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The NHL Awards were the only night of the year where hockey players willingly wore tuxedos while pretending they were not deeply uncomfortable about it.
Cliff Marlow personally believed the entire event existed solely to humiliate athletes.
There were cameras everywhere, the champagne glasses were too fragile for normal human hands, and every single player in attendance suddenly developed the posture of a confused deer the second a reporter pointed a microphone at them.
Still, the free alcohol was excellent, and more importantly, Ilya Rozanov had won the Art Ross Trophy.
So Cliff had agreed to come.
“Well,” Cliff said while adjusting the cufflinks that were actively trying to strangle him, “if you cry during your speech tonight, I am recording it forever.”
Beside him, Ilya looked deeply offended.
“I never cry.”
“You cried during a dog food commercial.”
“The old dog find family again, yes.”
“It was animated.”
“Still emotional.”
Cliff snorted.
Ilya stood in front of the mirrored wall of their hotel suite, adjusting the sleeves of his black tuxedo with infuriating perfection, his curly light-brown hair pushed back just enough to show his sharp cheekbones and bright blue eyes, and honestly it was rude how attractive he looked while being this annoying.
“You know,” Cliff continued, “it’s genuinely upsetting that you’re winning an award for being good at hockey when your entire personality is basically just harassment.”
Ilya grinned.
“People love charisma.”
“You chirped a rookie so badly last month the poor kid forgot his own birthday.”
“He recover eventually.”
“He called his mother crying.”
“Good family values, yes.”
Cliff laughed despite himself.
He had known Ilya for years now, long enough that the public version of Ilya Rozanov - NHL superstar, serial flirt, infamous manwhore, walking tabloid headline - had become almost funny compared to the actual man underneath.
Because yes, years ago Ilya had absolutely earned the reputation.
Back then he had gone out constantly. Clubs, parties, random hookups in nearly every city. Cliff used to joke that Ilya collected women like trading cards.
Then something changed.
Not suddenly. Quietly.
Over time the hookups became less frequent. The club appearances became rare. Ilya still flirted shamelessly with literally everyone breathing near him, but there was a difference now, something steadier underneath the performance.
Cliff had assumed age was finally catching up to him.
Or brain damage.
Possibly both.
“You ready?” Cliff asked.
Ilya adjusted his watch.
“Obviously.”
“The ego on you is unbelievable.”
“Art Ross winner ego,” Ilya corrected. “Very prestigious.”
The ceremony ballroom looked like every expensive event in Las Vegas had exploded into one giant chandelier-covered nightmare.
Players and executives filled the room in tailored black suits while cameras flashed constantly from every direction.
Cliff immediately located the open bar.
Ilya immediately located every important person in the building.
“Roz!” someone called.
Ilya turned effortlessly, smiling wide as another player approached to congratulate him.
Cliff wandered slightly behind, half-listening to conversations, shaking hands when required, accepting congratulations he technically had not earned.
Then he spotted the Montreal Metros team.
And Shane Hollander.
Cliff had played against Shane Hollander for years now. Everyone in the league knew him.
Quiet. Polite. Weirdly intense.
Shane Hollander had the kind of hockey IQ that made coaches emotional and opposing players homicidal. He rarely talked on the ice, but when he did chirp someone it was somehow always devastating because he sounded genuinely confused by their existence.
He was also impossible to read socially.
Some interviews he sounded brilliant and composed. Other times he stared at reporters like they had unexpectedly turned into furniture.
The media called him mysterious.
Players called him strange.
Cliff honestly thought he seemed fine.
Awkward, maybe. But harmless.
Tonight Shane stood beside his mother and manager, Yuna Hollander, looking calm in a dark charcoal tuxedo that fit him perfectly. His dark hair was neatly styled, freckles visible beneath the warm ballroom lighting, brown eyes focused on whoever was speaking beside him.
Then Shane glanced across the room.
Directly at Ilya.
The eye contact lasted maybe half a second before both looked away.
Nothing unusual. Nothing noticeable.
Except somehow Ilya smiled afterward.
Not his normal loud grin.
Something smaller. Private.
“Huh.” Cliff muttered.
“What huh?” Ilya asked immediately.
“Nothing.”
Ilya narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
“You look ugly when curious.”
“Thanks.”
The awards ceremony itself moved surprisingly quickly.
Several trophies came and went before the Art Ross announcement finally arrived.
“And this season’s Art Ross Trophy winner,” the presenter announced dramatically, “with one hundred and thirty-four points… Ilya Rozanov of the Boston Bears!”
The room erupted into applause.
Ilya stood smoothly, buttoned his jacket, then leaned down toward Cliff.
“If I look handsome on camera, tell media yes.”
“You always look handsome. Unfortunately.”
Ilya grinned and headed toward the stage.
His speech was charmingly chaotic.
He thanked teammates, coaches, trainers, then somehow spent nearly two minutes talking about how Boston restaurants still refused to make proper pelmeni.
The audience laughed through most of it.
Cliff shook his head fondly.
Show-off.
Later came the Hart Memorial Trophy.
“And this year’s MVP…”
Everyone already knew.
“Shane Hollander.”
The applause grew louder.
Shane stood calmly, adjusted his jacket once, then walked toward the stage with the composed posture of someone entering a business meeting rather than accepting one of hockey’s biggest honours.
“Still weird seeing him outside hockey gear.” Cliff muttered.
Beside him, Ilya made a quiet sound of agreement.
Then Cliff blinked.
Because suddenly he noticed the suits.
Not identical, but close enough to feel accidental in the way lightning strikes felt accidental.
Both dark tailored jackets. Both black shirts underneath instead of white. Same cufflinks, silver studs. Like two men who had absolutely not coordinated and yet somehow obviously had.
Cliff leaned sideways.
“You guys dress together?”
Ilya smirked into his champagne glass.
“Maybe we both have excellent taste, yes.”
“Uh-huh.”
On stage, Shane reached the microphone.
The room quieted instantly.
And then, unlike every nervous athlete cliché imaginable, Shane delivered an excellent speech.
Confident. Warm. Surprisingly funny.
He thanked his teammates first, then his coaching staff, then his parents.
“Hockey,” Shane said calmly, “is strange because people see one player holding a trophy at the end of the season, but there are probably fifty people behind him making sure he deserves to stand there.”
The room applauded softly.
Shane smiled faintly before continuing.
“And my mother would kill me if I didn’t mention nutrition.”
Yuna Hollander nodded approvingly from her table.
The audience laughed.
Even Ilya laughed quietly beside Cliff.
Then Shane’s expression softened slightly.
“And to the people who knew me before anyone cared who I was…” he said carefully, “thank you for staying.”
Something about the line felt oddly personal.
Cliff noticed Ilya go still for half a second.
Interesting.
After the ceremony came cocktails.
Which really meant hockey players clustering around alcohol while pretending they enjoyed networking.
Cliff stood beside Ilya near the bar while various people stopped to congratulate him.
At one point a group of players nearby started talking about Shane.
Not cruelly at first. Just teasing.
“Hollander probably rehearsed that speech in front of a spreadsheet.” one guy joked.
Another laughed.
“He definitely organizes his fridge alphabetically.”
“He’s still terrifying though.”
“Terrifying and weird.”
Ilya’s shoulders tightened.
“Weird how?” he asked casually.
The player shrugged.
“You know. Just… Hollander.”
“What does that mean?”
The guy laughed awkwardly.
“I’m not insulting him.”
“But you are trying.” Ilya said lightly.
Too lightly.
Cliff looked sideways.
The smile on Ilya’s face wasn’t real anymore.
“Relax, Roz,” another player said. “We’re joking.”
Ilya swirled whiskey in his glass.
“Then make better joke.”
The group went quiet.
Not because Ilya sounded loud, because he sounded cold.
And that almost never happened.
Finally one player muttered something about grabbing another drink and the conversation dissolved.
Cliff stared openly now.
“What was that about?”
“What?”
“You got defensive.”
“No.”
“You absolutely did.”
Ilya shrugged.
“People talk nonsense.”
“You chirp Hollander constantly during games.”
“Different environment.”
“That sounded personal.”
Ilya sipped his whiskey calmly.
“Maybe I simply respect good player.”
“Since when?”
“Since always.”
Cliff narrowed his eyes harder.
Because honestly?
This was getting weird.
Dinner began shortly afterward.
The ballroom transformed into elegant chaos - giant round tables, wine glasses everywhere, enough silverware to perform surgery.
Cliff and Ilya sat together while the Metros occupied the neighbouring table, Shane seated between his mother and one of his assistant captains.
Throughout dinner Cliff kept accidentally noticing tiny things.
Nothing obvious. Nothing remotely romantic.
But strange.
Whenever someone made a joke loud enough for both tables to hear, Shane and Ilya reacted almost identically.
Once, during a discussion about brutal travel schedules, somebody complained about airport security.
At the exact same time Shane and Ilya both muttered:
“Remove belt every time.”
Same exhausted tone. Same timing.
Both immediately looked down at their drinks afterward.
Cliff blinked slowly.
What the hell.
Then later Ilya reached across the table for bread, his jacket sleeve pulling back enough to reveal a silver Rolex around his wrist.
Cliff immediately grabbed his arm.
“Oh, this is embarrassing.”
Ilya frowned.
“What now?”
“You bought a Rolex?”
“It is watch.”
“It’s a Shane Hollander watch.”
Across the neighbouring table Shane nearly inhaled sparkling water wrong.
Cliff pointed accusingly.
“See? Even he agrees.”
“Rolex existed before Hollander.” Ilya argued.
“Not emotionally.”
Shane kept his eyes firmly on his plate.
His ears, however, turned slightly pink.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
Then came the moment that ruined Cliff’s entire understanding of reality.
Halfway through dinner, Ilya pulled out his phone beneath the tablecloth.
Cliff caught a glimpse of the screen.
Jane.
Ah yes.
Jane.
The mysterious woman.
Cliff had heard about Jane for years.
Never met her. Never seen photos. But Jane apparently existed constantly in Ilya’s life.
Jane says hello.
Jane recommended this restaurant.
Jane hates when you skate injured.
Jane thinks your playoff beard looks terrible.
For years Cliff had assumed Jane was either: A) imaginary, or B) unbelievably patient.
“You’re texting Jane again?” Cliff asked casually.
Ilya’s mouth twitched.
“Maybe.”
“You know it’s suspicious that nobody has ever met this woman.”
“She private person.”
“Or she’s married.”
“She not married.”
“You sound defensive.”
“I sound handsome.”
Ilya pressed send.
A second later, from the next table:
Buzz.
Cliff froze.
Slowly he turned his head.
Shane Hollander looked down at his phone.
Read the message.
Then smiled.
Not polite smiling. Not media smiling.
Something softer. Warmer.
Then, almost invisibly, Shane glanced toward Ilya.
And Ilya looked back.
That was it. One glance.
One microscopic shift in expression.
But suddenly every weird moment from the last decade crashed together inside Cliff’s skull at once.
The defensive reactions.
The synchronized comments.
The Rolex.
The matching suits.
The strange tension during games.
Cliff turned slowly toward Ilya.
“No.” he whispered.
Ilya went completely still.
“No.” Cliff repeated.
“Cliff…”
“Jane?”
“Lower voice.”
“JANE?”
Nobody around them noticed over the ballroom noise, but Ilya looked alarmed enough that Cliff instantly understood he was right.
Holy shit. Holy shit.
Cliff stared at him in horror.
“You named your secret hookup Jane?”
“It was tactical decision.”
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“It worked for ten years.”
Cliff nearly choked.
“TEN YEARS?”
Ilya grabbed his sleeve immediately.
“Corridor.” he hissed.
Five minutes later Cliff stood in a quiet hidden service corridor behind the ballroom feeling like his entire brain had detached from reality.
Shane stood near the wall looking deeply uncomfortable.
Ilya looked significantly less uncomfortable.
Mostly because he appeared incapable of shame.
Cliff pointed between them violently.
“You.”
Then toward Shane.
“You.”
Then back again.
“You.”
“Yes.” Ilya confirmed helpfully.
“For TEN YEARS?”
“At beginning not serious,” Ilya admitted. “We hook up sometimes. Then continue hooking up. Then accidentally fall in love, yes.”
“You accidentally fell in love?”
“Very inconvenient.”
Shane covered part of his face with one hand.
“He says it like we caught a disease.”
“You kinda did.” Cliff muttered weakly.
He looked at Shane.
“And YOU agreed to Jane?”
“I hated Jane.”
“Thank you.” Ilya said.
Cliff stared at both of them, then another realization hit.
“Wait. Three years ago you stopped hooking up with random people.”
Ilya nodded once.
“That when we become official.”
Cliff looked genuinely offended now.
“You became emotionally committed and didn’t tell me?”
“You would scream exactly like this, yes.”
“That’s fair.”
Shane leaned back against the wall quietly watching them.
Without the cameras and ballroom around him, he looked softer somehow. Less carefully controlled.
And when he looked at Ilya…
Jesus Christ.
There it was again.
That look.
Like gravity worked differently around him.
“How did nobody figure this out?” Cliff asked.
“We are careful.” Shane said simply.
“Extremely careful.” Ilya added proudly.
“You literally wore matching suits tonight.”
“That coincidence.”
“It was not coincidence.” Shane said immediately.
Ilya gasped dramatically.
“Betrayal.”
“You sent me fabric samples.”
“You appreciated fabric samples.”
“That’s not the point.”
Cliff made a strangled noise.
“I cannot believe this is real.”
Ilya leaned casually against the wall beside Shane, close enough that their shoulders almost touched but not quite.
Still careful. Even here.
Then Cliff noticed something else.
Neither of them looked embarrassed.
Nervous, yes.
But not ashamed.
And somehow that made the whole thing hit harder.
“You’re serious-serious.” Cliff realized quietly.
Shane glanced toward Ilya, then nodded once.
“Yes.”
The simplicity of it shut Cliff up for a moment.
Because suddenly the past decade made terrifying amounts of sense.
Ilya slowly disappearing from hookup culture.
Ilya somehow always calmer after All-Star weekends.
The weird intensity every game between Boston and Montreal carried.
God.
The sexual tension on the ice must have been catastrophic.
“I need you both to understand,” Cliff said finally, “that if this ever gets out, hockey media will actually explode.”
“We know.” Shane sighed.
“My mother says league executives would die dramatically.”
“She probably correct.” Ilya agreed.
Cliff rubbed both hands over his face.
“I still can’t get over Jane.”
“I told him it was stupid.” Shane said.
“Yet nobody discover truth.”
“Because apparently everyone around you is blind.”
Ilya smiled smugly.
Then Shane’s phone buzzed.
He checked it quickly and sighed.
“My dad wants to know if we survived the awards dinner.”
“He know I win?” Ilya asked immediately.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Something about the answer was so domestic Cliff nearly walked into traffic voluntarily.
Then another horrifying thought hit him.
“Oh my God,” Cliff whispered. “Do you celebrate each other’s wins privately?”
Neither answered.
That silence was answer enough.
Cliff groaned loudly.
“You’re disgusting.”
“Thank you.” Ilya said proudly.
“And if you ever tell anyone,” Shane added calmly, “I will deny everything and let people think you hallucinated it.”
“That’s fair too.”
For a moment the corridor went quiet.
Muted music from the ballroom echoed faintly through the walls.
Then Cliff looked at them again. Really looked.
At Shane’s quiet steadiness.
At Ilya’s impossible fondness whenever he glanced sideways.
At the decade hidden carefully between them.
And unexpectedly, Cliff smiled.
“Well,” he said finally, “I guess if you were gonna secretly date someone for ten years, at least you picked a guy who can afford therapy.”
Shane laughed suddenly.
A real laugh.
Soft, surprised, warm.
Ilya looked at him instantly like the sound alone could power cities.
And Cliff pointed aggressively.
“THAT LOOK. THAT’S the look that should’ve exposed you years ago.”
“What look?” Ilya asked innocently.
“The insane one. The ‘I would kill God for this man’ look.”
Shane’s ears turned pink immediately.
Ilya, meanwhile, looked delighted.
“Accurate description, yes.”
“Oh my God.”
Then Ilya reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, opened Shane’s contact information, and handed it silently to Cliff.
Cliff looked down.
Not Jane anymore.
The contact name now simply said:
Shane ❤️
Below it was a photo Cliff had clearly never seen before - Shane sitting on a kitchen counter wearing one of Ilya’s hoodies, laughing at whoever held the camera.
At Ilya.
The date on the picture was from three years ago.
The day they officially got together.
Cliff stared at it for a long moment before handing the phone back quietly.
Then he sighed.
“Okay,” he muttered. “Fine. Your secret’s safe with me.”
Shane visibly relaxed.
Ilya smiled softly.
“But,” Cliff added immediately, “if you two ever break up during playoffs and ruin my season emotionally, I’m fighting both of you.”
“Reasonable.” Shane admitted.
“Very reasonable.” Ilya agreed.
Then the ballroom doors opened somewhere nearby, voices echoing closer.
The moment shattered instantly.
Shane straightened first.
Careful again. Public again.
Ilya adjusted his cuffs calmly.
And Cliff watched both of them transform back into rival captains before his eyes.
It was honestly terrifying.
Before they stepped back toward the ballroom, Shane paused beside Cliff.
“Thank you.” he said quietly.
Cliff looked at him for a second, then shrugged.
“You make him less annoying.” he admitted.
And as they returned separately toward the awards dinner like nothing had happened at all, Cliff realized something deeply unfortunate:
He was now carrying the greatest piece of gossip in professional hockey history.
And somehow, against all odds, he genuinely wanted to protect it.
Mostly because he never wanted to see the look on Ilya’s face disappear again.