Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

Gen

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Background Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov - Freeform, POV Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau & Ilya Rozanov Friendship, Good Friend Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau

Language:

English

Collections:

Drabbles for Dopamine

Stats:

Published: 2026-06-10 Words: 1,578 Chapters: 1/1

Brother

Summary

Roz’s Montreal girl. The girl who’d one had him show up to practice covered in cat scratches. The same girl, if Cliff has to guess, that Roz has been texting since his fucking rookie season. He decides to go for a hail mary.

“Bet your girl’s happy about the shorter commute, huh?” Roz’s eyes snap to his, wide with shock. Cliff raises his hand in a placating gesture. “Relax, brother.”

“Yes,” he says, “she is.”

(Cliff & Ilya)³

✧ June 2018

Cliff hasn’t been at Roz’s place for a while, so walking in and finding the open floor plan filled with boxes is a bit of a shock. It looks like the movers have done a fucking number on it even though it looks like he’s selling the place partially furnished.

“Fuck, you’re really doing this, huh?”

Roz throws a glance over his shoulder. “Mm.”

He’s a bit of a closed book, some days. Cliff isn’t entirely sure when he learned what a good Rozy day looked like versus a bad Rozy day, but he knows that he hasn’t seen this look on Roz a single time since he was a rookie. If he had to make a call, it’s closer to a bad day. And why the fuck shouldn’t it be?

Roz has been with the Raiders since he was drafted, and as far as Cliff knows he didn’t have any plans of retiring anywhere else. From what he’s gathered, nobody knew. He just showed up to a team meeting one morning and laid it out for them. He requested a move, it got approved. Ottawa wanted him.

Fucking Ottawa.

So far, Cliff hasn’t pried for the reason for Roz’s trade, but he knows he wouldn’t just go to Ottawa for kicks. He’s stayed mum about it because he thought it might be a Russia thing. He doesn’t know jack shit about immigration law, honestly, but he knows Russia’s kind of shit. Maybe Canada’s better about that. That doesn’t explain how he decided on Ottawa, though. Sure, Montreal’s a no-go with Hollander on the team. But Toronto? They’re not at rock fucking bottom of the league, and their current starting center is a waste of ice time. Roz would slot in perfectly.

There’s gotta be another reason.

“Hey,” Cliff says, accepting the bottle of beer that Roz hands him. “A little late now, but, why the fuck are you going to Ottawa?”

Roz shrugs and starts walking toward the patio, the only place that isn’t a mess of boxes right now. The sun shines down on the outdoor furniture, and as Roz sits down he tilts his head towards it and closes his eyes. “To play hockey,” he says flatly.

“No fucking shit,” Cliff says, sitting down a seat away from him. “But you could've gone anywhere, man.”

Roz blinks his eyes open, looking grumpy as he squints. “I need a cigarette.”

For the past year or so, Cliff has been noticing things about Ilya changing. Small things. It’s not like they make him worry — opposite of that, actually, they’re all objectively good things. Roz has quit smoking. There are fewer nights where he demands to go out, and when they do he doesn’t drink like there’s something he’s trying to forget anymore. He doesn’t bring anyone home.

That’s a big one, actually. For as long as Cliff has known him, Ilya has been going home with women all the time. He’d get his dick sucked in the bathroom by one girl and then take another home. Cliff has been sexiled from many a hotel room. He’d be worried about the change, if it weren’t for the dramatic increase in the number of times he finds Roz smiling down at his phone like a damn fool.

Roz’s Montreal girl. The girl who’d one had him show up to practice covered in cat scratches. The same girl, if Cliff has to guess, that Roz has been texting since his fucking rookie season. He decides to go for a hail mary.

“Bet your girl’s happy about the shorter commute, huh?” Roz’s eyes snap to his, wide with shock. Cliff raises his hand in a placating gesture. “Relax, brother.”

With a deep breath, Roz licks his lips and looks down at his lap. A smile breaks out across his face despite the way he’s tugging at his bottom lip with his teeth. “Yes,” he says, “she is.”

 

---

 

✧ February, 2021

Cliff doesn’t know what to expect when he sees Roz’s caller ID flash across his screen. Maybe he needs to be bailed out of jail, or he found out he’s got a kid from a former hookup somewhere. Last time he texted it was after months and months of radio silence, and then it was just a quick text to let him know he didn’t die in a fucking plane crash. Anything is on the table.

Especially considering the shit that went down in Ottawa last week. If Cliff had to name a player he thought was least likely to admit they suck dick, Dallas Kent would be top of the list, with Troy Barrett in a close second. But Kent has been arrested, and Barrett is apparently gay.

Cliff picks up the phone. “Hey, Roz,” he says, hoping he sounds casual and not like he’s a little bit afraid that Roz is about to admit that there’s been a second plane crash, or that someone on the Centaurs has straight up murdered Barrett for being a homo. “What’s up?”

There’s a sniff on the other line. “Marly.”

“You good, bro?”

“Yes,” Roz answers, too quickly. Like he always used to do on bad Rozy days. That’s the yes that predates Roz getting blackout drunk or disappearing in the middle of the night. Something crackles on the other line, and then Roz’s voice comes through muffled for a bit. Cliff can’t hear what he’s saying, but the tone sounds sort of… worried. It sounds like he’s talking to someone else. Crackling over the line again. “Sorry.”

Cliff is starting to get worried. Shit, maybe it really is a secret lovechild.

“When is next time you are in Ottawa?”

Cliff blinks. Roz knows when the next time he’s in Ottawa is, almost guaranteed. They manage to catch up on the ice every time, text a bit beforehand, usually. Roz has been blowing him off on offers for grabbing a beer after games, which Cliff has just put down to Roz’s Montreal girl being in town. “Wh— you know—”

“Montreal is also fine,” Roz says in a rush. Cliff blinks, confused. Is… is this an offer to meet Roz’s Montreal girl? Officially? After fucking years? He’d sort of started to assume the woman was in witness protection for all the secrecy around her. On the line, Roz continues, “I want you to meet my boyfriend.”

There’s a clear smile in his voice, clearly so proud of his Montreal— “Wait, boyfriend?”

Another sniff. “Yes, Marly. Boyfriend. Is a man, very scandalous, I know. You would think two homosexuals in league was enough, but you know me. Greedy.”

“But…” Cliff suddenly has a startlingly clear mental image of Roz taking a body shot off an underwear model in a club, and spitting the shot back out into the mouth of some up-and-coming actress.

“Greedy,” Roz repeats at Cliff’s stunned silence, “bisexual. Men and women both.”

“Oh,” Cliff says faintly. A lot of things make a lot of sense at once. “Okay, yeah. Fuck, of course. I wanna meet your guy.”

“Ah, sorry,” Roz says, “he told me to say it right. Not my boyfriend. My fiance.”

Cliff’s fucking head hurts.

 

---

 

✧ July, 2021

If you’d told Cliff Marlow of ten years ago that he’d be attending Ilya Rozanov’s wedding, he’d laugh in your fucking face. If you’d told him that wedding was to Shane Hollander, he’d probably be calling the closest psych ward. But here he is, at Ilya Rozanov’s backyard wedding to Shane Hollander. The newlyweds in question are swaying on the lawn, laughing with each other and just looking stupidly in love as they dance to the soft R&B song playing on the speakers.

There’s a tap on his shoulder, and he turns around to see who he’s pretty sure is Shane Hollander’s dad holding his hand out for a shake. He takes it, dazed. “David,” the guy introduces himself, “Ilya’s father-in-law. Sorry, been wanting to try that one out.”

Cliff blinks, adjusting to the new reality he’s come to inhabit, where Roz has a father in law who looks like he probably works as a fucking tax attourney or something. He shakes David’s hand. “Cliff Marlow,” he says, “I played with Ilya in Boston.”

“Oh, believe me, I know,” David chuckles. Cliff swallows around the memory of barrelling into Hollander on the ice.

“Fuck,” and then he realizes. “Sorry, sorry. Uh, I’m really sorry, by the way. About that one time. I really didn’t mean it.”

David claps him on the shoulder. “All good, son. I think you did them,” he gestures to Roz and Hollander, “a solid, all things considered.”

Cliff can’t even begin to unpack what that’s supposed to mean, much less after however many glasses of champagne he’s had, so he just nods.

“I just wanted to say thank you,” David says, and Cliff is halfway worried he’ll keep going about the fucking hit, “for being such a good friend to Ilya in Boston. We’ve heard lots about you, and he’d never say so himself, but you’re important to him. Thanks for being here.”

And then he’s gone. Like some sort of spectre. The ghost of fathers future, disappearing into the scattered crowds. Cliff glances over to see Roz leaning in to Hollander with his hands over his shoulder, the two of them laughing at something only they can hear and probably only they find funny. He blames the tears in his eyes on pollen and champagne.