Chapter Text
Cliff Marleau’s first and only time housing a rookie is Ilya fucking Rozanov in 2009. Cliff doesn’t think there has ever been as highly-monitored of a situation by the Bears, because they really are pinning the hopes and dreams of an entire city on one fucking Russian teenager.
Cliff had sat through many lectures about not letting the kid party himself to death and the nutrition plan and five thousand other things, and he had been a little bit worried when he drove the beat up truck he had learned to drive in to Logan to pick up Rozanov that two things would happen: (1) the old, rusty motherfucker of a car would finally die in that goddamn underwater hellhole tunnel, and (2) that Rozanov would be every bit of the asshole he presented as in juniors.
Roz is an asshole, but so are all teenage shitheads. He is, surprisingly, stupidly polite as Marleau shows him his quaint brownstone on Beacon, and he does not complain that there are no elevators because the building is older than this goddamn country or that the laundry room is in the basement or that the street parking situation is so bad that Cliff is regularly getting into tiffs with the pilates moms over the spot that he had shoveled for himself.
It also becomes abundantly clear that Roz is the worst fucking behaved monkey at the whole goddamn circus, and he is unfortunately solely Marleau’s problem for the next twelve months. The preseason is largely spent pulling the somehow oversized but gangly teenager back from unnecessary fights by the scruff of his neck and trying to smooth vets’ egos when their relentless bag skates never seem to break Roz.
And then Marleau finds a fucking ornamental jar of what appears to be used needles on Ilya’s dresser barely two weeks into the season.
“Marly, what the fuck are you doing in my—” Roz is sauntering out of his bathroom, curly hair dripping water all over the goddamn hardwood from his shower, but he freezes in his tracks. “It is not what you are thinking.”
“I have to tell management. What the fuck is it—heroin? Meth?” Cliff can hear his voice shake. “You’re barely fucking eighteen, Roz. What the fuck?”
“It is not what you are thinking,” Ilya repeats, approaching with his palms face up. “See? No track marks. Not that kind of drug. This kind of drug.”
If Cliff were capable of thinking beyond his absolute panic and fear, he would register that for all of the bravado Roz possesses, he has been exceptionally cagey about communal showers, enough so that Cliff has not actually seen him shirtless. “I want to believe you, kid, but—”
Ilya turns just enough that a small, white button attached firmly to his tricep appears in Cliff’s vision. “Fuck, now I need to make you sign an NDA, Marly. I thought we could at least make it to Christmas.”
“Roz, I don’t know what the fuck that is. If it’s some weird new recreational—”
“No, you fucking idiot. It is glucose monitor.” Ilya strides across the room and opens his mini fridge. “This is insulin. My pancreas is fucking useless.”
“Oh,” Cliff says, because he really does not know what else to say. “Wait, fuck, does management know?”
The rookie rolls his eyes at Cliff’s stupidity, and honestly, Cliff can’t even fault him for it in retrospect. “They know all of our entire medical history. Of course they fucking know.”
“We eat dinner together all the time. We room together on road trips. How did I not notice?” Cliff manages to get out.
“I am very good at making it not noticeable,” Ilya concedes. “Now my agent will make you sign a very scary NDA. She wanted it the second I moved in with you. I wanted to see how long I could make it.”
“This feels like something I should know. In case like… I don’t know. If you had a medical emergency I would not have fucking known what to do,” Marleau forces out. “I want to know. I don’t want to find your dead body. Management would fucking kill me.”
“Fine,” Ilya forces out. “Doc has wanted you in the loop since he knew I was staying with you.” It sounds like every word is said against the kid’s will. “Tomorrow. Doc’s office. I’ll bring the NDA.”
So much more of the lectures by management about keeping an eye on Rozanov make sense, now. Cliff does not remember any of his vets sitting in that many meetings about nutrition plans and alcohol and recovery time for their rooks, but he had filed most of it away as Boston wanting to protect their shiny first overall draft pick.
Cliff is going to look back through those printouts with a more serious eye, just as soon as he finishes a panicked call to his sister. She’s just across the river at fucking Harvard of all places, and even though it’ll be another three years before she is an actual doctor, she’ll definitely fucking know more than Cliff does.
And just like that, Cliff claims Ilya Rozanov as his rook.
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It doesn’t actually become a problem until the Breakup That Can Never be Named happens in late 2016. Sure, Ilya’s rookie adventures with clubbing and alcohol lead to some wild fucking swings in blood sugar that result in Cliff carrying an extra pen and random sandwich bags of candy to the club with him in a fanny pack that he will never fucking live down among the vets.
It’s worth the ribbing, to keep his rookie from puking up everything in his stomach because the bartender does not fucking care about actually using diet soda in the middle of a busy weekend shift and Roz’s stomach always turns to shit when he goes too high. It’s worth the poorly photoshopped memes in the vets group chat, to keep the same rookie from passing out of the dance floor because put about ten shots of vodka in him and Ilya will fulfill his seemingly lifelong dream to dance with anyone and anything with a pulse.
It works, and it keeps Ilya alive and mostly healthy. Over the next few seasons, Roz’s frontal lobe manages to cook a little despite being rattled around in his skull by virtue of being a hockey player, and Cliff can mostly trust Ilya to manage his shit himself.
And then Montreal Jane has to go and end things, right when Cliff and Ilya had finally convinced his endocrinologist that they are real, responsible adults who actually have shit under control despite flying across the country every two minutes. Cliff has never seen Dr. Ellis look impressed, but even she had begrudgingly admitted that Ilya’s sugars have been in the tightest control since his diagnosis at his last appointment.
Rookie Roz has fucking nothing on the self-destructive bastard that spawns in the fall of 2016.
The demon that has swapped places with his best friend has one goal, and that is seemingly to kill the body it has stolen. The CGM app looks like a goddamn mountain range, and for the entire first two weeks after The Breakup Cliff is waking up several times a night to call Roz and get him to deal with the high or low that he’s trying to sleep through.
And then the notifications stop.
A brief conference with Doc informs Cliff that he is not the only person suddenly booted from the app. Cliff can tell that Roz is still at least switching his sensor out from quick glances in the locker room, but anything about actual management becomes a terrifying black box.
Cliff makes the mistake of calling out his captain’s shaking hands on the ice. Not only does the pack of sour patch kids he extracts from his shorts fall on the ice to be ignored, but now the entire team is on the line doing bag skates.
LeClaire probably would not have allowed it, had the scrimmage not also been a complete and utter shitshow. Their coach can sniff out a favorable playoff picture from a mile away, and Roz’s mental fucking collapse coinciding with their best odds since 2014 means that the entire leadership is on board with the toughest practices Cliff has faced as a Bear.
“Lesson learned,” Connors mutters between heaving breaths. “Don’t bring that shit up again, Marly. I can’t feel my legs.”
Honestly, Cliff would take the agonizing burn in his lungs and thighs ten thousand times over if Roz would get off the fucking line and watch them like any good sadistic captain issuing a punishment. He fucking knows that his sugar is tanking, and the sprinting is objectively not helping the situation.
“Enough. Water break, then we’ll try this shit again,” LeClaire orders. “We’ll keep doing this until we get it right.”
Cliff has enough self-preservation to let Doc be the one to toss a fully-leaded gatorade at his captain. They haven’t reached active suicidality, at least, because Roz chugs it and doesn’t start an argument over the protein chew to help his sugar stay okay once it’s up.
So, it’s not great, but it’s manageable. Until Montreal.
Something happened in that fucking club, and now it’s been two goddamn days since Cliff has seen a button on Roz’s arm and it is time to stop fucking worrying about pissing off his friend because he is starting to really fucking worry that he will not have a friend to piss off if he lets this go on any longer.
“Let me the fuck in,” he demands, banging on the door of Roz’s insane penthouse. “I will break down your door if you don’t unlock it in ten seconds.”
“What the actual fuck, Marleau?” Ilya has barely opened the door before Marleau is barreling into his home. “I didn’t invite you in. What the fuck are you doing here?”
“I’m not watching you kill yourself,” Cliff says bluntly, heading straight for the bathroom cabinet he knows contains the strip test meter. He returns to the living room and gestures to the couch. “Do you want to do it? Or is this going to be unnecessarily difficult.”
“You are not my goddamn keeper,” Ilya all but growls. “Get the fuck out of my apartment.”
“Hard way it is,” Cliff says mildly. It is a testament to how fucking terrible Ilya must be feeling that Cliff manages to best the man in a trigger contest, and after a quick lash out and a maneuver that Cliff had forced Hammy to practice with him before he left the locker room, Roz is trapped beneath him on the couch.
It’s still difficult when he’s got two-hundred odd pounds of pure muscle squirming like a goddamn river snake beneath him, but Cliff gets a finger disinfected, gently stabbed with the needle, and blood squeezed onto the test strip with minimal kicks to his ribs.
He lets Ilya up as he quickly walks away, anticipating the man lunging for the device or something equally fucking unhinged.
Instead, Ilya just sinks into the couch cushions, his head in his hands. “I don’t want to know.”
“Over or under three hundred?” Marleau asks as the machine works, mostly as a joke. “Oh fucking shit.”
“That’s definitely over,” Ilya says miserably. “I’m not going to the fucking ER. I’ll dose for whatever it is.”
“I don’t know if your sliding scale goes up to 450,” Marleau croaks out. “You’ve gotta do the pee test. If there’s ketones, it’s out of my hands.”
“I’m not pissing in front of you,” Ilya says, but he already sounds defeated..
“With all the love and respect in the world, Roz, I’ve already seen it. And I’m not sure you wouldn’t wave a stick in the fucking toilet or something to pop a negative,” Cliff says.
He thanks whatever gods are up there that there are no ketones. That means they can, in theory, fix this themselves. Cliff will be calling his endocrinologist’s emergency line to get him the “oh fuck shit is so fucked” eight am appointment slot Dr. Ellis has informed Cliff she keeps open as soon as shit is more stable.
“Talk to me, man,” Cliff begs, as he’s setting the dose on an insulin pen and praying to whatever is up there that Ilya’s sugar won’t immediately fucking plummet. “What the fuck have you been thinking?”
“I’m tired, Cliff,” Ilya confesses. “I’m so fucking tired.”
“Yeah,” Cliff says, trying hard not to dissolve into panic at the use of his given name by a man who has tried for fucking years to explain Russian diminutives to him. “So let me help. Please.”
“I shouldn’t need it,” Roz deflects, even as he lets Cliff find a patch of softer skin around his abs to disinfect, squeeze, and inject the insulin. “I know there’s no fucking excuse.”
“You’ve been dealing with shit. Gotta be tough seeing Jane with Rose Landry.” That sentence is the single riskiest thing Cliff has ever done, and he has played on a line with the fucking Russian Menace for the better part of a decade.
“You know.” Ilya, at least, does not sound angry. It is almost worse to hear him defeated. “How long?”
“Only 100% sure right now,” Cliff admits. “But your Jane is only ever physically on this plane of existence when we are playing the Voyageurs. You’ve always been so fucking cagey about him, and I’ve overlapped enough with him on the national team to know he’s equally as cagey about you. But I really only started to believe it when the Rose Landry meltdown started right after your seemingly rough breakup.”
“You can’t tell anyone,” Ilya says, after a long silence. “Please.”
“I hope to fucking God that you don’t actually think I would,” Cliff says. “I have stood in the fires of LeClaire’s punishment skates and Dr. Ellis’s lectures alike with you for close to a decade. I’ve fucking got you, Roz.” Cliff hopes that Ilya hears the part that he cannot choke out right now—his plea for his best friend to let him help right now.
“No, I know, it’s just…” Ilya trails off. “You know I get bitchy as hell when I’m this high. I’m not going to be able to have a mature adult conversation until I’m under 250.”
“Yeah, I know,” Cliff says fondly. “So why the fuck haven’t you been taking insulin, Roz?”
“I miss him,” Ilya says. “I pushed too hard and now he’s dating Rose fucking Landry and I am just… I am so tired.”
“So let me help. Actually, fuck that. I’m pretty sure Dr. Ellis isn’t going to give you an option about it. I am helping. Statement. Not question. We’re getting your sugar stable, and then you’re packing a bag and we’re kicking it like it’s 2009 again.”
“Marly—”
“Nope. This is like… fuck, I don’t even want to say it. It’s like you want to die. And that ain’t happening until we win five more fucking cups,” Cliff says. “And it’s not fucking happening until I finally find someone who will put up with my stupid ass and you can be the best man at my wedding and godfather to my kids and it’s not fucking happening until you get back together with Jane and somehow give me godchildren.”
“Marly.” Ilya’s voice cracks harshly. “I’m not… it’s not like that.”
“Then I need you to fucking explain it to me. I know that I’m not good at math, but I can’t find a way to make this add up to anything but that,” Cliff pushes.
“Have you ever had a bad breakup, Marly?” Ilya asks. When his best friend nods, Ilya sighs deeply. “What did you do for the week after?”
“Rotted in bed and tried not to call her and beg for her to take me back every fifteen minutes,” he answers.
“Everything is hard. Not just this,” Ilya agrees. “I can’t stop thinking about him and playing it back in my head and trying to figure out how to fix it, and then I go to practice and all that’s on the fucking TVs is his new relationship. I can’t escape it.”
“I get it,” Cliff says. “But you and I both know that this goes deeper than just the grief of your relationship.”
“Grief of your relationship?” Ilya repeats incredulously. “Who the fuck have you been yapping to about me that gave you that phrase?”
“Bailey has been making me send her my NYT mini games every day. She just attended a conference session or something about CTE and now I’ve got all kinds of brain hygiene bullshit I gotta do every day,” Cliff admits. “But no distractions. I know you, Roz. You feel shit deeply. Maybe so deeply that you should talk about it, sometimes.” This is not how Bailey has coached Cliff through trying to soft-launch the concept of therapy to his best friend.
“Biggest fire first, Cliff,” Ilya says cynically. “I’m gonna puke.”
That’s about the summary of how the rest of the night goes.
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“I’m not going to sugarcoat it. We all know that this is dangerous and unsustainable,” Dr. Ellis says, approximately thirty seconds after sanitizing her hands and taking a seat across from Ilya. “We’re going to get into the nitty gritty of how and why so we can ensure that this never happens again, but first we need to stop the boat from actively sinking.”
“His sugar has been ping-ponging like fucking crazy,” Cliff says, stifling a yawn behind the back of his hand. “And he’s not keeping anything down, really.”
“My stomach always gets bad with highs,” Ilya mumbles, shifting uncomfortably. “Can we skip the lecture? I know all about how I will lose toes by forty. I know that I fucked up.”
“I don’t know that you do,” his endocrinologist rebuts bluntly. “First things first: I’ve already messaged your team doctor. Ethan is on the same page as me: you’re not getting back on the ice until I clear it.”
“What? No,” Ilya says. “I can’t. It’s the middle of the season.”
“You can’t keep food down and your sugar is plummeting with minor exertion. Professional sport is not even near the conversation,” she responds calmly. “Ethan and I are also on the same page about a change to your treatment plan.”
“Not the pump,” Ilya surmises. “There is no way that I can hide that with the locker room press.”
“You need tighter control, and you need some of the burden taken off your brain,” Dr. Ellis says. “Normally, we could alleviate your concerns with the new temporary pods that Dexcom has made that have been hitting the market, but… those can be dislodged and broken far too easily on the ice. A traditional pump can be disconnected for games. They could even remain disconnected if your sugars are stable for post-game press in the locker room.”
“I have been using the pens the whole time. This is a blip,” Ilya tries. “I will do better. I will fix this.”
“We’re trying it,” Dr. Ellis decides bluntly. “Even before you went off the deep end, your control was often poor between all of the travel and mixed schedules of game days. This will make your life easier, Ilya.”
“Okay, but that doesn’t fix all of the symptoms right now,” Cliff says hesitantly. “We’ve been actively trying to fix it and his stomach and pancreas are on different fucking planets.”
“I’ll write a Zofran prescription. Smaller meals more frequently will also help,” Dr. Ellis says easily. “Ethan has already sent both of you an updated nutrition plan. You need to follow it to the letter. If Zofran doesn’t work, we will revisit immediately.”
“That’s it?” Cliff asks. “Follow the plan and hope it resolves?”
“No. You’re also meeting with the nurse educator because apparently a perk of being a professional player means that I can order you a pump and the team can waive the normal month of insurance bullshit before it ever shows up,” Dr. Ellis explains. “Ilya.” She waits until her patient is looking her in the eyes. “This cannot happen again. Do you understand that?”
“It’s been a tough few months,” Ilya says, fidgeting uncomfortably. “I need to get my head on straight.”
“This brings us to point number four,” Dr. Ellis says. “We’ve had this discussion before—”
“I can’t,” Ilya says.
“This is out of my hands. You can argue until your face is blue with Ethan, but this is coming from higher ups on the Bears. So this is me giving you a courtesy warning,” Dr. Ellis says. “We will get you back on track. It’s going to be easier and faster if you work with your team and my team than if you fight us every step of the way.”
“Sounds good, Doc,” Cliff says, before Ilya can restart the argument.
Ilya feels like a scolded child when Dr. Ellis sends him out of the room so that she can lecture Cliff about things that she knows Ilya knows but needs to make sure that Cliff is so violently and graphically aware of the all of the horrific consequences that he will faithfully be her enforcer.
He doesn’t want to hear the lecture. He also doesn’t know if Cliff’s concussion-ruined brain is going to retain much more than the medical gore of it all, but it is nice that when he feels this fucking awful he does not have to sit through being read the riot act about it all.
Cliff comes out of the room pale as a goddamn ghost. Dr. Ellis follows, and she doesn’t even look pleased with herself.
“We’re going to be back here in a week,” Cliff says nervously. “It will go better than today.”
“Oh, she got you good,” Ilya says. “Where to next, my dear jailor?”
“Ethan’s office.”
“God fucking dammit.”
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“I do not negotiate with terrorists.” Cliff has his arms crossed, and it would be much more imposing if he was not nervously looking over at his much shorter, much less muscular sister as he delivers the line.
“I am a communist, not a terrorist. Get your xenophobia correct,” Ilya says.
“Now that’s a mighty big word,” Cliff chirps easily. “I see Bailey’s NYT minigame regimen has started showing positive results.”
“Focus up, Cliff,” Bailey mutters, before Cliff sees her actively turn on a mode that he only remembers seeing a few times as a teenager. Everything in him is screaming at him to run for the fucking hills, because there are about to be casualties. “Ilya. Dinner. Table. Now.”
Yeah, Cliff would have plopped his ass in that chair just about as fast Ilya does when faced with that tone of voice.
“Good. I’m setting a timer for forty-five minutes,” Bailey says. “Anything you don’t finish, we supplement with a shake.”
“You sound like Ethan,” Ilya says sulkily.
“I am sitting right here, but we are not talking until that timer goes off or you are done,” she says. “Cliff is going to go to the living room and do a fucking sudoku. Let’s hope for all of our sakes that you finish before he does.”
“Rude,” Cliff says, but all it takes is two seconds of his sister’s withering glare before he folds like a goddamn lawn chair.
“You are the big guns,” Ilya comments, after fifteen minutes of battling his stomach and mostly winning. “Did you train with Dr. Ellis?”
All he gets is his own withering glare until his plate is clean.
“I did rotate with Dr. Ellis in med school. She’s a badass,” Bailey says. “We did briefly bond over my brother’s missing spine.”
“Did she write you a good review? Or whatever those grades are called? I know those are important, but Cliff is not great at explaining. I can make her write you a good one and erase the other one,” Ilya offers.
“You are in such deep shit with her that a good word about me from your mouth is a strike against me,” Bailey says. “So please do not say anything at all. I am not an endocrinologist, nor do I ever want to be one, so there is no point.”
“Ah, yes. But you can remove my appendix or gallbladder if I need you to,” Ilya says.
“You are a surgical nightmare,” Bailey says bluntly, watching as Ilya washes his plate in the sink. “And not just the diabetes. Your scar tissue and muscle density is a bitch to get through and work around.”
“This is why your patient satisfaction ratings are always shit,” Cliff calls from the couch. “Come in here. It’s almost puck drop in Toronto. I want to see Kent or Barrett get their faces caved in. Bailey, are you staying tonight?”
“Yeah. I’ve got a bunch of cases to study for, and there’s a Celtics game, so the Green Line is going to be fucking unusable. I’ll be in the guest room, though, so keep the buffoonery to a minimum.”
“Your sister is terrifying,” Ilya whispers, plopping down on the couch next to his best friend. “You did not need to drag her all the way across the river to babysit me.”
“Yes I fucking did,” Cliff says bluntly. “It was that or Ethan. And Ethan would just call in the big guns.”
“You look like you’re gearing up for a lecture. Please just save it, Marly. I know. I fucking know,” Ilya snaps. “Fuck. Sorry.”
“You’ve got every right to be bitchy,” Cliff says. “And you can be as bitchy as you want as we execute the doctors’ orders.”
“It doesn’t mean that you deserve it,” Ilya shifts nervously. “I’m medically stable. I can go back to my own place. Figure this shit out without dragging you and Bailey—”
“Yeah, nope. Not entertaining that,” Cliff cuts him off. “Same rules as 2009, Roz.”
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“Why do you put up with me?” Ilya is one hundred percent sure that weed is not part of Dr. Ellis and Dr. Ethan’s plan for him, but, fuck, Cliff’s two brain cells really did have their once-monthly collision.
Dinner was a fucking breeze, once the munchies kicked in. Fuck, Ilya might even have a snack.
He’s content to lay on Cliff’s carpet and stare at the ceiling fan for now, though. Even if the heat from his expensive-ass electric fireplace is reminding Ilya of home in the kind of way that means he’s either going to talk about his mother’s vomit-crusted, dead face start blabbing about Shane’s freckles again.
“You’re my rook,” Cliff says simply, from his perch on his giant ass leather couch. He does pluck the joint from Ilya’s fingertips, trying to make it look nonchalant instead of an effort to stop Ilya from turning over to the more paranoid and depressed end of the weed high spectrum. “We’re stuck together until one of us retires or Boston separates us.”
“I haven’t been a rookie for six seasons at this point,” Ilya replies quietly. “I’m not your responsibility. I shouldn’t have to be.”
“No man is an island,” Cliff says sagely. “And I’m not going to feed into your delusion that you’re some soul-sucking parasite, either. So fuck right off with that.”
“I am, though.” Ilya will not turn his head from the fire to look at his best friend, and that’s how Cliff knows that Ilya is as close to the edge as he’s ever been. “You deserve an actual child. Not a fucking twenty-three year old baby.”
“Okay. I am going to start fucking listing every thing that you have done for me that I can remember at this point in time. It won’t be a comprehensive list, because I’m stoned as fuck. But you’re not gonna interrupt me. Capiche?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely not—”
“Nope. No interruptions,” Cliff says. “Let’s start big first. You went to my dad’s funeral. I didn’t tell a damn person on the team and you found out, secretly paid for all of the flowers—yeah I fucking know about that you sneaky bastard—and then you kept my deranged grandmother and aunts away from my mom and sisters for the entire day.”
“I’m your captain. That is the bare minimum—”
“You’re also the one who stayed with me for a week after Kent fucking rang my bell. You made me gross Russian soup and—”
“Please fucking stop—”
“Nope. Don’t think I also don’t know that you rig the hotel assignments with LeClaire when you know I haven’t been sleeping. Or that you make sure the rookies have a responsible—”
“Cliff, stop—”
“Oh, I almost forgot about how you beat the shit out of Kent immediately after he knocked me out—”
“Stop.” Ilya’s hands are over his ears now. “Please, Cliff. Stop. Just fucking stop.” It’s only when the first sob escapes his best friend that Cliff’s words die out in his throat.
“Hey,” he says seriously, sliding down off of the couch to sit next to Ilya. “You don’t get a village without being an active member of it. All I’m saying is we are in the same village, Roz.”
“That isn’t how it works,” Ilya says. “You have done so fucking much. And I…” Ilya’s voice cracks. “I know what I’m like. I know how dealing with me and this fucking… this fucking disease just drains the life out of people. It requires repayment. And I haven’t fucking paid my dues at all.”
“Are we finally addressing the father-shaped elephant in the room?” Cliff is terrible at sounding nonchalant, but he tries it nonetheless.
“English is a stupid fucking language,” Ilya tries, shifting uncomfortably. Cliff just gets a meaty arm around his shoulder and pulls him closer against his will.
“Your dad is a piece of shit,” Cliff says bluntly. “Bailey said I’m not supposed to say it like that because he’s, like, fucking dying, and your feelings are complicated, but—”
“He is not the problem,” Ilya says. “It is not like this, with Andrei.”
“What about you, do you think, makes you deserve it?” Cliff asks. It’s probably the weed making him stupid, but he figures if he doesn’t figure this shit out now, it’s going to be even worse when the motherfucker finally croaks. “What did you do that Andrei didn’t?”
“It is not what I do. It is what I am,” Ilya says calmly. “I have always been… I was too much. My mother was so young and so tired. I never sat still. I cried and I screamed and I did not listen. Hockey helped tire me out, and my father realized that I was good and made me do it more, but I still kept—”
“You were a kid, Roz. That is what kids do—”
“No. You are not listening. I did not make it easier for her. So then, when she left… she left and then a month later my fucking pancreas decided it’s done doing its job. And there were so many doctors and appointments and—”
“You were a kid. You were his kid. It was his fucking job to take care of you.” Cliff keeps his voice calm. “None of how he fucking treated you was your fault.”
“It was. There was so much shit all the time with me. And I’ve tried to pay it back, I really fucking have, but it’s never enough. You don’t know how difficult I was, with all the medical shit. I know that I’m a shitshow now, but it was worse then,” Ilya explains.
“Oh, I can imagine that freshly-diagnosed, grieving twelve-year-old you was not the poster child for diabetes management,” Cliff says. “But you gotta know how fucked all of that sounds, Roz. You do not owe your father for raising you. If you can call what he did that.”
“It is not the same in Russia. You North Americans are so soft,” Ilya says. When Cliff just stares at him instead of nibbling on the bait, Ilya sighs and continues speaking. “I know that I am not easy, Marly. I just don’t understand how you have stayed so long when all I’ve done is take from you.”
“You haven’t taken shit,” Cliff says bluntly. “I’ve given it all willingly, and I’d do it all ten thousand fucking times over because it means that you’d be right next to me for all ten fucking thousand rounds of it all. You don’t owe me anything. The people who love you don’t fucking expect repayment for taking care of you. That’s not how it’s supposed to work at all.”
“Everyone gets sick of me eventually,” Ilya confesses. “My family, Jane—I am the common factor, Cliff. I don’t want to push you off that ledge, too.”
“I get sick of you all the goddamn time. I have kicked you out of my car and my apartment and my booth at the bar because you’re a fucking annoying shithead. But when you come back like a fucked up Russian boomerang, I smile every goddamn time. Because you’re my brother, man. And I don’t ever want to fucking lose you for good.”
“It’s not the same,” Ilya sniffles. “Someday, I’m going to piss you off good—”
“Oh, you’ve already fucking done that. Still here,” Cliff says. “I will learn how to fucking say it in Russian if that’s what it takes for you to believe me. I am not fucking leaving on you, and you are not fucking leaving on me. Capiche?”
“Cliff, I—”
Cliff knows that he is never going to verbally win, so he just puts Ilya in a headlock to shut him up. He fucks up the already suffering curls, before he gets a forearm over his best friend’s mouth. “I am not leaving you, and you are not leaving me. You don’t owe me fucking shit, and if you try to pay me back I will buy you a goddamn hyperactive puppy every single time you try, because I know that you would let the number get to fucking twenty before you would ever say no to a set of sad eyes. So we’re gonna stop having crises on my carpet and instead ruin it with cheeto dust as the godly creator of marijuana intended.”
He doesn’t let Ilya up until he feels a nod, and for a minute he is worried that he is going to start swinging.
Instead, there are two strong sets of arms around his back, squeezing him as tightly as he can. Ilya Rozanov, for as much as he gives hugs and kisses and affection out on the ice like it is candy, shies away from it the second his whole captain persona can drop.
Cliff holds him just as tightly back. Fuck, maybe he should actually get Ilya a puppy. He’s pretty damn sure they can train dogs to sense blood sugar now, and then they would basically have a team dog.
Nope. Those are later problems.
————————
“Alright, listen the fuck up,” Marleau orders, posting a rookie at the door just in case Ilya comes back from Ethan’s office earlier than he should. “If any of you motherfuckers say anything above a goddamn whisper on this flight to LA, I am going to personally shove your balls back inside of your body.”
“What’s that got to do with Roz? You just need your beauty sleep, Marly?” Connors asked. “Why the secrecy?”
“Roz was up all fucking last night dealing with sugar shit. He’s already shit at sleeping on planes,” Marleau says. “And if it gets out that I said this, he will fucking murder me. So keep it tight.”
“He looks exhausted,” St. Simon agrees. “I can duct tape the rookies’ mouths shut.”
“Just… no card games and shit. We’ve got LA and then Colorado so we all need rest,” Cliff says tiredly. “Be fucking chill and subtle for once in your lives.”
“You’re gonna want to keep Hammy far fucking away from Cap then,” Carmichael surmises. “How’s he been? Actually.”
“Actually? None of your fucking business,” Cliff says.
“Come on, Marly. Not the medical shit. We know that’s not our business,” Connors says hesitantly. “And we know you’ve got Cap’s back. But we can make it more of a group project. We want to make it more of a group project.”
“If he gets a fucking whiff that you want to make him a group project, none of us are surviving the practices that follow,” Cliff warns. “And, fucking frankly, I wouldn’t blame him.”
“Fuck. No. We’re fucking this up,” St. Simon interjects. “Cap’s always the first one to offer to drive anyone home after a bad hit. He sends fucking huge bouquets of flowers for any of our girls’ achievements and he sends gifts for all of our kids’ birthdays and he is the first one to talk down a stressed rookie or pep talk a tired vet. He has all of our backs, all of the time, with zero fucking hesitation. It is our turn to step the fuck up for him.”
“There’s not a lot that can be done.” Cliff doesn’t know why there is suddenly such a large obstruction at the back of his throat making it difficult to swallow. “You know he doesn’t talk about this shit, guys.”
“Even small shit. Like what’s his candy of choice right now? We can make sure we’ve all got it on us,” Hammersmith offers. “Or if team bonding shit would take his mind off of Jane, we could do more movie nights or dinners? Less clubs, because I’m guessing Dr. Hardass has put a strong no on alcohol for him?”
“Yeah. That would be fucking great,” Cliff admits. “And just… don’t fucking say anything about the pump, but take it fucking seriously if he’s got a no contact sweater at practice even if you know he’s not injured, because it means it’s on him. He fucking hates the thing and calling any attention to it will send him over the edge, but breaking it would be bad.”
“Aye aye, Marly,” Connors says. “Of fucking course. No contact always means no fucking contact.”
And that’s all that ever has to be said about it at all. Which is good, both because Roz has built a great fucking room and because Marly doesn’t need to go around concussing his own team if they weren’t.
————————
“Can I stay tonight?” Shane mumbles into Ilya’s shoulder. They are both sweaty and sticky and disgusting, but neither of them want to move from where they have collapsed on Shane’s bed. “We won’t see each other until almost March.”
“Of course,” Ilya murmurs, trying to ignore how his puffy eyes have yet to recover from his embarrassing meltdown. “You are a good space heater, Hollander.”
“Shane,” he corrects, and Ilya wants to memorize just how his freckles look in this warm but dim hotel lighting. “I’m in this for real, Ilya. If you are.”
“Of course,” Ilya agrees. He is just moving to kiss Shane’s forehead when there is an incredibly loud pounding on his door.
“Roz, open the fuck up. 57 and double fucking arrows down,” Cliff calls through the door. “You’re not answering your fucking phone.”
“Ilya—” Shane panics.
“Fuck, he has a key—” is all Ilya manages to get out before the door is opening. “Okay, don’t panic.”
“Oh, fuck,” Cliff says, quickly slapping a hand over his eyes. “I am not looking but I am about to throw a fucking juice box at the bed. It’s not for you, Hollander.”
“What the fuck is going on?” Shane asks, scrambling out of the bed and into his boxers faster than Ilya has ever seen him. “Why the fuck does Marleau have a key to your room? He’s not even an All Star.”
“He’s got separation anxiety,” Ilya tries to explain away.
“I do not hear the juice box opening,” Cliff says petulantly. “Hollander, chuck him some pants so I can uncover my eyes.”
“Marleau, you cannot tell anyone—”
“That really isn’t my priority right now,” Cliff cuts off Shane, as his phone shrieks again. “Ilya. Fucking drink the juice.”
“What the fuck is going on?” Ilya can hear the edge of panic in Shane’s voice.
“Drinking. I’m drinking,” Ilya calls, before he stumbles into his own shorts. “Everyone is clothed. Everyone take a fucking breath. Shane.” Ilya turns his whole attention to his lover, and he can see how terrified he is. “I can explain. We can trust Marleau. I promise that we’re safe. He won’t tell anyone. “
Shane swallows once harshly, nods several times, and then his eyes, so bright and focused as he scans a whole hockey rink, give Ilya’s body the same analysis. He’s too smart for his eyes not to land on the button carefully placed on the back of Ilya’s bicep, a place Shane rarely grabs during sex and one that Ilya can keep out of sight. “Drink the fucking juice, Rozanov.”
“It’s done.” Ilya holds up the crumpled box in surrender. “Okay. We’re all going to sit down and have a very adult conversation. Cliff, you can uncover your eyes.”
“It’s great to finally meet you,” Cliff tries sheepishly. “I’ve known you’re Jane for a hot second. You really fucked Roz up. You know that?”
“Cliff, not now,” Ilya hisses. “You are acting like an overprotective father. I am not a teenage virgin. And it was not his fault.”
“You’re diabetic,” Shane says, because that’s the easiest part of all of this for him to digest at this point. “For how long?”
“Since I was twelve,” Ilya croaks. “Terrible fucking year.”
“How the fuck have you kept this a secret?” Shane continues. “How does that even—what happens in a game if you—”
“Later problems,” Cliff interjects. “I’m sorry for barging in. I really didn’t fucking think his plan to win you back was actually going to work.”
“You have no fucking faith in me,” Ilya says moodily. “We are going to revisit the roomkey situation.”
“That’s up to Dr. Ellis and Ethan and you fucking know that,” Cliff says. “If you want me out of your hair faster, give yourself a poke. Actually, wait. Where the fuck is your—”
“Do you need me to draw you a diagram? Where would I put it?”
“Jesus fucking Christ, I do not want to be in the room when you try that argument with Dr. Ellis.” Cliff pinches the bridge of his nose. “Hollander, you love logistics.”
“That feels like an insult,” Shane says hesitantly, when Cliff does not continue on his own.
“Do not—”
“Can’t put the toothpaste back into the tube, Roz. He knows now, and so he’s joining the boat. Fuck, I can just give him Bailey’s number and then we will have an organized instruction manual by Thursday,” Cliff says gleefully.
“Logistics for what? Are you okay?” Shane asks, and it sounds so fucking earnest that Ilya feels his chest tighten again.
“We can get into the nitty gritty of how and why later, but yes and no. It’s worlds better than it was in Novem—”
“Cliff, shut the fuck up,” Ilya snipes. “Will you get the fuck out of my room?”
“No, Cliff can stay.” Shane has always been able to sniff out when Ilya is intentionally obfuscating something. “I want to hear what he has to say.”
“We don’t have much time together. Look, the number is already going up.” Ilya shoves his phone in Cliff’s face. “Now will you fuck off?”
“Whatever it is is bad enough that your doctor made Cliff come with you to All Stars,” Shane surmises. “Wait, did your sugar go down because—”
“Yes,” Cliff answers quickly. “And I really don’t want any more details.”
“I think I’m still having a panic attack,” Shane forces out. “Ilya, are you sure—”
“Marleau has known for a few months. You can trust him,” Ilya says gently, pushing Shane’s hair off of his forehead gently. “I’m sorry. He figured it out himself.”
“But if Marleau—no offense—can figure it out, then…” Shane shakes his head.
“No offense taken, by the way,” Cliff says, after a long silence. “Nah. None of the other idiots will piece it together. Ilya’s just my rook. I’ve got secret insider information.”
“It’s true,” Ilya confirms. “I lived with him for a year when I was nineteen and he decided I’m his baby duckling or some shit.”
“Not a duckling. More like a feral street cat that loves to bite and hiss,” Cliff corrects. “Your secret is safe with me, Shane. Your mom can even NDA me to hell and back if that’s what you need.”
“She doesn’t—I don’t—” Shane stutters. “Yeah. Okay. We should do NDAs. I’ll make Hayden sign one, too.”
“Great. That’s settled,” Cliff says cheerfully. “Can I give him the powerpoint now? Bailey made me practice it with her like four times.”
“No—”
“Yes,” Shane says. “I can’t believe you’ve been dealing with this your whole career. I have so many fucking questions, Ilya. I need to do—”
“Do not do online research. Cliff tried it, and I think it made him illiterate,” Ilya says. “But he has practiced this fucking powerpoint and his sister, who is an actual doctor, thinks it’s good. So you can listen to it if you fucking want, and I’m going to take a shower.”
By the end of the evening, Shane has downloaded the CGM app and has a notes app full of information on what it looks like at the various danger stages of high and low and Ilya’s specific sliding scale and so much fucking more. Worse, he and Cliff have exchanged numbers, he has watched as Ilya has reconnected his pump to his current cannula site, and when their phones had all asynchronously screeched out another low warning, Shane is the first one to toss Ilya a pack of sour candy to right it.
This is Ilya’s worst nightmare: Cliff and Shane have joined forces.
He will never know peace again.