Chapter Text
This game was a fucking nightmare. Correction—this whole fucking day was a nightmare. If not even the entire week.
Cliff Marleau has been off his game lately and it was starting to seriously fucking annoy him.
Not only did Cliff sleep like shit the night prior; if a thirty minute power nap even counts as proper sleep. The gross-smelling, and probably very cheap, hotel soap also gave him a rash in unspeakable places. Which meant that going out and picking up someone pretty after games was definitely out of the question for a while; which pissed him the fuck off as he was really looking forward to getting laid after this game.
Or the fact that he forgot his lucky charm in Boston; his shitty week could probably be easily explained by that alone. But he wasn't superstitious. Of course not. That would be fucking stupid. It would explain why he tripped in front of his entire team earlier, though and why they spent a little over ten minutes just laughing at him because of it. Normally he had the grace of a fucking cat, he doesn't just trip like that. Ever. It really just seemed like some higher being—or whatever the hell was responsible for his unlucky streak—was out to get him.
And now, on top of all the other shit, because that apparently hasn't already been bad enough, he had now laid out the best fucking hockey player in the whole league, by fucking accident. Within less than a minute into the first period, too. Obviously knocking Shane Hollander out like that wasn't his intention—that's the definition of an accident, after all—but he couldn't help but feel like shit because of it.
The paramedics were storming onto the ice to check on the injured player, assessing the situation and getting him off the ice—on a fucking stretcher—ready to take him to the hospital for further treatment. All within a few minutes. Because of course he had to go to the fucking hospital. Cliff didn't half-ass anything; not even unintentionally hitting other players apparently. He just watched everything happen; all while Cliff became the hockey world's enemy number one for hurting the league's golden boy.
And of course, this also wasn't just any game against Montreal. It was Ilya Rozanov's—his best fucking friend's—first game since returning from Russia after his father's funeral. And judging by Ilya's reaction to Cliff knocking Hollander out—by accident, he keeps repeating in his head so he maybe actually starts believing it—the wound was still fresh.
No matter how much Ilya may hate the guy, seeing Hollander unconscious on the ice like that, mere days after burying his own fucking father, can't have been great for Ilya to witness. The way he hovered over Hollander's unmoving body; he was probably having flashbacks to the events of the last week that he went through. And those kinds of thoughts and realizations made Cliff feel even worse—even though he didn't know how the fuck that was even possible at this point.
He felt so horrible in fact, that he didn't even participate in any of the fights that broke out on the ice after the hit. Fair, Hayden Pike—Shane Hollander's best friend—was currently beating down on him. Rightfully so, actually. Cliff would do the same if someone had hit his best friend like that. But instead of fighting back, he just let it happen, not defending himself, while his eyes stayed focused on Ilya.
Ilya who looked so fucking powerless, because he couldn't do anything to help and was just standing in the way of the paramedics. Not listening to them when they told him to get out of their way.
But there was something else on Ilya's face that Cliff couldn't quite place. More than shock from the hit, more than his frustration of not being able to do something. Something deeper, that Cliff probably would've missed if he wasn't staring at him so intensely. It was as if Ilya was worried that Hollander might die, or disappear or whatever, if he were to take his eyes off him for even just a second.
But unfortunately those thoughts couldn't matter now, he had to shift his focus back onto the game. There were still three fucking periods left after all. And it was set to continue after a rather long intermission; during which Hollander got shipped off to the hospital.
Intermission was what it was called by the announcers, but that felt fucking insensitive to Cliff. A man just suffered an injury bad enough that he had to go to the fucking hospital. Because of him. And here the announcers were apologizing for "any inconveniences" that Hollander's injury may have caused to the viewers and their time; as if he had any say in anything that happened tonight. What fucking assholes. He was getting angry all over again, but swallowed those feelings down. With Ilya completely shutting down after Hollander was removed from the ice and drove off with the ambulance—rightfully so, Cliff thought—Cliff had to take over as captain. He absolutely didn't feel like it right now, though. Putting up the captain act while he was also completely out of it, felt like a fucking mistake. But he had to. Someone had to. He felt like the guilt was already starting to eat him alive, but at least the alternate captain should be able to function, when the captain can't.
Unsurprisingly though, the team wasn't really listening to him when he tried to talk strategy with them. Most of those insensitive pricks were too busy congratulating him on knocking out Hollander—celebrating their victory before it even happened, simply because of the fact that he was out—obviously not aware of either Ilya's or his very negative feelings about this whole event. The goalie even promised to name his first born after Cliff for taking Hollander out of the game. Of course he knew that Shane fucking Hollander was a fucking beast on the ice and the biggest annoyance to every goalie in the MLH—he has played against him for years at this point, it really wasn't new information—but he still felt like his teammates were taking their celebrations a little too far.
Cliff wanted to punch them, or yell at them, or just walk out and get on a plane to Boston and drive home and hide away in his house and not talk to anyone for at least a month. All options seemed more appealing than staying and continuing this game, especially the last one. But unfortunately he couldn't just run away, yet. He had to stay. He had to continue this fucking game. On Montreal's home ice, no fucking less. And while he tried to stay at least somewhat optimistic and not fully retreat into the fears in his head, if he knew something about this city, it was that Montreal's fans could be quite ruthless.
All the more reasons for him to be happy that the rules on what fans are allowed to bring into the arena were as strict as they are here. He'd probably get stabbed by a rogue fan or something, if he didn't know about the very thorough screening of every single person before they're allowed to enter the arena. He'll be fine. While in the arena. But he should probably run to his rental car once he's ready to leave. Just in case. Hockey fans can be fucking crazy and he shouldn't serve himself on a silver platter to any of them by letting his guard down. And that probably didn't just apply to the Montreal fans, but his own teammates, too. Specifically Ilya. Of course it was Ilya; the others were too busy talking shit about Hollander to his face. Riding the high of their "guaranteed win". Ignoring the fact that they haven't even won yet and also probably won't. Cliff wasn't too optimistic anymore. It was very likely that the Metros were out for blood after what Cliff had done, so a win didn't look very likely to him.
And he ended up being right about that.
The Raiders have lost to the Metros who were indeed out for blood—specifically out for Cliff Marleau's blood—after losing their captain and best player. Despite most players spending the majority of the game in the penalty box, the Metros still came out on top. While it wasn't a high loss, it was a loss nonetheless. A quite embarrassing 2-0 for the Metros humbled the Raiders, who thought that there was no fucking way they could lose the game with Hollander out. They definitely needed that reality check, because while they were speaking highly of their skills and their inability to lose this game during the intermission; their on ice performance was pitiful at best and absolutely fucking pathetic at worst.
A big reason for that was that Ilya and Cliff—their captain and alternate captain duo—were all over the place for the entire rest of the game. Their heads were not in it whatsoever. And without them at their best, the loss was inevitable. No matter how strong the team was.
Cliff would obviously not go as far as to call himself the second best player on the team—their best player obviously being his best fucking friend Ilya—but he also wouldn't not say that. He was aware of his skills. And he and Ilya were also an unstoppable force together. Usually, that is. At least that was the case, until Cliff himself put a stop to their power play.
The air in the locker room was thick; one could definitely cut it with a knife, if that was actually possible and not just a figurative expression. A mix of different emotions were floating through the room and no one really spoke to each other. Some were pissed off, some were embarrassed and others were just straight up tired. While Cliff felt numb, mostly. As if his body was on autopilot, he started changing out of his gear and had completely forgotten about the post game interviews that either he or Ilya had to take care of. At least until he was reminded by a very angry PR person—whose name Cliff couldn't recall in the moment—storming into the locker room, demanding either Cliff or Ilya to follow him. Ilya stayed silent, he didn't move or even acknowledged the forceful request; his eyes were simply locked onto his phone. Cliff spied over his shoulder that the chat with his Montreal Jane was opened; earlier messages from her of them seeing each other after the game unanswered by Ilya. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, he was struggling to find the right words to type out, Cliff thought but didn't really understand why.
After this shit game, he should probably go see his Jane. Especially since they're in Montreal. It would do him good. Cliff really wanted to tell him that, but Ilya's hesitation to even reply to Jane's messages were indication enough that this kind of advice probably wouldn't be too well received right now. Despite not being in the best mental state himself, Cliff agreed to do the post game interview. Because someone had to. Might as well be him. The press was probably more interested in him currently anyway. Since he was the one to take Shane Hollander out.
"Remember that you can refuse to answer their questions. I would actually highly encourage it, too," the Raiders PR guy told him, to which Cliff only nodded in reply before getting swarmed by the press. It all went by in a blur and he definitely disassociated almost immediately. Because of course, every single question was about the accident from earlier. The hit that knocked out Shane fucking Hollander, they kept repeating over and over and over and over again. As if he forgot what he had done in the past hour. As if it wasn't engraved in his fucking brain already. As if the fucking guilt wasn't eating him alive. But he didn't say any of that out loud. He simply apologized for his actions—in the most media trained way possible—and eventually got the fuck out of there.
His answers varied from question to question, though they were all most likely pretty useless, as he has said "no comment" so often that it stopped feeling like a real phrase. He certainly didn't give the press the answers that they were looking for, but he honestly couldn't care less about those shitty reporters. He didn't fucking care about anything in this cursed arena right now. Except for Ilya maybe. Cliff felt the strong desire to apologize to Ilya for what happened. Beg on his knees for forgiveness, but he wasn't exactly sure why he felt the need to do that.
Sure, Hollander is Ilya's rival. They've been put up against each other since their draft; if not already before that. But apologizing to Ilya for hitting Hollander? That conclusion felt odd to him. Ilya knew it was an accident. Cliff was an aggressive player, that's no secret, but hurting someone like this for no reason other than malicious intent? No, Ilya knew that Cliff wasn't the guy for that. Maybe he didn't want to apologize because of that, though. Maybe he's sorry for accidentally traumatizing his best friend only days after burying his father. It sounded more plausible, but he still couldn't shake this weird feeling, that it should be for a different reason. One he couldn't quite place.
Cliff hoped to be able to talk to Ilya once he gets back from doing the demanded PR coverage. But no, Ilya was already gone. When he asked his teammates that were still lingering around in the locker room, they simple said that Ilya wanted to go back to the hotel and that he didn't feel like going out tonight; as he declined any and every offer made by either of the Raiders. It made sense to him that Ilya fucked off as quickly as possible after this shit show of a game. He also wanted nothing more than go back to the hotel, take a shower—to make the cheap soap rash probably even worse—and just go to sleep. He couldn't wait. The day would finally be over, and he would start to work on moving on from what happened.
Fortunately for him, Cliff didn't get stabbed on his way to his rental car and the drive back to the hotel was also quite uneventful. It took a little longer, because of the shitty Montreal traffic, but aside from that he made it to the hotel no problem. He didn't want to risk to be seen by anyone, neither teammate nor crazed fan of either team. He rushed through the lobby, over to the elevators with his head down and only lifted it once he was alone, on his way up to his room. For a moment he considered stopping by Ilya's room, to check on him or generally see if he made it back to the hotel, but quickly decided against that. He didn't want to fight with Ilya—or anyone else—tonight. He just wanted to get to his room, get out of his sweaty clothes and wash off the day in a way too hot shower, to then get some fucking sleep finally.
As soon as he got into his room, he started stripping out of his clothes. It felt like he was shedding his skin—removing every layer of bullshit that piled on—but it didn't feel as relieving as he thought it would. Or, hoped it would. He actually didn't feel anything but emotional and physical exhaustion. And guilt, of course. Mainly guilt, but he was overall just fucking tired. He made his way to the bathroom, mindlessly turning on the shower, as he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror.
He was taken aback for a moment, as he didn't realize how bad he actually looked. The bags under his eyes were a deep purple shade, like plums; he looked like he hasn't slept in days—which he didn't, but he didn't think it was that obvious. His hair was an absolute mess from his stupid helmet—truly one of the worst things about hockey; the fucking ugly helmet hair. And on top of that, there were some dried up blood stains under his nose from the nosebleed he had earlier.
His lip was also busted and he came to the conclusion that this must've been where the metallic taste in his mouth came from. And he did the fucking post game interviews looking like this. Fuck, this is going to be all over the internet. Probably for a while, too. Why the PR guy didn't tell him to clean up before doing the interviews, Cliff didn't know. Maybe he hoped that the press would have pity on him or something, if they saw how fucked up he looked. It was a possibility, but who fucking cares? Cliff sure as hell didn't. He doesn't care about anything right now.
Hayden Pike really did a fucking number on him and Cliff couldn't lie, despite the pain that slowly started creeping up—pushing its way past the shock and adrenaline of today's game—he was impressed by Pike's work. He didn't know Pike was capable of this. Not that Cliff would ever say that to his face, but at least he knew to be more careful from now on. There's no fucking around with Hayden Pike; especially not when his anger is related to Shane Hollander getting injured. Cliff took a mental note, before forcing his tired body into the shower.
He probably stood there for a while; he wasn't sure, because time didn't feel real to him anymore. The day already felt like it has been going on for years. And for the first time in a while, he was almost enjoying himself. Enjoying himself was probably not the right way to describe it, but at least he didn't feel as miserable now as he did before. But that almost good feeling vanished as soon as he turned the water off; he decided to skip the soap this time—an even worse rash on top of everything else going on didn't seem necessarily appealing to him at this moment. Cliff still felt gross, and smelled even worse, but that was for his future self to worry about. He'd take a proper shower once he gets back home and luckily, the Raiders were flying back to Boston the next day. He'd only have to make it to noon, survive the flight and the following drive home and he could finally feel like himself again. Hopefully.
After eventually getting out of the shower—the white noise like sounds of the pattering water stopped blocking out his thoughts at this point—and checking the time, he noticed that he had spent close to forty minutes under the shower, just letting the water hit his head, flowing down his aching body. It felt good in the moment, but it was definitely too long, and also too hot. His skin was red, not quite hurting to touch, but he was sure if he had stayed in the shower for just a few minutes longer, that would be another issue he'd have to deal with.
He haphazardly dried himself off and searched for something to wear to bed; which proved itself to be a quite difficult task, since all of his clothes were scattered across the floor, as he was rummaging through his suitcase earlier, in hopes of finding his lucky charm—which he didn't. But then also didn't bother to clean his shit back up. He couldn't help but curse himself out.
Cliff Marleau really made life more difficult than it had to be for Cliff Marleau. He hated that guy right now. What a fucking asshole.
Normally, he'd just say "fuck it" and sleep naked after a shit day like this, but he had learned his lesson to never sleep naked in hotel rooms a while ago when the hotel's cleaning personnel walked in while he was still sleeping, and recovering, from a wild night out with the guys. He couldn't traumatize another underpaid worker in that way. One time certainly was enough. At least boxers, maybe even some kind of shirt. He wasn't picky at this point. He really just needed to finally get some fucking sleep. Wet hair and barely any clothes were probably not the best conditions for a cold night in Montreal, but whatever. He didn't care.
Would he regret sleeping with wet hair? Probably.
Should he put some ice packs on his face before going to sleep to maybe prevent some of the bruising to get worse? Definitely.
But did he have the energy to give a fuck about any of that now? Absolutely fucking not.
He let his tired limbs drop onto the uncomfortable hotel mattress; his face planted into the pillow, groaning, as he tried to ignore the pain from the wounds and bruises on his face. He turned onto his back and stared at the ceiling for a while; suddenly wide awake. This Cliff Marleau guy really fucking hated him today, didn't he? Now also robbing him of very much needed sleep by pretending to not be tired anymore. Busy mentally cursing himself out, Cliff has wasted another hour of the day just staring at the ceiling instead of getting some well needed sleep. It got so bad, that he was thinking about drinking every alcoholic beverage from the mini fridge, hopefully getting so drunk that he'd just pass out. But ultimately decided against that, when he remembered the last time he flew hungover. It was bad. And this time Ilya probably wouldn't just laugh it off if Cliff were to throw up on him.
So, self-loathing and disassociating like his life depended on it had to suffice for now; maybe his brain would eventually get so tired of his bullshit that it makes him fall asleep so he finally shuts the fuck up.
Somehow that ended up working, Cliff eventually—finally—drifted off to sleep. But of course, it was not of the peaceful kind. Rather, the kind that would haunt you for days, months or even years to come.
He found himself back at the fucking Bell Center, surrounded by booing fans, fighting hockey players and in the middle of it all, an unconscious Shane Hollander on the ice. It was the same scene as he witnessed it earlier, with the difference that he stood directly next to the unmoving body and not getting beat up by Hayden Pike. He saw how the paramedics worked on Hollander, how he was lifted on the fucking stretcher. His bruised face. Seeing it up close like this made him sick. He fucking did this. He tried to scream that he's sorry. Or, that this was never meant to happen. Or, that Hollander normally dodges something like this. He has never gotten hit like this. Hollander was to agile, too fast to ever get hit.
Hard cut to a scene that Cliff shouldn't know anything about. Shane Hollander's arrival at the hospital. Like a ghost he was stalking through the room, as he watched Hollander get taken care of. He tries to call out to the doctors and nurses, begging them to give him an answer wether Hollander would be okay or not, but no one could hear him. Because he wasn't there. Not really at least. It was just his fucking subconscious trying to make him feel even worse than he already did—not that he thought it was even possible.
Another cut, still at the hospital, but in Hollander's room. His parents were there. Or, at least that's what Cliff assumed the casually clothed faceless figures were. He couldn't actually recall what Shane Hollander's parents looked like; he had only briefly seen them once a few years ago. But even if he knew what they looked like, they'd probably be undefined blobs, like everyone else but Hollander was in this scenario. The only face he could clearly see was Hollander's and now it looked even worse than it did when he saw it on the ice, or even during his first arrival at the hospital. It looked flatter. Lifeless almost. What the fuck was happening? He looked around, hoping that someone would finally see him and give him a clear fucking answer on what's happening. But again, no one even acknowledged him.
Cliff's eyes were focused on Hollander's face again. His weird, wrong looking face when the doctor spoke up. A hushed "I'm sorry" and "We have done everything in our power" and "There's nothing we can do anymore" made Cliff feel like he was losing his fucking mind all over again. What the fuck was that supposed to mean? He quickly glanced up, the figures that were supposed to represent Hollander's parents were crying—fucking wailing—but Cliff only got more confused.
Until there was another hard cut. To a funeral. He stared at the open casket and what he saw felt like a fucking punch to the gut.
This was Shane Hollander's funeral.
Shane fucking Hollander—the best player of his generation—dead after Cliff hit him. By accident. It was a fucking accident. He never wanted this to happen. This wasn't supposed to happen. Hollander should've dodged it. He always dodged everything. Why not then? Why didn't he dodge it? Why did this have to be the new fucking reality?
Reality?
No.
This wasn't fucking real.
Hollander's not dead. He can't be. This isn't real.
It can't be fucking real.
This is a dream—a fucking nightmare.
He just needed to wake up. Everything will be fine.
Wake up. Wake up. Wake up! WAKE UP!
Cliff jolted up in his bed at such a velocity that he almost stood up straight on the mattress. Heavily breathing and drenched in sweat, Cliff had troubles orienting himself for a moment. This was probably the worst dream he ever had. And he had bad ones before. But they never included him being a fucking murderer. But he's not a fucking killer. Hollander is fine. This was just a trick of his imagination to torture him for being a fucking idiot. That was it. The only explanation... Right?
Fuck, he needed actual reassurance.
Cliff looked around the room, trying to locate where he had dropped his phone the night before. He spotted it under the pile of sweaty clothes he shed out of when he got back and lucky for him, the battery wasn't dead yet. He checked the time and apparently, he actually managed to get a few hours of sleep. As the clock showed that it was already past 8. It may have been the worst sleep of his life, but at least he did get some shut eye. Why he tried to find something good in this any of his, he wasn't sure. Probably to stop himself from bursting into fucking tears. He felt that he was actually very close to that.
With shaky fingers he texted the only person who he hoped could help him right now. His best friend—who was probably still pissed at him—Ilya fucking Rozanov.