Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

F/M, M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau/Original Female Character(s), Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Platonic Soulmates, Bodyswap, POV Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau Finds Out About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Good Friend Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Face Slapping, Bisexual Female Character, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Shane Hollander Does Not Want To Be Touched, Relationship Negotiation, Altering the Ottawa Plan

Language:

English

Series:

Part 3 of You Know Where I Am, You Know Where To Find Me

Stats:

Published: 2026-05-16 Words: 9,612 Chapters: 1/1

Love Is Not A Choice (Caught In The Way You Got Me remix)

Summary

Rozy is Cliff’s best friend on the team. That doesn’t mean he’s expecting him to be his best friend in the world. But hey, it’s not like it’s a hardship.

Notes

I actually wrote this story second. After giving Shane Hayden, I needed to write Ilya getting his own support. Except not Svetlana, because the ~ drama~ I’m such a slut for Cliff POV, despite him only having like three lines in the show. He will be The Best Ally, or I will kill everyone in this room, and then myself.

If you ask Cliff -and with how long he’s been a Raider, he’s had the love conversation over drinks at the bar with the team dozens of times- having a partner is about finding more ways to fill your life. Activities, routines, conversations, traditions. It’s never been a question that Cliff’s love language, platonic and romantic, is quality time spent together. Every friend deserves an activity done just with them, one that can’t be done alone without thinking of them. Every close coworker deserves a line of conversation that can’t be replicated with someone else, because even if you ask the same question, every person has a different way of answering. And of course lovers and girlfriends get the most of it, every scrap of time not spent on his career or his buddies.

Mellie, thankfully, is also an extrovert. She understands the way it bouys you up to spend every waking minute in warm company. The only reason she didn’t move in earlier, once they’d committed to dating, was because her rental had a very cool backyard, complete with wired up gazebo. Hard to fight against fairy lights and decent speakers and warm summer air while drinking with friends.

But they’re together now, have been a while, and it’s good. Cliff likes getting a hip check or a butt slap as they’re brushing their teeth together in the morning. He likes playing Trouble In Terrorist Town with her and whoever else shows up from the group chat while he’s on roadies. He likes monthly dinners with her two brothers and three sisters and all their spouses and PQs, their house teeming with enough people to necessitate throwing open the sliding glass doors so half the guests can eat at the second table on the patio without feeling left out. Loving a woman is doing things with her, and every moment he spends not doing something is a wasted opportunity.

Traditions are important. They’re routines on steroids, routines elevated by deeper attached emotions and special decorations or props. The scarcity of them, frequently only annual, occasionally moreso, make them all the more alluring. A lot of shit can happen in a year, but the wreath decorating party always goes down, just like Kellen’s margarita birthday party and Rochelle and Garret’s anniversary karaoke. Ever since Mellie got her first boyfriend at thirteen, she’s been setting her alarm for three am on March third. Enough time for a full REM cycle or two since going to bed on the second, because fate doesn’t grant gifts to people who try to cheat the system. Scant enough waiting to prove to the universe she really wants this, wants her two eternal best friends more than anything. 3/3/3 has to be lucky one day, right?

They’ve been together for slightly over two years, January of 2016 until now. The first time she mentioned it, it was a charming if meaningless tradition. Despite what trashy YA lit gives the impression of, an extremely small percentage of teenage couples are long lasting enough to connect them to a PQ. Cliff thought the idea was cute, bedheaded seventeen year old Mellie waking up in the middle of the night, stack of homework on her graffitied desk in the corner, crossing her fingers for connection. Hockey on hold for what is for all intents and purposes a stat holiday, at least for athletes, Cliff didn’t give a second thought to waking up as big spoon beside his new girlfriend, hugging her through her sigh at once again remaining in her own body, and splitting a small batch indie strawberry soda as she sent prayers to the two somewhere out in the ether for next year. Now, on their third March together, it means more. Two years is a lot, especially in hockey time. They’re probably not quite perfect candidates at the moment, but it now seems less ridiculous to think the combination of them might be someone’s favourite thing, some day soon.

The shrill beep of the alarm goes off, and Cliff moves to inch in. They always fall asleep spooning, and both are fairly sedate sleepers, enough so to generally wake up still cuddling. The saccharine soda looms on the horizon, but first Cliff wants to scoop Mellie into his arms. Spoon the disappointment away. Next year is their year, he’ll tell her. It’s what she needs to hear, and he thinks it might be the truth anyways. He and Mellie are solid, and getting more so by the day. Unless it’s an issue of the other couple. For all he and Mellie know, they’re not even a couple yet. God, Allah, the universe, they don’t put together strangers.

Except something is wrong. There’s hair in his face. Cliff can feel it on his nose, lightly tickling. It’s a problem he dealt with a lot back in his slutty clubbing days. As long as they were willing to wake up at morning skate hours, the women could spend the night, if they didn’t prefer to be spotted the Uber fare. Not to stereotype, but a lot of club girls have long wavy hair, to go along with the high heels and the great tits. Sleeping with one of them inevitably meant waking up with hair in his face. But it’s been a while. For as long as Cliff’s been dating Mellie she’s had a hot as fuck asymmetrical pixie cut that cycles between colours.

An instant after the sensation, a bunch of things happen in rapid succession. Mellie wrenches out of Cliff’s reach to sit up. She gasps, and it doesn’t sound soprano enough. And then she slaps his face, saying, “wake up, babe.”

In a different context it’d be abuse, maybe. Well, definitely. But in Cliff’s context, he likes slapping. Over breakfast, as Mellie puts her emptied plate down, in lieu of a thank you for cooking. When he’s not paying enough attention to the movie or album they’re enjoying. In bed, not just across his face as she’s riding him, but after she insists he roll onto his stomach. Any guy that says they don’t like getting spanked or spanking a hot woman is a fuckin’ liar.

But there’s no way to enjoy this slap, because he knows that voice. He hears it more than his own mother’s. He’s in a Power Quad with Roz, and that would be fucking awesome, only Roz is single. Except he clearly isn’t, not if he’s in PQ territory, he just hasn’t told anyone about his significant other.

Opening his eyes only tells Cliff what he already knew. The babydoll tank Mellie fell asleep in is straining at every seam, though it’s kind of funny how well Roz’s muscled pecs fill the cups. Gone is the raspberry tipped bleached pixie, replaced by shaggy dark blond curls. And her thoughtful brown eyes are brimming over with joy, blue-grey for the next twenty one hours.

“This is the best day of my fuckin’ life,” she says, bouncing on her side of the bed. The movement makes the shirt pinch, so she does the logical thing and whips it off, tossing it in the general direction of the hamper. Every laundry day starts with a parade of collecting fallen garments. Funny to hear her say it. Roz says it all the time. When he sees a dog, when they beat Montreal or any other team that’s particularly pissing him off, when the hotel of the night has a decent minibar. It’s a punch to the heart to know just how much he won’t be saying it when he wakes up.

Mellie is obviously expecting him to kickie feet with joy alongside her. Cliff’s never been anything but enthusiastic about finding his Power Quad, even if his intensity hasn’t matched hers. They both make a point to surround themselves with great friends, but surely the perfect friends God gives them will make their lives so much better. But Roz doesn’t want this, Cliff knows he doesn’t, and it’s enough to ruin it.

“Taco?” It’s a pet name, better than the babys and sweeties he’s gotten over the years. He’s her taco, taller and wider and using his potentially scary bulk only to hold her from every side at once. She’s his lettuce, usually, if it’s not Mels or lovie. She elevates everything, makes his life crispy.

“We’re not feeling the same feelings now, lovie,” he has to tell her. It kills Cliff to disappoint her, but it’s better to be honest about it than to try to fake it. She’d notice anyway, and feel upset about the lying.

She twists to face him better, their knees touching between a layer of blanket. Cliff runs cold, and wears just boxers to bed when he’s home, depending on the cuddling to keep him cozy, considering they keep the room cold in deference to Mellie running warm. He’s not coming out of the blanket until he’s ready to get dressed. Even sitting the way he is now, the blanket is a tent around him, pulled up to his chin. “What’s happening?”

“I didn’t know he had someone. He didn’t tell me.”

Mellie respects his hurt for a moment, letting him sit in the pain of being ostracized from true understanding of what he would have considered up until now his closest friend on the team. But if they stagnate here, they don’t get what they want; what he can already see the edges of being a great thing, what she’s desperately wanted for over a decade. She accepts Cliff’s self-centred pain without calling him out directly on it, then focuses him on the truth of the matter. “You don’t know whose face you’re wearing.”

They’re not a mirror in the bedroom kind of couple. There’s a standing mirror on the back of the bathroom door, and that’s enough. “Yeah, but-“

“You at least feel that you’ve got a dick, right?”

“Yeah.”

Mellie makes a face at him. It’s a cute expression he never would have guessed Rozy capable of, even if it contains an element of rolling her eyes. “Well then, it should be pretty obvious why you didn’t know he was PQ ready. Locker rooms aren’t great for that kind of talk.”

Cliff feels even more distressed. “You know I’m not that guy, right?”

Mellie snorts. “Have you seen me? I radiate bi energy like Chernobyl radiates, uh, radiation.” She winces at the poor simile, but continues with her point. “And not in a performative way. Straight boys with a fetish don’t tend to be drawn in.”

Cliff’s always thought it was cool that Mellie’s not straight. Nathan, the youngest of the Fellroy siblings, is ace, making her not the only queer in the family, but it’s not the same. From what Cliff’s seen everyone respects that Nathy won’t be getting a partner, never mind a PQ. Meanwhile, everyone assumes Mellie is going to get with the woman in her eventual PQ. Cliff’s never been opposed to that version of monogamy. Cheating is for jerks, but he’s never had hard and fast rules about monogamy. Neither of them are the type to have bad blood breakups, or even hookups. Cliff might not recognise half the numbers in his phone, but he’s sure if he texted ten at random, at least five women would reply positively. He just hasn’t, and won’t. It’d be a dick move to just assume that because she’s bi she wants threesomes with his favoured one night stands. Most of whom aren’t even Mellie’s type. Cliff’s met a few of her female exes, and she definitely has a type across gender, they’re all Gwendoline Christie seven foot tall warrior goddesses.

“You’re not a bad guy, Cliff. But if Rozy starts telling one person, he starts telling more. Maybe he wasn’t ready for that.”

“And I took that away from him.” Cliff rubs his hands over his face. Maybe he should take the blanket tent off. His skin feels all itchy. Buzzy. He’s read things online about how much of a head trip it can be to inhabit another person’s body for a day. Most people are compatible enough, but suddenly having asthma, or an amputation, or full chromatic vision can be deeply unsettling. Shit, for some people merely a height difference is enough to keep them laying in their bed in panic for the whole day. This man, Rozy’s boyfriend, he’s definitely got sensory differences.

“You didn’t. God did. And he did it because Rozy deserves to be on a better path. A warmer, kinder one. A sunshine path. When he has some time to settle with it, he’s going to be happy that you’re his eternal best friend.”

Cliff loves his girlfriend’s optimism. And maybe long term she’s correct, that Rozy will be happy they’ll be connected forever, even once they both retire as Raiders. Short term though, this is bad. Cliff knowing Rozy’s gay when Rozy didn’t want him to? This is gonna be bad.

“We have to go over.”

“You want to wake him up in the middle of the night to talk about this?” Mellie asks, Russian accent thick despite the lack of missing articles. Cliff doesn’t see how it’s a crazy idea, when Mellie herself has trained herself for over a decade to immediately force the PQ conversation, should it finally be her year. Five minutes ago she was squirming with joy over the concept.

“I dunno! I’m just winging this! But if Rozy finds out that we know he’s gonna run if we’re not there. He’s going to shut down.” He’ll get as spiky and offensive as he can, and never let Cliff in again. It might even affect the team. Cliff doesn’t want to fuck up their playoff run by letting tension build.

Mellie shrugs. “You know him better than I do. If you think trapping him is the best solution-“

“He always feels better after he yells. He’ll probably take a swing, I won’t let him,” or he will, because Cliff can take it, if Rozy needs to, he’s a fucking Raider, but Mellie doesn’t need to know that yet, “and we’ll convince him it’s fine, he’s safe, everything’s good. He needs to explode first, then we can fix things where they lie.”

“Okay.” Clearly injected with another dose of hope, Mellie bounces on the bed once and nods. “We’ve got this. Volcanos turn to obsidian. We can make a foundation from this. We’ve got this,” she repeats, and tips herself onto one hip to lean in and give Cliff a sweet domestic kiss. It’s Ilya Rozanov’s face coming in towards his, and Cliff’s never given much thought to being attracted to men, but it’s fine because it’s Mellie underneath. She loves him, and he loves her, and it wouldn’t be cheating anymore than wearing lingerie or a costume would be, just something different on only the top layer of them together.

But it doesn’t turn into a makeout, a stroke fest, a push to the bed to see how this skin feels slapped up. Cliff wants to, thinks they very well might before the day is over. It’s always been an option on his menu. But more important to Mellie than immediate once in a lifetime sex is the implementation of a strategy to get their PQ in their lives, and more important to Cliff is making sure Rozy is okay. It’s the same end goal, and so the mildly different motivations don’t matter. The action points are still get dressed, get in the car, and head over.

The moment the kiss breaks, Mellie gets off the bed with a novel heave of the mattress. Cliff’s a professional athlete, he spends money on things that matter, like a cushy foam top. They share this bed a lot, but this is the first time Mellie’s weighed sixty pounds more, and the mattress just can’t cope. She bypasses her closet entirely to go to Cliff’s. It’s not the first time she’s worn something of his. It’s not the first time Rozy has either, to be honest. Sometimes pranks get messy, or luggage gets lost and you scrounge. It’s a relief that she just picks out one of a dozen Raiders shirts. He’s not sure how Rozy would handle his visage in something as claiming as a shirt that’s Cliff’s specifically.

It’s time for Cliff to get up too. He has to, he knows. But if he gets up, exits his blanket poncho and gets fully naked, he’ll have the opportunity to check himself out. Find more clues unwillingly given.

“Do I look?” Cliff asks his wise, wise girlfriend, who is already yanking on jeans retrieved from the floor, nearly ready to go. His phone is charging on the nightstand. The bathroom is only twenty five feet away, complete with a Etsy found mirror with a flowered vine etched down the right edge. It’d be a matter of seconds to find out the entirety of the secret Rozy’s held for who knows how long now. He already knows something. Is it really fair to know everything?

“You gotta, I think,” Mellie answers, brilliant enough to know exactly what he means without clarification.

“But is it fair?”

Her wince tells him she knows exactly how he feels. But she’s smarter than him, Cliff can fully admit that, so she presses on. “I dunno, probably not. But it’s going to explain more, to you. About why he never said. And he’ll have expected you to, so you’ll wrong-foot him if he has to explain that too, the who and why and why not tell. And if you’re gonna have a reaction it’d be better to not be a dickhead in front of him.”

“I-“ Cliff starts to protest. Mellie said she knew he wasn’t some homophobic thug. She said. Why is she suddenly changing her mind now?

“Take a look, and then tell me it wouldn’t be shock or silence or confusion or some other dickhead short term reaction before it settled into long term perfectly reasoned PQ,” she challenges.

So Cliff does it. His first deliberate action of stripping his best friend’s privacy. He breaches into the cold air of the bedroom to grab his phone, then types in his passcode and flips the camera to take a selfie.

“Jesus Christ.”

Mellie raises her eyebrows, the expression on Rozy’s face deeply familiar. “You were saying?”

“Fucking Hollander.”

“I’d definitely probably not start with cussing out his boyfriend. Unless you really do want him to hit you.”

“He’s heard worse,” Cliff jokes weakly. Rozy’s heard almost a decade’s worth of shit talk about Hollander, and never once let on that it might be something he didn’t want to hear. Fucking Christ.

“You are literally making my point about the locker room,” Mellie gestures.

“How long do you think it’s been?”

“‘How long have you been doing this’ like you found him with lines of coke or a closet full of taxidermy is also a bad start,” Mellie points out, only the smallest bit smug.

“Mels, please.”

“Taco, I don’t think that there’s an answer that you’ll like. Either it’s new, and Roz didn’t feel safe to share even when it was honeymoon phase, wanting to gush to everyone about every little thing. Or it’s been a while, and there’s been something preventing them from being ready for a Quad, and you have to face that their internal pressures and turmoil might have come from external pressure too.”

Yeah, she’s not wrong. Both of those suck.

“It can’t have been that long, though,” Cliff continues as the last eight years tremble in the frame like an ungrouted mosaic. “Rozy has slept with a ton of women. A beard would be long term eye candy he flaunts. He just sleeps around.”

“Maybe they weren’t exclusive. Maybe they still aren’t. Maybe that’s not a factor in if they’re perfect for each other, and ready for us. They don’t even live in the same country. Distance plus high libedo makes easy math,” Mellie points out. “You won’t know until you can ask, and you can’t get to the point of asking without getting your ass kicked or ignored if we don’t fix this.”

Fully dressed, Mellie comes back to the bed to plant her second kiss. Cliff closes his eyes and lets love surge up in this foreign body. Lets himself feel her underneath Rozy’s body. Beyond all the problems and pain they’re going to have to sort out about this, he’s just so happy to have official confirmation that he and Mellie are destined. He’s thought for a while now that she’s the one, but March third is a seal of approval from whatever cosmic entity you believe in.

“Come on. Get going,” Mellie says as she breaks the kiss. She holds his jaw carefully straight with her left hand, cracks him on the cheek with her beautiful right, and then stands back to admire her handiwork. Cliff struggles to plant his knees on the bed. Arousal in Shane’s body feels muggy, a sweaty blanket draping around his whole body at once. It’s a fucking head trip, beyond the rush of endorphins he gets whenever Mellie lays down a good one. Good for Hollander and Rozy, if it feels like this. Cliff hopes they get to do it often. They might have to hide away from everyone to save their careers and in Rozy’s case his fucking life, but at least they have the solace of great sex. Presuming it’s as good for Rozy as Cliff can feel it is for Hollander. But Rozy wouldn’t put up with anything less than exquisite. Cliff’s seen him pick up enough times to know the man has taste.

Cliff shucks on a shirt, and some sweatpants. He still hasn’t decided if he’s gonna wake Roz up when they get there, a cruel ambush that’ll get things done faster, or if it’ll be better to let him figure it out naturally, but be waiting on the living room couch when he starts freaking out. If he’s potentially going to spending the next four hours quietly scrolling his phone on the sectional, sleepless with an argument on the horizon, he wants to be comfortable. Especially with Hollander’s sensitized skin. The first two shirts he reached for were terrible, before his fingertips allowed the third. It’s instinct to go with a tight spandexy pair of socks over any standard Hanes. Bad enough that his shoes are going to be a size or two too large, he can’t imagine Hollander’s body tolerating slouchy, bunching socks.

One of the perks of being the extrovert couple, always out and available, is that they get given a lot of spare keys. People trust them to be willing to suddenly meet up, in case their main is lost. They have a whole separate keyring for them, with a spherical fuzzy bunny keychain. It’s the first thing Cliff grabs when they get to the kitchen, even before he swipes a water from the fridge. Cliff doesn’t often use them for B&E, but Roz is unlikely to open the door at a knock when he’s groggy and panicking about what a new body means.

After downing half the bottle in one go, it occurs to Cliff that this isn’t what he’s supposed to be tasting right now. Water isn’t what you drink in the middle of the night on March third.

“Do you want to crack open the strawberry Jones before we go?” It isn’t a consolation drink anymore, a sugary sweet prayer for next year. But it could still be a celebration. Alcohol free champagne of sorts. They won’t be unique in having March third as an anniversary, obviously, that’s a date everyone eventually gets. But it could be lovely, a three am soda every year for the next fifty years to commemorate them finding each other.

Mellie shakes her head. “Anticipation feels fluttery in Roz. I don’t think adding carbonation will help. Maybe later.”

Who is Cliff to argue? He ties his shoes tightly to make up for the extra length, and waits for Mellie to tie her own borrowed pair. Then it’s alarming and locking the door, and a quick ride down to underground parking.

Like the condo, they keep the car a bit cold for Cliff’s tastes. It’s why he always keeps a hoodie in the back seat. A Raiders one, of course. Thankfully it agrees with Hollander, texture of the inner fluff acceptable. Normally he’d scroll for five minutes trying to find the best playlist. Tonight he’s got bigger things on his mind, so he sets it to autoplay and puts the keys in the ignition.

They’re about halfway to Rozy’s glass walled forest adjacent mini-mansion when Mellie giggles. At Cliff’s encouraging hum, she announces, “we should have guessed he was bi, or pan, or whatever.”

This time Cliff’s noise is dissenting. He never guessed, but that’s because Rozy was trying so hard to conceal it. He’s not a shitty enough friend to have not picked up on obvious clues. No way.

“Have you ever seen him sit normally? He’s always leaning, or laying on laps, or committing some truly heinous, nearly acrobatic manspreading.”

She’s not wrong, but what does it matter. “Okay?”

“Queer people don’t know how to use chairs properly. We’re all allergic to sitting up straight. Like, literally cannot.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“That’s absolutely a thing. I will show you a hundred memes the next time you can look at my phone,” Mellie refutes.

There’s not a lot of traffic at close to three in the morning. Cliff places them in Rozy’s driveway with an efficiency he’s genuinely happy with. Ultimately it doesn’t matter, because he’s deeply leaning towards just hanging in the living room with Mellie until their boy is up, no matter how many hours it takes, but still. Driving efficiently makes part of his brain purr. The house is made out of enough glass that the headlights surely cut through the space, but once the car’s off, there’s no suddenly flicked on light in response. He’s still asleep, at least.

Cliff lets himself in, quickly typing in the door code before it noisily goes off. Mellie closes the door behind them whisper quiet, and they kick off their shoes. Rozy doesn’t usually make guests, but the Fellroys do, so it’s a natural movement at this point. Between Cliff knowing the layout of Rozy’s minimalist open plan, and the moonlight streaming in through the wall of sliding glass doors, they don’t even need to turn the flashlights on their phones to make it to the sectional.

Cliff can’t afford to lay down on the plush couch. If he does he’ll fall asleep, and then he won’t be at his best for Rozy. Instead he parks his ass right in the middle, feet firmly on the floor, and mutes his phone before launching a hidden object game. He’s got half a dozen downloaded on his phone at all times. Raiders money pays enough to cover Apple microtransactions, as it turns out. Mellie sits criss cross beside him, though she eclipses much more of the couch than she usually does in the position. Sometimes she over the shoulder assists with a tricky hidden object, but right now she’s just got Twitter open. She’s got enough international friends that someone is always posting.

It takes a few minutes to notice that it’s too quiet. Cliff’s shared a room with Rozy enough to know that while he’s not a full bore snorer, he snuffles in his sleep. There’s no snuffling. Following a suspicion, Cliff gets up and wanders the east side of the house, the guest rooms and master. A handful of doorknobs twisted and it’s as clear as day. The house is empty. He and Mellie are here alone.

“Where the fuck could he be?” Cliff asks, almost indifferent to his own question. He doesn’t actually care about Rozy’s location, it only matters in that it’s the place that Cliff needs to be. If Roz isn’t here, that means he might be already awake somewhere, in his or Mellie’s skin, freaking out about his future being ruined. No one should feel like that on PQ Day, nevermind his best friend.

“He’s at Shane’s,” Mellie pronounces.

“What?”

“It’s the only thing that makes sense,” she says.

And with a dash more consideration, she’s right. Hollander got the day off, just like the Raiders did. One day and one night might not be considered a holiday to most. It’s not even a weekend. But Cliff can already imagine how few chances the two get to see each other. Boston-Montreal games, obviously. Boston-Ottawa and Montreal-New York games, if the other is home. Awards shows are probably extravagant nights, they’ve both been pulled in for those since their rookie years. Flying in on the second and out on the fourth is one hundred percent something Roz could do. Good for him. Efficient time management. It just sucks for them.

“We just need to stop at the gas station, get some supplies.” Cliff knows she doesn’t mean gas and a map. Mellie is a snack hound, could eat a handful of a hundred different treats in a day. Their pantry is a never ending rotation of clippered bags that guests eat their way through once Mellie’s done with the novelty. But Cliff will happily spend the gas station inflation, if Mellie really is proposing what it sounds like.

A road trip is a great way to spend time with someone. Sometimes for a major event on the other side, a theme park or a cousin’s cabin. Sometimes just the joy from eating up the miles while passing around a bag of cookies and talking shit about each others playlists. Cliff is one of the few Raiders who genuinely enjoys a bussed road series, which more often than not gets him assigned to keeping up with the fresh blood. Rozy used to be there too, their never fatigued Captain, but he’s cared less about it this year. Makes sense, if he’s got a greater connection on the other side of his phone. If Cliff and Mellie ever get to a parenting place they’ll probably spend half the summer driving their kids up and down the coast like her brother Christian with his wife Mariia, and their PQ Val and Darren.

“You really want to drive to Montreal to save Rozy’s sanity with me?”

“Taco, it’s like a Hallmark movie. Hell yes I want to pre-dawn roadtrip with you to meet our best friends. Not even a question!” She’s grinning at him like it’s obvious, like he’s a little dumb for not knowing it. It just makes his heart thump harder. She’s saying exactly what he would have said under the impromptu suggestion. Cliff wouldn’t have given it a second thought. They really are meant for each other.

It’s a relatively chill drive, for all that they’re aggressively wrangling their future. They listen to a few hours of some eldritch horror sci fi podcast story. Mellie launches a trivia app and they try to beat the internet for nickels and dimes of prizes. They sing along to favourite songs with the gusto of the long since initiated into kareoke. The worst part is at the border. There are procedures for citizens affected by PQ Day who want to cross, and they’re invasive. Their skin stops crawling by the time they’re getting gas in St. Armand, about an hour away from Montreal. The air is full saturated with twizzlers, the snack with the honour of staying in the cupholder the whole drive. At some point Mellie took her shoes off to pull her legs up under her. It's a much less comfortable fit than when she does it in her own body, but the fact that it’s an unremarkable position from both her and Rozy maybe adds some credence to the queers in chair argument. She doesn’t protest putting them back on and taking the driver’s seat for the last leg of the journey. Rozy knows Mellie, just like he knows any of the other WAGs, but this is a field of landmines best approached by Cliff.

It’s a quarter after eight when Cliff sends out his opening volley.

We’re in Montreal

If you don’t tell me where you are I’m going to text J.J. and Drapeau for Shane’s address

Don’t make me text Drapeau, I hate that guy

Cliff doesn’t need to clarify who we is. Rozy’s in one of their bodies, Shane in the other. And as much as he wishes he didn’t have to threaten Roz to get the truth, it’s a given that he’d ignore it if he could. But Rozy knows Cliff has the number of those two Metros, Drapeau because his brother is a hot tub salesman who’s set up half the MLH, J.J. from that one All Stars where the theme was, stupidly, under and over six feet. Whatever the League can do to get Hollander and Rozanov on opposite sides, regardless of inanity. Joke’s on them, shit.

After five minutes of silence, of Mellie aimlessly driving because they don’t have anything to put into the GPS, Cliff’s phone vibrates. It’s late enough in the morning that it could be any number of people. They know morning people, though it’s never been their style. But Cliff has hope, and a smile unfurls at the contact image. No matter how angrily Rozy’s texting back, it’s still a reply. It’s something Cliff can work with.

Fucking Drapeau doesn’t have Hollander’s address no one likes fucking Drapeau

Well that’s an interesting level of truth that Rozy’s responded with. He’s said Hollander, even though Cliff used Shane, like he’s trying to sell that he’s not that close to him. It’s not even a hockey name, Holly or Hollzy, just his full last name. Pretty bullshit, if you ask Cliff, who’s become increasingly certain in the last five hours that Rozy and Shane have been something for a while. On the other hand, Rozy’s not putting up some bluff about why would Cliff need to get Shane’s address to find him. He could have easily committed in that direction, be peddling a much more hands off lie. The body swap has to mean something, not even Rozy can ignore a thousand years of social biology. But it could have meant only a truly spectacular one night stand. Hell, he could have not replied to Cliff at all. But he did. It doesn’t take a genius to know Rozy wants reassurance. That Cliff cares enough to keep pressing.

So he does. As bombastically as he would yell great fucking speech into his face in a playoff locker room, or tell him he’s a beauty when he’s exhausted in an airport before an early flight -and how many of those nights were Shane, not a random hot woman, in hindsight- Cliff types out his text. He wants Rozy to read it, to hear it like it’s being shouted an inch from his nose, hands gripping his shoulders firmly.

I will drop a flat mil for a private detective to find it in the next hour

Rozy does not like that. Every word rattles with a defensive eyeroll. Why’s it matter? Going to be back for the game

Absolutely fuck that, Cliff thinks. Things are going to get seriously fucked up if this waits until then. How fucking honest is Rozy gonna be in the locker room? Not to mention that Mellie won’t be there, stuck in the WAG seating as Rozy avoids Cliff’s eye. And Cliff doesn’t know Shane beyond rumours and public presentation, but he has to believe that he has a stake in this too, and he’d be across the country by Monday.

Not waiting two days to hug my brother he types out. It’s a less loaded term than PQ would be. They’ve been brothers on the ice for Rozy’s entire career.

Am slutty bisexual what makes you think I won’t jump you

He’s trying to scare him off. Fuck that too.

Currently googling 24 hour private detectives. Cliff sends a screenshot showing exactly that.

100E rue alouette. développement du chêne

Code 1919 for the front door Rozy eventually sends back, two texts in quick succession. Cliff lets out a whoop. Now they’re really in the game.

Mellie takes her eyes off the road to look at him. “You whooped?”

“We’ve got an address for them.”

“I see your whoop and raise you a hell yeah!”

Lark Street, or Rue Alouette, as Montreal labels everything in French first, is swiftly found. Oakwood Development is pretty luxurious. Makes sense, considering all of Shane’s brand deals. There’s an outdoor party space Cliff can already imagine meeting Shane’s friends in. Or Rozy’s, if he’s had time to find any Quebecois friends. Cliff can’t imagine Rozy spending too much time in the public here, Montreal is too much of hockey city to not spot the enemy amongst them. But he’s also the kind of guy that can make a friend anywhere, as long as that person can tolerate charming sarcasm. If there’s anyone Rozy or Shane wants them to meet, Cliff will happily cobble up an evening plan.

Outside apartment E, Cliff starts to feel the anxiety creep up on him. It’s a buzzing in Shane’s ear, one that makes Cliff want to shake his head until it stops. Cliff is an extrovert, he knows how to change himself in slight and not so slight ways to support what fans and friends and loved ones need. He knows Rozy. He knows Mellie. They get along, but they react differently to things, and there’s only one of him to calm them both, plus whatever Shane has to throw into the mix. He believes they’ll thread the needle with this, needs to believe it, but he’s not sure how rough it’ll get.

“Lettuce, I need to remind you, he might be a dick. They might both be dicks. We’ll get to the happy part, it just might not be right away.”

Mellie nods. “I know. We already agreed, he might take a swing. Which you’ll allow, because you’re simultaneously a big softie, and a big tough guy.”

“Uh-“

“Don’t even try it. I know you,” Mellie says, stopping Cliff in his tracks. “I promise I won’t come in with a folding chair across his neck.”

“So you’re ready for this?”

“I’ve been waiting for this since I was six years old. I am ready for every moment of this, no matter what happens. It’s what’s planned for us,” Mellie says, confidently. In a different life, she’d have long since posted the revealing selfie on Twitter with the annual PQDay hashtag. She’d be knee deep in organizing hangouts, all the Fellroys and extended kin wanting in on dinner while half their friends would want bar time. But in this life they’ve gotten Rozy and Shane, and instead of all that normalcy he and Mellie need to execute this play. And they fucking will.

Unlike some men, Cliff’s never had any hangups about the possibility of wearing a woman’s body on March third. Maybe a bit of concern about disassociation, because what if being petite is as overwhelming as being deaf or having a different centre of gravity? But he’s never been concerned about being the massive fucking airquotes weaker gender. Or what might happen if his PQ woman has her period on March third, a relatively easy concept that has a certain type of guy shitting his pants in fear.

All that said, he’s extremely happy for Shane’s mass and arm span when the door opens and Cliff’s own worried eyes look into his face. It’s Roz, Cliff is certain, and he’s as jittery now as he was the first game after he got back from Sochi, full of shit to prove, or the time he accidentally watched Waitress on the plane and was bursting with feelings about men trapping women in ugly homes. Mellie hugs, of course she does, most women hug, but with Shane’s body only a few inches shorter than Cliff’s, Cliff can really taco Rozy to the best of his ability. And that the fact that Rozy just lets Cliff envelope him in a hug without struggle is proof enough of how much he needs it. Maybe he won’t be getting punched tonight. Or maybe succumbing to this vulnerability so early on will have his hackles up later. Cliff will play it by ear.

For now, the most important thing is squishing Rozy to his chest with smothering force. Cliff could take his weight, no problem, has carried all types of rooks to their beds after a bar night, but he knows Roz isn’t gonna take it that far. Not a chance Rozy is going to voluntarily koala on Cliff’s hip, even if he might need it as much as Cliff’s nieces and nephews do when they’re overwhelmed. Luckily Cliff is a genius, and knows more than one way to get some soothing rhythm into his touch. Shifting his weight from foot to foot as he envelopes Rozy is as good as rocking him back and forth.

“I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care,” Cliff repeats into Rozy’s hairline he keeps up the comforting motion. “You never need to tell me when it started, or how. Even what you label as. None of it is our fuckin’ business until when and if you ever want to tell us.”

“Oh, PQs don’t share everything?” Rozy’s standard sarcasm sounds different in Cliff’s Boston voice. Not to mention it’s not quite as deeply sharp as it shoots past Cliff’s ear, because he’s trapped either looking over his shoulder or burying his head in his neck, and Cliff knows better than to wish for real tears. Rozy would fucking never. There’s an undertone to the jib, like he’s plastering the sarcasm on top of something more hollow and worn.

“Some do, sure. And some respect each other’s fuckin’ privacy.” Cliff wishes he could do what Raiders fans have labelled his crazy eyes, to prove his point, but Rozy is in current possession of those.

Beyond them, Mellie’s body is on the floor, her forehead against her bent up knees. Shane’s a quiet horror to Roz’s loud, whoever would have guessed. But much like Cliff, Mellie isn’t one for putting up with other people’s pain when there’s a way to fix it. She folds Rozy’s large frame onto the hardwood, and pats a wide hand on Shane’s foot. He doesn’t look up, but he doesn’t flinch away, and Cliff is sure Mellie is counting that as a win.

“We will shut the fuck up about this forever if you wanna keep going back to Russia,” Cliff vows next.

It’s too much for Rozy. He wrenches himself out of Cliff’s grasp and walks a few paces away. Not only is he now out of Cliff’s reach, it also has the benefit of Rozy not needing to make eye contact as he reveals, “was already never going back to Russia.”

Cliff knows Rozy didn’t go back to Moscow after last season. He’d attributed it to too many memories, too fresh after a death in the family. But if the true reason was queer persecution, then it stands to reason Rozy was actively being queer then. It’s more circumstantial evidence, but it makes sense. Maybe it was 2017 All Stars? They played together so well, the only time the League’s ever let them. A winner’s high is a hell of a thing.

Well, good. Fuck all of them, anyway. Cliff has so much to offer Rozy in terms of family, him and Mellie, the moment Rozy and Shane feel safe in revealing themselves. Even Uncle Rory with his kite obsession has to be better than every Rozanov leech. Uncle Rory is nice, if boringly hyperfixated. Cliff’s never heard a single kind word about anyone Rozy’s related to.

“We will also shut the fuck up about this for any other reason given,” Mellie says from the floor. Shane’s raised his head now, something about Cliff’s biting rejection of Russia enough to make him a potential ally, not a faceless homophobic hockey goon. Mellie knows better than to make eye contact, just like she knew better than to go for a dramatic back rub, but it’s clear the words are directed to Shane. Rozy could be caught in a life or death situation, should they get found out, but Shane has a golden reputation to lose, a gilded cage of expectation in exchange for the big sponsorship bucks. If Cliff had to bet money, he’d put it on Shane being more sickly terrified at being outed than Rozy.

“Seriously, guys. It’s great you’re together, but we don’t need anything more than that.”

“Okay,” Rozy says, doubtfully. It’s weird to not hear it emphasized in his typical Russian way.

“Sorry I’m not Sveta, buddy. I know you were really looking forward to that.” Whenever it came up, the philosophical question of who your PQ might be, a bar stool classic like ‘are we in the Matrix’ or ‘are there ever any new trends or do people always just repeat earlier decades’, Rozy’s answer was uniformly and exclusively Sveta. Knowing what he knows now, about Rozy’s orientation, and the way they’d been fuckbuddies since high school, Cliff can see Roz set himself up for a solid win/win, Sveta plus a hot boyfriend who couldn’t possibly be homophobic or he wouldn’t fit the PQ. And then…them.

“Yes, well. You don’t control that,” Rozy answers, arms crossed.

“Maybe not, but I’m glad it’s you. We’re glad. Having you in my life, forever? God or whatever really exists, man.”

Cliff isn’t much for faith. Mellie is a little bit more than he is, though she says it’s all about the spirit and the community, and nothing at all with the church. It’s a distinction that works for her, and not Cliff’s place to police it. Rozy is never not wearing his Russian Orthodox cross, but Cliff’s always gotten the impression that it’s a family heirloom, not a sign of striving for piety. He’s a little far from his goal, if it was.

“You seem nice,” are the first words Shane struggles to get out.

“Thank you.”

“But I’m gay. So.” Shane cuts himself off verbally, but makes himself clear in the way he pulls his foot out from under Mellie’s cupped hand.

Mellie nods. “Cool. Thanks for sharing. But you can just say you’re intruding in my personal space bubble. It’s important to boundary set.”

Mellie follows it up with skittering back until her spine’s against the couch because she means what she says. Cliff doesn’t think he’s going to get Rozy back in his comforting grip any time soon, so he moves to join his girlfriend, once again knee to knee. Rozy crashes the floor last, hip to hip with his boyfriend, leg thrown over Shane’s in a way he noticably doesn’t protest. Different bubbles for different people, obviously, not just a complete aversion to touch.

“Boundaries?”

“Yep. They’re important,” Mellie reiterates.

“Okay,” Shane bites out, snapping tone never once heard in any of his bland post game interviews. Cliff doesn’t like that he’s irritated, especially because he has no history with him and doesn’t know how to fix it, but he does like that he’s letting himself be more real than his social media self. “How about I’m gay, and don’t want to fool around.”

“Okay.”

Shane frowns. Evidently not the answer he’d expected. “Okay?”

Mellie shrugs. “I don’t get why you’re acting like it’s a mind blowing scenario. The vast majority of couples don’t fuck their PQ.”

“Maybe not. But Ilya likes both.”

“Both what?”

“What?” Shane asks, thrown by his script not being accepted.

“Likes both what?” Mellie presses.

“Both genders.”

“You know there’s more than two, right?”

“Uh,” Shane manages.

Rozy looks at them, then him, like he can fix this. Cliff’s got nothing to say. Mellie knows all sorts of queer information, and if she’s calling someone out, gently or not, there’s generally a reason.

“I’m guessing you haven’t been exposed to a lot. Prodigy, right? No GSA in whatever school was closest to where you billeted. It’s okay, we’ll get there. Just, for now: it’s cool that Rozy’s bi, if that’s what he says he is. Or texts he is. I am too. But that doesn’t mean he’s automatically on board because I’m a woman throwing myself at you both. Honestly, bold of you to assume I’d be the one having the threesome with you two,” Mellie finishes.

“Cliff’s not bi,” Rozy replies faster than Shane can process his lecture. For a moment Cliff worries about how certain Rozy sounds, like he was about the locker room issue earlier. If straight is synonymous with asshole, it’s not something Cliff wants to be associated with being. He calms quickly, though. Mellie’s already let him know he’s safe. Rozy just knows for fact what has always been true for Cliff: he loves to fuck hot women.

Mellie crooks her head in a remarkably confused Rozanov way. There’s a Tumblr meme of it, Cliff has seen the puppy comparison. “Sexuality is as nuanced as gender. He’s heterosexual, yeah. Physically attracted to women. But he really likes people. Loves them. I can see a day where he loves someone so much the fact that they have a dick would be unfortunate, but tolerable.”

Normally Cliff wouldn’t necessarily like Mellie spreading around his shit, but Rozy and Shane’s is so blown up that it honestly just makes it seem fair. And she’s not wrong. Men’s bodies aren’t his thing, but it’s not like they’re coated in acid and ricin. Shit, Cliff was semi planning on having PQ Day sex with Mellie later, despite the dick. He’s not going to actively seek out Rozy and Shane, but if something happens one day, it can happen.

“For the record, my Shane does not feel the same. Had great friendship with Hollywood’s favourite pussy and it still wasn’t enough to make him like it.”

“Fuck you, asshole,” Shane snaps, as Cliff wrestles with the knowledge that every time the Raiders teased Rozy about the stratospheric pull Hollander made, they were really rubbing dirt into a wound caused by an on again off again relationship. No way Roz would have been so sour about it otherwise. Maybe Cliff’s got more locker room shit to apologize for than he thought.

“If you’re going to tell me I’m wrong, we will be having a whole new argument.”

“You’re not wrong. But you didn’t have to tell everyone.”

Rozy scoffs. “Not everyone. PQ. Is what they’re for, or did you not take. Uh. What is semeynyye issledovaniya? Uh. Family studies?”

“I know what a Power Quad is, asshole. Haruto and Keiko have had monthly dinners with my parents since before I was even born.”

Cliff barely holds back his wince, and he knows Mellie feels the same. Everyone they know granted with the luck of a PQ are at daily texting levels, if not in person hanging out. God or whatever grants you the PQ you need to suit you, so Cliff’s sure the Hollanders are busy people who need space, just as he’s sure that Rozy’s parents’ PQ made for equally terrible adult presences. It’s just not what Cliff wants, and he’s certain it’s the same for Mellie and Rozy. Shane will just have to adjust. They’ll respect his boundaries, but not his space.

Rozy takes a deep breath, like he’s psyching himself up. Cliff gets why, when insanity comes out of his mouth. “Won’t have long to argue about who’s threesoming who anyway. Will all be apart. I’m free agent. Going to join Ottawa.”

“What the fuck? Why.” Cliff asks, fucking appalled. Might as well give a nihilist nuclear codes or a toddler an arsenic coated lollipop, comparing terrible decisions.

“Need a not Russian passport. And it’s only two and a half hours from Montreal.”

“Cool,” Cliff states, despite it being the opposite. “How about fuckin’ not.”

“Marley, I need a passport that won’t send me to prison.”

“Yeah, okay, I get that.” Work visas are a complex thing for guys across the MLH, and if Rozy ever has to go back to Russia he’s fucked. “But there are better options than both of you away from us, and also away from each other.”

“Like?” Shane asks instantly. So he’s a planner. Yeah, that’s a pretty obvious character trait. He’s a captain, and Canada’s good boy. And honestly, he’s looking pretty neurodivergent, though there is a time and place for that conversation that is definitely not today. Of course Shane wants to know what improvements Cliff and Mellie can make on what Cliff bets was a deeply thought out plan.

“Well the obvious one is American citizenship. Just as good as Canadian, for being not Russian. You get traded to Boston, everyone is all together. Happily fucking ever after. And the obvious back up plan is the New York Paladins. The Admirals don’t have cap space, but the Paladins would. It’s like two forty five? What’s fifteen minutes more, a few extra songs on the playlist?”

“You really think Boston wants Shane Hollander? The enemy?” Rozy asks, a smear of jazzy sarcasm over what Cliff’s been processing this morning, how much all the rival talk probably sucked.

But he’s got Rozy’s back now. He always has, to the best of his ability, but now more completely than ever. “I think there are ways to sell it. Especially, and I’m not saying you have to, but especially if you come out. Because no one in Boston, player or fan, is gonna give a shit. Pride month is massive here. It’d probably bring in new fans, honestly. But Montreal’s like non-stop homophobic chirping.”

“I think we can safely call it slurring,” Mellie interjects.

“Coming out is not part of the plan no matter where we live,” Shane swiftly disagrees.

“Okay, but you can still live somewhere that doesn’t fucking hate you,” Cliff points out. If Shane really is gay, he should be the fuck away from all that faggot fairy tarlouze shit. Cliff already hated it, but Comeau’s gonna taste hands the next time Cliff clocks it.

“Look, we’ve got time to figure it out,” Mellie peacekeeps. Cliff knows she’s on his side, but if the Ottawa tragedy has been their miracle solution for some time now, it might take a while to convince Rozy and Shane. “What the clock’s really ticking on now is have you two had breakfast yet? Because I get acid reflux if I don’t eat, and Shane doesn’t need that.”

Rozy shakes Cliff’s head, hair bouncing. Cliff’s definitely going to have to hit up that hairdresser friend of Mellie’s again, it’s a good look on him. “Not the first thing on mind this morning.”

“Well, I’d offer you the second half of the hundred bucks we spent gas station snacks, but Shane has a diet, right?” No way Shane doesn’t stick to it, despite not being in his own body. Diets are a mental thing, not a physical whose body is consuming the food thing.

“Macrobiotic,” Rozy confirms. “Is evil. Sad. Tastes like despair.”

“My food is fine, by the way. He’d just eat McDonalds for breakfast every day of the week,” Shane shoots back. It’s not the insult he thinks it is. Cliff would eat the fuck out of a crispy hashbrown at all times, and Mellie shovels pancakes down from any and all directions, homemade and restaurant purchased.

Speaking of, likely exactly what’s on her mind, Mellie outlines, “so we’ll UberEats-

“SkipTheDishes, is Canada-“ Rozy interrupts to impart fact.

“And we’ll get dinner shipped in too, so we can stay out of sight for the rest of the day.”

“You’re going to stay the whole day?” Shane asks, shocked. It’s giving introvert vibes. They’ll have to work on that.

“For our task list? Yeah. We’ll have to take a nap pretty soon, or we’ll crash on the drive home. We only got a few hours before we realized our PQ. Which is fine, it should give you plenty of time to complain about us, and maybe have sex, if that’s been on your own PQ Day itinerary. And then when you call your agent and have them look at trade options, we have to stick around for that. Dinner to get to know each other, maybe a card game or a board game. As long as we leave by nine o’clock, I think we’ll be okay for tomorrow.”

“Wow. All of that is so presumptuous, I don’t even know where to start.”

“How about you compile some bullet points as I download SkipTheDishes and see what our options are. Cliff, google macrobiotic, so we can cross reference.”

As Shane protests that he has a cupboard full of perfectly acceptable options, and Rozy protests that Mellie should buy them all waffles because waffles are decidedly not miserable, Cliff heaves himself backwards onto the couch so Mellie that has a kneecap to rest her head on. He can’t imagine Shane and Rozy tucking in beside him now, though he leaves space. Roz would, but Shane wouldn’t, and Rozy is going to accommodate his boyfriend’s comfort level. But maybe by the end of the night they’ll get there. Cliff can hope. He, Mellie, Rozy, Shane? They’ve got decades to be together. The faster they’re at peak interpersonal enjoyment, the longer they can sustain it.