Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

M/M, Other

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

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

Characters:

Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Original Cat Character(s)

Additional Tags:

Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau Finds Out About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Good Friend Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Canon Compliant, mostly - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, At the hospital scene, POV Outsider, POV Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Cliff Marleau is not an idiot, Marleau has a cat, Fluff, Light Angst, Pushing my Roz and Marly besties agenda, I'm Bad At Tagging, Texting, Mentioned David Hollander, Mentioned Yuna Hollander, for literally like 2 sentences, excessive use of the word "fuck", Mentioned Dissociation, putting these boys in saw traps, i saw "great fucking speech" "go fuck yourself", and immediately decided, AH YES, They ARE brothers

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of The Rivalry Files

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-12 Words: 5,927 Chapters: 1/1

The Cliff Marleau Files

Summary

Ilya Rozanov returns from the 2017 All Stars different from how he left for them.

Then his father dies, and he takes the call in their locker room after a game, and Cliff Marleau sees more than people think.

And then Shane Hollander goes down, and Ilya Rozanov fucking loses it - not to the untrained eye, no, but Cliff Marleau has lived out of the locker next to this kid for the past seven years.

He’s also not a fucking idiot.

-

Missing moments from Boston

Or,

How Cliff Marleau figures it out

Notes

French translated by one of my friends so if it doesn't make sense please let me know!

When Roz comes back to Boston from Tampa, he seems, like, fucking lighter or something. It’s subtle, but Cliff knows the kid pretty fucking well at this point. They’ve spent a lot of fucking time together over the past seven years, shit, Roz fucking lived in his house for his rookie season.

Cliff might not speak Russian, but he understands what it’s like to move to another country not really speaking the language. Maybe it was just Canada, but still - going from speaking French with every fucker he knew to his only option being Victor fucking St-Simon meant he had to learn better English pretty fucking fast.

So yeah, when Roz comes back from Tampa, he looks - and skates - like a fucking weight has been lifted from his shoulders.

He also goes back to spending every free minute texting Jane.

And look. Cliff’s not fucking stupid, alright? He knows that this basically means that Jane was in fucking Tampa for the All Stars, and in a position to have an actual conversation after the colossal fuck-up that happened a few months ago, which also means that she’s probably not a she, and that he’s probably a fucking player. But Cliff’s also not fucking stupid. He knows what the fucking laws are like in Russia. He looked it up once, after his brother got married and was looking for honeymoon spots with his husband, he knows how fucking dangerous this could be for the kid if it got out - especially for a kid as widely hated as Roz.

So Cliff keeps his fucking mouth shut.

He keeps up with the rest of the boys’ ribbing about Roz’s Montreal Girl, but he stops fucking pushing. It’s not his business, even if some of the shit Roz says to the poor guy should be fucking studied for science. The way Jane replies, too, is fucking weird to Cliff, but Roz seems into the dry responses and constant ‘fuck off’s, so he leaves it alone.

Things start to click into place at their next home game against Montreal.

Roz comes into the locker room blazing, looking almost high as he slams through the door and throws his bag at his locker. He’s fucking buzzing, hopped up on energy the way he only is when Jane is in town-

Oh, fuck.

If Jane’s a fucking player, he plays for fucking Montreal. Their divisional fucking rivals. And shit, man, Roz really does have to go big or go fucking home.

But fucking who-?

No. Cliff’s not going to fucking think about it. It’s not his business unless it gets fucking dangerous, which so far it isn’t, so he’ll leave it alone.

Roz’s just-dicked-someone-down-good energy is only dulled by the fact that his phone keeps ringing, and he keeps ignoring it. His face goes sharp every time, but he ignores every fucking call, he showers, he gets dressed. He laces his skates.

The phone rings again, and Roz just fucking looks at it with this cold-ass look in his eyes that’s almost scary, and then he ignores the call and puts his phone down. Cliff watches him take a single breath, before he turns back to the room with his fucking cool calm and collected bullshit vibe back in place, and starts shouting about money.

Roz scores a fucking hat-trick. So does Hollander. They lose the game to a buzzer beater from fucking Pike of all people, which only serves to sour Roz’s mood even further, but he still corrals the boys back into the locker room, shouting about money again.

Cliff shouts a generic, “Fuck off, Rozy,” in conjunction with the rest of the boys, and turns back to his locker to get undressed. He watches Roz pick up his phone, buzzing yet a-fucking-gain, and finally answer the damn call.

Roz basically spits into the phone. Cliff has no fucking clue what he says, but he can get the gist of it from the tone and the way Roz’s face shuts off. He hears a few muttered words in Russian from the other end of the line, and then the fucking dial tone.

So obviously whoever the fucker was, they didn’t want to actually fucking talk to the kid. They just wanted something from him. So, it’s probably Roz’s fucking brother calling for more money again - except Roz basically shuts the fuck down with his phone still pressed to his ear. Not calling for more money then. Something else.

Roz doesn’t move. He just stands there with his phone still at his ear, completely still. Cliff doesn’t know what the fuck to do with this, but he knows for a fucking fact that Roz won’t want the boys to see this. Cliff himself, he won’t mind, Roz knows he’s seen this before during every fucking call from his brother or father during rookie season.

But the rest of them?

The Boston locker room is nice enough, but they’re not exactly fucking sensitive.

So Cliff does what he fucking has to. He lets Roz fucking- dissociate or whatever the fuck this is, just turns him to face his own locker with the phone still by his fucking ear until the room clears out. He stands vigil at Roz’s side, takes over the duties of chirping the boys as they head out.

St-Simon’s the last one in the room, at the locker on Cliff’s other side, and probably one of the nicer guys in their team, but Roz still wouldn’t fucking want him here for this.

Vicky makes eye contact, raises an eyebrow and tilts his head at where Roz is still standing at his locker fully dressed, skates still on his feet. His head has dropped now, and he’s glaring at his phone.

“Pas moment,” Cliff just shakes his head and mutters, “il voudra pas de toi ici.”

Vicky gives Roz a long look, and then he nods, clapping Cliff on the shoulder as he heads out. And then the room is silent, the only noise is Roz’s breathing.

Okay, Cliff has to be pretty fucking careful about this. He has no fucking clue what’s actually going on with Roz, and he really doesn’t want to fucking push in case it makes whatever’s going on with him any worse.

Roz really doesn’t have very many friends. Or family. Especially ones that speak Russian,the only people Cliff can remember Roz actually speaking to in Russian on a regular basis are his father, his brother, and his friend Svetlana, and there’s no fucking way he would take that kind of tone with Svetlana or his father, which leaves the call to have come from his brother. Cliff’s trying to get his thoughts in order when Roz speaks.

“My father is dead.”

Oh fuck. Whatever Cliff was expecting, it wasn’t that.

“What can I do to help?” Cliff is as gentle as he can be when he asks. He’s already started planning in his head the people that Roz needs to talk to - Jane, first of all, and Svetlana. Their coaches, maybe a couple of their teammates. First thing, though, he makes Roz sit the fuck down on the bench behind him.

“I need to go to Russia. I need to-” Roz cuts himself off, muttering in Russian.

“Do you want to call Jane?”

“No, I can’t-” He cuts himself off again, face scrunching a bit. “We’re not- I can’t bother her with this.”

And Cliff is pretty sure the halfway fucking broken look in the kid’s eyes has nothing to do with his father’s death, but he’s not about to bring that up.

“Okay, sure. Svetlana? She usually goes to Russia with you, right?”

Roz nods, fumbling with his phone. Cliff hadn’t even realised he was still fucking holding it until Roz dropped it on the floor.

He seems almost surprised that he’s still in his fucking skates, but just picks his phone up and opens it. Cliff watches over his shoulder as he hovers over Jane’s contact for a second before shaking his head and scrolling down to Svetlana’s.

“You call Svetlana, I’ll go talk to LeClaire. I’ll let him know what’s going on. I’ll be back in a little while.”

And fuck, Roz is twenty fucking six years old, but he still looks up at Cliff like a scared little kid when he moves away. It batters his fucking heart, so he puts his hand on Roz’s shoulder, squeezes the back of his neck, and waits until he can hear a dial tone and then a string of Russian on the other end of the phone before he walks away.

Once out of the locker room - and Roz’s earshot - Cliff mutters a silent curse to himself and heads off down to the coaches’ offices. He really fucking hopes that LeClaire is still there, hasn’t headed home already.

But Cliff is very fucking lucky, and he catches LeClaire just as their coach is slinging his bag over his shoulder to head home.

Coach smiles as Cliff knocks and opens the door.

“Marleau, what can I do for you?”

Cliff grimaces. Best to just get it fucking over with.

“Roz needs to go back to Russia. Just got the call his dad’s dead. He’s…” Cliff trails off a bit, not knowing if Roz would want LeClaire to know. “Not doing great.”

LeClaire winces. And Cliff knows what he’s thinking - that if Cliff can pick up on it, Roz is really not fucking doing well. The kid is notoriously good at hiding his fucking feelings.

“I’ll make some calls. Initial bereavement’s a week, but he can take longer if he needs, let him know? And make sure he’s okay.”

Cliff nods. Heads back to the locker room where Roz is, not on call with Svetlana anymore, just staring at his fucking skates.

This is fucking pitiful. Cliff knows that Roz didn’t even fucking like the guy, and he’s shut down like this. It’s fucking bad.

Cliff kneels on the floor and starts unlacing Roz’s skates, and the kid fucking startles when Cliff’s hands enter his field of vision, but he doesn’t move to shove him away so Cliff takes that as a fucking win.

“You got anyone else you can talk to?” He asks as he pulls the first skate off Roz’s foot. The kid shakes his head, and visibly fucking pauses, but shakes his head again.

Then his phone buzzes in his hand, and he drops it to the floor again. The poor thing has been through a fucking lot today. Cliff sees the message from Jane come through as he pulls Roz’s other skate off.

 

jane: Hey, I can get away in about an hour if we’re still on for tonight?

 

Cliff knocks the phone away with his foot as he stands up, pulling Roz to his feet too. He pulls the kid’s jersey up over his head, and starts unclipping the straps of his pads. Roz shucks his shorts and leg pads just as another message buzzes through.

 

jane: Lily?

 

Roz’s face drains of blood. Fuck. Cliff knew that Jane was probably a man, but the fact that he’s calling Roz Lily means that- No. Not fucking thinking about it. Not his fucking business.

“I’m not gonna ask. Go fucking shower, I’ll reply to her. I’ll keep it as safe as possible.”

Roz is still pale, but he types his passcode into his phone with shaking hands and passes it to Cliff, so he’s really not gonna fucking say anything. He takes a towel and walks into the shower room.

 

Ilya: Hey Jane! This is one of Lily’s coworkers. There was a bit of an issue after work today, so I don’t think she’ll be able to go through with your plans today, I’m sorry!

Ilya: I can delete this message for safety in a moment if necessary, but Lily hasn’t told us anything about you outside of the fact that you live in Montreal and travel for work - so please don’t worry about anything.

jane: Oh, thank you for letting me know. Is everything okay?

jane: Also, yes, if you could delete that message it would be great. I’m going to delete it from my end too.

Ilya: As far as I can tell you, everything is fine! I’m sure Lily will let you know what’s going on at a later point.

Ilya: Done. Lily will be back momentarily. I don’t know if she’ll reply immediately, but please don’t worry!

 

Roz comes back into the room just as Cliff sends the last message. He shows Roz the message stream before deleting anything, just to make sure it’s okay that he said that, and gets a shaky nod, so he deletes the message and closes Roz’s phone.

“LeClaire says bereavement’s a week, but you can take more time if you want. Is that enough time to get everything you need to do sorted and still have time to actually fucking grieve?”

Roz nods again, but he still won’t look Cliff in the fucking eye. Okay, Jesus fucking Christ maybe they’re going to have to talk about this after all. Cliff watches as the kid gets dressed into some sweatpants and a t-shirt - not his usual post-game clothes but who fucking cares at this point, the building is empty. He sighs, and Roz actually fucking flinches.

“Fucking hell, kid.” Cliff steps forward to drag Roz into a tight hug. Not one of those shitty bro-hugs where they’re slapping each other on the back or whatever either, a proper fucking hug. “Are you being safe? Or, as safe as you fucking can be?”

Roz nods into his shoulder.

“Nobody knows. Nobody can know, if someone found out-”

“Yeah, I know the fucking laws in Russia, kid. Danny and Jimmy were looking at going there for their honeymoon before they knew.” Cliff stops himself there. This isn’t about them. “Look, Roz, I don’t care where you stick your dick, and until you tell me otherwise or get really fucking obvious about it, Jane is just a girl you met in Montreal. That’s it.”

Roz nods again, and then Cliff watches in real fucking time as he physically pulls his shit back together. When Cliff offers him a ride home, Roz says no, so Cliff resigns himself to watching him pull that fucking persona back on as he walks out the door.

Cliff sighs, drags his bag over his shoulder, and goes the fuck home.

 

-

 

jane: Are you okay?

jane: I know your teammate said not to worry, but ESPN just said you didn’t fly to Nashville with your team.

jane: I’m really sorry about that, by the way. I won’t use names in the future. Are you safe?

 

-

 

Lily: Marly is good.

Lily: Can I call?

jane: Of course.

 

-

 

When Roz knocks on his door six days later, Cliff is both entirely surprised and not fucking surprised at all.

He’s not surprised that Roz is there, he kind of figured the kid could use some fucking company after he got back from Russia. What he is fucking surprised by, though, is the way Roz doesn’t even fucking say anything before barrelling into him in a big fucking hug.

“Thank you.”

And… what the fuck? What the fuck is Roz thanking him for?

“Uh, you’re welcome, I guess? Fuck are you thanking me for?”

“Many things. You are a good big brother, Marly.”

And oh holy fucking shit Cliff’s gonna fucking cry. Is this his fucking life now? Reduced to tears because some kid he took in as a rookie grew up and still thinks he’s great?

Roz releases him and immediately barges past him to where his cat, Martine, lounges on the kitchen counter. She’s a scrappy little tortoiseshell he found on the side of the road a couple years back, and Roz fucking loves her. He invades Cliff’s house constantly just for his cat - more than he ever did before Cliff found her.

Cliff rolls his eyes and shuts the fucking door. Roz collects Martine from the counter, swanning into his living room to lay down with the cat on his chest. He takes a picture of her from very close up and sends it to someone before putting his phone back in his pocket.

Cliff grabs a couple of cans of coke from his fridge and joins Roz on the couch, lifting the kid’s head and shoulders up before he sits down so that Roz’s head is resting on his thigh. Cliff puts one of the cans on the table within Roz’s reach, and cracks the other and takes a sip.

“I told Jane I love him.”

And he fucking chokes.

“I said it in Russian, so he did not understand. But I told him.”

Jesus fucking Christ, this kid. Roz rolls his head back from the staring contest he’s having with Martine to look at Cliff’s chin. Cliff looks down at Roz’s face, and he looks fucking heartbroken.

“Does being in love always fucking hurt this bad?”

And oh, oh man, Cliff really isn’t the right person to ask about this. He likes sex, definitely, has probably worked his way through just as many of Boston’s women as Roz, if not more, but love? Love is not Cliff’s fucking wheelhouse. He’s talked to Danny - his brother - about it, and there’s probably a word for him in that acronym, but Cliff doesn’t really care that much. But some coming-out conversation isn’t what Roz needs right now. He puts his drink on the table.

“I don’t know, Rozy,” he says, as fucking gently as he can, brushing one hand down Martine’s back and the other through Roz’s hair. “I’ve never been in love. Can I ask you a question, though?”

“Ok.”

“Does being around him make it hurt less?”

Roz goes quiet. Like, properly fucking quiet. One of his hands bumps Cliff’s where he’s scratching Martine’s head, and the other is winding her tail between his fingers.

A few minutes pass like this, in silence. The only sound in the room is Martine’s quiet purring and the brushing of Cliff’s fingers through Roz’s hair. But he seems to finally come to an answer.

“He makes everything better.”

“Then I think you should let him know that.”

 

-

 

Roz seems better after their conversation.

They fly out to Montreal the next morning, and the rest of the team - except Vicky, the fucking psychic - look on in confusion as Roz abandons his usual seat next to Connors to sit with Cliff instead, manoevering his arm around his back to use Cliff’s shoulder as a pillow and passing the fuck out almost immediately.

Cliff just squeezes him round the shoulders and ignores the rest of the team in favour of the sudoku he’s playing on his phone.

 

-

 

By the time they get on the ice for warmups, Roz is fucking buzzing again. He knows for a fucking fact that Roz hasn’t seen Jane yet since they’ve been in Montreal, because they’re sharing a room and Roz has been texting pretty much the whole time.

Including in the fucking locker room.

Honestly, Cliff is with Jane on this one, some things really shouldn’t be said just before a game.

Which adds another tally into Cliff’s Jane-plays-hockey-for-Montreal list, which has a few tallies already in it.

When he sees Hollander skate up to Roz during warmups, he really doesn’t think anything of it. Hollander is disgustingly nice sometimes, and the news went out a couple days ago about Roz’s dad’s death.

When he hears Hollander say to Pike that he was offering his condolences, all he thinks is, yeah, that fucking sounds like Hollander. And when he hears that Roz’s reply had been to fuck off, he thinks, yeah that fucking sounds like Roz.

So he doesn’t think shit about it.

Not until he checks Hollander.

And Hollander doesn’t get back up.

Cliff doesn’t see Roz’s face at first, too busy being decked in the fucking face by Pike, but when the ref pulls Pike away from him, he sees Roz’s face, and oh fuck.

He looks fucking terrified.

To anyone else, it’s a normal kind of worried, maybe a little too much for a rival captain, but still well within the realm of normal for people who’ve known each other for nine fucking years.

To Cliff, though, who knows the way Roz ticks, understands the set of his shoulders and the way his hand is loose around his stick, the man is absolutely fucking terrified.

And the last puzzle piece clicks into place.

If this were any other situation, Cliff would fucking laugh, because seriously, Roz, Jane?

But it’s not any other situation. And the man that Ilya Rozanov loves is not getting up off the ice and it’s Cliff’s fucking fault.

He knows it was a legal hit. He knows that Hollander really shouldn’t have been looking behind in the neutral zone.

But the man his little brother is in love with isn’t getting up. And it’s his fucking fault.

But there’s nothing he can fucking do about it right now, because the game has literally just fucking started, and Roz is yelling at the medics and being yelled at by their coaches, so the best Cliff has fucking got right now is to grab Roz by the back of his jersey and tow him back to the bench.

He sits Roz down at the far end of the bench, as far from their coaches and the rest of their team as he possibly can, and he parks his ass right between them.

“I told you I wouldn’t say shit unless you told me otherwise or it got obvious, and fucking hell Roz it’s getting pretty fucking obvious right now.” Cliff ducks his head to mutter. Roz’s eyes snap to him from under his visor, his back straightening. “He was awake and talking when they took him off the ice. We can visit him in the hospital tomorrow, but you have to fucking play unless you want anyone else to figure you out.”

Roz’s face locks down, a nearly imperceptible movement that just betrays how scared he still fucking is, but there’s relief in his eyes, too, so Cliff takes the fucking win.

They play the fucking game.

Roz plays like shit. So does Cliff, if he’s honest with himself.

But neither of those things really fucking matter at all, because even Roz at his worst is still better than Montreal’s second best player, and nobody on their team even fucking comes close to Hollander’s play.

So Boston wins the fucking match.

And it’s too late now to actually go and see Hollander in the hospital, make sure he’s not fucking dead and Cliff didn’t fucking lie to Roz’s face on the bench, but Cliff really doesn’t feel like celebrating after absolutely fucking battering the nicest player in the fucking league - and Roz’s maybe-boyfriend.

So he waves off the boys and heads back to the hotel room that he’s sharing with - you fucking guessed it - Roz. Who is already in the room when Cliff gets there, scrolling frantically on his phone.

“Roz.”

He doesn’t even look up, so Cliff tries again.

“Roz.”

A hum.

“Ilya.”

He finally stops scrolling on his fucking phone, at least, but he’s still hanging his head.

“He will be okay. You have to believe it. But you won’t be able to do anything for him tomorrow if you’re dead on your fucking feet. Put the fucking phone down and get some sleep. We’ll head over as soon as visitor hours open.”

Cliff doesn’t give him options. He knows from way too fucking much experience that Roz responds better to direct orders than he does to pussyfooting around the fucking problem. Options make him fucking combative, orders mean he’ll do what he’s fucking told, especially in this kind of headspace.

So Cliff takes Roz’s phone out of his hand, sees the word aneurysm on the screen, and immediately shuts it the fuck off and put it on the nightstand next to his own fucking bed.

“Go to fucking sleep.”

 

-

 

There’s paps outside the fucking hospital when they get there. Roz is very fucking lucky that him and Hollander are both Captains, and that Cliff was the one who put Hollander in the fucking hospital, or this visit wouldn’t be explainable to the paps.

This, they can fucking swing. The guy who hit Hollander comes with his Captain to apologise. Normal behaviour for a rival team. Get fucked Montreal paparazzi, you ain’t getting any fucking story tonight.

Cliff has an apology fruit basket in his hands, a fucking distraught Captain by his side, and a fucking dream. He has dealt with so much fucking worse with even less.

When they make it to Hollander’s room, Cliff gives Roz a minute in there with him before he heads in himself. He sees Hollander’s eyes go wide and his hand drops back into his lap from where he was holding Roz’s.

Cliff rolls his eyes, and Roz grabs Hollander’s hand back off his lap, holding it tight. The kid’s eyes are still wide, glancing between Cliff and Roz like both of them have gone insane.

“Good to see you’re okay, kid. Was gonna get you chocolate or something, but Roz said you’re on some weird fucking diet so I got you fruit. Sorry for hitting you so fucking hard, I really didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Cliff cuts off his ramble there. The kid probably has a nasty fucking headache with that concussion, especially looking at the bruises on his cheeks. He doesn’t need Cliff’s voice grating at his brain any longer than necessary.

Cliff puts the basket down on the table next to Hollander’s hospital bed, then he leans over the kid, surveying the fucking damage.

Obvious bruises on his face, probably from where his visor dug in when his head hit the ice, bandaged shoulder, probably a broken collarbone or dislocated shoulder from when he fucking landed on it.

And then there’s the dilated pupils, which means he is tripping fucking balls right now.

“It’s okay, part of the game, right?” Hollander slurs his fucking words and his head lolls over towards his fucked up shoulder to face Cliff. “We all get our bell rung eventually.”

“Still, I’m really sorry for putting you in the fucking hospital. You good, kid?”

Cliff really fucking hopes he didn’t end the kid’s fucking career.

“Concussion and a fractured collarbone. I’ll be okay by next season.” Hollander drops Roz’s hand again, seeming almost surprised that he’s holding it, to give Cliff a lazy salute.

Oh, thank fuck.

That means he’ll be out for the playoffs, though, which is great for Boston, but not so great for Montreal.

“You got friends or family coming, Hollander?” Cliff asks. Roz is running his fingertips over the bruises on Hollander’s face, and Cliff can see Hollander’s heartrate literally fucking slowing down as he does, which is genuinely fucking insane to Cliff but does also clue him into the fact that Hollander definitely feels the same way as Roz does.

“My parents are on their way from Ottawa, should be here soon-ish I think. Maman a appelé hier soir. Elle dire qu’ils viendraient dès que possible.” Hollander slurs his French just as much as his English, and Roz’s face kind of fucking shuts off again when he can’t understand what his boy is saying.

“C’est super, gosse. Nous pouvons attendre avec toi jusqu’à ce qu’ils arrivent?”

And for a second Cliff thinks he has majorly fucked up this whole getting your little brother’s boyfriend to like you thing - just like he did the first time - because Hollander’s eyes get all fucking big and wet and he looks like a pathetic kitten who’s about to cry.

And then Hollander nods and it’s all good again.

Thank fuck, Roz isn’t going to kill him for upsetting his boy.

Cliff remembers just then as Roz is still frowning at him, that Roz doesn’t fucking speak French. Fuuuuuck, he’s a bad fucking translator.

“His parents called last night to say they’re coming as soon as they can. We’re waiting with him until they get here.”

He pats Roz on the back, squeezing the back of his neck lightly, and finds a chair to sit in at Hollander’s bedside.

They talk about hockey - only other teams, not their own - and Cliff and Vicky’s monthly stitch-and-bitch that Roz is immediately offended that he has never been invited to - “You don’t even knit, Roz!” - and Martine, who Roz is fucking obsessed with.

They don’t talk about the elephant in the room. Y’know, the elephant that comes in the form of how Roz and Hollander are holding hands, and Roz keeps pressing kisses to the inside of Hollander’s wrist.

But yeah, they don’t fucking talk about it, because Hollander is still really fucking high and Cliff isn’t about to talk about an intoxicated man’s secrets, even if they’re not very secret anymore.

When Hollander’s parents arrive, Cliff and Roz get ready to head out.

Before he can stop himself, and before the Hollanders can start asking questions as the why the fuck they’re there, Cliff asks Hollander for his phone number.

“Next time you’re in Boston, you should come meet Martine!”

At the cat’s name, both Roz and Hollander perk up, and Hollander unlocks and then practically throws his phone at Cliff.

He saves his number in Hollander’s phone as “Lily’s Marly”, and sends himself a text. He saves Hollander’s number in his own phone as “Roz’s Jane”. He locks the phone and hands it back to Hollander. He’s going to spam that man with so many fucking cat pictures for when he’s allowed to look at screens again.

“Awesome. We will leave you to your parents’ very capable hands! It was good to have an actual conversation with you, and I’m really glad you’re okay!” Cliff rambles at Hollander, before turning to his parents. “Nice to meet you both!”

Hollander’s parents both look at Cliff like he has lost his fucking mind.

Cliff does not give a single flying fuck. He just needs to get Roz out of here before either of the kids says something that Hollander doesn’t want his parents to know.

“Say goodbye, Roz.”

Roz is also looking at him like he’s crazy, but Cliff just raises an eyebrow in his direction, and Roz smiles awkwardly at the Hollanders and waves.

The two of them rush out of the room.

“I think that went well.”

 

-

 

Cliff sends Hollander a frankly insane amount of cat pictures over the next few months.

Roz spends a lot of time on Cliff’s fucking couch.

“He asked me to come to his cottage this summer.” Roz says one afternoon. “I said maybe.”

Cliff lets Roz camp out on his couch whenever he needs some Martine time, or even just some quiet Marly time.

Hollander doesn’t look at Cliff’s messages until Boston gets knocked out of the playoffs in game 6 against New York.

And then he goes through and likes every single one of the two hundred and thirty fucking six photos of Martine that Cliff has sent. He doesn’t say anything in reply, but whenever Cliff sends more photos, he likes them immediately, so he doesn’t stop sending them.

He doesn’t get a reply from Hollander until the Cup final.

Scott Hunter kisses a man on the ice on live television.

Ilya Rozanov makes a call.

Cliff Marleau receives a text.

 

-

 

Roz’s Jane: Thank you.

Lily’s Marly: For what?

Roz’s Jane: I don’t know. Being you?

Roz’s Jane: Lily’s coming to the cottage this summer. I can’t help but think you had something to do with it.

Roz’s Jane: So, thank you.

Lily’s Marly: Thank me by coming over for dinner next time you’re in Boston. Martine really wants to meet you.

Lily’s Marly: [Photo Attached]

 

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When the summer is over, and training camp begins once again, Cliff finds his house being taken over once again by Roz.

When Cliff opens the door, Roz shoves past him to grab Martine, holding her in the air victoriously as he spins.

“We are boyfriends now! He said he loves me too!”

The way Roz is smiling so fucking wide makes Cliff want to fucking cry again. Instead of doing that, he plucks Martine out of Roz’s hands to put her on the counter, and then drags Roz in for a tight fucking hug.

“I’m so fucking happy for you, Rozy.”

 

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After their first home game against Montreal, Cliff doesn’t hear from Roz for a good long while. Not until the next morning, when he receives a text that simply states, “Sorry, lost track of time. Will be there at 2pm.”

And when the two of them show up on Cliff’s doorstep, he lets them in.

Roz, as per fucking usual, kicks his shoes off and blows past him immediately to find Martine, who is sat on the arm of the couch.

Hollander, on the other hand, takes his shoes off and lines them up neatly by Cliff’s, straightening up Roz’s while he’s there. He then holds out a hand and a bottle of wine to Cliff.

“Thank you for inviting us over.”

He’s so painfully fucking earnest actually. Cliff needs to give this pathetic man a hug. So that’s exactly what he does. He takes the wine from Hollander, puts it on the table by the door where he keeps his keys, and then drags him by his outstretched hand into a hug.

Hollander’s hands kind of just hover awkwardly over his back, but Cliff doesn’t really care. He pats Hollander on the back a couple times before releasing him, grabbing the wine and turning to lead him further into the house.

Roz has found Martine, who had apparently migrated under the fucking couch in the minute or so it had taken Cliff to get to the door, and is trying to coax her out. Cliff leaves the wine on the kitchen counter and shows Hollander through to the living room.

“Since when do you text before coming over? Or apologise for not being here? Are you sick?”

Roz looks up at Cliff, and then Hollander behind him as they enter the room.

“Since Shane called me rude.”

He’s pouting. Literally fucking pouting. It’s fucking adorable, if Cliff may say so.

Martine finally decides she has had enough of hiding, and exits from beneath the couch. Roz whoops, and scoops her up into his arms.

Cliff sees both Roz and Hollander melt in real time as Martine stretches her neck out to sniff at and then lick the fingers Hollander holds out to her.

Cliff sits on the couch, and Roz follows him into their usual configuration of Roz laying on his back with his head on Cliff’s thigh. Roz then drags Hollander down until he’s laying chest to chest on top of him, and then Martine follows their path, settling in a beautiful loaf on Hollander’s back.

“Oh hell yeah, pretty baby, that’s a 10/10 loaf right there.” Cliff practically coos at Martine. His arm brushes against Hollander’s temple and he reaches out to scratch Martine’s chin.

Cliff’s other hand is in its usual place in Roz’s hair, but this time it’s joined by one of Hollander’s hands.

They make eye contact as Hollander looks up, and Cliff offers him a small smile before going back to scratching Roz’s scalp.

They’re all quiet for a long few minutes.

Cliff breaks the silence.

“I’m really happy for you both. Domestic looks good on you.”