Work Text:
Cliff thought he spotted one of Ilya’s garish cars on his way in through the hospital carpark, but he didn’t stop to say hello.
His palms were a little sweaty as he got in the elevator. Hollander was a nice guy, he reminded himself. And even if he wasn’t, he definitely wasn’t in a fit state to beat Cliff up.
“Another one!” the lady at the front desk exclaimed brightly upon his entry. “Should I expect the rest of your team throughout the day?” she joked, and Cliff gave her a confused smile.
“Can I see him?” he asked, trying to sound more polite than terrified.
“Sure, honey, he’s in room 301,” the woman said, face softening.
He thanked her and tried to walk casually down the hall. He knocked before entering, heart beating like he was about to step onto the ice in the playoffs, not visit a colleague in hospital.
“Ilya?” Shane Hollander’s voice called out. He sounded weirdly hopeful.
Cliff pushed open the door and cleared his throat.
“No, it’s me,” he said, by way of greeting. “Cliff. Cliff Marleau.”
“Marleau,” Hollander said, but he seemed to be looking behind Cliff. “Is Ilya- Rozanov- with you?”
That was the second time he’d called Ilya by his first name. It was very strange to hear someone’s arch rival say their name with such affection.
“Just me,” he said, again. “How- how are you, Hollander?”
Hollander was wearing a sling, and the bruises around his eyes were a dark, angry red. He looked exhausted, but his eyes were shiny and there was a lightness to him Cliff hadn’t seen before. He must’ve been on some good pain meds.
“I’m good!” Hollander said, which made no sense. “Well, broken collarbone and a concussion. Out for the playoffs. Did you see Ilya on your way in?”
There it was again. Cliff’s best friend’s - Hollander’s biggest rival’s - name, said so easily. Cliff stared at Hollander. Shane Hollander, arguably the hardest working hockey player there was. Out for the playoffs, but happy, and asking for Ilya Rozanov?
“So he did visit you?” Cliff asked, almost in awe.
“Yeah, he-“ Hollander grimaced as he tried to pull himself into a more upright position. He gave up, sinking back into the pillows behind him. “He came first thing this morning. Wanted to make sure I was okay. It was so nice of him.”
It was nice of him. And Cliff supposed it wasn’t that unusual for the other team’s captain to visit the opposition in hospital after a particularly bad hit. What was unusual was the smile on Hollander’s face, wide and giddy and accompanied by suddenly pink cheeks. He looked, Cliff thought suddenly, a lot like Ilya did when Montreal Jane texted him. That same lovesick (and horny) expression that always made Cliff tease him.
“Roz is a nice guy,” Cliff said carefully.
Shane beamed at him, like it just made him so happy to hear good things about Ilya.
“He’s going to come to my cottage this summer,” Shane babbled happily. “Well, he said maybe, but I think he wants to. It’ll be so much fun. We can be alone, together, for at least a week. We’ve never had that long before.”
Cliff glanced at the number on the door, as if maybe he’d entered the wrong room and maybe this wasn’t actually Shane Hollander.
“You want to spend time alone with Roz? At your… cottage.” Cliff shook his head, bemused.
“I want to spend forever with him,” Shane said dreamily. Then his face fell. “I wish I could… spend forever with him.”
Now Cliff had never met Shane Hollander off the ice. All he knew was that he was some kind of hockey robot, who trained and played hard, wasn’t much fun at parties, and was best friends with Hayden Pike, of all people. But watching the lightness leave Hollander’s eyes, Cliff couldn’t just stand there and do nothing. He crossed the room and sat down heavily in the chair beside the hospital bed.
“You and Roz are friends,” he said carefully.
Hollander looked down at his hands which were fidgeting with the thin hospital blanket.
“No.” He sounded pretty devastated about that no. “We’re not friends. We just meet up and fuck, sometimes.”
Honestly, Cliff deserved a medal for his lack of reaction. Sure, his eyebrows went up, he probably turned white as a ghost, but he didn’t gasp or scream or burst into tears. All of which would have been, in his opinion, perfectly valid reactions to the news of Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov fucking.
Hollander did look like he was going to burst into tears. His eyes had welled up. But he kept talking, like he couldn’t help himself. “I think maybe we’re sort of friends now.”
“Yeah?” Cliff was still trying to wrap his head around this whole thing. He was mostly failing. “When did you two first… meet up?”
Shane sniffed. Gave a watery smile. “The summer before our rookie year.”
Cliff felt his mouth drop open. “You guys have been fucking the whole time? Before I even met Roz? Jesus christ.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Does anyone else know?”
Hollander stiffened. “No. And you can’t tell anyone. Fuck. No one’s supposed to know. Marleau. You cannot tell anyone.”
Cliff privately thought it was a bit too late for Shane to be demanding that of him. But, the man was drugged up. And clearly in love - with Cliff’s best friend. So, despite the part of him that wanted to shout from the rooftop about this insane revelation, Cliff would keep this secret. Hollander’s secret. Rozanov’s secret. Their secret.
“I won’t tell,” he assured Hollander, who still seemed to be on the very of tears.
Something occurred to him.
“Montreal Jane…” he said slowly. “Montreal... Shane?”
Shane sighed. “The nicknames were Ilya’s idea.” He sounded fond. It was so fucking weird to hear him speak about Roz with such fondness.
For a moment Cliff debated whether or not to embarrass Ilya, but felt it was his duty as best friend to do so whenever possible. “For what it’s worth, I never see Roz as happy as when he gets a text from you.”
Hollander blushed again. It drew attention to his freckles. He was quite pretty, if you were into that sort of thing. Men. Cliff almost got what Ilya saw in him.
Hollander looked happy again, and Cliff decided now was a good time to get the fuck out of this hospital room.
“I, uh, better get going. Flight to catch.”
He watched as Hollander schooled his expression into one of neutrality. Like he had to prepare himself for the social construct of a proper goodbye.
“Thanks for visiting, Marleau. I appreciate it.”
Cliff realised he’d never actually apologised, too distracted by Rozanov’s name on Hollander’s lips.
“I’m sorry for… everything. I hope recovery’s not too bad.”
Hollander shrugged, and winced. “Not your fault. Hockey.”
“Hockey,” Cliff agreed. “But still.”
Hollander hesitated. Then, “Say hi to Ilya for me? Tell him- tell him I really hope he decides to come. To my cottage.”
Cliff realised that would result in another uncomfortable conversation. A conversation with his best friend about his secret situationship. Was Ilya gay? Had all the girls been, what, fake? No. Ilya knew too much, flirted too well, to not be interested in women. Cliff had watched him make out enough times and you did not kiss like that if you weren’t into it. He almost asked Hollander, but stopped himself. That would be something to bring up with Ilya in private after the shock of passing on Hollander’s message.
“I’ll tell him, Hollander. I guess I’ll see you next season.”
Hollander nodded. He looked tired, and in pain. Cliff felt guilty about that. But he could talk to Ilya, maybe convince him to take up Hollander’s offer. Yeah, that was the least he could do.
He would convince Ilya Rozanov to go to Shane Hollander’s cottage, if it was the last thing he did.