Chapter Text
Cliff wasn't crazy.
Really, he wasn't.
He believed that most of the time, despite all the tweets from @raidersreport and @newenglandnews about how he must be.
And he also wasn't a bitch, or a turncoat, or a piece of shit, or an asshole, or a "giant, ugly, bitch-ass, no good, mediocre winger" like @ihaterozanovandmarlow often tweeted.
He knew that he wasn't any of these things, of course. And he didn't regret his decision, really, he didn't. Not even when his cousin texted him a picture of his face plastered up on a dart board in his old favorite Boston bar, or when his sister called him fuming because a guy she'd been in a "situationship" with asked her if she was embarrassed that her brother was "not only stupid, but also a pussy".
He'd actually laughed after that one, especially when she told him that she broke things off between them, and then punched the guy exactly the way Cliff had insisted on teaching her before she went off to college.
The media was kind of a shit storm, even two months after his "traitorous defection" from Boston had been announced. And look, he really wasn't complaining, because he was good, yeah, and he'd made it to a couple Allstar games in his career, mostly during down years where some stars were injured...
But he wasn't generational talent, turn a whole franchise around good like another certain someone who was taking way more heat than he was.
Thankfully though, like most things when it came to the whole media aspect of being a professional athlete, Roz didn't give a fuck. And that whole careless, "let them talk" attitude had kind of started to rub off on Cliff.
Roz had always been kind of a menace, and Cliff had always been kind of a menace. It was part of how they'd become such fast friends. And unfortunately for both of their agents and publicists, the two of them only egged each other on.
So it really shouldn't have been a surprise to anyone when they were both called into the Censplex an hour early on the first day of official practice for a meeting.
Cliff cooked them breakfast, six eggs each and an ungodly amount of bacon, and as a favor, Roz let him choose which of his cars he'd drive them to practice in. Roz had sold most of the super fast, super nonpractical ones before their move to Canada, but he kept the bright orange Spyder which had always been Cliff's favorite.
And they had to make the most out of driving it while the weather was still good, so of course Cliff chose that one.
They carpooled to the Censplex like they had most days of training camp and parked in the spot reserved for the captain of the team. They walked toward the conference room where they'd been told to meet still humming the Bad Bunny song that had been playing in the car before they got out.
"Hey Roz, I think I'm gonna learn Spanish," Cliff commented casually in the same way he usually did, so of course, Roz replied in the same way he usually did.
"Is this going to be like the time you were going to learn to make Beef Wellington and then almost burnt my house down?" Roz asked dryly as he held the door to the conference room open for Cliff.
Cliff punched him in the shoulder. "Dick," he exclaimed, "That was not entirely my fault and you know it!"
"Oh? Then whose fault was it?" Roz replied with an eyeroll.
They'd had this same conversation so many times since the incident happened two years ago, that it was honestly almost scripted at this point.
"You know that it was-" Cliff started and was promptly cut off by someone clearing their throat.
They both turned abruptly to see Harris, the social media guy, Coach Wiebe, a woman dressed in a fancy suit, and the three sibling owners of the Centaurs already seated around the conference room.
Okay, so maybe it was more serious than it seemed.
"Boys," Wiebe said, gesturing at the two empty chairs, "Please have a seat."
Cliff watched one of the siblings cough into their hand to hide an amused smile, and- okay, maybe not that serious.
They pulled the chairs back in sync before plopping down into them.
Wiebe nodded his head, "Harris," he said gesturing with his hand for him to go ahead.
"Cliff, Ilya," Harris greeted, addressing them both one by one with a tight smile.
"Uh oh, this looks serious." Roz commented lightly.
"Well it isn't unserious, but you're not in trouble..." Harris replied cheerily, "...yet."
"Okay." Roz replied hesitantly, glancing sideways at Cliff with a questioning look.
Cliff simply shrugged.
"We're here to talk about your recent social media activity." Harris continued, glancing over to the woman in the fancy suit.
She pulled a manila file folder out of her brief case and set it on the table before introducing herself, "Cliff, Ilya, hello. My name is Grace Lewis. To put it simply, I work on the legal side of things for the Centaurs. I worked on both of your contracts, I help out with broadcasting agreements, and rather recently, I've been appointed interim head of the Crisis Communications team." She gave them a pointed look at this. "I am a very busy woman, and I would like very much to have this team dissolved."
Cliff gulped, and Roz, that fucker, raised his hand.
"Yes, Ilya?" Grace Lewis asked with the tone of voice that wasn't unkind, but also made it clear that she wouldn't tolerate any nonsense.
"If this is crisis meeting," he said, putting air quotes around the crisis part, "Then why are they here?" He pointed toward the owners.
Cliff slapped his arm down, "Dude." He reprimanded.
Grace sighed, "We'll get to that later," she said tightly, in a way that suggested that she knew the reason, but was not happy about it.
As she opened the manila file folder and grabbed the rather thick stack of paper inside, Cliff took the time to glance at the expressions of the others in the room.
The siblings were glancing amongst each other with poorly hidden smiles on their faces. Wiebe looked off into the distance as if he were bored and questioning why he had to be there. And Harris looked a little bit stressed, but also weirdly amused.
"Okay," Grace said, "Ilya, on August 8th, you replied to a tweet and said, and I quote, fuck your fantasy team."
Roz nodded his head contemplatively, "Yes, that sounds like me," he agreed.
"Why?" Grace asked exasperatedly, clearly not having expected him to respond so casually.
"Because fuck their fantasy team." Roz stated simply.
"You can't say that." Grace said.
"Can I say fudge your fantasy team?" Roz asked curiously.
Grace leveled him with a flat look, then turned to Cliff. "Cliff, also on August 8th, you responded to someone and said, and I quote, congrats to your wife for leaving you."
Cliff couldn't help the snort that came out, and he immediately placed his hand in front of his mouth and looked down at the table. He took two deep breaths, then looked up, "Sorry, that was- I didn't mean to. Sorry." He paused for three beats, and because he actually remembered that tweet, said, "But you gotta read the context on that one."
Grace sighed and read out, "Congrats to Cliff Marlow and Ilya Rozanov for throwing their careers in the fucking garbage. Good riddance, those ugly motherfuckers." She paused, "Why would you-"
"In my defense, he had recently divorced in his bio." Cliff defended.
Roz snickered, and Cliff couldn't help the slight smile on his face. "Nice one, Marly." Roz whispered.
"No!" Grace interjected, "Not nice one. You can't tweet things like that," she reprimanded.
Cliff nodded rather seriously and gave a mock salute, "Yes ma'am." He said.
"Okay next, for some reason, also on August 8th. God, you two were on a fucking roll," Grace muttered under her breath, "Ilya, you tweeted out, and I quote, okay and I will bet my whole signing bonus on Shane Hollander scoring zero goals this season. See? We can both say stupid shit."
Roz shrugged, "I don't see what the problem is."
"Ilya, you can't bet on hockey. You can't bet on sports period. You can't talk about betting on sports, hell, you can't even think about betting on sports, so help me God." Grace fumed.
"Okay, but read context, was very dumb." Roz replied.
"I'm not reading the context! The context does not matter. You two can't just tweet whatever you want just because-" Grace ranted.
"Oh, wait! I remember that one!" Cliff cut in.
And he hadn't meant to interrupt, really, he hadn't, but that one had been kind of funny, and he'd helped Roz brainstorm the response after all.
"It was something like, BRB guys, betting my whole life savings on Rozanov never winning another cup in his pathetic, traitorous life, because fuck that guy, and fuck that pathetic, shitty ass franchise." Cliff recalled.
A loud laugh cut through the room. It was the kind of laugh that got out despite one's best efforts, the type of hysterical, full of glee laugh that wasn't really meant to be heard by anyone but your closest friends.
"Sorry, I'm so sorry." One of the siblings cut in. It was the girl, the youngest, if Cliff remembered correctly. There was a smile spread across her face, and judging by the trembling upper lips of her brothers, they were struggling to hold their laughs in too. She laughed again before smacking her hand over her mouth, "It's not funny, I'm sorry." She said in the tone of voice that indicated that she was lying, especially when she let out another laugh.
One of her brothers snorted.
And then the other one repeated, "Pathetic ass franchise."
It was the straw that broke the camel's back. Suddenly, all three of them were doubled over on the table with laughter, clutching each other's arms in an attempt to bring air back into their lungs, wheezing and laughing with unbridled joy.
Grace rolled her eyes, and then a resigned smile took its place on her face too.
When the siblings finally calmed down, she resumed, "I understand you both are tweeting funny things, but I have a whole stack of tweets here that range from slightly to overwhelmingly problematic," she held up the stack, shaking it for emphasis. "I'm not asking you not to tweet, I'm asking you not to tweet things that make our," she pointed gestured between herself and Harris, "lives more difficult."
"Okay, so don't tweet about betting, or divorce, or fucking fantasy teams." Roz stated.
Cliff hit him in the arm, "Dude, don't say it like that."
"Like what?" Roz asked.
"Like, you know, fucking fantasy teams." Cliff replied, gesturing with his hands.
"Yes, Marly, you fucking idiot. I just said this. No fucking fantasy teams." Roz replied exasperated.
"No, but like. You're saying it like you're gonna fuck their fantasy team." Cliff replied with a big grin.
Roz's face changed and his eyebrows raised contemplatively, "Well, depends who is on it." He replied mischievously with a sly grin.
Cliff burst out into laughter, "Rozy, you fucking dog."
Another throat was cleared. They turned their attention back to Grace. "Media training. Mandatory. Every Monday an hour before practice for the next six weeks." She said sternly.
They both nodded. Maybe a younger Cliff or Roz would have complained, but it didn't seem very optional, and Cliff wasn't a big fan of wasting his breath. Plus, if their training sessions resembled anything close to the one today, with the opportunity to be scolded all while reliving their biggest hits, maybe it wouldn't be so bad.
"Yes ma'am," Cliff and Roz said in unison.
"Marlow, Rozanov, we wanted to officially meet you both in person." One of the brothers said from across the table.
Cliff nodded. They had met briefly over zoom, mostly as a formality when Cliff officially signed his contract. If he remembered correctly, this brother was John. Or maybe he was Logan, and the other brother was John?
"We're very excited to have you both on the team. Despite being lifelong Cens fans, I mean, we were born into it after all, we've always enjoyed watching your chemistry on ice, especially during your 2014 Cup run." Logan, or John, whoever the other brother was added in.
"And you better prove that Twitter idiot wrong." The sister said, Cliff was pretty confident her name was Clara. "Like Logan said, we were born into this pathetic ass franchise, and it's about damn time this city got a Cup."
A smile broke across Cliff's face at that, and not just because he finally knew which sibling was which.
"We'll get you that Cup, or die on the ice trying, I promise you that." Cliff replied with a nod and a smile.
"I have recently been told I am not allowed to talk about sports betting..." Roz said with a confident smirk on his face, "But if I could, then I would say I'd bet my whole salary on a Cup in the next-" he shrugged and tilted his head side to side, "-three to five years."
Grace let out a huff of annoyance at that, but there was a begrudging smile on her face.