov deked on the ice, how he could hide his true intentions to fake out a goalie or defender. He clocked his captain's gaze finding its way back to Hollander again and again, with an emotion that could best be described as murderous.

Reluctantly making his excuses to Sophie ("Sorry, these rookie kids can't be trusted to make good choices."), Marleau made sure he had settled up his tab at the bar. When he turned around, Rozanov was fuming headed straight for the bar for another drink. It was easy enough to intercept him when he was hardly paying attention to his surroundings.

"What the fuck, Marly?" he shouted over the music, shaking the firm grip off his arm.

"Curfew. Gonna round up the guys."

"When have you ever fucking cared about curfew?"

"Since I saw you looking at Shane Hollander. About to find trouble."

"What are you—Hollander is here?" he asked, eyes wide with unconvincingly innocence.

Marleau hit him with his sternest older sibling face, the kind guaranteed to ring confessions and contraband out of his own brothers. Rozanov sucked his teeth in annoyance, sizing up his options, but then deciding to double down. "I will find my own way back. Tell Hammersmith to keep his mouth shut."

"What the fuck?"

"Just. I need you to cover for me. Take care of the guys. Will see you in the morning," Rozanov insisted, then in a last appeal, "Please."

Marleau relented, but with a narrowing of his eyes that promised a conversation in the morning. He squeezed his teammate's shoulder firmly, before turning to find the rest of their group. The handful of other teammates were easier to herd towards the door, coming without complaint once they saw their captain leaving as well. After picking up jackets from coat check, they spilled out onto the icy sidewalk near a taxi stand to head back to the hotel.

It wasn't until Cliff and Ilya were settled on the bus back to the airport, that he broached the topic, "Sooo, we gonna talk about it?"

"That blonde was just a tease. Had a fucking boyfriend who liked to watch her with other guys."

"Not the blonde, Rozy. Hollander."

"Hollander? Is nothing. Just bullshit from the game."

"So where did you go? You know, you never go out with us when we're in Montreal. You're always with Ja—oh." Oh.

"Don't finish that sentence, Marly. Just—don't."

They were quiet for the rest of the trip to the airport. They ended up assigned to the same hotel room once they got down to Tampa. When they got to their room after dinner, they each took a shower to wash off the travel day and silently got ready for bed. They needed to be back on the team bus at 8:00 am for a morning skate before the game that night. Despite the obvious exhaustion that they both felt, made worse by the tension between them, Marleau could see in the dim light that Rozanov was also struggling to fall asleep. Both of them wide-awake in their separate beds, wrapped up in their separate blankets and their separate thoughts.

WINTER 2017: SEVENTH SEASON, Part 2

Marleau could admit, forward to forward, that Hayden Pike played decent hockey. The operative word "decent" implying both not bad and not dirty. However, if there was a sport where the object was to hit someone in the face as hard as humanly possible without (1) knocking out a tooth, (2) breaking their nose, or (3) making them lose consciousness—apparently, Hayden Pike would be the champion of the world. Truly, a generational talent. Marleau hadn't even defended himself, barely standing upright after hearing the sickening crunch of Hollander's body against the boards. By the time he even registered the motionless Montreal captain, Pike had already dropped his gloves.

He had, by some miracle, not been concussed when he hit the ice, the meat of his hip absorbing most of the impact when he was knocked off his feet. While linesmen were pulling him up and toward Boston's bench to be checked over, Marleau searched the ice for Rozanov. He found his captain's eyes glassy as he anxiously circled the chaos around the injured player, ignoring the trainers' barked orders to stay back. From the bench, it didn't look like Hollander was fully conscious as they transferred him from a spinal board to an ambulance gurney. It did not look good.

Marleau had been off the ice for the rest of the game, not finding out until later that they had lost to the Metros. He honestly hadn't been surprised. They had squeaked by with wins in Nashville and St. Louis while Rozanov was back in Russia, but the team had been gripped by a nervous energy as if waiting for their captain to crash out ever since he had returned. The death of a parent (or God-forbid, a child) would drop most guys into Non-Roster Player status for as long as they needed to handle things at home. Rozanov only missed two games for his father's funeral—less time off than what Marleau took for having mumps in 2014.

The Toradol injection from the team doctor had cut through the worst of the pain, but between the collision with Hollander and the swinging haymaker from Pike immediately after, Marleau felt thoroughly rung out. He'd be benched for a couple of weeks at minimum. No screens or exertion for 48 hours. Supervision. This last guideline meant their usual rooming arrangement and likely Rozanov being a hovering menace.

Rozanov was unusually subdued on the bus, sitting next to Coach Leclaire instead of with the rest of the team for the short ride to the hotel. Perhaps he was giving Marleau some space—not tax him with conversation while injured. Room keys were handed out as players scattered from the hotel lobby. When Marleau made a grab for his duffel bag, Rozanov nudged him aside and shouldered it himself with a grunted nyet.

They let the door shut too loudly behind them and kicked off their shoes. Rozanov set down their bags heavily. He looked wrecked—strung out, his eyes unable to focus on anything in the room. Marleau was about to ask him if he was alright when he felt 200 pounds of hockey player collide with his bruised ribs, great gasping sobs shaking through him. Marleau was grateful for the few inches he had on Rozanov which made it possible for him to gracelessly lower them both onto one of the beds. Wincing a little, he was able to readjust them somewhat—stretching out his long legs and letting his captain curl into his side, clutching at his hoodie while mumbling insensibly in Russian.

"Hey. Hey. It's okay, Ilya. I got you. I'm right here," he murmured into blond curls that were pressed painfully against his bruised jaw.

Marleau knew this couldn't be about him. He had been in worse scrapes on the ice. This was about something else—someone else. Something had been quietly been working in the back of his mind since earlier this season. Around the time that the texting to "Jane" had abruptly stopped. The way Roz had looked at Shane Hollander in that crowded Montreal club. And the way he had looked at Shane Hollander on the ice tonight—as if a something vital had been wounded. Something precious to him.

"You can see him tomorrow," Marleau declared easily, as if the sentence did not imply several weighty truths that they had not discussed.

"I can't do that," came the flat reply.

"First thing in the morning. I'll go with you."

"You talk too much, Marly. Bad for concussion."

"I don't have a concussion. Maybe you need your head checked, brother."

SUMMER 2018: AFTER EIGHTH SEASON

A few weeks after the end of the season, the Bears having not made it past the first round of the playoffs, Cliff Marleau stood on the deck of the Alderney Ferry headed to his parents' house in Dartmouth. The harbor in Nova Scotia still smelled like home even if he spent most of the year in Boston. He had met up with a few old friends still living in Halifax over beer and raw oysters and then spent the early evening wandering around the waterfront boardwalk still thronging with summer tourists./p>

The roar of the engine and the breeze off the water were loud enough that he wouldn’t have been able to hear his phone. However, midway across the Bedford Basin, notification after notification began vibrating against his thigh. He dropped onto an empty bench before pulling out his phone. Texts, group chats, social media posts, MLH news updates—but his brown eyes fell on one in particular:

No.

This had to be fake, he thought. This opinion was clearly shared if the rapidly-firing team group chat was any indication. Cliff pulled up his texts from Rozanov. There hadn’t been anything since he had sent some stupid YouTube video a few weeks ago before wishing him a safe trip home. No way would he leave Boston, sign with a different team in another country, without telling him. He wouldn’t do that to the guys. He wouldn’t do that to him. His friend. His fucking brother.

Cliff stared until his eyes stung, the salty air kicking off the water lashing against his face. He was too agitated to text the group chat back. He didn't want to say something he would regret and definitely didn’t want that to happen while sitting on a ferry boat. Later that evening, he didn't feel like having a confrontational call. Not while at home. Not with his mom so obviously happy that he could stay for a few weeks. Not when his dad needed help patching some siding on the house. He didn't want to be angry around his parents.

He kept trying to find the right time to reach out to Rozanov, but every night he just tossed and turned in the bed of his childhood room. At some point, his parents had stripped it of its boy bedroom character—replaced its twin beds with a queen-sized bed for guests, a testament to the way houses and rooms change over time. The way people come and go. Maybe for good. For better. Maybe even forever.

He stared up at the crucifix above the headboard and the flower vase by the window, searching for some evidence that this room had once been his and Jeremy's. Marleau padded over to the closet and opened the door quietly, reaching up to pull the beaded chain that flooded the space with dusty yellow light. He felt along the door frame inside the closet until his rough fingers found a disturbance in the wood trim. A year and two names with their ages, carved with a pocket knife still in his dresser drawer back in Boston.

1999 — Cliff, 12 Jeremy, 8

He wasn't sure why this made him think of Rozy. Other than being the same age, they were not particularly alike. Somehow, Cliff had found a brother in Ilya Rozanov. With his siblings, he had been prepared for them to grow up and find their own paths. Confident that they would always find their way home to reconvene at regular intervals, with phone calls and holidays to bring them together along with pieces from their new lives. But Cliff hadn't been ready for his captain to leave—hadn't been braced for it. So he sat with text, the question, the one that he couldn't send:

Why did you leave me, brother? What did I do wrong?

SPRING 2019: NINTH SEASON

Cliff pulled out Svetlana's chair for her at an intimately-lit restaurant table set for four. She had made the reservations and texted him the details of when she expected him. He thought he vaguely recognized the place, perhaps the location of some team dinner from years ago. She was saying something about there being good vodka, but he barely reacted, too busy scanning the front of house. Each time the doors opened, he could feel his heart give an uncomfortable lurch.

“You are nervous to see him?” Svetlana asked after taking a sip of her water.

“What? No, just—I don’t know if he will think this is a good surprise. Are you sure about this?” His voice betraying some of the anxiety that he was trying and failing to control.

“Ilyusha will be fine. Eventually," she said. She turned to place her hand at the back of his neck, her fingers cool from holding her water glass. The subtle gesture put the slightest pressure on the metal clasp of the thin collar at his neck. The soft black leather rested just above his clavicles, partially visible where his shirt was unbuttoned. With her hand still in place, she murmured Settle, meeting his eyes until he let his gaze drop from hers.

Cliff’s whole body relaxed much like a puppet with its strings cut. All these months together, and he still couldn’t understand how she could do that to him, level him completely with a look or a word. Beneath the table, he had automatically rested both his upturned palms on top of his thighs. She placed her hand in his, giving a soft hum of approval that shot heat straight through him.

About five minutes after they had been seated, Rozanov came in, shaking off his coat as the hostess brought him to their table. His bright eyes found Svetlana’s first, face cracking into a wide grin. He was already reaching to embrace her when he was startled by Marleau’s presence. They had seen each other at the game of course, had even exchanged fist bumps during warm ups. But they had not made any plans to see each other in Boston while he was there. And even all these months later there was still an awkward chill between them.

“Marly, what the fuck? What are you doing here?” Ilya asked clearly surprised, but also delighted. He cut his hug with Svetlana short to pull his former teammate to his feet. Their embrace was brief, but warm, Ilya still smiling incredulously as everyone sat down again.

“We thought we’d make the most of your time in town before you headed back to Ottawa.”

“We? You and—what?” he asked, confusion evident before he switched to Russian, “Sveta, what the fuck is happening right now?”

“I asked Cliff to join us for dinner. We are together. Since the start of the season,” Svetlana returned in English so as not to exclude her partner. She gave his hand another gentle squeeze beneath the table.

“Cliff—That’s, no. That’s not right, you would have told me,” Ilya says to her before turning to Marly with a sour look, “You would have said something. Not kept this—secret.”

“Like you and Shane Hollander.” Svetlana delivered. Not a question, the punctuation audible.

Ilya Rozanov's face ran through every stage of grief over the next couple of minutes. He glanced helplessly at Cliff who had the audacity to give a small shrug and gesture toward his—Svetlana.

“Ah, yes, Ilyusha. We know. So we can all have an adult discussion about secret lovers later if you want.”

“Fuck. Fuck! How the fuck did this even happen?” Ilya groaned, mostly to himself as he rubbed the tension from the back of his neck.

“You left, man. You left the team. You didn’t even tell us why. I had to hear about the trade from a tweet about the fucking press release. We were on the same line for eight years. Eight years, Rozy. Why couldn’t you tell me?” Marleau hated the hurt tone that he couldn't hide.

“There were reasons that we had to keep things secret. From Russia. From hockey—”

“But not from me, Ilyushka!” Svetlana said, leaning forward and slamming her hand against the table hard enough to rattle the glasses and flatware.

“Okay, okay,” Ilya finally said, chastened, “I think I understand. I—I made choices. I think maybe I hurt you—both.” The three took a beat to just sit with his admission.

“There’s more,” Svetlana added after dismissing the waiter hovering at the periphery. She studied her drink for a moment before glancing meaningfully at Marleau.

“How can there be more?” Ilya sighed with excessive drama.

“We think something is up with Hollander. In Montreal,” Marleau said, his voice dropped low.

Ilya instantly straightened, his whole focus suddenly sharpened. He had, of course, been worried about Shane. He had filed these observations away, waiting for some arbitrary threshold to be reached before he would confront his boyfriend about them. The last-minute cancellations of planned visits. The injuries—more this season than in any other, and yet still he never missed a game. The obsessive rigidity to his diet and training schedule also seemed to be worsening.

"He has—not said anything. But something doesn't feel right, I think," he said carefully.

“We want to figure out a way to help him. But if he isn’t telling you—he isn’t going to want our help,” Marleau said.

“No. My Shane—it is complicated for him. He wants to stay in Montreal. To keep us a secret until we retire. That’s the plan.”

“Ilyushka—” Svetlana breathes, more pity than he could bear.

“Rozy, we think that it might be the Metros. Like maybe they are doing something to him?” Marleau could tell by the way that Ilya’s eyes were tracking back and forth that he was trying to catch up, processing this information in real time.

“Hollander came out to his team at the beginning of this season. I didn’t think it was a good idea, but he wanted them to know. Not about me. Just about being—gay. He said most of the team was okay with it.”

“And you believed him?” Svetlana's voice so tender that it made both men physically ache.

“I didn’t think—I didn’t think he would lie about this. No, maybe that's not true. I have been—distracted. Ottawa is different. It’s hard to be separated," he said before continuing in pleading Russian, "Sveta, I never meant to keep this from you. I was trying to protect us."

"We will do what we can from Boston. Hollander doesn't even have to know that we know. If that's what you want. Just—fuck—don't disappear on us again."

"Marly, I can't ask— You would help? Help him?" Ilya asked, his eyes glassy in the dim light.

"Of course. If he is yours—then he is ours. That's fucking family, Rozanov. We're brothers."