Rating:

Not Rated

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Malow | Cliff Marleau, Shane Hollander, Ensemble Boston Bears Players, Ensemble Ottawa Centaurs Players

Additional Tags:

5+1 Things, Humor, Closeted Character, Not Canon Compliant, Sexist language typical of professional athlete aka locker room talk, Sexist Language, Ilya uses she/her pronouns when talking about Shane for stealth reasons, could be seen as Feminization, Developing Relationship, Fluff and Humor, Sexual Humor, Friendship, POV Outsider, Перевод на русский | Translation in Russian, 中文翻译 | Translation in Chinese

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of The Montreal Girl (Lily & Jane)

Collections:

🏒Heated on Ice🏒, fanfics that i keep coming back to read, HollaNov fanfics I Love, pov outsider reveals reactions and other forms of perception

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-11 Words: 5,868 Chapters: 1/1

The Montreal Girl

Summary

Five times Ilya lied (but not really) to his teammates about Shane, and one time he didn’t have to.

Inspired by two Cliff Marlow lines: In the airport, when their game with Montreal gets cancelled and he tells Ilya, “Whoever she is, she’s gonna get over it,” and the scene in the locker room when he says, “Wow, this Montreal girl works you up, brother—you’re straight up blushing, Roz.”

Or, the Boston Bears’ perspective of Ilya and Shane’s “secret” relationship over the years

Notes

I looooove Ilya's Russian accent, I can't stop speaking in it. I highly recommend pronouncing "Montreal" in his voice while reading this fic- it is highly rewarding.

For Ilya's teammates, I'm borrowing names from both the show and from the book, but I haven't read the books yet so I'm sorry if the characterization is wrong! I'm assuming they're all very minor characters so I hope it's not weird. On that note, I'm also using book names for the sports teams (I wish they were consistent between the show, it's fucking confusing)

Перевод на русский, courtesy of minty_syrup: https://ficbook.net/readfic/019b385f-1094-7930-9ef4-5f9bce6e9716

中文翻译, courtesy of niu_niu: https://archiveofourown.org/works/76865701/chapters/201187471

• Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: 【翻译】蒙特利尔女朋友 by niu_niu

1. TD Garden Arena, Boston

They arrived back from Montreal less than 48 hours ago, but the team was already gathered in their locker room, gearing up for another game. This deep into the season, they were all exhausted but also feeling the surge of energy and adrenaline that comes with the ever-approaching playoffs, and the increasing likelihood that they would have a chance at the cup this year.

Even though their last game was a loss.

“But tonight is not fucking two nights ago!” Ilya shouted, spit flying from his mouth. It was early, they still had to get into gear and warm up, but Ilya’s pep talks, if they could be called that, tended to come in waves, and this was the first of the day. “I don’t fucking want to think about Montreal—fuck Montreal. I want to think about here, tonight, this rink, our fucking rink. I will give it my fucking all on the ice tonight, and you can too, so I expect best play of life! We are not playing Montreal—we are playing for the playoffs.”

Cheers, gruff pats, reassurances and tense discussions.

Every player had their own way of getting ready for the game. Some arrived and showered beforehand as part of a pre-game ritual, others took freezing cold showers in the arena’s facilities, and others meditated. Some kept most of their gear at their homes and carried it back and forth with them, and others filled every spare inch of their cubbies with extraneous garbage. Some of them got dressed at home and only put on their gear in the locker room, while others unselfconsciously stripped naked, almost like they were cleansing themselves before stepping out onto the ice.

Ilya whipped off a loose white t-shirt and dropped it unceremoniously on the floor.

Cliff burst into laughter, drawing the attention of the rest of the team, who also began to laugh. “Whoa, dude, I thought we were just playing hockey,” he said when Ilya looked up, questioning. “You look like you went two rounds in a wrestling match with a tiger—and lost!”

As the assembled Bears laughed, Ilya craned his neck to see what they were talking about. “Ah,” he said, uncaring. “That is why I have been itchy all day.”

Cliff laughed harder.

Ilya’s pale, mole-dotted back was covered in livid pink lines in neat, symmetrical rows down his shoulders and across his hips, very obviously left behind by someone’s enthusiastic fingernails. It was not the first time a player, or Ilya in particular, had revealed this type of mark in the locker room or the showers, but it was a particularly impressive display, even though it looked a few days old.

“Wait,” Cliff asked, “are those from your Montreal girl?”

Eager ears perked up across the room.

“My Montreal girl?” Ilya drawled, dropping trou and tugging on his leggings.

“Yes, dude, the girl you’re always hooking up with whenever we’re up in the Great White North. I know it’s the same chick every time, she’s the only person who can make you blush!”

“Two things untrue,” Ilya said quickly. “One, Russia is Great White North, obviously. Two, no, no, no, I have told you this, Russians cannot blush.”

“Bullshit!” Varkov, one of the defenseman, called out. He was short and stocky, not a very fast skater but an excellent shot, and had an acerbic sense of humor. “Your back says otherwise, Roz, I can see the blush from here.”

“That’s gotta hurt,” Carmichael, Varkov's closest friend on the team, added. “Sure you don’t need injury time, Captain?”

“No, I am not weak,” Ilya said. “This is nothing.”

“She tore you up,” Cliff laughed. “I bet you fucking deserved it. How long have you been seeing her now?”

“I am not seeing her,” Ilya said patiently, still calmly going through his pre-game routine. “We are not dating.”

“You’ve seen her every time we’ve been up to Montreal for at least a year now.”

Some of the players exchanged surprised glances. Ilya was a well-known womanizer, but he was not known for having relationships with those women. To hear that he had a semi-regular partner was surprising.

Ilya just shrugged, like it didn’t matter to him. “It is… what is English word? Partners but only for sex?”

“Fuck buddies?” Carmichael snickered.

“Da, I like that—but we are not buddies.”

“Friends with benefits is the more polite term,” Cliff interjected.

“Fucking buddies is closer,” Ilya said, “but really, is more like… fucking acquaintances.”

“So you’re not exclusive?” Kane, their stoic and often taciturn goalie, asked.

“Well, no.” Ilya scoffed. “I am not going on plane to Canada every time I need my dick wet. But she is, maybe, admittedly, special kind of hook up. Regular.” He grinned, sharklike. “She lets me sleep at her place now. I prefer it to shitty hotels—I can buy her bottles of nice Russian vodka and leave them with her for when I swing by.”

There was laughter and a few friendly slaps and most of the guys on the roster returned to their own rituals.

Varkov, who could never let a topic rest, did not. “So you’re using her for a place to crash, and in return, you let her scratch the shit out of your back. Makes you sound like a cheap hooker, Roz.”

“I am not using her,” he responded, more calmly than usual, “and I don’t let her—I like when I fuck her so good that she leaves the evidence behind. You would not be familiar with this, Vark, but fucking a woman who is desperate for you is much, much better than fucking limp pillow. You should try it sometime.”

Varkov’s face flared with anger. Cliff spoke up quickly, “You don’t have many girls you meet up with regularly,” he said, pointedly looking at Varkov. Because in a fight between the two, Ilya would wipe the floor with Varkov, and he wouldn’t hesitate, not even before a game. Cliff was happy to keep the peace.

“No, not really,” Ilya agreed. “I am wide and varied.”

Kane smiled calmly. “So, she is special, then, your Montreal girl.”

“Oh, I never said this girl wasn’t special. She is very, very special kind of girl.” He grinned slyly, just to himself.

“You should keep a roster,” Carmichael suggested, his chest puffed up. “A girl like that in every city we travel to. A New York chick, a Chicago hoe—never sleep in a hotel bed again. That’s what I would do.”

“Why don’t you?” Ilya asked mildly, and Carmichael scowled.

“I doubt his Montreal girl would appreciate that, anyway,” Cliff said, nudging Carmichael a little hard in the ribs.

He shrugged. “Come on, man, how would she even know?”

Ilya lifted his water bottle, staring at it for a long beat. Then he raised it to his mouth and took a long drink before letting it go with a satisfied gasp. “Pussy so good I wouldn't risk it,” he said, and all the guys still listening cheered.

1. Fontainebleau, Las Vegas

The Awards Show had just ended, and the attending Boston Bears were crowded around the bar of the resort where the event had been booked, taking advantage of the free hotel rooms provided by the team to visit Las Vegas.

“Viva Las Vegas!” Varkov shouted as they all downed shots. “I’m going to Hangover the shit out of this weekend!”

There was much jostling and much agreement.

“I’m going to lose five thousand dollars at the craps tables and not even think about it,” Carmichael said.

“My girlfriend wants to see the Tournament of Kings,” Cliff said sheepishly, “so we’re doing that. She really wants to be in the Dragon Section.”

Kane said nothing about his plans for the weekend, and Ilya was on his phone.

Varkov booed them. “Get off your phone, Roz!”

“No,” he said shortly.

“Loser.”

“Not loser,” Rozanov said. “Send sex texts to very hot person who I want to fuck tonight—is more worth my time than you.”

Cliff cheered and slapped his shoulder, gesturing to the bartender. “Get the Player of the Year another shot!”

“How do you already have a booty call lined up in Las Vegas?” Carmichael whined.

“I am man of many talents. And I plan ahead.”

“Well, who’s the lucky lady this time?” Cliff asked, then snickered. “Your poor Montreal girl is gonna be so disappointed.”

Ilya finally looked up with a sharp grin. “She will not be disappointed if I do my job right—and I always do.”

The men scoffed, then, one by one, understood. “No way,” Varkov guffawed. “She’s here? How the fuck-”

“Lucky coincidence,” Ilya said. “Vegas is city of conferences. She is willing to fly in a few days early for extra time with me.”

“You’re fucking lying,” Carmichael said, his eyes narrowed.

Ilya shrugged. His phone buzzed. He looked back at it. He responded.

Varkov snatched it from his hands. He held it to his face for less than a second before Ilya had him in a chokehold and ripped it out of his hands. Their kerfuffle drew attention from the other well-dressed award show attendees, and Cliff and Kane quickly intervened, shoving the two players apart.

“Jane!” Varkov crowed, dancing away from Ilya. “I saw the name—her name is Jane!”

“Wow, sleuth detective over here,” Cliff said, patting Ilya down, slightly apprehensive of the sour look on the Russian’s face. “Great, so now we know her name is Jane, and she lives in Montreal. Surely there aren’t too many of those.”

“What was her profile pic? Blonde? Brunette?” Carmichael asked, as if they really were going to try hunting down Ilya’s Montreal hook-up. “I bet Ilya is into blondes.”

“No picture,” Varkov said, “because Ilya is a serial killer-”

“I am into hot people. And she is very private person, and too smart to want to be linked to me,” Rozanov said. But he was still typing on his phone. He sent a text, and a very satisfied smirk came over his face. He slid his phone into his pocket. “Is no matter,” he said. “I always win. And I will do you favor, before you go on big hunt—her name is not really Jane, is fake name, for extra privacy.”

“Why the fuck do you have a girl in your phone under a fake name, you psycho?” Cliff asked, wrapping a long arm around his shoulders and jostling him.

“Is, uh, English word… personal joke? Indoor joke?”

“Inside joke.”

“Yes, that.”

“Well, explain it then! What’s the joke?”

“No,” Ilya said. “You have to guess—I will confirm if you are right, but only if you are one hundred percent correct.”

“She only wears Mary Janes,” Varkov said, “or she wears them while you fuck her.”

“I don’t know Mary Jane,” Ilya said, “but she always wears socks. She says her feet get cold.”

“Jane Doe?” Kane asked curiously. Ilya tilted his head and he explained, “It’s what they call unidentified bodies or people in hospitals who won’t say who they are. Women who don’t have names. Makes sense as a secret alias.”

“Does make sense, but no,” Ilya said. “I promise, she is very alive, and very, very warm.”

“Jane, Jane—Jane Austen, Jane Fonda.” Cliff snapped his fingers. “Jane Goodall, because she puts up with a monkey like you!”

Ilya didn’t understand the joke, but that only made the other guys laugh harder.

“Eh!” he said, an impressive imitation of the hockey buzzer at one of their games. “All wrong. So sorry. Play again next time.”

His phone buzzed. They all heard it and grinned. Without any self-consciousness, Ilya pulled it from his pocket and checked the screen. He smirked. “I am needed elsewhere, my friends,” he said, patting Cliff on the shoulder. He gestured to the bartender, “Another round, on me. Nighty-night.”

“Wait, Montreal girl is here? At this hotel, right now?” Cliff asked.

Ilya shrugged, backing away from the group and giving them a lazy salute. “You will never know,” he sang, and left, disappearing into the crowd.

“What do girls see in that clown?” Carmichael grumbled.

Kane answered before Cliff could. “Something worth flying to Vegas for, apparently.”

1. Ilya’s House, Boston

The players poured through the front door of Ilya’s modern home on the outskirts of Boston, cheering loudly and clapping their captain on the back as they celebrated their third consecutive win: first the Admirals, playing at their arena in New York, then the Voyageurs in Boston, and most recently the Buffalo Sabers, also an away game. They had just flown back after the game. They had agreed to celebrate their winning streak at Ilya’s house, and arrived straight from the airport.

Cliff had volunteered their Captain’s home for the celebration, pointing out that Ilya didn’t have a wife or kids who would be disturbed by the Bears’ partying, and Ilya had graciously capitulated, mostly because he knew it was the only place in Boston with decent vodka.

It was several hours later, the sun was threatening to rise, and half the team had already departed. His enormous flatscreen was playing a compilation of the Bears’ highlights from the ongoing season, and his bar cart was sufficiently depleted.

“Jesus, Roz,” Varkov said, sloppy with alcohol, “your house is fucking freezing, you know that?”

“I am Russian. This is the temperature of Russian mothers’ wombs. Feels very nice to me. Homey.”

“Ew,” Carmichael protested, nose wrinkled.

“I’m gonna get frostbite in here.”

“Stop whining,” Ilya said, focused on the mostly silent game of cards he, Cliff, and Kane were playing. They had already wiped out Carmichael, and Varkov was not patient enough to play in the first place. “There is closet in hallway with blankets on bottom shelves. We can build pillow fort once I have won all the money in the pot.”

“You wish, Rozanov,” Kane said.

Varkov bounced up, swaying slightly, and went to the closet Ilya had gestured to. “No snooping!” Ilya called after him.

Varkov scoffed, fully intending to ignore this command, but it turned out that he didn’t have to.

At first, his vision was too blurry to make out what was in front of him. He rubbed his eyes. He gaped.

“Rozanov, what the fuck?”

Everyone gathered around his coffee table looked up, surprised by the vehemence in Varkov’s voice. They heard the clatter of clothes hangers, and Ilya stood up quickly, already angry, when Varkov rounded the corner holding a blue and red varsity jacket in the air and shaking it like it was a weapon. “Why the fuck,” he demanded, “do you have a goddamned Montreal Voyageurs jacket in your fucking closet?”

“Ah,” Ilys sighed. “Of course, that is there.”

“What the hell?” Varkov spluttered, shaking out the garment, with its garish sky blues and muted reds. “You fucking traitor! I would have at least expected some Russian shit, but—but—Canadian?” He shook his head. “I don’t even know you, man.”

Ilya rolled his eyes. “Is not mine,” he said, more sheepish than his team was used to seeing. “Hook-up must have left it here, or put it in closet to fuck with me, I suppose. It is stupid prank.”

“Where do you even get Montreal merch in Boston?” Cliff asked.

“Probably she got it in Montreal,” Ilya said, rolling his eyes.

“Your girlfriend,” Cliff said slowly, “is a fucking Montreal Voyageurs fan?”

Ilya shrugged. “Not my girlfriend, and I would not say fan. It is more like home-team loyalty, you know?” He pumped his fist against his chest and grinned. “Obviously, she knows I am best player in the league, because she is not idiot—I would not see an idiot. But, yes, she is very much avid hockey fan, and she lives in Montreal, so, unfortunately, she has terrible taste. Just how it is.”

“I bet she wears one of Hollander’s jerseys in bed,” Carmichael sneered, “and I bet it turns you on.”

Ilya smirked.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Varkov said, interrupting the brewing fight. “I thought—you said—I thought this was your ‘it’s complicated,’ hook-up, fuck buddy. She’s been here? To Boston? To your fucking house?”

Ilya shrugged again. “She travels for work. She was in town for game and it was convenient. And, like I say, she is avid hockey fan, so she came to watch.”

His teammates crowed and spluttered. Cliff grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and shook him. “She was there? At the game? And you didn’t introduce us? Couldn’t even point her out? It’s been fucking years, Rozanov, do you know how curious I am about this girl?”

“I told you,” Ilya said, laughing. “I do not kiss and tell.”

“Yes, you do!”

“A picture is worth a thousand words,” Ilya quoted wisely, dancing out of reach. “But she does not like having her photo taken with me.”

“Code for ugly,” Carmichael said in an audible stage whisper.

Ilya glowered at him. “Is smokeshow,” he said fiercely. “So beautiful. You would have all been distracted if I pointed her out, that is why I could say nothing. You would not be able to take your eyes off her, and then I would have had to defend her honor and put my skates through your eyeball, and it’s a mess then, the ice is all bloody.”

Cliff laughed. “Alright, Roz, take it easy.”

“What’s she look like?” Varkov asked, holding the jacket out and studying it. “She a big girl?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Ilya crossed the room and snatched the jacket away. “She has a big ass, if you mean that,” he said. “Fat, perfect. Looks best bouncing on my-”

“We get it!” Cliff shouted. “No one’s insulting your mystery girl, Roz, jeez.”

“I still can’t believe you told her where you live,” Varkov said.

“They’ve been seeing each other for two years,” Kane said. “Three?” He looked inquisitively at Rozanov. “Four?”

“Long time,” he said vaguely. “Whatever. Is only fair. When I go to Montreal, I crash at her place, after all—that’s where scratches come from, remember?”

A chorus of intermingled boos and cheers rained down on him, and Ilya smiled, stroking his thumb over the sleeve of the jacket.

1. Montréal–Trudeau International Airport

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, I cannot find thing.” Ilya snapped his fingers, making an inscrutable gesture with his hands. “Thing, you know?”

“Nope,” Cliff said cheerfully. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“For, for.” Ilya snapped his fingers again. “Thing for cigarette! Fire! Boof!” He mimicked a small explosion with his fingertips.

Cliff cupped a hand over his face and squeezed his eyes shut, wheezing.

“A lighter,” Kane said.

Ilya pointed at him and nodded emphatically. They were sitting in a private lounge in Montreal-Trudeau, and Ilya had all his luggage on the floor, zippers undone and gear and clothing spilling out. “Lighter!”

“That’s the last word I ever thought you would forget,” Varkov snickered. “Cigarette, lighter, and pussy: those are the big three of Ilya Rozanov’s English vocabulary.”

“You can’t bring lighters on a plane, bro,” Cliff said.

“I know, that’s why I am looking! I was going to put it in other bag before security, then forgot, then worried it would be confiscated. Then I was concerned that this airport has bad security and we would die in fiery explosion, but no, I can’t find it anywhere!”

“You also can’t smoke in here,” Cliff said.

“I’m not. But now I know I don’t have it, which means it is missing! Blyadstvo,” he groaned, which most of the team recognized as “Fuck me” by now.

“Surely you have other lighters?” Kane asked. “Hell, buy a new one. I’ll front you the money if you spent it all on the Audi.”

“Spent it all,” Ilya scoffed. At last, he started shoving clothing back into his bags by the handful. “Not possible. And it is specific lighter, old lighter, gift from Russia.”

“Good luck charm?”

“No, just nice, pretty, antique.” Ilya glanced off, out of the large open windows and across the tarmac. “I prefer not to lose nice, pretty things.”

“Girlfriend give it to you?” Varkov asked knowingly.

“I do not have a girlfriend,” Ilya sang, sneering.

“Fine, the Montreal girl, then. Did Jane give it to you? Fifth anniversary present? Sixth? Seventh-?”

Ilya pointed at him abruptly. “Yes!”

Varkov boggled. “Seven years? Seven years and you haven’t put a ring on her?”

Ilya waved him off. “She doesn’t want ring from me—and no, not what I meant! I know where I left it!” He pulled out his phone, most of his stuff still scattered around him. “I was at her place, and I always want to smoke cigarette after getting my dick obliterated.”

“Jesus,” Varkov said.

“New vocabulary word!” Cliff cheered.

Ilya’s phone chimed almost immediately in response. “‘I will look for it later today,’” he read aloud from his and Jane’s testing history. “Always the full sentences in texts, I use them to practice my English, see—‘I am not home right now, though, so please don’t spend all day bothering me. And don’t message me on Instagram either—I will not respond, I am busy.’”

“Frigid bitch,” Carmichael sniffed. “She belongs in Canada.”

“Shut your whore mouth,” Ilya snarled.

“No fighting,” their coach, weary, called over.

“She could be a little nicer about it, if it’s so important to you,” Varkov pointed out.

“She is too smart for me,” Ilya said, fingers flying over his keypad. “She knows how I am. She is right to tell me to shut the fuck up complaining when she can’t help yet.”

“Wow, the mighty Rozanov, understanding humanity’s physical limitations,” Cliff chuckled. “This girl must really be something.”

“Oh, yes.” Ilya grinned. “Something indeed.” He sent the text.

“She doesn’t seem very impressed with you, though,” Kane said, angling his body away from Carmichael and Varkov, putting on a deliberately friendly tone of voice.

“No, like I said, she is too smart—sees right through me. And yet, still, I am irresistible.” His phone chimed as if to prove his point. Ilya grinned at it, then glanced up. “I do lots to impress her,” he drawled, pouting out his lip, “and none of it works, because she is prim and proper lady and very much above it all, and I am whipped simp.” He sighed dramatically. The guys guffawed and jostled him, endlessly amused by the idea that Ilya Rozanov caved to every whim of his demanding but unsatisfied girlfriend. “I take her in rides in expensive sports cars, she whines about gas prices and emissions. I say, I want to take you to nicest restaurant in town and buy you expensive Japanese steak, and she says, ‘No, thank you, I am on diet.’ I say, let me buy you pretty dresses and the fuck-me hooker heels with red bottoms and panties that I can take off with my teeth-”

“Whoa, slow the fuck down, Roz!”

“-and she says, ‘Absolutely not, you pervert, get out of my house.’” He sighed again. “You see how long suffering I am?”

“Why bother?” asked Carmichael, a little aggressively, but also curiously.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Varkov asked with a laugh. “Place to crash! And she’s not a fame-fucker at least, given that even we don’t know who the fuck she is.”

“He’s hiding her because she likes the Montreal Voyageurs,” Cliff joked.

Ilya pointed. “That part,” he said happily.

“Come on, really? That can’t be why,” Carmichael said. “You’re a millionaire! You’re a professional athlete! She’s had your number for at least five years, and yeah, you live far apart for now, but she’s gotta know it’s still a good deal for her.”

“Good deal? What do you mean?” Ilya asked. His phone chimed. He looked at it and grinned.

“See?” Carmichael said, gesturing. “You’re obsessed. If she’s smart, she knows that. She should lock you down, make it a condition—tell you, ‘I don’t care who you sleep around with on the road as long as you know where home is,’ and then in five years, divorce your ass on grounds of cheating and get half your money. That’s what you should be looking out for.”

“And that is why you are boo-hoo, so lonely, hiring hookers to suck your cock,” Ilya said, not looking up from his phone, “and I am not. Besides,” he glanced at them with a proud, cocky smirk, “she doesn’t need my money. She has her own money.”

“Rich bitch?” Varkov asked.

“Okay, guys, enough with the language,” Cliff said loudly, just as their coach looked up with a scowl. “We’re talking about Ilya’s girl here, and we’re in public. Keep it polite.”

“Well said,” their coach muttered.

Ilya was focused on his phone. “She doesn’t want to get married,” he said. “I don’t want to get married. We are both rich, we are both happy, and she will find my lighter and give it to me next time she is in Boston, because she travels for work as well. It all works out.”

“Why buy the cow when the milk is free?” Carmichael whispered to Varkov. Cliff scowled.

“I thought she said not to text her,” Kane said with a grin.

“She folds like laundry,” Ilya said, proud.

“How’s she rich?” Varkov asked. “Daddy’s money?”

“No, very big important career, like me,” Ilya said. “High profile. That is why she doesn’t—that is why she is private person. Not wanting to be linked to big playboy persona over here,” he said, swinging his hips even though he was sitting on the floor. “Not her vibe.” His grin turned sly. “I should say, more accurate, not her brand.”

“So she’s rich, she’s important, and according to you, she’s beautiful,” Cliff summed up. “And she puts up with your flighty ass.”

“Not according to me: according to laws of nature.”

“Dude,” Cliff said, “you need to marry her.”

Ilya smiled. “Not yet,” he said, tilting his head as their boarding number was finally announced.

“Thank god,” their coach announced. “Ilya, get your fucking shit off the floor!”

1. UBS Arena, New York

“Rozanov, would you like to elaborate on why you requested this transfer after so many years as Captain of your team? And why the Centaurs?”

“No comment,” Ilya said, while one of the NHL PR managers leaned in and made another speech asking reporters not to speculate whether players had requested specific transfers or not.

“Captain Rozanov, how are you feeling about your upcoming move? It’s a big change from Boston to Ottawa.”

Cliff laughed into the mike before he could stifle it behind his broad palms. The reporters immediately jumped on him. He gave Ilya an amused but apologetic glance, and Ilya rolled his eyes.

“Marlow, why does that question make you laugh? Are you feeling betrayed after so many years-”

“No, no, sorry, guys. I can be serious. I promise,” he said, straightening out his face.

“Marlow, can you explain why you laughed?”

“I only laughed,” he said slowly, glancing at Ilya and only continuing when the hockey player nodded his allowance, “because I happen to know that my Captain is actually very familiar with Canada.”

More flashes of light, more bursts of questions. Ilya had discussed this option with his management and agents but not with Cliff, but it was nice for it to happen organically. This spin would make his move more appealing to his fans, after all. One of his agents said it would humanize him, in fact. Ilya internally scoffed at that. “I have spent several of my summers in Canada in past years,” he said into the microphone, “and I enjoy it very much. It reminds me of home. I am excited to live there full time as I have always enjoyed being a… tourist.”

“What drew you to Canada, Captain Rozanov?”

Cliff raised an eyebrow. Ilya glanced at him, then nodded. “I do not like to speak of personal life often, but I have partner in Canada,” he said, raising his voice as the reporters started clamoring, “who I have been with for many years, and who I love very much. We are intensely private people when it comes to our personal lives, however, so I will not be answering any further questions on the subject.”

“Ilya’s Montreal girl,” Cliff said fondly, drowned out by the bevy of questions being shouted at them. “Look how far you’ve come, kid.”

“Yes, I know,” Ilya sighed. “I am a man compelled by love to do stupid things. Oh, well. Don’t tell anyone.”

“Of course not.” They clapped their palms together and squeezed, and the camera lights doubled, no doubt capitalizing on capturing one of the final moments of their time as teammates. “And maybe one day you’ll even introduce me to her, hey?”

Ilya smiled. “Yes,” he said. “I think, maybe one day.”

 +1. Ottawa Centaurs Locker Room

“And this is where we gather before we make magic happen,” Ilya said, leading Cliff into the locker room. A bunch of the guys were already there, taking their gear off. They had just finished an open practice, and they had all been pleased by how much attendance had gone up since Hollander and Rozanov joined the team. They were happy enough about their increased ratings that no one objected when Ilya asked their permission to give Cliff Marlow, his old teammate, a tour of their facilities.

Shane sighed. “That usually means sex, Ilya,” he said.

Ilya grinned.

“I know.”

“Hi,” Cliff said, happy and confident. He introduced himself to some of the players though he had met many of them already, at least briefly, at games and conferences and, of course, at Ilya and Shane’s wedding last year. “Thanks for letting me visit, guys, super chill of you!”

Troy Barrett, Wyatt Hayes, and Evan Dykstra waved this off as they stepped up, joining the huddle. “We’re the ones who stole your captain,” Barrett said, shaking his hand. “How are you enjoying Ottawa?” he asked, somewhat sardonically.

“Boring,” Cliff said, playing along, before he grabbed Ilya’s shoulder and shook him. “But I’m glad to be visiting my guy! The Bears haven’t been the same without him.”

“Haven’t been playing the same either,” Dykstra chirped.

“No fighting,” Shane said. “We’re trying to encourage cross-team sportsmanship here.”

“Except for the Voyageurs,” Ilya chimed in slyly.

“Fuck the Voyageurs!” all the Centaurs cheered in unison. Shane rolled his eyes, but he was fighting off a smile.

“Oh, yeah, fuck them,” Cliff said, then laughed hard. “Hey, remember when Varkov found that varsity jacket in your closet? Man, I thought he was going to blow a fuse, he was so fucking mad!”

“What?” Hayes asked curiously. Ilya and Shane looked at each other.

“Ilya used to see this girl from Montreal,” Cliff explained, offering Shane a slightly apologetic smile. Shane blinked. “She crashed at his place once and left Voyageurs merch there. Varkov and Carmichael nearly excommunicated him then and there when they found it!”

Shane and Ilya stared at Cliff.

“You dated two Montreal Voyageurs people?” Wyatt asked Ilya, grinning. “Damn, I guess you do have a type.”

“No,” Ilya drawled. “I only dated one.”

Shane was chuckling as he said, “And I was never really a fan—it was just my team. I liked that jacket, though. Ilya never gave it back.”

“No point now. We have same closet, after all.”

“What?” Cliff asked, brow furrowed.

Ilya rolled his eyes and sighed loudly. Shane was still smiling, a little awkward, but amused. “It was my jacket, Cliff,” he said, and the Centaurs all started laughing. “I was in town for a game. Ilya usually let me sleep at his place—I left it as a joke, but I didn’t think his teammates would find it. I wouldn’t have left it, otherwise, obviously.”

Cliff looked stunned. “But Ilya said—he said his Montreal girl, he said she was the one who left it.” He looked at Ilya. “Not trying to sell you out, man, but were you seeing them at the same time? I don’t get it.” He looked slightly concerned that he had unearthed some serious cheating scandal.

The rest of the guys were snickering and jostling each other, and Shane’s face was slowly turning pink. “I did say my Montreal girl left it,” Ilya drawled. “Come on, Marlow, I believe in you—put your detective goggles on, you can figure it out.”

Cliff stared at Ilya. Then he stared at Shane. He looked between them, then at their snickering teammates. Abruptly, he gasped, and the laughter rose to a cacophony. “Oh my god!” Cliff burst out, pointing at Shane. “You! It’s you! You’re her! The Montreal Girl—Jane!”

“You showed them the texts?” Shane hissed.

Ilya rolled his eyes, holding his palms out. “They stole my phone, what was I going to do? Murder them? I could, but no. They were decent team, assholes, but don’t deserve to be murdered. Besides, they are idiots, they never would have figured it out.” He shoved Cliff’s chest. “And you, you are just putting pieces together now? We have been married for a year! You were at wedding!”

“I thought,” Cliff spluttered, “I thought she was someone else! You know! Your Montreal Girl! Shane fucking Hollander is your Montreal Girl?”

The rest of the Centaurs were laughing at them. Shane gave Ilya a complicated look. “You told your team about me?”

“Sort of,” Ilya admitted. “Not names, obviously. But yes, I suppose, people knew I had regular partner in Montreal who sometimes visited me other places. What? I needed bragging rights!”

“Bragging rights,” Shane repeated, aghast.

“Yes, bragging rights!” Ilya caught his wrists and pulled him in. “My Montreal Girl, who took none of my shit, and was rich girl, and came all the way to Boston to watch my games-”

“Only when I was playing against you, you asshole!”

“-and let me crash at her place where she kept nice vodka stocked for me, and pranked me by leaving Voyageurs jacket at my house, and was beautiful and important and stupid enough to stick by my side for ten years, and who I moved to fucking Canada for.” Ilya grinned. Shane’s affront wavered. “See? I am not liar. I only told truths. My Montreal Girl, Shane Hollander,” Ilya cooed, affectionate and teasing.

Shane grabbed his wrists like he was going to pull his hands away from his face, but he didn’t. “I’m not your girl,” he said, a smile hinting at his lips, “and I’m not from Montreal. Get your facts straight, Rozanov.”

“Shane Hollander,” Cliff said, still stunned.

Wyatt clapped his shoulder. “This really shouldn’t be the part that is surprising to you,” he said.

“Yeah, really, you knew that Ilya was hooking up with the same person for, what, almost ten years, and you never put it together that it was Shane?”

“I don’t know! I wasn’t thinking!”

“Clearly not,” Ilya drawled, and Shane shushed him.

“Be nice,” he murmured. “Um, well, yeah, I guess.” Then he held out his hand to Cliff with an awkward grin. “Nice to meet you—I’m Jane.”

Works inspired by this one