Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

F/M, M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid, Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationships:

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

Characters:

Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Rose Landry, Troy Barrett, Wyatt Hayes, Zane Boodram, Luca Haas, Evan Dykstra, Nick Chouinard, LaPointe (Game Changers), Ottawa Centaurs Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Ottawa Centaurs WAGs Ensemble (Game Changers), Harris Drover, Hayden Pike, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Slice of Life, Friendship/Love, Good Friend Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau Finds Out About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, POV Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Loyalty, Coming Out, Co-Dads Cliff and Ilya, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Depressed Ilya Rozanov, Angst, Fluff, Jealous Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander Walks Ilya Rozanov Like A Dog

Language:

English

Series:

Part 2 of the cliff chronicles

Stats:

Published: 2026-05-19 Updated: 2026-05-29 Words: 12,247 Chapters: 3/?

i jumped across for you

Summary

Over the summer, Cliff Marlow made the decision to leave the team he won a Cup with, his hometown, and the only place he'd ever known to move to a different country, a terrible team, and basically the middle of nowhere.

And so far, he hasn't regretted it for a single second.

Or: a continuation of i know the sound of your heart showing moments from Cliff and Ilya's first season with the centaurs, a couple of shocking revelations (though they really shouldn't have been), and, of course, Cliff Marlow being the most loyal friend anyone could ask for.

Chapter 1: cliff marlow is a PR nightmare

Chapter Notes

welcome to part 2 of the cliff chronicles, the sequel to i know the sound of your heart!! i hope you enjoy it! also, title is from yellow by coldplay :)

Cliff wasn't crazy.

Really, he wasn't. 

He believed that most of the time, despite all the tweets from @raidersreport and @newenglandnews about how he must be.

And he also wasn't a bitch, or a turncoat, or a piece of shit, or an asshole, or a "giant, ugly, bitch-ass, no good, mediocre winger" like @ihaterozanovandmarlow often tweeted.

He knew that he wasn't any of these things, of course. And he didn't regret his decision, really, he didn't. Not even when his cousin texted him a picture of his face plastered up on a dart board in his old favorite Boston bar, or when his sister called him fuming because a guy she'd been in a "situationship" with asked her if she was embarrassed that her brother was "not only stupid, but also a pussy".

He'd actually laughed after that one, especially when she told him that she broke things off between them, and then punched the guy exactly the way Cliff had insisted on teaching her before she went off to college.

The media was kind of a shit storm, even two months after his "traitorous defection" from Boston had been announced. And look, he really wasn't complaining, because he was good, yeah, and he'd made it to a couple Allstar games in his career, mostly during down years where some stars were injured...

But he wasn't generational talent, turn a whole franchise around good like another certain someone who was taking way more heat than he was.

Thankfully though, like most things when it came to the whole media aspect of being a professional athlete, Roz didn't give a fuck. And that whole careless, "let them talk" attitude had kind of started to rub off on Cliff.

Roz had always been kind of a menace, and Cliff had always been kind of a menace. It was part of how they'd become such fast friends. And unfortunately for both of their agents and publicists, the two of them only egged each other on. 

So it really shouldn't have been a surprise to anyone when they were both called into the Censplex an hour early on the first day of official practice for a meeting.

Cliff cooked them breakfast, six eggs each and an ungodly amount of bacon, and as a favor, Roz let him choose which of his cars he'd drive them to practice in. Roz had sold most of the super fast, super nonpractical ones before their move to Canada, but he kept the bright orange Spyder which had always been Cliff's favorite.

And they had to make the most out of driving it while the weather was still good, so of course Cliff chose that one.

They carpooled to the Censplex like they had most days of training camp and parked in the spot reserved for the captain of the team. They walked toward the conference room where they'd been told to meet still humming the Bad Bunny song that had been playing in the car before they got out.

"Hey Roz, I think I'm gonna learn Spanish," Cliff commented casually in the same way he usually did, so of course, Roz replied in the same way he usually did.

"Is this going to be like the time you were going to learn to make Beef Wellington and then almost burnt my house down?" Roz asked dryly as he held the door to the conference room open for Cliff.

Cliff punched him in the shoulder. "Dick," he exclaimed, "That was not entirely my fault and you know it!"

"Oh? Then whose fault was it?" Roz replied with an eyeroll.

They'd had this same conversation so many times since the incident happened two years ago, that it was honestly almost scripted at this point.

"You know that it was-" Cliff started and was promptly cut off by someone clearing their throat.

They both turned abruptly to see Harris, the social media guy, Coach Wiebe, a woman dressed in a fancy suit, and the three sibling owners of the Centaurs already seated around the conference room.

Okay, so maybe it was more serious than it seemed.

"Boys," Wiebe said, gesturing at the two empty chairs, "Please have a seat."

Cliff watched one of the siblings cough into their hand to hide an amused smile, and- okay, maybe not that serious.

They pulled the chairs back in sync before plopping down into them.

Wiebe nodded his head, "Harris," he said gesturing with his hand for him to go ahead.

"Cliff, Ilya," Harris greeted, addressing them both one by one with a tight smile.

"Uh oh, this looks serious." Roz commented lightly.

"Well it isn't unserious, but you're not in trouble..." Harris replied cheerily, "...yet."

"Okay." Roz replied hesitantly, glancing sideways at Cliff with a questioning look. 

Cliff simply shrugged.

"We're here to talk about your recent social media activity." Harris continued, glancing over to the woman in the fancy suit.

She pulled a manila file folder out of her brief case and set it on the table before introducing herself, "Cliff, Ilya, hello. My name is Grace Lewis. To put it simply, I work on the legal side of things for the Centaurs. I worked on both of your contracts, I help out with broadcasting agreements, and rather recently, I've been appointed interim head of the Crisis Communications team." She gave them a pointed look at this. "I am a very busy woman, and I would like very much to have this team dissolved."

Cliff gulped, and Roz, that fucker, raised his hand.

"Yes, Ilya?" Grace Lewis asked with the tone of voice that wasn't unkind, but also made it clear that she wouldn't tolerate any nonsense.

"If this is crisis meeting," he said, putting air quotes around the crisis part, "Then why are they here?" He pointed toward the owners.

Cliff slapped his arm down, "Dude." He reprimanded.

Grace sighed, "We'll get to that later," she said tightly, in a way that suggested that she knew the reason, but was not happy about it. 

As she opened the manila file folder and grabbed the rather thick stack of paper inside, Cliff took the time to glance at the expressions of the others in the room. 

The siblings were glancing amongst each other with poorly hidden smiles on their faces. Wiebe looked off into the distance as if he were bored and questioning why he had to be there. And Harris looked a little bit stressed, but also weirdly amused.

"Okay," Grace said, "Ilya, on August 8th, you replied to a tweet and said, and I quote, fuck your fantasy team."

Roz nodded his head contemplatively, "Yes, that sounds like me," he agreed.

"Why?" Grace asked exasperatedly, clearly not having expected him to respond so casually.

"Because fuck their fantasy team." Roz stated simply.

"You can't say that." Grace said.

"Can I say fudge your fantasy team?" Roz asked curiously.

Grace leveled him with a flat look, then turned to Cliff. "Cliff, also on August 8th, you responded to someone and said, and I quote, congrats to your wife for leaving you."

Cliff couldn't help the snort that came out, and he immediately placed his hand in front of his mouth and looked down at the table. He took two deep breaths, then looked up, "Sorry, that was- I didn't mean to. Sorry." He paused for three beats, and because he actually remembered that tweet, said, "But you gotta read the context on that one."

Grace sighed and read out, "Congrats to Cliff Marlow and Ilya Rozanov for throwing their careers in the fucking garbage. Good riddance, those ugly motherfuckers." She paused, "Why would you-"

"In my defense, he had recently divorced in his bio." Cliff defended.

Roz snickered, and Cliff couldn't help the slight smile on his face. "Nice one, Marly." Roz whispered.

"No!" Grace interjected, "Not nice one. You can't tweet things like that," she reprimanded.

Cliff nodded rather seriously and gave a mock salute, "Yes ma'am." He said.

"Okay next, for some reason, also on August 8th.  God, you two were on a fucking roll," Grace muttered under her breath, "Ilya, you tweeted out, and I quote, okay and I will bet my whole signing bonus on Shane Hollander scoring zero goals this season. See? We can both say stupid shit."

Roz shrugged, "I don't see what the problem is."

"Ilya, you can't bet on hockey. You can't bet on sports period. You can't talk about betting on sports, hell, you can't even think about betting on sports, so help me God." Grace fumed.

"Okay, but read context, was very dumb." Roz replied.

"I'm not reading the context! The context does not matter. You two can't just tweet whatever you want just because-" Grace ranted.

"Oh, wait! I remember that one!" Cliff cut in.

And he hadn't meant to interrupt, really, he hadn't, but that one had been kind of funny, and he'd helped Roz brainstorm the response after all.

"It was something like, BRB guys, betting my whole life savings on Rozanov never winning another cup in his pathetic, traitorous life, because fuck that guy, and fuck that pathetic, shitty ass franchise." Cliff recalled.

A loud laugh cut through the room. It was the kind of laugh that got out despite one's best efforts, the type of hysterical, full of glee laugh that wasn't really meant to be heard by anyone but your closest friends.

"Sorry, I'm so sorry." One of the siblings cut in. It was the girl, the youngest, if Cliff remembered correctly. There was a smile spread across her face, and judging by the trembling upper lips of her brothers, they were struggling to hold their laughs in too. She laughed again before smacking her hand over her mouth, "It's not funny, I'm sorry." She said in the tone of voice that indicated that she was lying, especially when she let out another laugh.

One of her brothers snorted.

And then the other one repeated, "Pathetic ass franchise."

It was the straw that broke the camel's back. Suddenly, all three of them were doubled over on the table with laughter, clutching each other's arms in an attempt to bring air back into their lungs, wheezing and laughing with unbridled joy.

Grace rolled her eyes, and then a resigned smile took its place on her face too.

When the siblings finally calmed down, she resumed, "I understand you both are tweeting funny things, but I have a whole stack of tweets here that range from slightly to overwhelmingly problematic," she held up the stack, shaking it for emphasis. "I'm not asking you not to tweet, I'm asking you not to tweet things that make our," she pointed gestured between herself and Harris, "lives more difficult."

"Okay, so don't tweet about betting, or divorce, or fucking fantasy teams." Roz stated.

Cliff hit him in the arm, "Dude, don't say it like that." 

"Like what?" Roz asked.

"Like, you know, fucking fantasy teams." Cliff replied, gesturing with his hands.

"Yes, Marly, you fucking idiot. I just said this. No fucking fantasy teams." Roz replied exasperated.

"No, but like. You're saying it like you're gonna fuck their fantasy team." Cliff replied with a big grin.

Roz's face changed and his eyebrows raised contemplatively, "Well, depends who is on it." He replied mischievously with a sly grin.

Cliff burst out into laughter, "Rozy, you fucking dog."

Another throat was cleared. They turned their attention back to Grace. "Media training. Mandatory. Every Monday an hour before practice for the next six weeks." She said sternly.

They both nodded. Maybe a younger Cliff or Roz would have complained, but it didn't seem very optional, and Cliff wasn't a big fan of wasting his breath. Plus, if their training sessions resembled anything close to the one today, with the opportunity to be scolded all while reliving their biggest hits, maybe it wouldn't be so bad.

"Yes ma'am," Cliff and Roz said in unison.

"Marlow, Rozanov, we wanted to officially meet you both in person." One of the brothers said from across the table.

Cliff nodded. They had met briefly over zoom, mostly as a formality when Cliff officially signed his contract. If he remembered correctly, this brother was John. Or maybe he was Logan, and the other brother was John?

"We're very excited to have you both on the team. Despite being lifelong Cens fans, I mean, we were born into it after all, we've always enjoyed watching your chemistry on ice, especially during your 2014 Cup run." Logan, or John, whoever the other brother was added in.

"And you better prove that Twitter idiot wrong." The sister said, Cliff was pretty confident her name was Clara. "Like Logan said, we were born into this pathetic ass franchise, and it's about damn time this city got a Cup."

A smile broke across Cliff's face at that, and not just because he finally knew which sibling was which.

"We'll get you that Cup, or die on the ice trying, I promise you that." Cliff replied with a nod and a smile.

"I have recently been told I am not allowed to talk about sports betting..." Roz said with a confident smirk on his face, "But if I could, then I would say I'd bet my whole salary on a Cup in the next-" he shrugged and tilted his head side to side, "-three to five years."

Grace let out a huff of annoyance at that, but there was a begrudging smile on her face.

Chapter End Notes

i'm not making any promises on a chapter count or frequency of updates for this one. i'm more so treating these chapters as sort of extending epilogues to i know the sound of your heart (which started off as just a writing exercise haha). i do already have a few ideas for specific situations to put the boys in (and yes, cliff finding out about ilya and shane is coming). i'm mostly just having fun with this fic, so subscribe if you want to follow along!

Chapter 2: cliff marlow goes to therapy

Chapter Summary

cliff deals with the reality of uprooting his life, gets a little bit sad, and is maybe a little bit smarter than people give him credit for

Chapter Notes

wowow, i set out with a plan to write this cute little bromance chapter and instead ended up with almost 7k words. i hope you guys enjoy it <3

Now, as previously established, Cliff Marlow was not the brightest, nor the sharpest, but also decently important and moderately notable, he was not devious, nor was he manipulative. Maybe he was a little bit calculated, but hey, he was a professional athlete in a sport that glorified racism, sexism, masculinity, and homophobia. There were worse things to be.

The beginning of the season came with a couple things Cliff had not experienced in a long while. The first, was losing.

Sure, Boston hadn't been all too great when he'd joined, but they'd had a solid veteran core, an all pro goalie, were wildly under their salary cap, and well, it was hard to stay bad when you had Ilya fucking Rozanov centering your first line.

Ottawa was a different story entirely.

The team had essentially been gutted at the end of last season, leaving them with hardly any veteran players, a salary cap that was approaching its limit due to the contracts of Cliff, Roz, and all the new players they'd added. The only real stroke of luck they'd happened upon was the trade of one of their big name, but aging defenseman for Toronto's backup goalie who was a diamond in the rough, and Troy Barrett, an apparently reformed asshole forward that Toronto was still paying the bulk of the contract for.

Troy wasn't a bad player by any means, so Toronto essentially giving him away for very little in return save for a chronically injured defenseman and a salary cap hit was still something Cliff hadn't quite been able to wrap his head around.

Nevertheless, the horrors persisted.

The first game of the season, they lost to the Admirals 4-1. Cliff had assisted Roz on Ottawa's lone goal of the game.

The second game of the season, they lost 5-2 to San Francisco. That time, Roz had assisted Cliff for one goal, and Nick Chouinard, an Ottawa defenseman, had accidentally buried the puck in the bottom left corner of the goal in trying to connect with Cliff on a pass during what was essentially garbage time.

The third game of the season, they lost 7-1 to the Voyageurs. It was somewhat of a brutal beatdown for an already low team. Cliff hadn't been quite sure why exactly the Voyageurs were playing like it was game 7 of the Stanley Cup Finals until late in the third period when Gilbert Comeau had checked Rozanov from behind, sending him sprawling across the ice.

The way he'd growled, "Serves you right, you Russian cocksucking piece of shit. Though it's not as fun beating you when you're hardly even competition," while the ref blew the whistle and motioned to send him off to the penalty box still rang out in Cliff's mind sometimes during an especially hard practice where it just felt like nothing was working.

The only thing that could bring him any relief was when he thumbed over the slight raised scar from where he'd split his knuckles open punching the shit out of Comeau immediately after that comment before Zane Boodram had pulled him off.

Cliff had gotten himself a five minute major for it. Shane Hollander had scored two goals during the time Cliff had sat in the sin bin, still fuming.

But the worst of it, was the fourth game they played where they lost to Winnipeg off an OT goal from a puck that bounced off one of their own defenseman's skates into the goal.

4-3.

The closeness of it was what really broke Cliff. He had broken his stick over his knee, for the first time since juniors, in the locker room after the game, and stopped himself just short of throwing his helmet against the wall.

The second thing, that Cliff had not experienced in a while, was the sadness.

It wasn't all consuming, or debilitating. It was just present and constant. It was like a subtle weight, pressing down on his shoulders that followed him around, and made him feel slower.

Almost like he was out swimming in the ocean, trying to kick his way to shore, but he was wearing his heavy winter coat and his feet were covered in shoes that were dragging him back, making it hard to float or make any forward progress.

He talked to Rose about it, and she encouraged him to book an appointment with a therapist.

His initial reaction had been something ugly and unkind.

Rose was away, filming a movie somewhere in the middle of Georgia, the country, not the state. Because of time zones, Cliff's practice and game schedule, and Rose's filming schedule, they'd barely had any time to talk in the past two weeks.

Cliff hadn't wanted to spend their limited time talking about what a failure he'd felt like recently, but it had just slipped out when she'd asked him about the season and offered condolences for their close loss to Winnipeg. Maybe if she was less of a hockey fanatic, and hadn't known exactly which questions to ask or what buttons to push, he could've gotten away with his non-answer and skipped the ensuing argument.

But she was, a hockey fanatic, that was, and somehow only six months into dating she knew him well enough to read him like a book. So, she'd pressed about how hard it must be mentally to go from such an established, winning team like Boston, to, well, the shit show that was the Ottawa Centaurs.

And Cliff had shared about that sad feeling with her, how he sometimes felt like he was stuck in place, not quite drowning, but not making any progress either, and then she had suggested he look into a therapist.

"Therapy?" He'd scoffed, "Rosie, that girly shit isn't gonna help me, I just need to start winning some fucking games."

He didn't really know why he said it. He wasn't sure that he ever would.

Because despite what it may have sounded like, and the awful way it had come off, he really didn't have a problem with therapy. When other people went.

After last year's whole ER situation with Roz, Cliff had driven him to a couple appointments in Boston and waited in the car, twiddling his thumbs until he finished.

Cliff hadn't really asked what they were there for, and Roz hadn't really explained anything. All Cliff knew, was that every time after, he got a text from Shane Hollander asking how Rozanov was doing, which he responded to as honestly as he thought Roz would be okay with.

Sometimes the answer was fine, sometimes the answer was clearly upset but not talking about it, and one time the answer was 'idk man, I think he was crying'.

And then one day, Roz had stormed out thirty minutes early and told him to drive, so Cliff drove, and they never went back.

He also knew that his sister had been seeing a therapist on and off since she was 13. Sometimes it was weekly, though his mom told him lately it was just monthly, and he had sent her a text telling her he was happy for her, or something or other.

He was also pretty sure his parents had seen a couple's therapist for a few months back when he was 16, and his dad was putting a lot of pressure on him about going pro.

All he knew, was that one day his dad had apologized for all the yelling and the pressure, and never mentioned anything negative about Cliff's performance in games again, even when he had objectively awful ones.

So, yeah, Cliff really didn't know why it was different when it came to therapy for him, but it just was. But he knew he fucked up with that comment, he had known it the second it left his mouth, even before Rose had promptly hung up on him.

He spent an absurd amount of money to have flowers delivered to her trailer the next day, and she responded with a text saying that while she was upset and her feelings were hurt, she appreciated the flowers, and hoped they could revisit it again with an open mind during their next call.

Cliff knew it was more gracious than he deserved, and thanked his lucky stars she hadn't broken up with him just for that, because god knew she could do a hell of a lot better than him.

He called his mom for advice on what to do, and she had given him the metaphorical, over the phone version of an ass whooping.

"Clifford Marlow, you are nearly 30 years old! Don't tell me you still need me to book your fucking doctor's appointments for you!" She'd screamed at him.

He wanted to protest that Clifford wasn't his full name, but they'd had the conversation many times before.

He knew she'd just abhor the fact that his father had wanted to name him Cliff for some odd reason, and that simply saying Cliff when she was angry with him didn't sound serious enough.

He had dropped his head, his chin falling nearly to his chest, muttered something about how he could do it himself, and then done exactly all that could be expected of a guy who got paid to have his shit rocked for a living. He booked an appointment with the team doctor.

He got to the rink an hour early for practice, and walked into his appointment.

"Hey Cliff, what's bothering you?" Dr. Calloway, the team doctor asked him cheerily.

"My head." Cliff replied reluctantly and rather unhelpfully.

"Oh shoot, did you get hit at practice? Wiebe didn't tell me anything about it-" Dr. Calloway started, eyes widening in alarm as he grabbed his penlight out from his pocket to check Cliff's pupils.

"No, no." Cliff cut in quickly. "I mean, like, inside my head. Like my thoughts and stuff."

"Oh!" Dr. Calloway exclaimed with slight surprise, "Well I, uh, I'm glad you trusted me, to come to me with this. I'm an orthopedic specialist, so I'm afraid I can't be of much help, but I can reach out to some colleagues and get a few referrals for you?"

Cliff guessed that made sense. He supposed the guy who taped his shoulder up when it was sore probably wouldn't actually be able to fix whatever was going on in his head, but it had been worth a try. And it seemed like now he was getting referrals, so that was good.

That was how he ended up with three appointments scheduled around practice times later that week.

The first one went just about how he'd expected from all the shows he'd watched. He laid back on the overwhelmingly cliché leather sofa, clasped his hands lightly across his stomach, stared up at the ceiling, and let himself be questioned about his childhood.

It felt like the lady was trying to create some source of childhood trauma that correlated perfectly with his symptoms now. Searching for a reason that wasn't there that could explain why he was saddled with a depression because of all the games they'd lost.

Cliff was perfectly aware that as far as childhoods went, he'd had a pretty close to perfect one, so at the first mention of an overreliance on his mother, he had to hold in a scoff and the urge to walk out of the room thirty minutes early. He wasn't overly reliant on his mom, he was just fucking Italian for god sake.

His second appointment went much differently.

The guy, his therapist, he guessed, was 10, maybe 15 years older than him. His office felt more like a man cave than a sterile, clinical room like Cliff had come to expect.

There was an Ottawa Centaurs flag hanging in one corner of the room, a Detroit Lions one in the other, and he opened up the session with a comment that brought an unexpected laugh from Cliff.

"Shit game against Winnipeg, dude. Gotta clean up that penalty kill." He said.

"Seems like you're a fan of shit teams," Cliff commented, nodding his head over at the Lions flag.

"Such is my lot in life." His therapist, Dr. Brooks, who told Cliff to just call him Dante, said. "You want anything to drink?"

There was a mini fridge in the room filled with a random assortment of sodas, waters, flavored and not, and nonalcoholic beer. Cliff asked him about it as he took one.

"Ah, well, obviously I can't drink at work, but I work with a lot of former athletes who grew up in a culture where talking about your feelings, or getting emotional, isn't normal or accepted." Dante explained kindly.

Cliff nodded slowly.

"For some, it's easier to talk in a setting like this if it feels like they're just having a beer and shooting the shit with a bro. And once they get more comfortable, then we can begin to unpack their issues, what's making it hard to ask for help, and reframe toxic values and ideals." Dante finished.

Cliff nodded a little quicker this time and rubbed the corner of his eye against his shirt sleeve, "Yeah, that- yeah, that's good, I think." He said softly.

After their initial hour session finished, he called to cancel the one the next day with another session with Dante already scheduled in his calendar for the next week.

He called Rose that weekend, their first chance to talk again after last week's call had ended so poorly. They started off easily, with pleasantries and the obligatory "how was your week" before they descended into silence.

Cliff sucked in a breath of air, "I have something to say, and it's kind of difficult for me to say, so please just let me say it before you respond."

"Okay," Rose said warily.

"I'm having a hard time with all of the losing. It sucks, and I'm not used to it. It wasn't even this bad when I started for Boston, and I'm sorry it's made me a little bit awful. And I'm sorry about last week. I found a therapist that I like, and we have our second session scheduled for Tuesday, and I'm not ready to talk about it yet, but I think it's going to help. So I'm sorry again, but thank you for suggesting it." Cliff breathed out slowly at the end, wincing slightly as he waited for her reply.

The seconds it took her to respond ticked by agonizingly slow, he felt like he was stuck in molasses, just waiting for her to call him weak, or a coward, or a pussy.

"I'm proud of you, Cliff." Rose said sweetly.

Cliff let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, and smiled softly once he realized that she hadn't called him any of those awful things or thought any lower of him.

"If you ever want to talk about it with me, I'm here for you, always." She said the last part softly. "But I think I understand where you're coming from, and I won't bring up hockey unless you do first."

"Thank you, Rosie. I lo- appreciate you." Cliff said, biting his tongue on the word he'd almost let out, because yes, it was true, but six months felt a little soon, and he didn't want to rush anything or stress her out if she wasn't there yet.

Rose hummed lightly and changed the subject, graciously ignoring his almost slip up.

She told him all about the movie she was filming, the annoying director who kept giving contradictory notes for her performance, and her costar who for some reason annoyingly performed better when he was half drunk which made her scrunch up her nose during their kissing scenes from the smell of liquor on his breath.

In return, Cliff danced around the topic of how many games Ottawa had lost now, instead choosing to tell her about funny moments from practice, and how Zane Boodram, who went by Bood, had asked for his and Roz's help in planning a cook out for team bonding.

They talked until Rose was yawning, her answers came slower, and Cliff was sure she was falling asleep. And right before they were about to hang up, she said, "Hey, Cliff."

"Yeah?" He replied softly, glancing fondly at the contact photo he had for her that was lit up, magnified on his phone.

"I lo-appreciate you too." She told him before hanging up the phone, leaving him starry eyed and imagining the little smirk he knew she must've been wearing when she said it.

Two weeks later, they won their first game, and coincidentally, had the team bonding cook out later that night. Cliff was mostly pleased that they'd won the game, because it meant the cook out would be a happy, celebratory occasion rather than a solemn, mournful one where they all pretended if they liked each other more it would help them win.

All in all, it went way better than Cliff expected. It was weird, in a way, to hang out with his teammates in a non-practice setting. He realized he had a lot in common with Bood and Wyatt Hayes, the backup goalie from Toronto, and they shared a couple beers while manning the grill together.

The food was delicious, spirits were high, and they ended the night with a friendly competition to see who had the best poker face while taking a sip of Roz's infamous Russian vodka.

Cliff and Roz were practically hanging off each other in stitches laughing the whole time while they watched their teammates make various faces of disgust, pain, and the occasional existential crisis face.

Cliff laughed in Roz's face when the team collectively decided he was banned from winning the competition given that he was Russian, and it was his vodka.

And then, he made an indignant face while Roz laughed in his face when the team also decided that Cliff was banned from winning given that he'd been Roz's best friend for years, had essentially developed an immunity to the sharp bite of the liquor, and was basically an honorary Russian.

He half-heartedly clapped when everyone voted Troy Barrett as the winner of the "most nonchalant gasoline swallowing face" competition.

Sometime after 10 pm, Cliff realized that Roz was ready to go despite the fact that everyone, save for the teammates with children, was still hanging around.

So, despite not really understanding why, Cliff made the rounds saying goodbye, gave an extra thanks to Bood for hosting, and promised to swing by in the morning to help clean up.

The drive home was pretty silent, and Cliff got the feeling from the impatient tapping on the steering wheel and the way Roz went around fifteen over the speed limit the whole way home, that he was irritated.

And which, yeah, that brought up the third thing. The whole Roz of it all.

Cliff wasn't sure exactly when things had changed, but they had. Not all at once, but slowly, Roz had stopped hanging out with him on the couch at night. It had started off slowly, maybe a couple nights a week, but now, Cliff struggled to remember the last time they had really hung out with each other outside of meal times, or practice, which Cliff didn't really count.

It was also becoming increasingly common that on days off, Roz was either gone out somewhere all day and all night without inviting Cliff along, which rude, or he was lying in bed all day sleeping on and off, only eating when Cliff brought food to his room and practically forced it down his throat.

Cliff wasn't sure exactly what to do about it or how to fix it. He asked Rose about it once, and she vaguely suggested he just ask him about it. Frustratingly, Dante had suggested the same thing.

Of course, being the thick-skulled, bone-headed hockey player he was, he ignored them. And instead, looked for houses for sale nearby. Because maybe the problem was that Roz wanted his own space back, that he had grown tired of having Cliff around all the time, but had no idea how to kick him out after Cliff had moved his whole fucking life to a new country for him.

It was late Monday night, and Roz had gone to his room hours ago, when Cliff sat at a barstool by the kitchen counter, with his headphones on and Zillow pulled up on his computer.

He clicked through the different houses that were available nearby, but there was something wrong with all of them. Too small, too big, too expensive, too many windows, not enough windows, too dark, too… sad.

He landed on one that he couldn't find something immediately wrong with and felt his eyes prick with tears as he pictured contacting the agent for the house to set up a tour. It reminded him of his old house in Boston, the one that had never really felt like home.

Not in the way that this house felt like home. But maybe Roz didn't want him here anymore, and he didn't want to fuck up their friendship any further by overstaying his welcome.

Because maybe, just maybe, if he moved out, then they would have more excuse to plan things together again, to go out and be them and just-

He was interrupted by the loud shattering noise of a glass that just barely eclipsed the music in his ears. He ripped his headphones off and turned to find Roz standing behind him, looking slightly shocked, shards of glass and puddle of water at his feet.

"Shit!" Cliff cursed, "Okay, hold on, stay there. Let me get our shoes."

He pulled himself up onto the counter and rolled himself over it until he was sure the shards of glass wouldn't have reached, before quickly striding over to the front door where they kept their shoes.

He slipped on his running shoes, and grabbed a pair of Roz's slides before thinking better of it and dropping them for a pair of closed toed shoes.

They cleaned the mess up together silently, Cliff's laptop glowing brightly with the contact information for the agent of the house still pulled up on the screen.

With the dustpan containing the shards of glass emptied into the trash bin outside, and the floor thoroughly vacuumed, they finally spoke about it.

"So, you don't like it here." Roz stated flatly, his mouth downturned in a sort of frown, but his face showing no emotion otherwise.

"Rozy, it's not that, I just-" Cliff started, and internally cursed himself. He was getting better at expressing his feelings and emotions in therapy, but it had only been three sessions.

And he didn't know how to say that he didn't want to overstay his welcome without sounding like he was guilting him, or making it so that Roz had to reassure him that he wanted him there- or worse, find out that he didn't.

"Is whatever." Roz shrugged carelessly, "Do what you want. I don't care."

It stung. Cliff opened his mouth, and no words came out.

Roz turned and walked back to his room without a replacement glass of water, and Cliff let himself marinate in the hurt as he booked a tour of the house for Thursday.

Practice the next day was awful. Cliff and Roz were out of sync in a way they hadn't really been ever. Even their first few practices together when they'd started playing together in Boston had been better than this. Because at least then, Roz looked at him.

Cliff walked into his weekly therapy session that afternoon angry.

He was sure it was rolling off of him in waves, and if it hadn't been clear from his clipped "Fine," when Dante asked how he was doing, it was painfully obvious by the way he angrily popped open the tab on his nonalcoholic beer and accidentally ripped it off the can.

Dante simply looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

"Do you do couples therapy?" Cliff blurted out as he ran his hand through his hair in frustration.

"I do, but if you're looking for a couples therapist, I'd have to refer you out, Cliff." Dante said gently.

"Why?" Cliff asked rather harshly, and he was aware that he was being a bit of a baby, but it had been hard enough for him to accept individual therapy, and he wasn't sure he wanted to go off on a search for a whole new person when he had one that already perfectly understood him.

"It's generally unadvisable because it could compromise this as a safe space for you, and your partner may not be as open to the process given that I am your therapist after all." Dante answered calmly.

Cliff let out a big sigh.

"Do you want to tell me what's going on with you and Rose? We can talk it through, and then I can give you a referral for one of my colleagues?" Dante asked.

Cliff let out a chuckle at that and felt most of the tension dissolve in his shoulders. "No, Rose is- she's fine, perfect, great even. I meant for me and Rozy."

"Ah," Dante said with one of those big sighs that meant continue except Cliff didn't know how to continue without sounding like a needy, clingy, whiny girlfriend.

Cliff said nothing.

"Well, have you talked to him?" Dante asked slowly.

Cliff wasn't proud of the intentional, barely audible way he responded, "No."

"I see." Dante settled, "Well, why don’t you tell me what's got you going nuclear?"

"N-nuclear?" Cliff sputtered out ridiculously.

"I mean, kinda dude." Dante shrugged, "You haven't even talked to the guy you consider to be your best friend of eight years about what's going on, and now you want to spring couples therapy on him?"

"You were the one who said that we act like a domestic partnership!" Cliff exclaimed slightly exasperated. And it was true.

In their second session, Cliff had talked about a typical day in his life, which included waking up at 7, cooking breakfast for himself and Roz, riding to practice while talking strategy about their upcoming games, practice, lunch, home, going for a run to shake out his muscles if he was sore, cooking dinner for himself and Roz, watching an episode of something or a movie, bed.

"Cliff." Dante said, leveling him with a flat look. "I don't understand why you're so allergic to communication specifically when it comes to Rozanov."

Cliff sighed and took a long swig of his nonalcoholic beer. "Rozy and I just aren't good at emotions and shit. And I don't wanna push him away by being too much. I already kinda feel like I'm losing him to Hollander, and I don't want to make things worse."

If Dante was surprised at all to learn that Roz was friends, and apparently very close with Hollander, he didn't let it show. Instead, he sighed and folded his hands behind his head as he stretched out his arms and asked, "If a rookie makes a mistake in practice, what do you do?"

"Try and explain what he did wrong, help him correct it." Cliff responded automatically.

"I mean, come on. He's a professional hockey player, shouldn't he be able to figure out what he did wrong himself?" Dante challenged.

"Yeah, but- he's a rookie. Like yeah, he's a professional, but there's always things to learn. Hell, I'm still learning." Cliff replied.

"Yeah, but shouldn't he just know?" Dante questioned.

"No! Sometimes you don't realize you're doing something wrong until someone points it out, cause like, you can't see yourself on ice and film only helps so much." Cliff answered logically.

"But why do you need to tell him he's doing it wrong?" Dante pressed.

"Because if he doesn't know, then he'll keep doing it, and that could hurt the team in a game." Cliff said.

"Exactly." Dante responded, "So by that logic, if someone upsets you, you have to tell them you're upset, so they know to fix it, right?"

Cliff groaned, "Yeah, but I'm only upset, because I'm worried that I did something to upset him, and he's not telling me what it is, so I can't-" Cliff paused, "-fix it."

Oh.

"So, you understand the importance of talking now?" Dante asked with a somewhat self-satisfied smirk on his face.

"He could talk to me too." Cliff grumbled under his breath, half irritated that he had fallen into the elaborate trap his therapist had set up for him and guided him through like a maze, and half annoyed that he hadn't just sucked it up and talked to Roz earlier.

The session finished out with Cliff talking a little bit about their last game, a little bit about how he missed his family in Boston, a little bit about what he could do to make that weight on his shoulders feel a little less, and a little bit about strategies to approach his conversation with Roz openly and calmly.

By the time he walked out of the man cave resembling room, he felt 20 pounds lighter than he had felt going in.

And then, he heard the sharp, familiar cadence and intonation from an open door that he understood so little, and yet meant everything to him.

He almost knocked the door off the hinges as he burst back into Dante's room. "There's a therapist here who speaks Russian?"

Dante looked up from the notepad, that he was no doubt writing something on about Cliff, and startled briefly. "Yes, Dr. Molchalina. Why?"

When Cliff got home after his session, Roz was in the kitchen.

"So, you go see the house yet?" He asked somewhat bitterly.

"Rozy, can we talk?" Cliff asked neutrally, ignoring the fact that the phrase unnervingly reminded him of the times he'd said it before to girlfriends he'd had that never lasted very long.

Roz scoffed, "You can move out if you like, Marlow. Does not need to be a fucking conversation."

Cliff resisted the urge to roll his eyes. If only Dante were here to witness this, he'd understand exactly what Cliff had been afraid of!

"Rozy, I haven't even gone to see the house yet. I don't even really like it that much." Cliff told him.

"Oh, so you don't ask to drive separate to practice on Tuesday's because you've been touring houses with a realtor?" Roz asked him darkly, as if he'd already decided that's what Cliff had been doing.

"No!" Cliff exclaimed, "Are you kidding? Did you seriously think that's what I was doing?"

Roz had the decency to look a little guilty at that. "Maybe."

"Rozy, I've been going to therapy. Every Tuesday." Cliff assured him, "That's why I asked to drive separately."

"So you don't want to move out?" Roz asked hesitantly.

"No!" Cliff replied quickly.

"Then why look at houses?" Roz questioned, and Cliff thought he saw a flush of hurt pass over Roz's face.

"I don't know, I thought maybe you were getting tired of having me here." Cliff replied vulnerably, looking down at the floor to avoid looking at Roz's face.

"What? Why would you think that?" Roz asked, voice full of confusion.

"You never wanna hang out anymore. On off days, you either disappear or stay in bed all day, and I guess it just felt like you were avoiding me." Cliff said, because fuck it, if they were having the talk then he was going all in.

The only way to get through it was to go through or whatever the saying was. And at least if they could figure this all out now, then maybe they could avoid having another talk because things got misconstrued the first time.

"That is- I don't- Marly," Roz said softly, and Cliff looked up. "I don't want you to move out. I am sorry, I have been bad-"

"You're not bad, Rozy." Cliff cut in quickly, "I just was worried I was annoying you."

Roz looked taken aback at that. "Marly, you are my best friend," He stated as if it were obvious.

"You're mine too." Cliff replied instantly. And then, "I think we should go to couples therapy."

Roz burst out laughing, and Cliff, well, he couldn't help but join in.

And after they were all laughed out, he clarified, "Obviously not like, actually couples therapy, and I know you're not the biggest fan of it, but if we're living together, it might be helpful to at least try it, and like express our expectations and shit, you know?"

Roz sighed deeply and pinched the bridge of his nose, "Fucking North Americans," he muttered under his breath, then said, "Fine, yes. We will go, one session."

Cliff scheduled their session for Thursday right after he called to cancel the house tour.

As a fairly well-behaved kid, Cliff had never faked being sick to stay home from school. And he had never been all that great of a liar.

But he was dating an actress now, one of the most famous in the world despite what Roz would try to argue, so he couldn't be a complete talentless moron.

He gave some passable excuse for why they needed to drive to practice separately, something about social media obligations with Harris.

And during practice, he put on a hell of a show faking coming down with an illness. By the middle of practice, he was fake wheezing in a way that had Wiebe telling him to go get dressed and go home.

Roz skated after him and stopped him before he walked into the locker room.

Cliff panted like his life depended on it and pressed the back of his hand up against his forehead like he was checking for a fever.

"You want me to get soup?" Roz asked, his eyebrows furrowing in concern.

"No, it's fine. I can order delivery," Cliff replied, letting out a pitiful cough at the end.

"Okay," Roz said, glancing over him and looking worried, "I will be home after practice."

"Wait," Cliff said, and made sure to cough again to really sell it, "You should still go, you know, to the appointment." He lowered his voice so none of their teammates would hear as they skated past.

Roz let out an exasperated noise, "Marly, you big idiot. It is not couples therapy if is just me," he hissed.

Cliff really should've won an Academy award for the pleading look he displayed when he said, "Yeah, but I already paid for the session. They won't refund it if we cancel so late, and they might be irritated if we no-show, so you might as well just go."

Roz shot him an irritated look that slightly softened once Cliff pitifully fake coughed into the corner of his arm.

"Fine, fine." He groaned, "But you owe me."

Cliff bit back the retort that it was actually probably Roz that would owe him, especially since he'd paid for a couples therapy turned individual therapy session that was absolutely not cheap for him. He also choked down the victorious smile threatening to bloom across his face.

"See you at home later, Rozy." He settled on, and then turned to walk to the locker room, straightening up his hunched posture once he was behind closed doors.

When Roz got home later, finding Cliff on the couch watching reruns of Friends, eating a bowl of buttered popcorn, and looking surprisingly- or maybe not so surprisingly- not sick, he growled at him, "Fuck you, Marly."

"Hey! You can't say that to me! I'm sick!" Cliff replied, glaring as Roz stole the bowl of popcorn from his hands and stuffed a handful in his mouth.

"Sick my ass." Roz scoffed as he swallowed the kernels, "You are a big, dumb idiot, and an asshole, and very stupid, and I hate you," he continued.

Cliff let out a loud snort as he reached over to where Roz had plopped down on the couch and stole the bowl of popcorn back, "That bad, huh?" he asked.

Roz's only response was an indignant noise, and then he grabbed the remote to turn up the volume.

They finished the episode in silence.

"I'm going back Tuesday." Roz stated as another episode started.

"Okay."

"After practice." Roz continued.

"Okay."

"I'll drive." Roz stated.

"Sounds good." Cliff replied with a shrug, keeping his self-satisfied smirk hidden internally.

The silence between them stretched another few minutes while the episode played up on screen.

Cliff stood with a big sigh as his knees cracked a little, "I'll go make dinner."

Roz didn't reply.

It was only when they were sitting at the table later, eating the copious amount of ground beef Cliff had cooked that Roz finally said, "Fuck you, Marly. Fucking Russian? I hate you."

Cliff smiled and said, "Love you too, brother."

So for the next couple months, when they weren't away on road trips, Cliff's Tuesday routine consisted of waking up at 7, cooking breakfast for himself and Roz, riding to practice while talking strategy about their upcoming games, practice, lunch, driving to therapy with Roz, therapy separately, driving home with Roz, going for a run to shake out his muscles if he was sore, cooking dinner for himself and Roz, watching an episode of something or a movie, bed.

Cliff was still a bit sad sometimes.

It was hard to admit that maybe all the losing wasn't the only reason.

He had basically completely uprooted his life and moved away from most of his support system, he only occasionally got to see his very famous girlfriend, and he was adjusting to a new environment where he didn't know anyone really except for his best friend.

But, somewhat surprisingly, therapy really helped. Sometimes after sessions, Dante gave him homework.

Hang out with a teammate outside of practice.

He got drinks with Bood at a bar just a few minutes drive from his and Roz's house. They got roped into staying for trivia, and the next week they invited the whole team. Between the fifteen of them that showed up, they managed to snag the $15 gift card for third place.

Go explore somewhere new on an off day.

He dragged Roz out of bed and practically shoved him into the shower. Then, he drove them to a coffee shop twenty minutes across town that was said to have won some award for latte art. Cliff hadn't even been aware they gave out awards for that type of thing, but Roz had gotten a latte with a dog on it and smiled so contagiously that Cliff couldn't keep from laughing. He had started all over again later that night when he got a notification that he'd been tagged in an Instagram post, and he opened the app to see Roz had posted a picture of the latte and tagged him on the dog. They made a habit of exploring new coffee shops on off days.

You're a rich athlete, Cliff. Go see your family, or fly them out.

Cliff spontaneously booked his parents a flight to Ottawa to visit for the weekend. They went to a few museums, and bought a couple plants for the house to make it feel more homey. On their final night in Ottawa, his parents dragged him and Roz out to a fancy steak house and told the waiter they were celebrating because their boys had won their last hockey game. The waiter brought them a cheesecake on the house, Roz teared up a little bit, and Cliff slipped the waiter his card on his way to the bathroom, because he hadn't once let his parents pay for a meal after he'd signed his first contract.

Reach out to your old teammates.

Cliff texted his old group chat with St. Simon, Hammersmith, and Connors before their away game in Boston, telling them that him and Roz would be at one of the few sports neutral dive bars in Boston that didn't hate them after the game. St. Simon sent him the middle finger emoji and the other two didn't respond, but they showed up after the game anyway. They told Cliff and Roz that the two of them had to pay for their drinks and proceeded to order the highest shelf liquor on the menu. Cliff was too happy to see them to even pretend to be upset about it.

So yeah, maybe Cliff still wasn't the brightest or the sharpest. He certainly definitely still had moments where he put his foot right into his mouth and said something stupid as shit. And maybe his plan to get Roz to go see the Russian speaking therapist had been a little bit calculating in a way that bordered on devious. But again, professional athlete in a sometimes backwards, awful sport.

There were way, way worse things he could be, but therapy was helping him see that there were also ways he could better himself too.

Chapter End Notes

i know you're all eyeing that cliff marlow finds out tag and glaring at me real suspiciously right now, but i promise it's coming guys!

Chapter 3: cliff marlow gets hurt

Chapter Summary

cliff is more than a little bored after a mild injury sidelines him for a couple weeks. he gets a surprise visitor,

Chapter Notes

Cliff had always been good at hockey, some would even argue that he was great, but not great in the same way that Ilya Rozanov or Shane Hollander were to be the greats one day. No, more so great in the sense that he was definitely better than the average professional hockey player- and one had to at least be good to become a professional hockey player- so, good had never quite felt accurate to describe him.

But in the same vein, great hadn't quite felt accurate either. Especially not when he had spent his entire professional career playing alongside someone who played so beautifully that he nearly transcended hard drawn, years long team loyalties. Because how could you watch Ilya Rozanov play hockey and not feel something?

And sure, most of the time that feel something was anger, or frustration, or pure, unadulterated hatred because "fuck that guy for scoring a hat trick on my hockey team", but there were plenty of times that fans around the country, no matter their personal feelings about the guy, couldn't help but smile while watching Ilya Rozanov play. Because often, it was clear even with the quick camera cuts zooming around the ice to follow the puck, that Ilya Rozanov played with joy.

He laughed while he chirped, he grinned when he scored, he smirked when he checked, and he was inarguably, absolute entertainment on the ice. And it was infectious.

In some ways, you could argue that the way Rozanov played, shaped the way that Cliff played. Or maybe, you would surmise that they shaped each other.

It was indeed a fact, that throughout Cliff's years of playing on different hockey teams, his years in the youth leagues playing all the way up through U16 before qualifying for the US junior national team, the year he spent playing for Boston College before declaring for the draft, and the year he spent in development for the Raiders in the minors, he'd always had a bit of an adjustment period when getting to know a new team.

He didn't connect with his center in college until nearly halfway through the season, and he still maintained that the reason they'd gotten bronze at world juniors, rather than upsetting the Canadians for a chance at the gold medal game, was because they just hadn't started clicking until the final period.

His connection with Roz had been nearly instant.

Maybe that first practice, the one that Cliff had a mug with a picture of them on it from, was the one where he decided he wanted to play his whole career with Roz. Maybe winning the Cup had solidified it. Or maybe it was just the quiet in between moments, the early morning runs where they got bagels and coffees with enough sugar in them to cancel out the calories they'd just burned, the dinner for two reservations at Michelin star restaurants just to try, the (blank).

In the end, like his mom, and now his therapist, liked to say, all that mattered was that he was happy. And he was.

He lived in a beautiful house with his best friend, had a close relationship with his loving, supportive family and a beautiful girlfriend, and he got paid a shit ton of money to play his favorite game.

And then, in the middle of the third period against Toronto, where they were down 5-1, he got checked so hard into the boards that he literally saw stars. The player who did it received a suspension for his next game, but that didn't really help the Centaurs out, because they lost the game 5-2, and Cliff was placed on injured reserve.

And all of the sudden, he had a whole lot of time on his hands while he recovered from a moderate ankle sprain and a mild concussion. He was totally fine when the Centaurs were in Ottawa, Roz drove them to and from practice like usual, and helping Wiebe and the other assistants out from the bench made him feel useful. It was when the Centaurs left for their week and a half long roadie, Roz giving him a pat on the head and telling him to be good on his way out the door, that things got decidedly less fine.

Rose was off filming a movie somewhere in South America working 12 hour days, and Cliff could only call her so much given how exhausted she was every night when they wrapped. His dad was apparently incredibly busy at work with end of quarter stuff, whatever that was supposed to mean. His mom was on a two week work trip to help open her company's overseas branch in Singapore. His sister was busy doing odd tasks and challenges for her college's homecoming week, and Cliff was bored out of his mind given that every close person in his life had chosen to become busy the exact week he was not.

He called Roz about it after a Centaurs surprising road win.

"Dude, I'm bored out of my fucking mind." Cliff whined while Roz wrote something down in his notebook.

"Get a fucking hobby then, Marly." Roz responded, scribbling furiously, "Don't have to whine and complain and grumble to me."

"Jesus, Roz. Who pissed in your cheerios? You called me!" Cliff said, half offended and half amused.

He watched Roz roll his eyes through the small pixelated phone screen. He wasn't technically supposed to be looking at screens, but what the team doctor didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

"Yes, to review the game and talk about what went right- and I know you watched even though you're not supposed to. I didn't sign up for this party of pity you're throwing." Roz retorted rather meanly, and Cliff let him know it.

"Look, if you're gonna be a dick, you can go review the game with Bood." Cliff said, putting air quotes around review the game, given that they hadn't done much of that. "Actually, on second thought, if you're gonna be a dick, go talk to Barrett. Bood doesn't deserve your pissy attitude."

"Fuck you, Marly." Roz spat.

"Yeah, fuck you too, Roz." Cliff huffed and groaned when Roz hung up on him.

The text came in a minute later.

'I'm sorry, is just stressful playing without you.'

Cliff couldn't help the soft noise he made after reading it. He was touched.

'I'm sorry too, call me back. I won't complain.'

His phone rang.

"Did you see Haas and Barrett play together in second period? When Haas fucked up shift change?" Roz asked when Cliff answered.

"Yeah," Cliff replied easily, "I think there's potential there..."

The day the Centaurs were supposed to get back from their roadie, Cliff was fighting with the washing machine, that had for some reason filled with water and been soaking his clothes in it for the past hour, which wouldn't have been a problem if he hadn't been lazy and mixed his whites in with his colors.

After his call with Roz, he decided to take his advice on getting a fucking hobby.

His mom was going to say she told him so.

And Cliff was going to have to buy some new white undershirts.

He kicked the bottom of the washing machine with his bad leg, which in retrospect, was a terrible idea. It did nothing really except hurt the foot of his already injured ankle. His muttered curses, hopping around while he clutched at his toe and nearly drowning out the sound of knocking at the front door.

He cursed Roz under his breath for forgetting, or misplacing, his house key and making Cliff come answer the door injured. He hobbled down the steps, slowly making his way to the front door.

And look, as a nearly six foot five man with thick, bushy eyebrows and a hulking presence, he knew that he sometimes came across as intimidating, especially when he was angry. So when he pulled the door open just a little bit too quickly to not seem irritated, and snapped "What?", well, he definitely wouldn't have done it if he thought it was anyone but Roz.

Instead, Shane Hollander stood on the other side of the door, leaning casually against one of the wooden pillars holding up the little awning protecting the door from the elements. Hollander startled, and a light pink blush spread across his cheeks immediately.

"Sorry, I was just- I mean, I came to visit, but I didn't wanna just use my key, because I knew you were here, and I didn't want to startle you." Hollander stammered, "Fuck, you're injured though, and I made you get up to come let me in- I'm sorry. Shit, I'm making this weird, is this weird for you? I-"

Cliff held up a hand, and Hollander paused. "Dude, there's no need to apologize. If anything, I'm sorry. I thought you were Roz. Come in." Cliff opened the door wider and gestured into the house, limping back over to the couch, and deciding to deal with the washing machine later.

Or better yet, let Roz deal with it.

Hollander followed Cliff timidly and sat on one of the plush chairs in the living room, adjacent to the couch.

"We have drinks and shit in the fridge, help yourself." Cliff said, only a little bit awkwardly, "I'd offer to grab it for you, but, well," He gestured towards his foot.

"Oh yeah, thanks." Hollander replied. He walked over to the fridge and grabbed a ginger ale for himself, which Cliff had figured out ages ago that Roz stocked specifically for him.

Cliff had tried to drink one once when he'd had a stomach ache, and Roz had nearly cut off his hand.

"Do you want anything?" Hollander asked politely.

"I'll take a Mich Ultra, thanks." Cliff called back. If Hollander thought anything about Cliff's choice to crack open a cold one at 11 in the morning on a Thursday, he said nothing about it.

He returned to the living room, with his ginger ale and Cliff's beer, and sat back in the plush chair, immediately bouncing his leg up and down. "Here," he said as he gently tossed Cliff the beer. Cliff cracked it open and took a long sip.

A few moments of awkward silence passed between them, with Cliff studying Hollander curiously, and Hollander focusing his eyes on some random hockey book him and Roz had chosen to display on their coffee table, before Cliff decided to make the most of the first real face to face human interaction he'd had in days.

"So you're here to see Roz?" He asked conversationally.

"Yep." Hollander replied neutrally.

"Cool, he'll be back soon I think." Cliff said, and they fell back into silence.

On paper, the two of them should've had a lot to talk about.

They were in the same profession, they had mutual friends in Roz and Rose, they'd played against each other countless times, and they'd known each other for years at this point. And yet, silence.

Some would consider Cliff a miracle worker.

He had gotten Roz to open up, after all, and he'd kind of tricked him into therapy, which was no easy feat. But he could only do so much.

Hollander was wearing a light blue linen shirt, with the sleeves artfully rolled up to his elbows. His pants were a light brown color, and they looked as if he'd had them dry cleaned and pressed this morning. His hair was messily styled in a way that looked intentional, yet effortless, and made Cliff fully understand why he'd taken the top spot for handsomest hockey players in that one magazine.

Cliff wondered why Hollander was so dressed up if he was just here visiting Roz.

"So, you and Roz've got a hot date lined up when he gets home or something?"

It was, decidedly, the wrong thing to say while Hollander had been taking a sip of his ginger ale.

Hollander started choking almost immediately, and Cliff startled up, quickly crossing the few paces from the couch to the chair to thump him on the back. Hollander choked for a couple more seconds, tears welling up in his eyes from the effort, before he finally slowed down and was able to take a few deep breaths.

"Sorry," he muttered, taking another sip of ginger ale. This time, Cliff kept his mouth shut until he set the can down.

"You good, brother?" Cliff asked cautiously.

Hollander nodded, "Yeah, fine. I just- you caught me by surprise."

"Hey, all good man!" Cliff said, "Roz and I went on this double date once with a pair of twins. They were mad hot, but obviously, I'm with Rose now. So I don't blame him for finding a new partner in crime to go out with."

Hollander looked at him with a mix of emotions, "Yeah... of course."

"Double dates definitely take the pressure off," Cliff continued. He didn't want Hollander to think he was mad at him for stealing his and Roz's old thing.

It was something he'd been working on in therapy. He'd brought up the whole being jealous of Roz and Hollander's friendship a couple weeks ago in therapy, and his fear that Roz was going to replace him.

It was Dante's personal opinion, that Cliff had nothing to worry about, something something about some sort of codependency between him and Roz. He'd also pointed out the fact that Cliff and Roz saw each other every day, and Roz only saw Hollander every now and then, so maybe that was why it seemed like they were closer, because their time together meant a lot given the rarity of it.

He'd even encouraged Cliff to try and befriend Hollander. He'd assured him that if he did, he'd surely realize he had nothing to worry about. And, he'd said, that if Cliff and Roz were such close friends, and Roz and Hollander were such close friends, than it was likely that Hollander and Cliff would make good friends too.

"And it's kind of like the dream date, right?" Cliff added, "You get to spend time with a hot chick, and you bro? Like count me in!"

Hollander made a noise that Cliff guessed was supposed to be some sort of encouragement or agreement.

"Hey, if things work out, maybe next time Rose is in town, we can all go on a triple date! Wouldn't that be fun?" Cliff asked brightly.

"Oh, uh, yeah. No totally, tons of fun, for sure." Hollander replied with a smile that looked a little bit like a wince.

"Perfect!" Cliff replied excitedly. "You know, Roz says such great things about you, Hollzy. I've been meaning to get to know you more, I mean, we've been playing in the league together for what, like eight years now? Crazy that we've never really talked much."

"Yeah," Hollander agreed, "-wait, he does?"

Cliff laughed. He knew the feeling all too well of being surprised by Roz's affection. He'd been convinced for a month halfway through their second season playing together that Roz hated him. It had been right after one of their games had been cancelled due to their flight grounding for weather, and he'd made some casual joke to Roz about him being upset. Roz hadn't spoken to him for a week after that, and for the next few games they roomed together, they'd barely spoken.

After that week of silence, Cliff had offered to ask for a room change during away games if Roz needed space.

"Marly, what? No, what the fuck is wrong with you? You are being ridiculous, like emotional girl. I am just- whatever, it does not matter, I am weird with everyone and everything right now." Roz had said.

"It just seems like you're mad at me, bro." Cliff had replied.

"And so what? You're going to ask for room change and make me listen to Connors snoring all night? Or Hammersmith's weird bedtime routine?" Roz had scoffed back.

"Roz, dude, I snore too, and you're always calling my pre bedtime rituals weird and superstitious." Cliff had replied confused.

"Yes, but your snoring is not annoying, and your bedtime routine is good weird and good superstitious." Roz had said, and it had been the most vulnerable, touching thing Cliff had ever heard. He'd almost teared up.

So yeah, Cliff was an expert on Roz and his perception of having the emotional capacity of a potato, only to be surprised by a river of Roz emotions.

"Yeah, dude!" Cliff replied enthusiastically, "We'll be driving to practice, and I'll tell him to slow down, and he's always like 'Hollander says that too', or we'll be out to a restaurant, and he'll point to something on the menu and say 'Hollander would like this, is so boring', he mentions you like once a day at least."

It wasn't an exaggeration, and a Hollander mention right before they'd gone in for their respective therapy sessions had actually been what set Cliff off on his rant to Dante about his jealousy and fear.

Hollander's face changed at that, and Cliff thought his eyes almost looked a little bit fond.

"He, uh, he says good things about you too, Marlow." Hollander told him, a faint smile outlined on his face.

Cliff laughed, "Sure he does, Hollzy."

"No, I'm serious!" Hollander replied convincingly, "He told me the other day that even though you guys are losing so much, he's the happiest he's ever been." Hollander said, and Cliff willed the dam forming behind his eyes not to fall, "And I think a really big part of that is living with you," Hollander said softly.

Cliff cleared his throat once, then twice. "That's, um, that's nice." He cleared his throat a third time and squeezed his nails into the palm of his hand. He would not cry in front of Shane Hollander, Canada's golden boy captain of the Montreal Metros.

"And uh, I know we haven't really talked much about everything that happened last year." Hollander continued, his voice going soft, "And I know it was a lot, and it was unexpected, but you- fuck, Marlow- you handled everything so well. I just- thank you."

Cliff swallowed harshly. If anything, he felt like he should be the one thanking Hollander. After all, if Hollander hadn't called him that night, he would've never known anything was wrong. "Of course, anytime." He whispered softly and turned his head so Hollander couldn't see the disobedient, stray tear that fell.

Hollander nodded, and thankfully didn't make any comments.

"I think probably the therapy is also helping with his happiness." Cliff added once he finally calmed down.

"Therapy?" Hollander asked confused, his eyebrows furrowed together somewhat adorably. "He's back in therapy? I thought he hated-"

He was cut off by the door swinging open.

"Honey, I'm home!" Roz called out from the entryway.

Chapter End Notes

oooo cliff you're in trouble!! i'm trying to stay as canon compliant as possible while being a canon divergent story hahaha, so no, roz did not tell hollzy he was in therapy, but in this universe, cliff reveals it mwahaha

hope you guys are enjoying!! i've been working on an idea for a new fic that's basically a heated rivalry throne of glass au, i have it 3/4 of the way plotted out and first chapter already written, if you're interested, i'll link it in my next author's note once i publish it