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Barry nudged Coach LeClaire and pointed across the crowded ballroom. To where Coach Theriault was stood talking to his opposite number, the Metro’s own GM. LeClaire gave him a curt nod and downed the last of his drink. Barry adjusted his tie, resettled the hang of his suit jacket and set off in the direction of their target, LeClaire keeping pace at his side. Time for the highlight of the night.
As Boston’s General Manager, he had plenty of professional goals for his evening at the NHL awards. His singular personal goal, however, was to see Coach Theriault pop a fucking blood vessel.
The man was already red in the face and tense about the shoulders by the time they had drawn close enough to trap him in conversation. That was a start, but they could do much better. He was confident of that. There were almost too many avenues of attack this year.
The Metro’s GM had made his excuses and exited the conversation moments after they arrived. Barry had been hoping the man would stick around. Unfortunately, it seemed Arnolds was ever so slightly too smart for that. Theriault on the other hand. Theriault had stayed. Perhaps he thought it would show cowardice to attempt to escape? Probably.
Barry hid a grin behind his whiskey glass, taking a large sip and enjoying the smooth burn of the alcohol as it slipped down his throat. He watched Theriault and considered how best to begin the game. There was an obvious answer to that. A very obvious, very satisfying answer. Time to talk about the bet.
The bet he and LeClaire had made with Theriault and Arnolds, right after Barry had learnt his star center was leaving him for Ottawa of all places. Four years later and Theriault was trying to refuse Barry his claim to the win. Slippery as ever, even when he really didn’t have a leg to stand on.
Barry turned at the sound of a familiar accent and spotted not only Rozanov but Yuna Hollander. Well, a good manager knows how to delegate.
“So, Theriault,” Barry said, “my friend, are you still claiming our little bet remains unsettled? Seems pretty clear cut to me but if you are still insisting then-”
“We have had this conversation Doherty, you know I-”
“No, no,” said Barry. “Don’t worry, if you want to insist, then I say we let the man himself settle this for us, eh?” Barry said, clapping Theriault on the shoulder and gesturing LeClaire to call the kid over.
Four years and Rozanov’s head still whipped round at the sound of his old coach calling his name. Some things stuck in the bones, he knew, and your rookie coach calling you to attention was very much one of those things.
Theriault’s face had gone from nonplussed, to confused and then horrified. An expression he was trying to hide in his whiskey glass.
Barry waved Rozanov over to join them. Yuna stuck close to the kid’s side, her sharp gaze assessing as she too moved to join the conversation. Even better. Even fucking better.
“Rozy, great to see you kid. Congratulations again, well deserved, of course,” Barry said, clapping a hand to his shoulder. “And lovely to see you as ever, Mrs. Hollander.”
Rozanov grinned back at him. Yuna inclined her head, looking a little thrown.
Beside him, LeClaire held out a hand. “Good to see you land on your feet, Rozanov. And congratulations. Don’t know how you pulled it off.”
Roz took the offered handshake, grinning. “Ah, thank you, Coach. They are a good team. Maybe they ask me to keep the gloves on a little more, you know, but they are a good team.”
“Not the cup, Roz.” LeClaire said. “Never doubted you’d get a second. I meant Hollander. The marriage. Don’t know how you landed him but whatever you did, it must’ve worked.”
“I- what? I mean, yes, thank you. I didn’t know if...well...” Rozanov shrugged, looking between LeClaire and Barry himself, stunned into silence.
LeClaire shrugged in return and gave a rare smile. “Well, y’know, it is Shane Hollander. I know how to respect that kind of talent when I see it. And seems you do to, eh? Besides, I’m a coach. We always want our best players married to the game, and this has to be a close second.”
What was that? Coach LeClaire actually cracking a joke. The grumpy old man had such a fucking soft spot for Rozanov. Not that Barry was complaining. He wasn’t that much of a hypocrite.
Across their little circle, Yuna aimed a very pointed glance at Theriault. Barry might have winced in sympathy if he wasn’t so fucking delighted.
Barry turned to Theriault, not bothering to hide his broad grin, until LeClaire stepped forward again, dragging his attention back to Rozanov.
Roz was receiving another warm handshake from his old coach and a fresh round of congratulations. “Seriously Roz, well done. You deserve a few good turns, eh? And well, Shane Hollander. Who would have fucking thought.”
Roz still seemed to be speechless, but he was smiling again now. Trying to tamp down a genuine delighted smile. Barry was pretty sure that was the same smile he’d worn all day the first time he’d driven up to the rink in that orange 918 Spyder. Back when he was just one year out from showing up as a broke Russian rookie, dreams as big as his ego.
Beside them, Theriault made some kind of gurgling noise in the back of his throat. Yuna shot him a glare that Barry had a little too much personal experience with. He’d always been hated on principle by Montreal’s biggest fan. Not any more, it would seem. Or at least, he was no longer top of the hit list. No NHL staff or affiliate wanted to be on the receiving end of Yuna Hollander’s full attention if it was anything less than positive. As a franchise, losing both Hollander and his mother, well... Barry grinned. That was a monumentally stupid miscalculation. If Theriault was any smarter, he’d be worried for his job. He wasn’t though, of course, hence the events of the last two years.
“Anyway, Rozy,” Barry says, “not to cut the heartfelt reunions short or anything but, care to settle a bet between me and my dear friend here.” He gestured at Theriault who seemed to be suppressing the urge to punch him. Or maybe to punch Rozy. It could go either way, really.
Roz, like a shark scenting blood in the water, tilted his head, looking between the two of them.
“You see,” Barry began, smacking Theriault so hard on the back that he stumbled forward, “we have a bet, me and LeClaire with Theriault and the Metro’s GM, wherever he’s scurried off too.” He paused a moment, because who could pass up the chance to draw this out a little. He swore he could see Theriault turn a shade redder as he did so. What a beautiful fucking night. “A bet we made right around the time you left us, Rozanov. That Ottawa would win a cup in five years.”
“Ah.” Roz said, grinning like a star center who had just been handed the play. Which, of course, he was and he had. This all started with Rozanov after all.
“You see, friend,” Barry said. On cue, Theriault winced, “I made you this bet because Roz here, well.”
He gestured to Rozanov, who happily took the floor.
“When I told them I was leaving,” Rozanov said, “Barry asked me how long ‘till I would get Centaur’s back into shape. I told him I will get them a cup in five years.” Rozy turned his best predator’s grin on Theriault. “I did not lie.”
Theriault turned to stare at Barry. “That’s why you made this fucking bet? He told you that and you just-”
Barry grinned. “I went straight down to the strategy guys office, yes, and told them we needed a three to five year plan for Ottawa as a serious threat. And the next time we were all dragged to one of these award nights, yes, I made you our little bet.”
Theriault opened his mouth, closed it again. “Because Rozanov...”
Roz shrugged, still looking at Theriault like he was something to be hunted for sport. “Was smart decision. Pity Montreal did not have same... what is word Yuna, for considering future...”
“Foresight,” she supplied.
“Ah, yes, is this. Foresight.”
Theriault was still looking at him like he thought Barry was the idiot here. “Can’t believe you just-”
“Yes, that’s your problem Theriault.” Barry said. “You don't seem to believe the words coming out of people's mouths. Me on the other hand, if the hardest working player I’ve ever had tells me he can knock Ottawa into shape in five years, then, well, it’s probably gonna be five fucking years.”
Theriault muttered something, indignant. Barry ignored him.
“You know when we drafted this kid,” Barry said, “his father told us to watch out for him being lazy. Still got no fucking clue why he said that. Ilya Rozanov? Lazy? Of all the fucking...Most committed player we've ever had, was Rozy, that’s for sure. Best captain, too.”
Rozanov’s face was doing something complicated. Yuna whipped her head around to look across at Roz, a slip in her normally flawless composure. After a long moment, she turned back toward Barry again. Her eyes passed over his face, shocked and searching before she schooled her expression back to her usual media readiness.
“So, to business,” Barry said into the sudden silence, “I said five years. Ottawa took the cup this year - though at least we gave them a tough fight in the conference finals, but all that aside, I said five years, so I win the bet. No more discussion, right? You would think. Except this arsehole is claiming that since you did it in four years, not five, the whole thing is null and void.”
Roz laughed at that, loud and biting.
“Personally, I think that is some fine print bullshit,” Barry said. “But he won’t relent. So basically Rozy, you’re a year early. Really screwed me over there kid.” He grinned across at Rozanov who shot it straight back.
“Ah,” said Roz, “but you should not blame me for this. Is fault of my husband, no? If I knew we had Shane Hollander as well, maybe I say something different.”
Theriault choked on a sip of his whisky, coughing and shaking his head. Roz smirked, eyes fixed on Theriault’s face.
“No, no,” said Barry, “You’re not getting out of it that easily. We’re the jilted lover here, Rozanov, if we want to blame it on you, we’ll blame it on you.”
Roz laughed again at that, his smirk slipping back into something more genuine. He waved a hand to indicate Barry and Theriault. “Well, is not any trouble really. We will just win the cup again next year, then there will be no more argument either way, yes?”
Barry turned to face Theriault, admiring the vein now jumping in the man's forehead. Rozy really was an artist at this.
“Well, what do you say Theriault, want to spin the bet on for another year?”
Theriault pinched the bridge of his nose but stayed silent.
Yuna interrupted instead, pulling his focus back to the group at large.
“Should you really be placing bets in the first place? It is illegal, you know?” she said.
“Ah, no, no, Mrs Hollander,” Barry said, “do not misunderstand us. There is no money changing hands here. It's just, as you say, bragging rights. Just keeping the old rivalry fresh, eh? Although speaking of committing to the rivalry, you’ll have to forgive me, Roz, for not following in your footsteps. But really, I can’t be fraternising with the rival when...” He gestured to where Theriault was stood, grinding his teeth, cheeks purpling. “Well, I’m sure you can see the problem.” He winked, Theriault spluttered and Rozanov threw his head back and laughed.
Delegation, always so much more efficient.
Especially since Rozanov with vodka in hand wouldn’t choose subtlety if you bribed him with twice the game time and a new Adidas contract.
Barry shot a glance at LeClaire. The perpetually iron faced man twitched a lip, raised his glass a fraction of an inch. They both enjoyed a well-executed play.
“Yes, yes, do not worry,” Roz said, eyeing Theriault from head to toe, “I can see problem, yes.” Rozanov grimaced, turning back toward Barry. “You have always been man of very good tastes. No one could blame you for this, I think.”
Always a team player, was Rozy. And he’d always known how to go for the throat.
“Thank you Roz. I do always try to keep my judgement clear. To keep making good choices.”
“Yes, exactly.” Rozanov replied, smile sharp. “Was not a surprise to meet Boston in playoffs this year.”
Theriault twitched. He actually twitched. And well, if Barry had been blind enough to fumble a generational talent and subsequently fail to even make playoffs, he’d probably be twitching too.
God, but Barry had missed this kid. Missed Roz and his untameable string of PR nightmares. You couldn’t buy that kind of publicity, and it had made his morning briefings so much more interesting. Rozanov had somehow possessed exactly the necessary balance of chaos and charisma for a Raider’s captain. Couldn’t have been more Boston’s fucking ideal package if he’d tried.
From across the ballroom Barry heard Marleau’s voice shout something to Rozanov. He turned and saw Marleau waving Roz to join him.
“Go on Roz, go comfort Marleau,” Barry said, “I hear he’s been pining after you.”
Roz cocked his head at that, a sly grin on his face. “Oh, really? This is true?”
LeClaire snorted. “The rooks are threatening to start a swear jar, you know? For every time Marly starts a sentence with ‘If Roz was here.’”
“You are joking?” Roz beamed, laughter tumbling out of him. “I told you they would be useless without me.”
“I don’t know about useless, Rozanov.” LeClaire said. “Significantly less hungover perhaps.”
Roz just laughed harder at that.
“Go on, go.” LeClaire waved him off. “The boys will never forgive me if I monopolise all of your time tonight.”
Rozanov paused and threw a glance at his mother-in-law, eyebrows raised.
“Go, go. I know you’ve missed them,” Yuna said, face fond.
“Was good to see you, sir, Coach.” Roz said, nodding to the two of them. He completely ignored Theriault.
Barry shook his hand again, grinning. “Likewise, kid, likewise. Go enjoy your night, eh?”
Rozanov made to leave then glanced back one more time at LeClaire.
“Thank you for congratulations, Coach. I will pass on to Shane.”
LeClaire just nodded. “Good, make sure you do.”
With that, the Russian menace kissed Yuna on the cheek then set off across the room to join the group of Raiders vets at the bar.
“Marly, Connor, Vic, hey shitheads, I hear you are missing me, da?”
Barry shook his head, probably looking as fond as Yuna. He caught her eye and she shrugged, seemingly a little helpless, before she fastened her game face back into place.
“So, this bet,” Yuna said. She held his gaze, a slight smile tugging at her mouth. “Are you taking latecomers?”
Now that he had not expected.
Beside Barry, LeClaire flashed a brief smile. “Ah, are you thinking of joining us, Mrs. Hollander?”
“Oh, absolutely. Be a shame not to, I think, given the Centaurs will be bringing the cup home again next year.”
Barry levelled a broad grin at Theriault, who just stared slack jawed at Yuna. Theriault’s cheeks where a mottled map of red splotches and his hand kept moving as if to loosen off his tie. Barry saw Theriault catch the movement one more time, lower his hand and clear his throat instead.
“You’re joining in on the bet, Yuna?” Theriault asked her directly. “Are you sure? Isn’t your son a little tight laced for all that?”
Yuna's smile stayed fixed in place even as her knuckles went white around the stem of her champagne flute.
Theriault chuckled. Barry stared. Surely the man couldn’t have misread things this badly?
Still thinking he was on first name basis with Yuna? Let alone bringing up her son? Let alone bringing up her son in any way that wasn’t grovelling and apologetic? Did he have a death wish? Did he really have no idea the hot water he’d got himself into these last two years?
“Well now,” Theriault said into the silence, “we wouldn’t want you stressing your son out, would we?”
Yuna smiled again, warm and bright and fierce. “What, Ilya Rozanov? Oh, I’m sure he’ll be more than happy to hear about all of this.”
Well damn.
Point Yuna fucking Hollander.
Theriault’s face shuddered. His jaw spasmed. He stood stock still a moment, jaw still working, his face a dangerous shade of red. Then he did what he thankfully hadn’t been smart enough to do the moment Barry and LeClaire approached him earlier in the evening. He set his glass down on a side table, turned on his heel, and fled.
And the game goes to...Boston. Never really in doubt, not when they had Ilya Rozanov and Yuna Hollander on the power play.
Next to him, LeClaire looked as happy as the man ever did outside of a rink. Barry grinned at him and clapped him on the shoulder in recognition of the win. LeClaire raised his glass in response.
Barry had the feeling that the usually bland and stuffy NHL awards were going to become one of his favourite nights of the year.
Yuna, he noticed, was still glaring in the direction of Theriault’s retreating back.
Barry cleared his throat. “Well then, in the spirit of your boys turning old rivalries into something a little more friendly, can I buy you a drink, Mrs. Hollander?”
“I’m not entirely sure what you’re implying Mr. Doherty. You are aware I’m married, are you not?”
Christ, she really was terrifying.
“No, no, not my intention at all. It was meant in a purely professional sense, I assure you.” She settled a little, so he dared to continue. “No, it’s just that I have all these guys on my team. All these young talented players, you know, and yet not a single Rolex between the lot of them.” That startled a laugh out of her. “And besides, you’re Yuna Hollander. Everybody who’s not a fool knows you’re the best that's out there.
“Before all this, of course, Boston would have no hope of securing your talents for any of our players. But now...Well, the landscape of the NHL has changed so much.” He shrugged. “We’d be fools not to try to capitalise on what opportunities that might throw our way.”
She was fighting a smile by the time he finished speaking and wasn’t that something.
“Hmm, very well then,” she said, “but just the one drink.”
“Spectacular.” He offered her a wide smile and gestured toward the bar. “After you, Ma’am.”
As they made their way through the throngs of people, Yuna paused, gaze caught on something across the crowded room. He followed her eye line to find Rozanov laughing with Marleau, one arm draped over Hollander’s shoulders. Roz was smiling like a minx as he delivered some kind of quip that had the whole group groaning.
“We were a little worried, you know?” he said. Yuna’s gaze snapped back to him at the words. “When he left us. It’s good to know he’s got you in his corner. No one's messing with the kid if he’s got Yuna fucking Hollander watching his back, eh?”
Yuna sighed and shook her head, looking between him and where Roz and Hollander were leaning into each other across the room. “Okay then Mr. Doherty, how many of your guys want to sign with Rolex? Give me their names. You’ll have deals for the lot of them by the end of the week.”