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No Archive Warnings Apply

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Gen

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau & Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Shane Hollander

Additional Tags:

Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau Finds Out About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Exactly What It Says on the Tin, There is some heartache before there is resolution, POV Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, His heart is in the right place but he's a product of his environment, Happy Ending, Just takes a roundabout way to get there, Shane isn't present but he talked about, Men are bad at talking about their emotions: the fic, Coming Out

Language:

English

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Published: 2026-03-11 Words: 3,644 Chapters: 1/1

Fool Me Once

Summary

Contrary to popular belief, Cliff Marleau is not a complete idiot. He’s not exactly the sharpest knife or tool or whatever the fuck—too many concussions, not enough, like, reading or whatever—but he knows how to smell a rat. And Ilya Rozanov quietly moving to Ottawa as a free agent? Rat fucking central. Especially—especially, because Cliff’s 90% sure he knows why.

Notes

Hi another one that wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it. It feels like bloodletting at this point. Also Marleau is older now because I decided.

Contrary to popular belief, Cliff Marleau is not a complete idiot. He’s not exactly the sharpest knife or tool or whatever the fuck—too many concussions, not enough, like, reading or whatever—but he knows how to smell a rat. And Ilya Rozanov rumoured to be moving to Ottawa on UFA day? Rat fucking central. Especially—especially, because Cliff’s 90% sure he knows why.

He doesn’t mean to make a big deal of it, but Roz is increasingly more difficult to get ahold of the more people talk. So, after morning practice about a week after ESPN has been speculating on whether or not the number two player in the league is actually packing up to sign with the worst team in their division, Cliff decides to take matters into his own hands.

Roz is, after all, his responsibility. You don’t stop looking after the younger guys when they stop being rookies. And he’s behaving like a fucking child. So when Rozanov changes and practically flees the locker room after morning skate, Cliff meets the eyes of the other guys and stalks after him.

“Hey!” He yells down the hall. “Hey, asshole!”

Rozy throws up a hand in a wave, shouldering through the first set of double doors. Cliff picks up the pace.

“What the fuck, Rozanov!”

But Roz keeps walking. He pushes through the second set of doors and Cliff follows at clip, taking the stairs two at a time when Rozy closes the elevator on him. By the time he’s in the parkade, Rozanov is making a fucking beeline for his Porsche.

“Hey, rook, I’m fucking talking to you!”

Cliff huffs as Rozy freezes and turns. Yeah, he thinks viciously. Got you, motherfucker. “What the fuck, rookie? Where are you going?”

“Didn’t you hear?” Rozanov shrugs. “Ottawa.”

And then he’s fucking gone.

Cliff runs back for his keys.

 

***

 

Marleau is only a little surprised Roz actually opens the door. But he steps back to let him in, chirps him for the stink, and then offers him a beer. A beer. Like everything’s dandy.

Cliff takes it, crushes it, and stares at him. Waiting.

Rozanov is unimpressed. “Okay,” he says, taking a sip from his own bottle. “Drama queen.”

“Me?” Cliff demands. “I’m the fuckin’ drama queen?”

“Mm.”

“How about I get you a fuckin’ mirror, bud?”

Rozy rolls his eyes. “This is why you chase after me like pathetic girlfriend?” He asks. “To insult me?”

Cliff scoffs. “Oh, fuck you, I may have taken a few hits to the head but I’m not fucking stupid. I know you’re moving to Ottawa.”

“Fuck off, no you don’t.”

Cliff waits him out.

“No one does!” Roz exclaims. “This is what everyone is saying, yes? That if I do I am crazy, that my career is down the toilet? I am secret rapist, doing drugs, they’re trying to get rid of me because public expulsion too much for the league—”

“Well what the fuck are they supposed to think?! You’re moving to fucking Ottawa for a fucking girl!”

Roz snorts. “You don’t know fuck all you’re talking about, Marley,” he says easily.

“I do, actually,” Cliff spits back. “I’m your fucking friend, fucko, and I’ve known you a hell of a lot longer than Montreal Jane.”

Roz freezes, shoulders climbing up to his fuckin’ ears. Now that Cliff has him, he has a small window to get him pissed off enough to talk before the kid just shuts down. So he pushes. He’s so fucking betrayed it’s not even hard. “Oh sorry, was it supposed to be some big secret?” He asks. “Moving to the closest team to Montreal just to get your dick wet?”

Roz glares. “You don’t know what the fuck you are talking about,” he says again. Seriously, this time. And Cliff has never really had to get under his skin before, but by god does he know how to rile a motherfucker up. And this kid? He’s got his goddamn number. “And whose fuckin’ fault is that?” Cliff demands.

“Idiot moron,” Rozy mutters. “Yes, good job. You want a fucking medal?”

The words come fast and angry: “Fuck you.”

“Fuck you,” Ilya shoots back, looking somewhere between hurt and pissed off. “You are always saying to settle down. Well, now I am, asshole. Be careful what you fucking wish for.”

“What kind of chick makes you tank your career for pussy?!” Cliff cries, because now that he knows he’s right, now that the levee’s fucking broke, he can’t stop. He won’t. What kind of guy leaves his family for some random girl? No one’s met her, she’s not a WAG—he can’t be serious about her! “What, is it made of fucking gold? Or is she just too good to come visit Boston every once in a while; can’t be seen in the Raider’s arena because she’s a fucking Metros fan, right? Fuck off.”

Roz coils tighter. “Is complicated.”

“Yeah? Then why don’t you explain, Einstein.”

“You don’t want to listen anyway!” He shouts back. “You just want to complain about shit you do not understand; she is evil because she takes me away, fine. Sorry you will have to actually work to win, now.”

“And you’ll never touch the fucking cup again!”

They glare at each other.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this,” Cliff says. “I can’t believe you’re fucking your entire career for some girl you’ve been on and off with for years. What if it doesn’t work, huh? Then what? You’ll have gone there for nothing.” Cliff presses his palms flat to the counter. Forces himself—calmer? Less murderous. He’s fucking worried. “Roz, come on, man. It’s me.” He stares. Tries to look, you know, approachable. Open and shit. There has to be something he’s missing. “What’s really going on? She pregnant? Have something else on you? We can fix it.”

Rozy chews his lip, studying him for a minute before shaking his head, staring up at the ceiling. “I—” He takes a breath. His brow pinches. He directs his gaze down to the counter.

“Ilya,” Cliff says quietly. And that gets his attention. His head snaps up; his eyes are wide. He looks—Cliff feels his stomach drop. He looks genuinely fucking terrified.

“Fuck,” Roz mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face.

Something is seriously wrong.

“You’re my brother, man.” Quiet. Serious. No sudden movements. Ilya is a spooked fuckin’ animal right now. “Whatever it is, it’ll be okay. I promise.”

But there isn’t some big confession, or a pregnancy scandal, or some wild fucked up accidental murder. No one is being deported. No one is sick. No one is dying. Instead, Ilya’s voice goes all weird and raw and he says, Hollander, like the name is being pulled from the shameful depths of his goddamn soul. Which. What. “Fuck off,” Cliff shoots back, a reflex because the kid’s not making any goddamn sense. “Hollander what?”

Roz stares at him.

No really what. “Shane Hollander got your girl pregnant?” He tries. Because what. What the fuck is happening. “He... gave your girl a terminal STD? He finally snapped and killed someone? And you're the only witness? Are you moving to Ottawa for witness protection?”

Roz swallows thickly, his face gone fucking grey. “He's from Ottawa,” he says quietly. “Which is two hours from Montreal. Where he plays.”

“Yeah I know where Hollander fucking—” Cliff freezes. No. No that's not. That's a fucking joke. “Shane Hollander is Montreal Jane?” Cliff laughs. No way. “Hockey robot Shane Hollander? Canada’s goody two shoes golden boy? The guy that has led a shit team to a fucking dynasty, that guy’s taking it up the ass? Pull the other one.”

But instead of laughing along, Ilya’s a little green around the gills. His expression shutters. He clears his throat. Turns away. “Pulling what? Fuck your stupid English.”

Cliff doesn’t take the bait. “You’re not moving to fucking Ottawa for Shane Hollander,” he scoffs. Because he can’t be. That’s—the kid’s trying to deflect again, or something. There’s no way. Even the idea is insane.

But instead of folding, Roz stonewalls. When he shrugs, it’s carefully calculated; too smooth, too easy for the way he’s standing. Cliff frowns and Rozy says, “okay.”

“Okay..?”

“Okay,” he confirms.

Cliff stares at him. He’s fiddling with some bullshit to keep his hands busy, the carefully held lines of his body more suited to a press conference than in his own fucking kitchen. And something niggles at the back of Cliff’s mind, because—it is insane, but… is it so fucked up crazy that it’s true? Montreal Jane has been around on and off for a while. Like, since not long after Roz’s rookie season, maybe? Somewhere around there. The likelihood of it being someone outside of hockey is—low. Really low, for a guy whose English back then was pretty much limited to chirping and picking up girls.

And the whole thing had just seemed too good to be true. He kept up a friends with benefits thing with someone he was kind of serious about and she never became a WAG? He remembers a time when he was jealous of Ilya and his super cool, no drama hookup. He remembers thinking she must be the chillest girl in the entire fucking world. Which is weird, right? Especially for being involved with one of the most famous hockey players in the league? She could be attached to the Metros’ actual team somehow: a sister or wife or girlfriend or daughter—someone with a high enough profile that dating Boston’s star center would be a real scandal. But then when Hollander had started dating—

Fucking Jesus.

“Holy shit,” Cliff breathes, more than a little horrified. He only remembers because Roz had been a fucking nightmare; like an actual, honest to god asshole. And he’s pretty sure that was when Hollander was with Rose Landry. It had been relentless, how obsessed the media was with the two of them dating.

But Hollander and Rozy? That’s messed up. Not the—liking dick isn’t a huge deal; Cliff has a lesbian cousin, and Ilya Rozanov being an equal opportunity slut slots very neatly into his whole international playboy thing. Hollander… whatever, sure, the guy can do what he wants. But the two of them together?

Rozanov’s fingers press into the counter. “You cannot tell anyone, Marley,” he demands. His eyes are glassy now, like he’s genuinely gonna fucking lose it. “You understand? No one.”

“So you’re gay?”

“Does that fucking matter? Fucking is fucking.” He takes an anxious breath. “Marley.”

“Jesus,” Cliff repeats, just to hammer the point.

“Cliff.”

“Yeah, no shit, genius! You expecting me to throw a fucking parade? Fuck, Ilya. What the fuck.”

“Fuck you.”

“No, fuck you! This is—” He shakes his head. “You’re an equal opportunity fuck machine, fine. The Hollander thing is… fuck.” And because he’s a glutton for punishment, Cliff takes a breath and asks: “How long?”

Roz clenches his jaw.

“Roz.”

“A year,” he says. “Dating.”

Cliff’s eyebrows almost get caught in his goddamn hair. “A year?”

“Dating, yes. But…”

Cliff waits. Patiently. Impatiently. Christ, only a year? Then what the hell was—

“But casual since World Juniors. Well—maybe, actually, the draft? That is more accurate. So ten years, almost.”

Back the fuck up.

Marleau almost chokes on his own tongue. That’s—no. What? What the fuck does that even mean; World Juniors was before Roz was even drafted. And then at the fucking draft? “That’s longer than I’ve known you. You’ve—” What the fuck. What the fuck. “You and Hollander have been fucking for like a decade?”

Rozy nods.

“Jesus.”

“Cliff, you cannot—”

“Yeah, no, that’s fuckin’ clear.” He looks at him out of the corner of his eye. “I really thought you hated him. You fucking go after him, man. Like, you try and destroy the guy when we play. And he’s not some… I mean he—”

“Yes,” Roz nods. He looks a little steadier at this point, but not by much; maybe he won’t actively pass out? But the kid’s still terrified. He still looks fit to be tied and ready to bolt. And that, more than any questions Cliff has about how and why and how has him biting his tongue. “Kid,” he says, shaking his head. “You’re a freak.”

Ilya’s shoulders almost touch his ears.

“Not like—” Cliff cuts himself off. “I’m fucking it up. Like, nicely, or respectfully or whatever. I’m not trying to be a dick.”

Ilya looks at him.

“And thanks,” he continues awkwardly. “For telling me.”

A nod.

“I won’t say anything.”

“Thank you.”

“But fuckin’ Ottawa, bro,” Cliff sighs. “Jesus.”

At this, Ilya seems to relax a little. When he speaks, it’s less raw, less vulnerable, thank fuck: “Couldn’t be Montreal.”

“Yeah, no shit. They don’t have the space or the cap. And you’re a fuckin’ star center—”

“I could be winger,” Rozy interrupts, “for me and Hollander on the same line? Or second line center. Would give us more depth but,” a quick shrug. “Ottawa is best option for now so I will rebuild. I did it with Boston.”

“You’re actually serious about him,” Cliff realizes. Which, yeah, he’d probably have to be to risk fuckin’ everything and start making insane moves like this, but. Willing to give up center?

Rozy tilts his head in a little nod, a smile tugging at his mouth. That’s also fucked up, by the way; that surreal little soft look. Cliff watches him clear his throat to get rid of it, turning away. “Yes. But he is serious about me, so.”

“Oh yeah?” Cliff asks, just this side of snide. “He moving to any shit cities for you?”

“He has introduced me to his parents; made me part of his family,” Roz says, like that’s an answer. Cliff holds his tongue; maybe it is. He doesn’t know much about Roz’s personal life, for all that they’re close, and what he does know is… lonely. Fucked up. Still feels fucking ridiculous for Ilya to give up everything while Shane Hollander sits pretty in Montreal, but what the hell does Cliff know? He’s just older and wiser and shit.

“So, what,” Cliff asks. “You gonna marry him?” It’s a joke, kind of.

But Rozy, he treats the question seriously. “Maybe. We would, um, like, eventually, but we’re just trying to get the public to see us as friends now. Would be nice to be able to be seen together.”

Jesus. Cliff rubs at his mouth. “I, uh, I’m not gonna pretend I get it? Or that I’m not, like, fucking pissed you’re leaving. But I am—happy for you. I think.”

Ilya softens. “Thank you, Marley.”

And he’s still just a kid, isn’t he? Not that Cliff is, like, old but Roz hasn’t even hit thirty yet. Besides, he’s always been a little weird about people; a lone wolf type of dude, buddies with everyone but he’s a hard guy to, like, know in any kind of real way. “Better enjoy it this season, bud, because we’ll never let you kiss the cup again.” Cliff watches the chirp land, sees Ilya start to hold himself less like a fuckin’ scarecrow. Okay.

“Mm, it’s nice for old people to still have dreams,” Rozy says placidly.

Thank god.

“Fuckin’ pest. You gonna get me another beer or what?” He watches as Roz opens the fridge and easily slides one over.

“Are you going to shower?” The kid asks. “Your stink will seep into the walls; I still need to sell this place.”

“Right, gotta afford that luxury Ottawa real estate.”

Ilya snorts. He seems to wrestle over something before taking another breath: “New house is temporary,” he says, measured, careful. “When we retire, Shane wants to build.”

Cliff ignores the weirdness of Shane, and purses his lips. “You know, I never thought about Hollander having a real estate fetish but it makes sense.”

“This is what I said!” It just kinda busts out of him, big and bright and it’s so—sweet? The way he’s kinda rosy about it, that Cliff’s entire world tilts on its head. Jesus fucking Christ.

“So… you guys are gonna just, what, hide? Until you retire? When the hell’ll that be?”

“You won’t have to worry, you will be long gone. Maybe in Florida. Possibly dead.”

“Yeah, okay, smartass.” Cliff takes another pull. “But really. That’s another 10 years? On the higher end? Long time.”

“Maybe something will change,” Roz says. “Or maybe it won’t. But we don’t want to stop playing, and we can’t really come out if we’re still rivals, so.”

“I mean, he could always take a massive pay cut and go to Ottawa, too.”

Ilya shakes his head. “Shane will die a Metro. Is okay; he is very loyal and it’s important to him. I don’t mind, as long as he likes it there and they treat him well I will not complain.” He pauses. “But if that ever changes, yes, I hope he comes to Ottawa.”

“God, I fuckin’ hope not. Both you of on the same team and the same line? Be fuckin’ impossible to get you to shut up.”

“We would win for years,” he smirks. “Cup lockout.”

“Whatever.” Cliff frowns, staring at his beer. His nail picks at the side of the label. “You’re... good, though, right? Kinda feels like you’re absorbing all the risk here. Like, you’re leaving your team, your home, you love Boston... what the hell does Hollander have to lose in this situation?”

Ilya tilts his head. “He is not free agent.”

“Not yet.”

“Ah,” Ilya nods. “This is the same as those speeches in the movies you watch on the plane; take good care of him or I’ll kill you?”

“Fuck off, it’s not like that at all,” Cliff says. “Just. Want to make sure everything’s kosher or whatever.”

“Aw, Marley, so sweet.”

“Shut the fuck up, Roz.”

Ilya sighs. “Shane... he has a lot of risk this way. I will be on new team with new people; he will have to hide from the Metros. And he has pressure—from the league, from his family, that he puts on himself, that I do not have once I leave Boston. Much that I do not have anyway; many Russians in the league, not a lot of Asians. It makes it complicated for him.”

“If you say so,” Cliff allows. “I just think—”

“You don’t,” Ilya says lightly. “You have known this for ten minutes, I have lived it for ten years. If I say it’s fine, then it is.” Another shrug. “We are good friends, Marley, but if this comes out, or you threaten Shane, understand that I will ruin you. Brothers are nice, but I have cut mine off and left him with nothing in Russia. Yes?”

Cliff raises his eyebrows. “Yeah, man, I get it. Whoever threatens your guy threatens you. Loud and clear.” His hands come up. “I won’t, though. I’m not a fucking asshole. Kind of hurts that you think I would.”

“You are making shitty assumptions.”

“What the hell else am I supposed to do?” Cliff asks. “Fifteen minutes ago I thought that you’d been secretly dating Crowell’s daughter or something and gotten her pregnant. Or that you’d maybe Thelma and Louise’d someone! It’s just a lot to take in, jesus.”

Rozy narrows his eyes. “What the fuck is Thelma and Louise’d? This is a fucking verb?”

”It’s a movie, dipshit.”

”Of course it is,” he says. Clenches his jaw. “I know what everyone thinks, but I am not actually completely stupid, Marley, thank you.”

Cliff looks at him, unimpressed. “I mean, you fell ass over teakettle for Shane fucking Hollander, so why don’t you put down the stone from inside that particular glass house or however that shit goes. You like trouble. Not that—I mean, not that Hollander is trouble because he’s boring as fuck, but. You get it.”

Roz looks at him. “Okay,” he says, guarded.

“I’m still happy for you. Mostly.”

“Alright.”

“It’s just shit that you have to leave. Like, seriously. A real shit sandwich of a situation.”

“Yes.”

“So I just want to make sure you’re sure, and that you’re not being taken advantage of, because you’re a pain in my ass but your gooey center is fucking soft, okay? And you deserve someone good. Fuck.”

At that, Ilya thaws a little. “Thank you,” he says, only slightly stiff. “That is very kind. Stupid, but kind.”

“No, it’s not,” Cliff says. “That’s the fucking point! It’s what anyone should do for family.”

“Worry over nothing?”

“Yeah, you dick!”

Ilya studies him for a minute before exhaling through a sharp nod. He pulls out his phone. “You want pizza? I will order.”

“Now?”

“Yes, is lunch. No afternoon skate, no team meeting, no game. You shower here, we play video games, eat pizza, and get drunk.” He holds out his hands in a what do you think, kind of gesture. “You can ask me stupid fucking questions and I can get annoyed and Hollander will call in evening sometime, probably. You can leave whenever.”

Which, that sounds like a hell of a weird day, but Cliff understands what an olive branch is. Or like, a gesture. Whatever. He takes a breath. “I want that spicy shit. Like piled high with capicola and whatever else.”

“Done,” Roz says. “Now get the fuck out of my face. You stink.”

“Fine, Jesus.”

Cliff makes it to the car before pulling out his phone, texting Stacey he’ll be late. He’s rifling through his emergency sleepover duffle when he’s suddenly struck with the memory of putting Shane Hollander in the fucking hospital. Concussion, he thinks? It’d been a clean hit, but he’d knocked him out of playoffs. Roz had been—

Ah. Shit.

Oops?

THE END.