Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

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

Characters:

Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau Finds Out About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Good Friend Cliff Marleau, Jealous Ilya Rozanov, Jealous Shane Hollander

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-13 Words: 3,299 Chapters: 1/1

left behind

Summary

At some point, with JJ and Carmichael punching each other on the other side of the rink, Marleau skates nonchalantly closer to Shane. He doesn't seem aggressive, but Shane braces himself just in case.

Marleau surprises him, though. He talks under his breath, not even a chirp. "Hollander, are you flying back tomorrow?"

Shane looks at him. Most of the cameras are looking away and Marleau is clearly trying to be surreptitious. Shane nods at him. Marleau looks away and he says. "I'll go to the bar in your hotel at eleven thirty. I want to talk to you about something. Be there, yeah?"

Before Shane can actually answer, he skates away.

Cliff and Shane have an enlightening conversation. Shane might need to kill Ilya afterwards.

Notes

got struck by inspiration, blacked out for three hours on the clock and when I came to, I had this 3k written. I want to write something more about Cliff, I really like his version of the show and I think he genuinely loved Ilya.

The fact that Ilya was traded to Ottawa and, thus, them playing each other is not a center of their games anymore has not changed Boston game days so much for Shane.

Boston fans are as feisty as before, and even if Ilya is named sometimes, as a remnant of their past or just as a traitor, their decades-long team rivalry does not get erased just because there is a new center, which is not as good as Ilya, but it's not bad. The problem is that the only chirps that actually worked against Shane were the ones from his newly appointed boyfriend, so he wins more face-offs than before.

That doesn't mean they always win by default, though. Both teams are trying as hard as they can not to go into overtime, as both need the two points to get ahead of the other one in the division. The playoffs are still a while away but not so much that this win would not help them immensely. Shane is also mad because they have lost not one but two opportunities in the last power play and because one of them has been Hayden's fault; he knows he will have to listen to Ilya afterwards, even if Ottawa doesn't have anything to feel proud of this week.

Ilya's need to fuck with Hayden overcomes any other information, though.

At some point, with JJ and Carmichael punching each other on the other side of the rink, Marleau skates nonchalantly closer to Shane. He doesn't seem aggressive, but Shane braces himself just in case.

Marleau surprises him, though. He talks under his breath, not even a chirp. "Hollander, are you flying back tomorrow?"

Shane looks at him. Most of the cameras are looking away, and Marleau is clearly trying to be surreptitious. Shane nods at him. Marleau avoids his gaze, and he says, "I'll go to the bar in your hotel at eleven thirty. I want to talk to you about something. Be there, yeah?"

Before Shane can actually answer, he skates away; Hayden is coming back from the rink and chirps something at him that Shane is unable to hear, still a little bit dumbstruck about the conversation. Hayden skates up to him.

"Do I have to punch him?"

Shane laughs. "You need to stop making excuses to punch Marleau."

Hayden shrugs. "Why would I?"

Shane paces his hotel room, waiting for the time when Marleau told him he would arrive to the hotel. Ilya has written him, as expected, shitting on Pike's game, and Shane has used the excuse to avoid telling him about Marleau's proposal. It's obvious that in any case it has something to do with Ilya; Shane and Marleau have not shared anything more than hits and chirps and an apologetic look on the first game of the previous season, when Ilya was still playing for this same team.

When he makes his way through the hotel, the bar is almost empty, and the towering silhouette of Cliff Marleau is easy to spot. When he sees Shane walking towards him, his mouth moves into something like a relieved smile, which only fuels Shane's curiosity.

"Let's go to one of those tables," he says as a greeting. He points at one of the corners, where no one is around. Not that the hotel has many people at this hour, anyway. "Do you want something? My treat. As I am taking time from your sleep that you surely need after today's fucking game."

Shane smiles. He is not a bad guy; this he knows, because Ilya told him at the cottage and during his last Boston year. He realizes, though, that he has not talked about him since he moved to Ottawa.

"Water is okay," he says to the waiter at the bar. When he brings it, Shane takes it, and they go together to the table. "The overtime was brutal. Is your arm okay?" Shane doesn't say anything about Montreal winning, though. He is too full of curiosity to sour the mood, and it's not his style anyway.

Marleau shrugs. "It will be. Your little bodyguard Pike needs to stop trying to get at me; I'm going to break his ribs one of these days."

"Don't I keep telling him so," and they both laugh.

Sat at the table, almost no one around them, the silence spreads for a second awkwardly.

"So," Shane says, extending his hands before him. "You wanted to talk?"

"Yeah, sorry, I am not sure where I should start from."

"The beginning, maybe?"

Marleau sighs. "I will start from the ending, but I need you to not freak out. I know you will because Rozy would, too." Shane knows, suddenly, what he is going to tell him. "I know. About you two. I've suspected for a long time, but I confirmed it last year."

Shane's heart is hammering inside his chest. He can't hear anything over the blood rushing through his ears. "I—don't know what,"

"Don't try. I told you not to freak out; if I wanted to say anything at all, I would have already done it. Or use it to unbalance your game, and I have not. Don't make me spell it out. It starts with Roz and ends in moving to Ottawa. Coincidentally two hours from Montreal. Coincidentally where you live."

His expression is not aggressive, but Shane feels attacked anyway.

"How did you find out?"

"That's in a way what I wanted to talk to you about. He and I are—were best friends. Or so I thought. I've been his wing since he was drafted. I've drunk him under the table, and we've shared a fair amount of—well. Parties, let's say. And then I saw him slowly fall for his Montreal girl for years. I think I started suspecting that there was no girl some three or four years ago; then you got a girlfriend, and all hell broke loose. He thought he was being sooooo secretive, but I was ready to put him on suicide watch."

Shane cringes at that.

"Sorry. Bad joke, all things considered. But he went through a rough patch there, anyway. And I was there for him."

"If you know, why are you telling me this? It's not my fault that he decided to—"

"Oh, it is. Completely, one hundred percent your fault. But I do not care about him going to Ottawa. Like, of course I care; as a teammate, he fucked us over."

Shane would say he's sorry, but he is really, really not. He tries to check his own facial features; he realizes he is frowning, and he tries to school them into something more neutral.

"What do you want, Marleau?"

He sighs. "I just want my friend back, Hollander. He has not answered a message from me since the trade was officially announced. He doesn't even look at me in the games against his team. I had to take desperate measures in the end. I trusted you would be more reasonable."

Shane's chest hurts. He just realized that he has never, ever asked Ilya about his Boston teammates, and, like himself with Hayden or JJ, he has known these people for years.

"Why didn't you tell him you knew, in the messages?"

Marleau shrugs. "I thought he might panic, and I didn't want to leave it on message, and also I was pretty fucking mad when I realized he would not answer me."

"Understandable. Can I ask you how you confirmed it? Is it something that we have to, uh, be careful about?"

Marleau looks around, a glint of mischievousness in his eye. "I don't think it will happen again. He was extra drunk last year after we won against you guys, here at home. He was talking to, well. Jane, on his phone, told her how drunk he was; she was telling him to fucking get a taxi. She didn't know that he was already in a taxi, with me, because I had been the one to stop him from getting more vodka than blood in his body. I promise I'm not that nosy, but I was worried; he was already being super weird with me by then."

"That doesn't explain—"

"I know. What it explains is how I had to put his drunk, naked, asleep ass inside the bed and take the phone from his hand. Where he was zooming in on a photo of you."

Shane puts his face in his hands. He hopes Ilya has enjoyed his months in Ottawa because he is going to kill him the minute he is back. He must be blushing, and while he is suddenly mad and angry at his boyfriend, a ball of warmth is also filling his chest.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Ilya."

Marleau laughs. "Honestly, it was extremely pathetic, and funny, and kind of cute. It was also shocking, but then everything made so much sense afterwards. I don't have any issue with, you know." He shrugs. "I could not care fucking less, even it being you, which, by the way, must have sucked ass." His choice of words is terrible, but Shane appreciates the sentiment.

A beat passes, and Marleau's laugh dies a little.

"You know, I kept waiting for him to tell me, and then—"

"And then he was traded, moved away, and never talked to you again."

Marleau nods. Well, fuck.

"You're not mad anymore?"

"It depends. If he continues being an asshole, I might need to check him into the boards next time so hard he finds reason again. Harder than I already do."

He's smiling, but Shane is not one hundred percent sure he is joking. "I will talk to him. I can't promise anything, but I will try to. Thanks for doing this, Marleau. And for protecting our secret." Shane feels half guilty, half relieved.

Someone else knows about them, and the world has not exploded.

Marleau swallows hard and then nods and starts standing up. Shane follows his example and takes his hand when he offers it. "Cliff is okay, if you prefer. Appreciate that you didn't tell me to fuck off. Next time you're in Boston, I owe you a drink or two."

Shane laughs. "If I am seen with you partying in Boston, I don't know who would freak out more, Ilya or your fans."

"Taking you to one of my parties would make him talk to me." He says parties with a tone and a half-smile that Shane is not able to interpret. Marleau tilts his head and seems to think about it. "Or kill me. Worth it in any case." He shrugs.

He leaves the hotel, and Shane stays there for a second, confused and worried but also a little bit relieved. And another two days left before he can even see Ilya.

"Something is wrong," are Ilya's words the minute he enters his home. Shane sighs. Contrary to what it would seem after years of being in a relationship that only a handful of people know about, Shane is not good at keeping secrets, not when he cannot safeguard the whole pack of information. That's the reason he didn't tell his parents he was gay; he knew he would tell them about Ilya. He could only keep the Ilya secret because the gay part was also protected.

So he knows he has not made a very good job of trying to wait until he and Ilya were face-to-face to talk about Marleau—Cliff—because Ilya knows that they played against Boston and he can't separate the two of them in his head.

"Nothing is wrong," he says, without much patience. "Come here and sit with me."

Instead of the frustration he expects from Ilya, he gets caution and fear. He says, "What did I do?" while clearly frantically searching in his mind for what went on the last days that could possibly prompt a serious conversation between them. Which breaks Shane's heart in two, automatically. Ilya is frozen in the middle of the way to the sofa, sneakers off and at the door for once.

Rising from where he is seated, Shane takes him by the hand, and with the other one, he touches his cheek, soft and wanting. His thumb scoots over his furrowed eyebrow, trying to smooth it down. "I promise you nothing is wrong. Come," he says, and while he seems marginally more calm, he is still cautiously going behind him.

"So," Shane stumbles over his own words; he has thought many times in the past two days how to start this conversation, and nothing has been good enough. In the end, he decides to go for it. "When you asked me about what Marleau had told me in the game, and I told you I didn't remember, I lied, but just because I wanted to talk about this in person. " Ilya is frowning at the lie admission—he had called Shane on it—but he listens. "He told me he wanted to talk to me after the game, in the hotel."

"And you told him to fuck off, I guess," Ilya spits. "Why didn't you tell me just as it happened?"

"Same answer for your two questions; I guessed it had to be something about you, and I wanted to know what it was. I'm sorry for lying to you about this; I needed to put my thoughts in line."

Ilya is still guarded, the same way he gets when he is bracing himself for impact. "What did he want?"

Biting his lip, Shane asks back, "Why did you stop talking to him after the trade?"

Ilya shrugs. "Figured he would be pissed."

"But he wrote to you."

"And? You can be pissed and write to someone."

This is not getting anywhere. "Ilya, I am not trying to be confrontational." When he gets frustrated, he likes using longer words, and that is something he didn't realize about himself until he started being with Ilya.

"Well, you're doing a shitty job of avoiding it."

Ilya is being unreasonable, so Shane hits him with all the information. "Apparently he's not pissed about your trade but about the fact that you stopped talking to him, answering to him, or even acknowledging him in the fucking games. Which is especially fun because, apart from that, he knows about us."

That actually shocks Ilya. "He doesn't. I never—"

"Oh, he does. Apparently he figured out at some point. And then you were superdrunk during your last year in Boston and—uh—he confirmed it. One night. He knew. He knows about Jane and about—everything, it seems." He is embarrassed to repeat what happened, so he leaves it at that. Ilya is putting his head in his hands, pushing the heel of his hand against his eyes. "Hey, hey, Ilya, love. Hey, what's going on?"

"I'm sorry, Shane, I promise I didn't—sorry, fuck. Should I—what should I do? Should I talk to Farah?"

"Hey, no, no, no, come here; it's okay. He won't say anything. I'm not mad, I'm not mad about that, Ilya," and he pulls Ilya into him, and a testament to how shaken Ilya is is how fast he hugs him back. "And there is no need to talk to anyone. You're right, I am doing a shitty job. But nothing is going on; I was mad for like five minutes, but he was, uh. Quite nice about it. I think, no, I know—he just misses you?"

Hand on Ilya's cheek to make him look Shane in the eye. He feels embarrassed now, so Shane kisses him for good measure.

In the end, Ilya sighs, separating himself a little bit. Shane knows—Ilya doesn't talk about his family that much, apart from the hate. But the way he sometimes reacts when he thinks he has done something wrong crawls inside Shane like a disease; he wants to go to Russia and maybe punch his brother and probably spit on his father's grave. Even if he had done something wrong, even if the worst happened, Shane thinks they would be able to face it together. Ilya seems to forget that that's what Shane feels like, sometimes, as if he were his enemy. Shane tries to not take it personally, but it's hard.

"He did write to me these months, but I thought—why bother. I lied to him for months; almost stopped going out with him once I stayed at your cottage and made my decision. I won't come to Boston, and I won't be able to tell him about you, and I was just starting to get used to this. I thought it was better to, how you say it? When you prefer not to wait until there is an issue."

Shane thinks. "To nip it in the bud?"

Ilya looks confused. "I guess so. That's a weird one."

Shane laughs. "I guess. He seemed nice."

Ilya swallows hard. "He was. Is, I suppose."

"I think you should answer him. He might even come to Ottawa to visit."

"Oh, yeah, I'm not going to Boston; they would kill me in the first club, I think. But—yeah. I will write him then." A moment. "You don't mind he knows?"

Shane has had some time to think about it. "I did, but what is there to do? I can't do anything, and I don't want to also lose him as a friend. I didn't realize you were so close." Shane goes for a joke. "He told me that he would take me partying if that would trigger you to actually talk to him."

Ilya lets out a nervous laugh. "You are strictly forbidden to go out with Cliff, less of all to a party."

Shane frowns. "He did tell me you partied a lot together."

"Oh, we did more than partying. It's one of the reasons I stopped doing it in my last year in Boston. I was afraid if I told him I was in a committed relationship he would not stop asking about it."

Shane's stomach is in knots. "Why would he care about you being—Ilya," he says, but sadly he knows the answer to his next question before he utters it. "Ilya, did you fuck Cliff Marleau?"

"No, no, he's straight. Kind of straight, at least, I think. And I did not, but you know, there were girls. That they wanted both of us at the same time, and let's say we did not have a lot of issues sharing."

Shane can see it in his mind. The girl between them—coincidentally, she has the same hair as the one that was kissing Ilya in the club, years ago already but burned into his mind like a brand—and maybe them kissing? Touching each other?

He is mad now. He understands the imagined girl perfectly. He is kind of jealous.

"Give me your phone; I take it back. You're not allowed to be his friend again. I'm going to block him, delete his number, and then demolish Boston on the next game. And maybe the city, too."

Ilya is laughing out loud now, a hand sneaking through his thigh. "You have your jealous face on, but you're also getting hard, Shane. Are you thinking about it? He's fucking big, you know?"

Shane knows he's fucking blushing and is having a hard time maintaining his anger watching how a weight has lifted from Ilya's shoulders. "I am not hard."

"Yes, you are, but I do know what to do about it, yes? Let me take care of it, sweetheart," he purrs, pushing him against the sofa and putting down his shorts.

By the time he puts his mouth at work, Shane has completely forgotten about Marleau.