Archive of Our Own

Ilya Rozanov had gone through a number of tough games in his hockey career. And yet, if he had to write down a list of toughest games, he would use a thick Sharpie marker to put April 2nd, 2017 – Montreal VS Boston smack at the top in the number one spot. His first game back after his father's death and funeral during an absolutely miserable time in Russia only to come back and watch Shane Hollander get wrecked a mere twenty-something seconds into the first period. Nevertheless, he had to be Ilya Rozanov, Boston's #1 Draft Pick and star player, in order to continue with the rest of the game – which still had 59 minutes and 43 seconds remaining. 42, 41, 40...

However difficult, Ilya persevered, and he hoped no one could tell that his mind was not in the arena whatsoever. He was moving on auto-pilot, letting muscle memory take over and make the plays for him. Pass the puck, steal the puck, get to the net, check someone into the boards – no, check as many Metros into the boards as possible before Coach Reilly rips you a new asshole. Because, truthfully? Every time he closed his eyes for even a second, all he could see was Shane's body lying motionless on the ice.

Shane.

The golden boy of hockey, God's gift to the Montreal Metros, the unofficial King of Canada with a loving father and a supportive mother who also doubled as his manager, ensuring Shane would have brand deals and extra income for the rest of his life. A team that respected him, a fanbase that idolized him, an ex-girlfriend more famous than all of them combined but they weren't compatible. And... the one that haunted his dreams for years. The one with the freckles sprinkled across his face that somehow became highlighted when he blushed. The one with the most perfect, plush pink lips that he ever had the pleasure of kissing or feeling wrapped around his dick. The one the amazing muscular thighs that he loved to feel tremble as they wrap around his waist. The boring one with a weak backhand and a boring car that he probably fell madly in love with back in Regina and he was too afraid to admit it.

Until now. To no one but himself. Unless you counted confessing in another language, then maybe...

Ilya was convinced he was going to be sick and give away the secret they had both been so terrified to reveal to themselves, or each other, or anyone. He dreaded reading the news reports and social media reactions regarding him hovering around Shane's unmoving body while the medics checked on him and got him on the stretcher. Ilya couldn’t help himself; the fear and pure dread threatened to swallow him whole in front of everyone. He couldn’t do anything but stand there and watch and even though it had been over an hour since it happened, he still felt like that was all he had been doing: just standing there and watching.

Did Shane know he was there? Did he know Ilya asked about him? That he had yelled at the ref before being shoved back to the boards and away from Shane? That he stood beside the Metros' bench looking like a cat was dropkicked in front of him? Was Shane even fully conscious or did he lose consciousness again? Was he bleeding? What was hurt; was anything broken? Ilya’s brain would not stop going through an endless cycle of questions, scenarios, concerns and worries, all of which ended with the same finale: him knowing nothing. Him not allowed to know anything because he wasn’t anything to Shane Hollander. Ilya Rozanov was simply his rival, nothing more and nothing less. Certainly not anyone that would deserve medical updates or a reassuring text. He was the captain of their rival team, that was all.

At some point, his hour-long torture ended with another victory for the Raiders, but it felt so hollow to Ilya. There was no way the team wasn’t suspicious or at least concerned. Usually games against the Metros were filled with palpable animosity, fierce competition, heavy chirping, penalty after penalty, and an almost electric energy flittering throughout, sharp static crackling in the air. All of that still happened, but his teammates had to fill the void Ilya left because Ilya was uncharacteristically silent. None of the usual Rozanov-branded in-game entertainment that everyone expected. No chirps, no cursing, no cocky aggression or assertive commentary. He was absolutely mute, letting just his gameplay speak for him instead.

Surely Connors or Hammersmith were ready to react with with a remark or two in the locker room about how their next practice was going to be filled with bag skates, or that their post-game cooldown in the locker room was going to be nothing but raging Russian accent despite the win. Maybe St-Simon or Marleau would laugh it off instead, egging Ilya on that he didn’t need to play with his usual antics because the Metros were a basically colony of bees lost and disoriented without their queen and he was doing them a kindness by not stepping on them while they were down.

And speaking of Marleau, what had he done? What the hell was he thinking? Cliff hadn’t actually done anything wrong, and he couldn’t have known that he essentially beat the living hell out of Ilya's heart with a hockey stick. In reality he inadvertently did the team a solid by leaving Montreal in shambles to the point that not even their alternate captain could get them to regroup and focus enough for a win. It made an excellent strategy to work with to ensure victory, and it was a clear success!

Ilya couldn’t see that as a success. He just kept replaying the two of them at face off. Shy smiles and full eye contact. The energy that wrapped around them as they chased each other across the rink, bright and warm, filling his insides with something he was afraid to call…affection? Adoration? …Love?

But not like I love you. That’s the worst part of all of this, that I only want you. It’s always only you. I’m so in love with you and I don’t know what to do about it.

Fuck. Yeah, that’s what he felt. Love. Deep, aching, all-consuming love.

Secret love. Forbidden, off-limits, painful love.

Seeing that dopey little smile Shane sent his way before Marleau crashed into him… That dopey little smile was going to haunt him for the rest of his life. It was so genuine, so unguarded, reserved only for him. Not for Pike, not for Boiziau, for him.

Ilya didn’t remember heading to the locker room. He didn't remember taking his gear off, or making his way to the showers, forgoing his usual post-game interview complete with signature wink, cheeky comment, and purposeful lack of shirt. Somebody else could handle that. Somebody else could deal with the aftermath. Whatever they wanted, Ilya wasn’t in the mood for any of it. He took his time in the shower, long enough where he assumed that most of his teammates had dispersed to either press, back to their hotel, or out to get victory drinks. He stood under the stream of hot water long enough to be left alone, long enough to replay those 20 seconds over, and over, and over, and over –

He was back in the locker room but didn't remember that, either. He had no concept of time. He was moving aimlessly, unable to erase those unwanted thoughts from being stuck on repeat. The sound of Ilya’s phone vibrating in the shelf above his stall made him snap out of his daze and his heart skip a beat. No, it couldn’t be. Concussion protocol always dictated to stay away from screens. And Shane’s phone was probably with Hayden or somebody else on the team.

But maybe…?

The tiny spark of hope made him quickly grab his phone to look and the notification left him stunned in confusion rather than relaxed from relief. The absolute last text he expected to receive was from Marleau. Ilya assumed that Cliff would have handled the press then made his way back to his hotel for the night. That had originally been Ilya’s plan until, well, the obvious happened.

He stared down at his phone from his spot seated in front of his stall, unsure how to respond to what sounded like panicked texts. Was Marleau still there? Why??? He shot back a short response before he doubled back, fingers on auto-pilot as they went back to Shane’s text – Jane’s text.

His thumb hovered over his phone’s keyboard, circling above the letters as he wracked his brain with what to say, but what could he say? Shane probably didn’t even have his phone, and if he did he was absolutely going to be put into concussion protocol. His brain had already gone through this but he needed to repeat it to make himself believe it. Ilya just couldn’t help himself though; he was desperate. He had to know, needed to know.

Erase. Re-type.

The sound of a door slamming open was jarring and shook Ilya out of his thoughts. He raised his head in time to see Cliff walk into the locker room with a fast-paced stride, phone still in hand and opened to their text thread.

“Couldn’t handle press alone?” Ilya teased, cursing himself mentally for the clear uncertainty in his voice. He was better at masking than that.

“Where the fuck did you go, Roz?” came Cliff’s reply as he approached Ilya, coming to a stop in front of him, phone still held tightly in his right hand even as the screen went black.

“What, I can’t shower after game?” Ilya tried to keep his voice even, blasé, disengaged.

Cliff didn’t buy it. “You know damn well what I mean,” he hissed out but sighed and lowered his voice before speaking again. “You were long gone way before the game ended. Ever since Hollander – ”

“What does Hollander have to do with anything?” Ilya’s reply came a little too quickly. He had to check himself, not give himself away. His right hand instinctively gripped his left wrist so he could rub circles along the skin of his inner wrist with his thumb. Breathe. Stay calm.

“You tell me. Your face… You looked almost haunted. After Hollander fell, it was like you checked out entirely, man.”

“You mean after you knocked Hollander unconscious? That is what you mean?” Ilya couldn’t help himself. He had been masking his emotions and hiding behind his walls for almost two hours and Cliff’s line of questioning was putting cracks in their foundation. He wasn’t allowed to say what he was feeling or what he was thinking. He wasn’t allowed to say that not being authorized to be beside Shane felt like dying, that not having permission to receive updates or information on Shane’s health and well-being was the same as someone strangling him, leaving him without oxygen and gasping for breath.

Cliff ran his free hand through his hair as he let out a groan. “I didn’t… Damn. He’s never taken his eyes off of the puck before. I was already at high speed when he turned, I couldn’t stop or redirect even if I tried. What was he doing, goading you?”

Ilya couldn’t stop himself from glaring, head lightly shaking side to side in disagreement. “That is not what he was doing.”



“Then explain it to me. Because you were one person at the beginning of the game, and someone else completely different after that.”

“I was not different.”



Cliff kept his voice low. “Yeah, brother. Like someone muted you entirely. I could see it in your face.”



“You did not see anything,” Ilya replied, keeping his tone low and firm, his sentences short and clipped. Talking too much was not going to work in his favor. He was going to lash out and Cliff was almost daring it to happen, whether he knew it or not. “There was nothing to see. We won, yes? Nothing to discuss. This is what you texted me about?”

“Roz. I’m your alternate captain. It’s my job to see this shit.”

“You didn’t see shit!” Ilya shouted as he finally reached his limit, face red, eyes narrowed, brow furrowed, accent thick. He stood up quickly, phone falling out of his lap and landing on the ground with a soft clack sound muffled by the carpeting. “There was nothing to see, Marley, so shut the fuck up with this bullshit!”

Cliff regarded Ilya, sizing him up before attempting to speak again. Ilya was full of lies and mystery, he always had been. 'Maybe it was a European thing,' he had mused in the past, but no. This time he knew he was spot on. The glare in his eyes and how flushed his skin was, how he was breathing raggedly when it was clear he was trying to control himself. How he hadn’t noticed that his phone fell until Cliff bent down to pick it up for him, the action instantly pulling Ilya out of his rage.

"Wait, don’t – ”

But it was too late. Cliff couldn’t help it. He was but a man, after all. A nosy man. A nosy alternate captain that needed to make sense of his captain before they did bag skates until they all died. His eyes scanned Ilya’s phone screen and he froze completely, as if he ran out of battery or forgot how to move mid action.

“Roz,” Cliff’s voice was soft, just above a whisper. The wheels in his head were turning, gears slowly working on overtime and making loud sounds through his panic. Maybe that was just his heartbeat.

Ilya didn’t say anything. Instead, he was quick to reach out and grab his phone out of Cliff’s hand before he threw it into his bag. Out of sight, out of mind. He refused to make eye contact and opted instead to hurriedly grab his things, finally in a rush to leave when he had spent so much time loitering and keeping busy to ensure he was the last one remaining.

“Ilya.”

His first name rolling off Cliff’s tongue sounded… weird. Foreign. Out of place. Ilya tried to ignore him, pulling the strap of his bag over his shoulder, hoping his actions would indicate that their conversation was clearly over.

Unfortunately for him, Cliff wasn’t letting him off the hook that easily. He moved fast, his own phone shoved into his back pocket as he sidestepped right in front of Ilya again, arms slightly outstretched to keep him from making a move away from him. Away from their conversation.

“Ilya. Stop. It’s just me.”

“It is late, we should get back,” Ilya’s reply was mumbled; he refused to make eye contact.

“Please. Like mister king of the club, man of a thousand dates, really cares about getting in at a decent time.” Cliff couldn’t help but chuckle. “Don’t bullshit me, captain. Jane… Montreal Jane.” There was a pause, a dusty lightbulb finally turning on and shining bright in his mind. “Montreal Jane… That’s… That’s Hollander you’re texting, am I right?”

“Do not do this, Marley.” The anger that was on Ilya’s face was erased and replaced but Cliff couldn’t read it. Was that…discomfort? Panic? Fear? “Why didn’t you leave with everyone else?”

“Because I was worried about you, brother,” Cliff replied, letting out another loud sigh. He moved again, shifting from in front of Ilya to beside him, taking a seat in front of the stall Ilya had just cleared out. “Sit. You’re not getting away from this. Either we talk here or we go to the hotel and talk, Connors switched with me before I went to press. You’re stuck with me, cap.”

Ilya didn’t answer. His gaze stayed focused on the floor, his grip on the shoulder strap of his bag tight enough to make his knuckles white. He had done everything in his power to keep in control, to keep calm, to keep his face devoid of any emotion. Anything and everything he could do to keep his and Shane’s secret from being revealed, he did it. He played a hard game, led his team to victory, and showed that yes, he was indeed Ilya Rozanov, Boston’s number one draft pick for a damn good reason. Yes, he was that damn good … and no, his heart wasn’t beating a three thousand beats a minute. No, he wasn’t out of his mind with worry. No, he wasn’t desperately, emphatically, head over heels in love with Shane Hollander. The same Shane Hollander that got carried out of their hockey game half conscious on a stretcher while all Ilya could do was stand there with his jaw dropped, playing the role of rival and captain, not the role he wanted to play – lover? Boyfriend? Partner? Something. Anything.

Silently, Ilya dropped his bag to the floor and plopped down to take a seat beside Cliff, hunched forward with his head hanging, eyes squeezed shut with his index finger and thumb pinching the bridge of his nose.

“What do you want, Marley?”

Cliff felt a rough tug at his heart. Ilya sounded so defeated; he was not used to that. He was so cocky, so loud and confident, so arrogant and quiet simply, a complete asshole and total menace. But that was what Cliff loved about him, and this was quite the opposite of that. It was alarming, to say the least.

“I’m gonna guess you’re not exactly rivals, huh?”

“It is…complicated.”

“Yeah, complicated’s a good way to describe this,” Cliff joked, hoping to ease the tension. Ilya didn’t respond, so he kept going. “Okay. So, I fucked up and injured Hollander. Which, I am really sorry. You can make me do drills solo for hours. You can make me do bag skates by myself for an hour everyday. That was not the plan, but I think I get it now. He had turned around and I remember being like, hey what the fuck man? But he was looking back… he was looking at you, wasn’t he?”

There was a pause, a long pause. Ilya didn’t speak or raise his head, and Cliff began to wonder if he was going to get anywhere with his questions, but he had to try. He opened his mouth to say something else, but Ilya’s low voice stopped him.

“I mean, I am very handsome. I would look at me, too, if I were Hollander.”

“You conceited asshole,” Cliff barely got the words out before he began to laugh, shaking his head. “But okay, thanks for confirming. So… He was looking back at you. And then I uh, yeah. Right. And then you froze up like you were the one that was hit.”

“It felt like I was.”



“... Fuck, Rozy.”

The two of them sat in silence for a while, neither one of them knowing how to proceed. Ilya didn’t know how much Cliff’s mind had processed. Okay, so he figured out that Jane was Shane. He figured out that Shane had been looking back at Ilya before Cliff ran into him. Did Cliff understand what he was asking? Did he understand the answers he was receiving? Was he okay with it? What did he think, exactly? Was he going to tell their coach, their team?

As for Cliff, his brain was taking 3-5 business days to comprehend the little snippets of data Ilya gave to him. He felt like he was on overload and needed to reset and reassess in a way that didn’t either send Ilya back into a flying rage or running off hiding for cover.

“Okay,” Cliff started, pausing immediately as he tried his damnedest to figure out his next line of questioning and confirming. “So you and Hollander are… something or other.”


“Something,” Ilya confirmed vaguely.

“Okay. And, uh, that’s why he’s in your phone as Jane.”



There was another pause; Cliff didn't miss the brief smile that ghosted Ilya's lips right before he spoke. “I’m in his phone as Lily.”

“Jane and Lily… Shane and Ilya… Brother, you are a fuckin’ idiot. That’s not discreet at all!”

“And yet, you did not know,” Ilya remarked with a huff, eyes rolling as he sat up a little, cautiously looking over in Cliff’s direction. Instead of the disgust or contempt he expected, Ilya saw an amused grin spread across Cliff’s lips. And his gaze was on him, not looking elsewhere, not looking away, holding his own the minute they made eye contact. “And, that word… I am not following.”

“You’re a man of mystery. Oh, uh, it means you’re obvious as fuck and I’m clearly an idiot,” Cliff quipped before chuckling again. Now that he had some clarity, he couldn’t help but laugh at the situation. For him, nothing changed. Nothing was different. Ilya was still his captain, still his friend, still the same man he went to clubs with where they hooked up with countless women over the years. Which, wait – “So… Nah. You’re not gay. I’ve seen you with women. I think you’ve slept your way through the east coast of the United States.”

Ilya rolled his eyes, feeling more tension remove itself from his shoulders. Talking with Cliff was a good distraction from reality. “идиот," he murmured fondly. “Bisexual. This is new term for you, yes?”

“Fuck off, Rozy. I know what bisexuals are. I know what it means. But, okay. So you’re bi, and you’re in a complicated something with Hollander, which is why you tried to murder me with your eyes in the second period, when you weren’t lost in your own head. Is that it?”

“…Yes.”

There was another pause between the two, but this time they didn’t break eye contact. They stayed still in their spots, seated in front of their respective empty stalls in an otherwise silent locker room that had cleared out forever ago. Ilya felt awkward, fingers rubbing the back of his hand nervously. He sighed, lips parting to speak but Cliff beat him to it.

“If Hollander is Montreal Jane then… You’ve been at this for years. Years! Our team is full of idiots. You’ve been hiding this for years? You’ve been with the hottest women and the Shane Hollander??? You’re a fuckin’ legend!”

“I… what?”

“And wait a minute… Rose Landry?? Hold on, did he leave Rose Landry for you? My god, I was right, you are a fuckin’ beautician, I can’t – ”

“Marley. Shut the fuck up.”

Cliff slapped a hand over his mouth, stopping himself from continuing with his tirade of questions and comments. He was suddenly processing everything in high speed, years of obvious moments that went right over his head all were making sense and all it took was him knocking Shane Hollander out cold where he needed to be taken to the hospital and – oh. Oh yeah. Oh shit. Back to the topic.

“Okay, refocusing. What do you need, captain?” Cliff asked, all amusement and joking tones gone and replaced with a serious fierceness. He was a man on a mission like he usually was, only this time not on the ice. “What can I do?”

Ilya leaned back, finally looking away from Cliff to stare forward at nothing; reality was sinking in once more. Ilya couldn't stop himself from thinking about the worst possible outcomes, couldn't stop himself from thinking about potential head injuries that could ruin everything. “I have no reason to ask how he is. There is no reason why I should know, no reason why I should be told anything.”

“Bullshit,” Cliff replied quickly, thinking fast. It was eerie seeing Ilya like this, seeing that vacant and far away look in his eyes. That look of defeat. It kind of reminded him of how things were a month ago when he was on a rampage for a few weeks. Nothing but Russian expletives and yelling, running the team to the brink of exhaustion. It wasn’t for nothing, they had a great winning streak in March, but Cliff still felt pain in muscles he didn’t know he had. Regardless, he’d rather have that Ilya back than the one he was talking to now. “You… Okay, I got it. You’re rivals, fine, but despite that, you have good sportsmanship. The captain of the guy that got him there, that’s why you’re visiting. No more, no less. No one needs to know anything else. Media will love that shit, they’ll think you have a soul.”

Ilya blinked; that was unexpected. He regarded the idea, an eyebrow slightly arched as he mulled over Cliff’s suggestion. That was innocent enough and it made sense. Just because they were rivals didn't mean they wanted to see each other get hurt. And it was always played up as good sportsmanship in the media circuit when captains checked in on each other, it wasn’t so farfetched. And it stopped him from living another hour not knowing the truth. He was already dying with worry and anxiety, pained by the fact that he had to act like he didn't care when in reality every part of him was on fire.

Cliff took Ilya's silence as a positive sign and continued. “I’ll even go with you, if you want, so it’s not as suspicious. I mean, I don’t think it would be, but people are fucking stupid and love to make shit up.” He hesitated with the next thing he wanted to say, but knew it was necessary. “But I… I think we need to save it for tomorrow. It’ll look suspicious as hell if we go tonight.”

“It would,” Ilya agreed, continuing to look forward instead of make any kind of eye contact with Cliff again. “They would think I’m trying to finish where you left off.”

“Jesus Christ, Roz,” Cliff choked, shaking his head as he stood up. He extended his arms above his head, attempting to stretch the tenseness out his shoulders. He walked in place in a small circle, coming to a stop in front of Ilya again before crossing his arms across his chest. “You don't... You don't have to be Ilya Rozanov right now, man. You can just be you. You okay?”

Ilya shrugged but stood back up, gaze meeting Cliff’s again at last. He looked haunted, lost. “No. But, I cannot do anything for him now. Going now would draw attention, he would not want this.”

“Hollander? Want attention beyond hockey? Nah, he’d fucking hate that,” Cliff kidded, turning around then taking a step forward to maneuver himself next to Ilya, draping an arm teasingly around his shoulders to force him into a sloppy side hug. He didn't fully understand exactly what was going on, but it was clearly something major. Cliff was going to be the best friend anybody ever had that night. The best wingman. The best bro. “Look. I’ll order our usual. And you’ll explain to me the history of Montreal Jane. And I’ll listen, and judge you, and give great commentary.”

“This is punishment?” Ilya spat out, eyes wide but a small amused smile had settled on his face. He followed Cliff’s lead as he began to slowly walk them out of the locker room. “You ruin my night so I do not get laid, and now you plan to torture me with your comments? All night?”

“…wait you guys are fucking?” Cliff said, stopping in the doorway so he could look at Ilya, jaw slack and eyes wide in shock.

“Marley… Что с тобой не так?" Ilya laughed, a genuine laugh. He shook his head, forcing Cliff to follow him as he began to walk again to leave.