Rating:

General Audiences

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories:

M/M, Gen

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

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

Characters:

Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Svetlana Vetrova

Additional Tags:

Good Friend Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Rookie Ilya Rozanov, Canon - Game Changers Series & Heated Rivalry (TV) Combination, Follows series canon more or less, Cliff Marleau as Ilya Rozanov's enforcer, Basically following Ilya and Shane's relationship from Marleau's POV, Cliff Marleau has a gay sister, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau Finds Out About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau & Ilya Rozanov Friendship, POV Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, LGBTQ Ally Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Protective Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-09 Updated: 2026-06-03 Words: 21,480 Chapters: 10/?

and i could take another hit for you

Summary

Cliff Marleau has known about Ilya Rozanov’s relationship since Ilya was twenty-two. 

It’s not like it was complicated to put the pieces together, is the thing. When it all comes out in public, the Raiders have various different meltdowns – Twitter explodes in a way that is sort of unprecedented, and breaks out of the hockey specific Twitter spaces the same way that the Scott Hunter thing did. There’s shitty headlines and queer space headlines, and it’s a whole thing. And Cliff is pretty sure he’s the person least surprised about it. 

But here’s the thing. Cliff Marleau has known Ilya Rozanov since the kid was eighteen. 

OR:
Marly's not as oblivious as everyone thinks. Throughout his time knowing Ilya Rozanov, he picks up on some things nobody else seems to be seeing. He keeps his mouth shut about it.

Notes

Some tagged relationships/characters will come later -- at this point, chapter one is Cliff & Ilya focused!

Chapter 1: year one

Cliff Marleau has known about Ilya Rozanov’s relationship since Ilya was twenty-two. 

It’s not like it was complicated to put the pieces together, is the thing. When it all comes out in public, the Raiders have various different meltdowns – Twitter explodes in a way that is sort of unprecedented, and breaks out of the hockey specific Twitter spaces the same way that the Scott Hunter thing did. There’s shitty headlines and queer space headlines, and it’s a whole thing. And Cliff is pretty sure he’s the person least surprised about it. 

But here’s the thing. Cliff Marleau has known Ilya Rozanov since the kid was eighteen. 

Year One 

There was a brief discussion amongst the team management, and they asked Cliff to billet, because he lived nearby and he’d been on the team for two years, and the kid was Russian with nowhere else to go. And for all the shit they were saying in the papers, Cliff wasn’t actually that big of a partier. The team trusted him. So yeah, Cliff had said yes. 

Ilya Rozanov shows up at Cliff’s door with a beaten up duffle bag, a worse for wear suitcase, and a guarded expression. He looks all of twelve minutes old, and Cliff almost feels bad for him. 

“Fuck. They’re gonna eat you alive,” he says, stepping aside to let the kid pass. 

Ilya regards him with a sharp expression that suggests he doesn’t fully understand the idiom, and shakes his head. “No one will eat me.” 

Cliff laughs, booming, and claps him on the shoulder. “Sure, kid. C’mon, I’ll show you where you’re sleeping.” 

He leads Ilya through the house, which Cliff had bought outright with his first ever paycheque, to the guest room he’d decided was probably big enough. It was only a little smaller than the master bedroom, and pretty spartan in its attire. King bed, navy sheets, and a closet. “Let me know if you want me to get you any shit for in here. Rugs or whatever. My sister said I’m shit at interior design, so, y’know. Boring as fuck.” 

When he glances back at Ilya, the kid’s expression is unreadable. Not unusual, Cliff figures – a lot of the Eastern European players are hard to read. An old teammate had told him it was some shit about Slavic eyebrows, whatever that means. Cliff gives it a second, and then says, “‘Kay, well, I’ll leave you alone. Bathroom’s down the hall to the right. We have practice tomorrow at nine, so we can drive in together. I have food in the fridge, take whatever you want.” 

There’s still not much of a response, so Cliff puts his hands up and leaves it there. 

He doesn’t see Rozanov again until the evening, when Cliff’s sprawled on his couch, NHL 09 booted up on the Playstation. He doesn’t even notice the kid at first, catches sight of him out of the corner of his eye and jumps about a foot in the air, swearing. 

“Sorry.” Rozanov doesn’t look particularly sorry.

“Make a fucking noise next time, would you?” Cliff pushes himself up a little bit to look at the kid, and then tilts his head. “You hungry?” 

Rozanov hesitates, then nods like he’s not sure he’s allowed to. Cliff rolls off the couch and curls a hand, doesn’t check to see if Ilya is following him to the kitchen. He pulls open the fridge and glances over his shoulder to where Rozanov hovers behind his shoulder. “Your options are chicken and rice, chicken and rice, or…chicken and rice,” he says, stepping aside to show the neatly labelled boxes. 

For a long moment, Rozanov just stands there, looking. Then, dryly, he says, “Wow, so much choice.” 

He’s almost hesitant about it, and cuts Cliff a look like he’s expecting to be told off for saying it. Instead, Cliff laughs and says, “Fuck off, you asshole. You can eat that or you can starve, choice is yours.” 

Rozanov cracks the barest of smiles, and tips around Cliff to grab one of the boxes, then tilts his head towards the microwave. Cliff shows him how it works without much preamble - he doesn’t know what kind of microwaves they have in Russia. Are there microwaves in Russia? He’s not about to ask. 

With Rozanov’s food heated up, Cliff leads him back to the living room and flops down on the couch, picking up his controller. After a moment of hesitation, Rozanov joins him. Cliff boots the game back up and doesn’t look at Rozanov.

“You excited for tomorrow?”

“Mm.” 

Right. So interesting. “Nervous?” 

“Russians do not get nervous.” 

Cliff glances over, grinning, to see if Rozanov is joking. The expression on his face makes it completely unclear. “Sure,” Cliff says after a minute. “Well, the guys are solid. Excited to meet you, I’m pretty sure. Hard to tell with some of those guys. You’re gonna get chirped to death, but if you’re as good as you look from the footage, you’ll shut them the fuck up pretty quick. Coaches are solid too, they’ll put you through your fuckin’ paces but like I said you seem solid as fuck, so -” 

“Slow down.” 

It catches Cliff off-guard, and when he looks over, Rozanov’s expression is as unreadable as it was before. Except for this little furrow between his eyebrows. A moment passes, and then -

“Please.” 

Oh. Shit. Yeah, okay. There’s a difference between knowing English and keeping up with Cliff’s fast as fuck Boston accent. Fair. “Sorry.” 

Rozanov waves his hand, cheeks a little pink about it. “Is fine. Just…tired.” 

Cliff’s pretty sure that’s not what it is, but hey, who the fuck is he to call someone out? “Sure.” And then, “You’ll be fine, is all I mean. And if anyone gives you shit, you tell me, okay?” 

That part Cliff is pretty sure Rozanov understands. He says, “I can handle myself,” but he’s nodding anyway. 

From there, it’s easy. 

Rozanov steps into his first practice with all the ego of a first draft pick and all the fear of someone away from home for the first time. Cliff directs him to his cubby, introduces him around, and lets the guys chirp him. 

They stop pretty fucking quick when they see the kid out on the ice. Cliff had known he was good, but fuck, he is really, really good. He’s faster than almost all of them, and his stick handling is unbelievable. It sets something alight in the rest of the team, like they all want to prove they’re good enough to go toe-to-toe with him. Cliff feels it, too. 

The routine for the three weeks of training camp is pretty easy, from there. Cliff drives them to and from practice – Rozanov - Rozy at practice - decides what music they’re listening to. It’s almost always a combination of pop music, Russian rap, and the occasional piece of classical music, which really throws Cliff off. Rozy takes over cooking for the most part, because he declares that Cliff is pretty fucking bad at it, and Cliff has no complaints. 

Rozy is borderline militant in his cleanliness, which Cliff - like he does with most things Rozy does - chalks up to him just being Russian. It makes living together pretty easy, actually. 

In their first exhibition game, Rozy is a fucking demon on the ice. He scores a goal in the second period and lights up like a Christmas tree, the happiest Cliff thinks he’s ever been. He gets lost in the pile of congratulatory bodies, but Cliff manages to get a hand on his shoulder, grinning. Rozy grins right back, delighted by it. 

They win most of their exhibition games, and Cliff gets some good assists in, but fuck if it isn’t mostly Rozy. For a rookie he’s unprecedented. It means people start to take notice - and not in a good way, either. 

And the thing about Cliff is that he’s big enough to be an enforcer. He isn’t, because he’s a great fucking forward, but he knows how he looks and he knows how he comes across. So he starts to keep an eye – not on the rest of them, they have actual enforcers for that. But Cliff keeps an eye on Rozy.

Their sixth game of the season is against Florida and it’s fucking brutal from the start. It’s unusual, but Cliff figures out pretty early that they’re all gunning for Rozy. Makes sense – he’s good at what he does, chirps like he’s being paid to do it, and pisses them all the fuck off. Fine, no biggie, because he can handle himself - Cliff’s seen it. 

The first time it starts to seem more than just game play is when Rozy gets slammed into the boards, nowhere near the puck. It’s not called, but Cliff catches sight of the look on his face. He seems - surprised. And no one else would, Cliff thinks, know that. But no one else is living with the kid and spending almost twenty-four solid hours a day with him, so Cliff doesn’t think they would. 

The second time, it’s more brutal. Rozy makes a good goal, but his stick catches one of their defenders. That’s all it takes for him to be shoved, hard and high enough that he goes flying backwards into the boards. Cliff’s gloves hit the ground a second later, and he’s closing the gap to put his fist in the fucker’s face. It takes two refs to pull Cliff back, and he skates towards the penalty box with what he knows will be a black eye, grins at Rozy with blood on his teeth. 

Rozy grins back, shaking his head. 

On the bus back to the hotel, Cliff drops into the aisle seat next to Rozy and says, “You good?” 

Rozy looks at him with a raised eyebrow, slightly incredulous, and says, “What the fuck? Are you?” which seems fair. Cliff’s face is a fucking nightmare, right now, and his head hurts like a motherfucker. “What the fuck did you do that for?” 

“You’re my fucking rookie,” Cliff says, simply, and grins at the way Ilya splutters at the possessive of it. “No one fucks with my rookie.”

“Marly, you are two years older than me.”

“Yeah, you’re a fucking baby.”

“I will fuck you up.” 

“You can’t reach high enough.” 

“Fuck you!” 

“Nah, fuck yourself.” 

So it’s that easy. Cliff Marleau becomes Ilya Rozanov’s enforcer. And he is really, really fucking good at it. But the thing about being Rozy’s enforcer is that you have to keep an eye open. Two, most of the time. And that means you start to notice things – even when the person you’re noticing doesn’t fucking want you to.

The first time he really notices anything is after the All Stars game. It’s this whole fucking thing, Hollander versus Rozanov, the fabled rivalry of it all. Cliff gets it - they’re as good as each other, a whisker of difference between first and second. Not that he’ll ever say that to Rozy, fuck, he’s not suicidal. But Cliff is kind of secretly looking forward to playing with Hollander – he wants to see what all the fuss is about.

He takes Rozy out for a drink after the first press conference Rozy has to deal with. Some shit about getting the two rivals shoulder-to-shoulder or whatever. Cliff doesn’t bother watching it. 

“You good? Press stuff is shit.” 

Rozy looks a little more subdued than normal, and shrugs. “I’m fucking hockey player, Marly. I do press stuff all the time.”

“Alright, asshole, sorry for asking.” 

Rozy lets out a huff, beer bottle halfway to his lips, and takes a deep pull. “Fuck you. Is fucking boring. They ask too many questions anyway. I answer, they ask more.” 

Yeah, that’s kind of what Cliff figured. “How was it, with Hollander? Feels like they set this whole fucking thing up so you guys would play each other.” 

Something weird happens, then. Rozy – fucking blushes. It’s not super obvious, just this little pink tint to his cheeks. Cliff hides his surprise behind his beer bottle while Rozy clears his throat and says, “He is okay guy. Very boring.” 

Which – sure, yeah. Hollander’s reputation is squeaky clean, and he plays like it, but wow. Cliff tilts his head a little, knows he’s pushing his limits when he says, “Yeah. You guys played each other in the world juniors, right? Summer before your rookie season. How was that?” 

“You are in love with Hollander?” 

Cliff chokes on his next mouthful of beer, puts the bottle down so he can cough around it. When he finally gets his shit together he says, “What the fuck, Rozy?”

“No, is fine, you are just asking many questions about him. Thought maybe you were hot for him.” The corner of Rozy’s mouth is quirked up, and Cliff punches him in the shoulder. 

“Fuck you. You’re so fucking annoying. Can’t wait to beat your ass on the ice.”

“I am sure my ass is not the only one you want to -” 

Rozy is summarily silenced with a headlock. 

Still, Cliff’s not stupid. Rozy comes back from the All Stars weekend…lighter. Happier, somehow. And obsessed with his phone. Cliff catches sight of it once. Jane, popping up over and over again, text after text. It’s…something. But Cliff isn’t an asshole. He’s just also not stupid.

Chapter 2: year one point five

Chapter Summary

“So, Ilya. Are you seeing anyone?” Steph’s expression is soft, and openly curious. She’s always been a gentler presence at their family events – Cliff loves the hell out of her.

“Ah, no. Is very busy, no time for relationships.”

Cliff raises his eyebrows, chewing and swallowing his potato in full - he’s not getting yelled at by Tiff again - before he says, “What about Jane?”

Rozy’s fork scrapes across the plate loudly as he looks up, expression slightly guarded. “Who?”

“Oh come the fuck on, Rozy. Montreal Jane who you text every thirty seconds and disappear to see every time we’re in Montreal.”

OR:
Cliff can't let Ilya be alone on Christmas. Some revelations are had.

Chapter Notes

Rozy moves out at the end of his rookie year. Cliff’s not upset about it – he likes his own space, and he thinks probably Rozy does too. Still, Cliff thinks they're probably best friends now. Whatever, it’s fine. They trade off on picking each other up to go to practice when it’s snowing, and Cliff lets Rozy pick the music regardless of whose car they’re in. It’s not a bad set up, really. On the ice, Rozy annoys the fuck out of people and Cliff hits anyone who takes it too personally. They get something of a reputation between them, and Cliff doesn’t mind that either. 

And Cliff keeps his eyes open. He watches Rozy seduce woman after woman in every bar in every city. He’s got a few regulars – Cliff meets and very much likes Svetlana. Especially in bed, because she’s very, very fucking hot and very good with her tongue. They share a cigarette afterwards and Svetlana says, “Probably you should not tell Ilyushka about this,” which Cliff immediately ignores because he just got a thousand years of ammunition from the name Ilyushka. Worth it, even when Rozy checks him into the boards at their next practice. 

But Cliff notices other things, too. Like the fact that Rozy only ever has one hook up in Montreal. The mysterious Jane, who Rozy seems to text more than anyone else - including in the locker room - and who none of them have ever met. Cliff has asked. No one’s ever seen her. Which, fine, fucking whatever, it’s not like Cliff is Rozy’s best friend or anything. 

It’s Rozy’s second Christmas in America, and Cliff invites him over for dinner. They did it last year, just the two of them, because Cliff’s parents and sister were on vacation for it. This year, his parents are still on vacation, but Tiff isn’t. So yeah, it’s Cliff, Ilya Rozanov, his sister. And his sister’s girlfriend. 

Cliff goes to pick him up, because he kind of has to say something. 

It takes him a minute to get it out, and in the end he only says it because Rozy looks at him and says, “Marly if you are going to puke please do not do it in your only nice car.”

“Fuck you. Listen, I need to tell you something, and I’m only telling you so you don’t say some dumb fucker shit, okay?” Because the thing about it is that Ilya is Russian. And it’s not like this kind of thing has ever come up in conversation before, so Cliff has no fucking idea how he’ll react. 

“You are going to ask me to be your boyfriend, yes? Is okay Marly, I see how you look at me, I don’t -” 

“Shut the fuck up.”

It’s abrupt enough that Rozy’s teeth click together audibly, and he sits back in his seat, looking a little affronted. Which is fair enough, Cliff has never really spoken to him like that before. 

“Seriously, man, this is – it’s about my sister, okay?” 

When Cliff glances over again, Rozy looks more serious, eyebrows drawn together just a little. “She is okay?” 

Cliff lets out a quiet huff. “Yeah, she’s fine. She’s just gay. And her girlfriend is here for Christmas, too.” 

Silence lingers for a moment, and when Cliff glances over again, Rozy is looking at him with an expression that Cliff can’t decipher. That doesn’t happen much anymore. After the silence stretches a little longer, Rozy finally says, “That is all?” 

Cliff’s knuckles tighten around the wheel, and he says, “I wanted to tell you. ‘Cause I know what people say about Russia and shit, and I wanted to make sure -”

“You think I hate gay people.” 

The laugh Cliff lets out is slightly hysterical. “I mean, no. Yes. Maybe? You’re Russian.” 

Ilya makes a quiet little noise, and when Cliff looks over, Ilya looks slightly sheepish. “Russia is Russia, Marly. I am in America.” 

“Yeah, well, America’s not much better about that shit -” 

“Marly! Fucking relax. Is fine. You have talked about your sister, she seems nice. I am sure her girlfriend is nice also. I will be very good, because I am not asshole, yes? I mean, you are asshole, because you did not tell me about girlfriend so I have no present for her -”

“You bought my sister a present?” 

“I buy everyone presents, Marly. Because I am not asshole.”

“...did you buy me a present?” 

“Yes but you do not get it anymore, because it is going to your sister’s girlfriend.”

“What the fuck!”

“Your fault.” 

They pull up to the house still arguing over the present logistics, and get through the door still arguing, Rozy holding the presents out of Cliff’s reach. 

Tiffany is in the kitchen making potatoes when they get there, long dark hair tied back in a ponytail and squinting through the steam fogging her glasses. Rozy goes quiet immediately, looking for all the world like a fucking cherub. It’s those goddamn curls, Cliff swears – he could get away with murder if he put on the right face under that fucking hair. 

“Hello. I am Ilya, on team with Marly. Is very nice to meet you.”

Cliff’s mouth falls open as he watches Rozy move forward and hold out his hand, shaking his sister’s, the most polite Cliff thinks he’s ever been. Tiffany shoots Cliff a look, and shakes it. “Tiffany. Tiff, which, yeah, Cliff and Tiff, we’ve all heard it.” 

Rozy grins, dropping his hand. “You are nicer than your brother.” 

Tiff laughs, head tilted back, while Cliff throws his hands up and makes noises of indignation. The mess draws Steph’s attention, who comes in from setting the table, tucking her short hair back behind her ears, eyebrows raised. “Sorry, did everyone start drinking without me? That’s rude.” She catches sight of Ilya then, and smiles, closing the gap to slot up against Tiff’s side. “Hey, you must be Ilya. I’m Steph.” 

She doesn’t explain past that. Cliff realises he’s holding his breath, watching as Steph sticks out her hand for Rozy, expression pleasant but clearly testing. Waiting. Cliff’s gaze flicks from the Rozy to the girls and back again. Time seems to stretch out endlessly, and Cliff wonders if maybe Rozy was bullshitting in the car, if maybe the concept of gay people was fine but the reality of his big sister and her girlfriend is different, if it’s too real and he’s about to say some bullshit – 

Rozy shakes Steph’s hand and says, “Is nice to meet you also.” And then, leaning in a little, he says, “Marly told me in the car. Is okay, promise I am not evil Russian.” 

There’s a moment of silence, and Cliff sees the way Rozy’s expression falters for a second, like he’s not sure if it was the right thing to say.

And then all at once Tiff and Steph burst out laughing, tilting into each other the way Cliff has seen them do a hundred times. Tiff turns towards him, shaking her head, and says, “I fucking told you, idiot. You’re so fucking prejudiced.” 

Cliff lets out a breath and immediately gets indignant about it. “Hey! I was fucking thinking about you!”

“Fuck you, I’ve been handling myself and your fucking self for years.” 

Steph nudges her hip against Tiff’s gently, still smiling. “Don’t bully him. I think it was sweet that he was worried. And I think you,” this she directs at Rozy, eyes sparkling, “deserve a drink.”

Relief floods Rozy’s face, and he says, “Thank you,” with a level of gratefulness that Cliff doesn’t think he’s ever heard before. 

An hour later they’re sat around the table, an ungodly amount of food making the whole thing groan and two bottles of red down between them, with a third in danger. 

“So, Ilya. Are you seeing anyone?” Steph’s expression is soft, and openly curious. She’s always been a gentler presence at their family events – Cliff loves the hell out of her. 

“Ah, no. Is very busy, no time for relationships.” 

Cliff raises his eyebrows, chewing and swallowing his potato in full - he’s not getting yelled at by Tiff again - before he says, “What about Jane?” 

Rozy’s fork scrapes across the plate loudly as he looks up, expression slightly guarded. “Who?” 

“Oh come the fuck on, Rozy. Montreal Jane who you text every thirty seconds and disappear to see every time we’re in Montreal.” 

“Is not true. I do not text her that much.” 

“You definitely do. Get all giddy when you see her name pop up I bet -”

“Marly I will fuck you up -”

“Jane, huh?” Tiff breaks in, then, clearly looking to avoid any kind of Christmas based chaos. “But you’re not seeing her? So it’s a casual thing, then.” 

“Yes. Casual. Only when we are in the same place.” 

“Well that’s nice, I guess. Especially if you’re both fine with that kind of arrangement.” 

The tips of Rozy’s ears go red, and Cliff wants to make fun of him so fucking bad. Tiff, because she’s known Cliff since she was two and he was fresh from the fucking womb, shoots him a look that says she’ll chop his dick off if he does. Ah well. 

“Yes.” Rozy says after a minute, immediately tearing into a potato. After another minute he says, “Is not that serious. We just…is good sex.” Cliff kicks him under the table and Rozy kicks him right back. “Is nice to – have someone. Like that.”

Okay well now Cliff’s confused. Because it sounds like more than sex, the way Rozy’s talking, but…hey. Listen, Cliff’s had some fucked up relationships like that. It’ll turn, probably. They always do. The girls get tired of waiting and being fucked around. 

But Tiff and Steph don’t get that, because their faces go soft and Steph says, “That’s kind of sweet,” and means it. Because she’s nice. 

They let it drop, too, get through the rest of the dinner talking about hockey and Tiff’s photography that she’s trying to turn into a business and Steph’s teaching stories. It’s nice, and there’s a few times where Cliff catches sight of Rozy’s expression, softened in a way that Cliff is pretty sure he’s one of the few privy to. 

Because Cliff doesn’t ask but again, he’s not stupid. Rozy very rarely brings up his family, and when he does it’s clipped and unhappy. Which, yeah, Cliff can’t say he gets it but he can understand what might be a problem. Thousands of miles away and…well. Russia. Rozy’s talked about his dad before, if only to say that he might be seeing a game here or because he’s taken a call every once in a while. Cliff knows he’s got a brother because Rozy turns down those calls more often than he doesn’t.

He doesn’t mention his mom. Cliff doesn’t ask. 

So yeah, maybe Rozy’s softer around the edges than he would usually be about all this, and maybe Cliff knows it’s because Rozy probably doesn’t have a good relationship with his family and doesn’t really get to do this, but neither of them will ever talk about it. That’s not what this is. Cliff would go to fucking war for Rozy, but they’re not going to sit and cry about all the shit going on in their lives. 

They finish dinner and migrate to the living room, drinking while they open presents. 

It’s Cliff’s turn to unwrap the beaten up Gameboy that they’ve been gifting back and forth for the better part of their lives. Tiff grins at him and says, “No fucking way you’re beating my Tetris score this year you fuck,” and Cliff throws up a middle finger at her, laughing at the perplexed look on Rozy’s face. 

Steph and Tiff give each other some really nice, gooey sentimental bullshit things, and Cliff pulls a face and then pretends to look ashamed when they both tell him off for spending too much money on the present he got them. In his defence, they’ve never been on vacation as a couple and they’ve been together five years. So yeah, all expense paid trip to Italy, what the fuck ever. 

Rozy looks almost sheepish when he hands over his presents, apologising to Steph and saying, “Marly did not tell me you were also here because he is asshole,” even while Steph is trying to tell him it’s fine. 

In classic Rozy fashion the presents are ridiculous. Tiff almost screams when she opens it, and Cliff has to lean back as she launches across him to hug Rozy. “You should not have fucking done that oh my god! That’s so fucking expensive -”

Rozy is laughing, hugging her right back as he says, “Marly said you like photography. They tell me this is very good camera, yes?” 

“It’s the fucking best one on the market, you know it’s good.” Tiff pulls back and cups his face, kissing Rozy on the nose like she used to do to Cliff when he was little. And maybe Cliff is expecting Rozy to pull a face, to push her away, but all he does is go a little pink and say, “I’m glad you like it.” 

Then it’s Cliff’s turn, and he laughs out loud as he unwraps the iPad, shaking his head. When he looks up, Rozy looks a little bit guarded, like he’s upset or something. Cliff says, “No, thank you it’s - fucking hang on a second,” and reaches over the couch because of course he got Rozy a present too. 

And they end up laughing together over it, when Rozy unwraps his present to reveal a matching iPad. Tiff says, “Oh my fucking God, boys are so stupid,” but Steph seems to think it’s sweet. 

It’s towards the end of the night, when Tiff’s got her camera all set up, her and Steph hunched over it together while Tiff explains the ins and outs to her, that Cliff settles in next to Rozy, knee to knee. The TV’s playing some stupid Christmas movie that neither of them have been following, and they’re both a little tipsy. Cliff doesn’t make any conscious decision to speak, but he’s quiet when he says, “Love you man. Thanks for coming.” 

Rozy’s quiet for long enough that Cliff thinks maybe he hasn’t heard, or maybe he’s falling asleep. But then Rozy’s knee pushes into Cliff’s with a little more pressure, and he says, “Yes. Thank you for letting me be here.”

“It’s not about letting,” Cliff says immediately, and he slings an arm around Rozy’s shoulders, bumps their heads together. Would let go, but Rozy goes tight, and then melts a little and Cliff figures hey, it’s Christmas. Why not? “You’re my rookie.” 

“I’m not even a fucking rookie anymore,” it comes out grumbled, but Cliff can hear the softness under the words that says Rozy’s nowhere near mad about it. 

“My fucking rookie.” Cliff isn’t letting this go. “You need a room, I got one. You want a drink, I’m there. You got me, Rozy. Okay?” 

It’s the most honest they’ve ever been with each other. They will never talk about this conversation ever again. But until the day he dies, Cliff will remember the way Rozy melts into him, and the way his words go thick when he says, “Okay. Me too.” 

And that’s enough. 

Chapter End Notes

Olympics and the Cup up next! Any feedback is appreciated and loved <3

Chapter 3: olympics year

Chapter Summary

Rozy smiles at him, shaking his head as he unlocked his hotel room door, “Something like that, yes.” Just before he heads into his room he says, “Call your sister, Marly. She is texting me thinking you are dead.” 

“Fuck you, Roz.” Cliff goes back to his own room, tosses himself onto his bed, tipsy and soft. He’s happy for Rozy, he really is. This Jane chick has some kind of fucking magic spell on him. Cliff’s pretty sure they’ve been hooking up since like…fuck, it’s been since that All Stars games at least. Which is kind of fucking strange, because Jane’s clearly from Montreal, but they obviously didn’t meet in Montreal.

Although it’s – weird. Because Rozy goes to see her whenever they play Montreal. So she must be a fucking Metros fan, which makes her fucking Rozy weird. And Cliff’s never seen pictures of them together, not once. Which is like - Rozy’s in the tabloid every other week with some chick, but never Jane. Not Montreal Jane.

OR:
Cliff has a realisation -- Rozy has a plan.

Chapter Notes

The years start to blur together. Cliff has more hookups than he can count, the Raiders are in and out of contention for the Cup, and Rozy does what Rozy does. They hang out after games sometimes, they have dinner sporadically. Bizarrely, Tiff tells him that Rozy texts her about once a week, just checking in on the photography. Which is a whole fucking thing, whatever.

Four years after Rozy joins the team, they make him captain. It makes sense – Cliff takes him out to celebrate and they get so drunk that they agree between them to never, ever talk about it ever again. Cliff's pretty sure they both end up in a pool somewhere, at some point. It’s a fucking nightmare.

And Rozy’s still texting that girl. Cliff teases him about it, because he has to. It’s his job.

It’s before a Montreal game, which means Rozy’s straight up lost in the fucking sauce. “Wow, this Montreal girl works you up, brother.” Cliff keeps it casual, getting his gear on, glancing at Rozy.

Who looks completely affronted. “Shut your idiot face, Marly.”

Oh, Cliff loves this shit. His shot is wide open. “You’re straight up blushing, Roz.” 

He’s rewarded with Rozy’s little stutter, and a deeper blush, while he shakes his head and says, “Never in life have I blushed, Russians do not do this.” 

Cliff grins, shakes his head laughing. Motherfucker blushes over that phone fifteen times a week. He finishes getting his sweater on, tongue caught between his teeth, and follows Rozy out onto the ice. 

It’s a fast game - it always is with Montreal. There’s blood in the water, like there tends to be between Hollander and Rozy. They chase each other around the rink, back and forth. Rozy scores two goals, sandwiching Cliff’s one. Montreal beat them in the last few minutes, and Cliff can’t be all that upset about it, because it’s not the worst loss they’ve ever had. 

He doesn’t bother trying to catch Rozy for drinks afterwards. It’s Montreal – he figures Rozy’s got other plans. He’s right, grinning as he watches Rozy make his way out. “Make sure to wrap it, Roz! Don’t want any little hockey bastards running around!” 

Rozy rewards him with a string of Russian swears and a middle finger that leaves Cliff laughing. He doesn’t get back to the hotel until almost one in the morning, and Cliff only knows because they run into each other in the lobby, because Cliff’s coming back from his own night out.

They don’t say a word to each other – they do collapse into laughter in the elevator up, though, Cliff leaning into Rozy, tipsy and delighted. “Fucking good for you, Roz,” he says after he gets his breath back, pushing him out of the elevator. “You got the fucking girl, huh?” 

Rozy smiles at him, shaking his head as he unlocked his hotel room door, “Something like that, yes.” Just before he heads into his room he says, “Call your sister, Marly. She is texting me thinking you are dead.” 

“Fuck you, Roz.” Cliff goes back to his own room, tosses himself onto his bed, tipsy and soft. He’s happy for Rozy, he really is. This Jane chick has some kind of fucking magic spell on him. Cliff’s pretty sure they’ve been hooking up since like…fuck, it’s been since that All Stars games at least. Which is kind of fucking strange, because Jane’s clearly from Montreal, but they obviously didn’t meet in Montreal.

Although it’s – weird. Because Rozy goes to see her whenever they play Montreal. So she must be a fucking Metros fan, which makes her fucking Rozy weird. And Cliff’s never seen pictures of them together, not once. Which is like - Rozy’s in the tabloid every other week with some chick, but never Jane. Not Montreal Jane.

Whatever. He fumbles for his phone, opens his messages. Tiff’s sent him like fifteen messages, and Cliff giggles to himself as he scrolls through them. He loves Tiff, fucking loves his sister. Tiff and Cliff. Cliff and Tiff. The fucking dynamic duo, the danger twins, the –

Cliff sits upright on the bed, so fast that his head spins. Jane. Shane. Jane and Shane. Shane and Jane. And unless Hollander has some sister he’s been hiding from everyone – 

It can’t be. It cannot fucking be Shane fucking Hollander. Right? No way. That would be fucking crazy. Except that Rozy’s Russian, and even if he’s not homophobic, Russia definitely fucking is, so it can’t be – 

Except that Rozy is so chill with his sister. And it’s - holy shit. Holy fucking shit. 

Cliff is pretty sure Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander are fucking. And there’s no way he can say that shit to anyone. Ever. 

He is going to lose his mind.

He doesn’t say anything. He wouldn’t say anything, because Cliff loves his sister so much, and he knows what she went through, coming out. And she’s not a professional athlete in a frankly grossly homophobic sport. So no, Cliff doesn’t say anything. He just sort of watches. And it becomes really fucking obvious when he knows. He’s just glad that the rest of the Raiders are too fucking dumb to put those same pieces together. The pieces, of course, being that Jane rhymes with Shane, which isn’t exactly water tight but Cliff’s pretty sure he’s on to some big shit here.

They keep playing – they’re on a good run on the build to the Olympics break.

And listen, Cliff’s not mad that he doesn’t get to go to the Olympics. There’s only so many slots, and while he’s a good player it’s not that difficult to acknowledge that Boston wasn’t the best team before Ilya joined. So yeah, Cliff doesn’t go. Instead, he watches from home. He watches Russia get knocked out early, and fast, and texts Rozy commiserations instead of chirps – national shit is different.

People seem to forget, too, how fucking young Rozy is. Captaining an international team at twenty-two is fucking insane, and anyone could see from miles away that Russia’s guys weren’t clicking. Their goalie was injured and their defence was too much of a mess to make up for it. No matter how fucking good Rozy is, he’s one guy. One guy is never going to carry a team that’s that much of a shitshow through to the quarters, never mind the final. 

Rozy doesn’t respond. Actually, Cliff doesn’t hear from him the entire time he’s in Russia. Which is – yeah. He doesn’t normally hear from Rozy over the summer either, but he figured that would be different, because they don’t have hockey to talk about. Apparently not. Cliff texts him a few more times, little bits here and there, while he follows the rest of the Olympic hockey. Canada win, and it’s a beautiful thing to see. Easier, because the United States don’t make it to the gold medal game, and as much as Cliff loves his country, he can appreciate good hockey. He wonders how Rozy feels about the guy he’s fucking winning gold when he got knocked out so early. Probably not great. He doesn’t put that in a text. 

What does happen, though, is that Rozy comes back different. Determined in a way Cliff doesn’t think he’s ever seen before. Cliff picks him up from the airport and he sits quiet in the passenger seat, hands fisted on his lap while Cliff makes mindless small talk. Cliff doesn’t ask if he’s okay - Rozy doesn’t offer the information. That’s not how this thing works.

It’s so fucking awkward that Cliff almost expected Rozy to ice him out, when they pull up to the kid’s apartment. Instead, he nods his head towards his front door as he gets out of the car and Cliff, who has known Rozy since he was a certified Kid with a capital K, follows him inside.

They don’t talk again until they’re sitting on Rozy’s couch with drinks, the hum of the TV playing some football highlights. Stupid fucking game, Cliff thinks, but he won’t ever say it out loud. 

“So -”

“We are going to win the Cup.” 

Cliff blinks, turns to face Rozy. “...sorry, what the fuck?”

Rozy’s expression doesn’t change. He meets Cliff’s gaze coolly, looking completely serious. “We are going to win the fucking Cup, Marly.” 

“Yeah, see, I thought you said that. Now, me, I would have started with ‘Hey Marly, what’s up, how are you? Been taking care of the guys while I’m gone? Thanks for the ride from the airport!’ but no. The Cup.” 

“Oh, I am sorry. I thought you were fucking hockey player, not pussy.” There’s a tilt to Rozy’s lip that says he sees the punch aimed for his arm before Cliff even closes his fist. He doesn’t bother dodging, just lets it make contact. Pushes into it, Cliff thinks. 

“Fuck you. Okay, so we’re going to win the Cup. I assume you have a gameplan for that, not just sheer fucking idiot determination?” As much as Cliff is halfway teasing, he’s also settling in, facing Rozy properly, like they’re about to win it right here on the couch between them. “So clue me in, captain.” 

Rozy’s grin is too-wide and too-white and too-feral, and Cliff matches it with gusto. They’re going to win the fucking Cup. 

Chapter End Notes

this is a shorter one, but the next chapter is the cup run! hope you're enjoying <3

Chapter 4: cup year

Chapter Summary

For a second, Rozy looks like he wants to argue. And then, lips pressed together, he nods instead. “You think we can win?” It’s quietly vulnerable, and comes after a stretch of silence.

Cliff tries not to look shocked by it. It’s something like doubt, and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen Rozy with this level of doubt, before. He pushes himself up off the couch and closes the gap between them, taking Rozy by the shoulders. “I fucking believe it, kid. Because you’ve got us this far, and I’ve never seen you back off a challenge you’ve set yourself. So if you say we’re winning, then we are fucking winning.” 

Rozy stands where he is, blinking at Cliff. And then, for the first time in their friendship, Rozy wraps Cliff into a hug of his own free will. Cliff hugs back, easy about it, pats Rozy on the back. “Okay. Okay. Let’s win the fucking Cup.” 

Chapter Notes

They’re winning the fucking Cup. It’s like Rozy’s possessed, fired up and desperate for it in a way Cliff’s never seen before. He chalks it up to the Olympics, to losing so badly it must have driven Rozy to the brink of insanity, or something. And Cliff gets it, a loss like that on home turf must have been bad. So he’s right there, every step of the way. 

They’re deep in the second round, seven games in and winning so often it feels fucking insane. He insists on Rozy coming over for dinner, because he thinks they’re both on the edge of cracking, so he wants to make sure Rozy has some kind of break that doesn’t involve drinking, fucking, and general debauchery. 

This is why they asked Cliff to billet. He really isn’t as bad as the tabloids seem to think. 

It’s not a particularly complicated meal - salmon, brown rice, some broccoli because Cliff likes it - and he’s already got most of it ready to go by the time Rozy lets himself in with the key he’s had since he lived here. Cliff calls to him from the kitchen, grinning as Rozy rounds the corner, his eye blacked and bruised from the fight he got in during their last game. Cliff’s ribs are bruised to fuck from the exact same fight.

“Here, look through those while I finish this,” Cliff says, indicating to a photo album on the table with his spatula. “They’re Tiff’s newest ones.” 

Since that Christmas where Rozy got Tiff that insanely expensive top of the line camera, her photography’s really taken off. She does private events, now, which Cliff knows pays well, but she’s also doing stuff she enjoys. Urban settings, mostly, and Cliff doesn’t really get it but he’s always supportive of Tiff. The album that Rozy is now looking through is pure hockey. She’s been documenting - her words, not Cliff’s - the Raiders and their journey to the Cup. 

The support goes both ways, is the thing. 

“These are very good,” Rozy says, and Cliff knows he means it. He comes over with the book, tilting to show Cliff the one he’s looking at. It’s one of Rozy, stick on the ice mid-shot, the force of it so hard it looks like his stick is about to snap. From the angle, only the bottom half of his face is visible, teeth gritted together in determination. “They could use this one for trading cards.” 

Cliff laughs, nudging Rozy out of the way to get plates out, divvying up the food. “Yeah, I don’t think Tiff wants to get into trading cards but I’ll let her know.” 

He glances back over, and Rozy’s on the next page. There’s a mix of different team members, different plays. There’s one in black and white, of him and Rozy, their helmets knocking together after a goal, both of them sweaty and fucking thrilled about it. Rozy looks at it for a long moment, then up at Cliff. “We are going to win the Cup,” he says, voice tight. 

It catches Cliff off-guard, for a moment. “Yeah man, I know. You have a whole plan, we’re fucking doing the thing.” He hands Rozy his plate of food and then tilts his head towards the couch. 

“No, I meant – we. You and me.” 

Okay, so that off-guard thing isn’t going away. They sit almost at the same time, and Cliff is still confused. “Man what the fuck are you talking about?” 

“Marly. I am trying to say thank you.” Rozy isn’t looking at Cliff, and Cliff doesn’t think that’s by accident. “Is fucking insane, what I want to do. And the team, when I got there - good, but not that good. Now, we are fucking good, and you have helped with that. Helped me with it. So thank you.” 

Jesus Christ. “Are you fucking dying?” 

“Okay, is last time I ever say nice thing to you. And I take it all back, actually, I want instead for you to choke on that salmon and die.” 

“Oh fuck off, Rozy. You can’t say shit like that and expect me not to rib the fuck out of you.” Cliff knocks his elbow into Rozy’s and is rewarded with a smile. Rozy still looks a little embarrassed, but less like he’s going to blow himself up, now. “You’re welcome, or whatever the fuck. You’re my captain. You say we’re getting the Cup then yeah, sure. We’re getting the fucking Cup. That’s not a question.” 

Something complicated happens over Rozy’s face, which Cliff only sees because he’s looking, now. It occurs to him, distantly, that he’s probably the closest thing to family that Rozy has here. Actually, if he thinks about it a little more, he thinks maybe he’s the closest thing Rozy has to family at all. He tries not to think about what he’s pretty sure he knows, about Hollander and about Rozy, but if he lets himself it becomes so much more complicated. Russia, and shit. Rozy never really talks about his family, but Cliff knows enough to know they’re probably not great people, and probably pretty…well, Russian, when it comes down to it. There’s a kind of responsibility that Cliff’s always felt towards Rozy, since he first stepped foot in this house as a fresh-faced rookie, and that blooms in his chest now, tenfold, hot and important. Rozy has a secret that Cliff knows, and Rozy doesn’t even know that he knows it. 

Without thinking, Cliff tips forwards and thunks his forehead gently into the side of Rozy’s head before he leans backwards again. “I’ve got your back, kid. Always.” 

It’s Rozy’s turn, now, to look slightly startled by the conversation. “Okay pussy,” is what he says after a moment, and Cliff scoffs, accuses him of starting the whole thing and – that’s that. They dissolve into an argument about game strategy and eat their food together. Cliff manages, somehow, to convince Rozy to stay over so they can get in an early gym session. 

It’s like family. It is family. That feels important. 

Before Cliff really knows it, they’re in the finals against San Francisco. San Fran-fucking-cisco. They’re seeded higher than the Raiders which means they start off in San Francisco anyway. They win the first one, but it’s narrow - ends 2-1 for the Raiders and Cliff can see on Rozy’s face he’s not happy with it. They don’t even celebrate it, can’t. They have a team dinner, because Rozy insists on it. The atmosphere at the table is tense, like everyone’s on the edge of something but not quite ready to say what yet. There’s a fevered intensity to it all that feels fucking insane. They have six games left at a maximum, and suddenly it all feels too real.

It’s worse when they lose their second game. Again, the margin isn’t wide, 3-2 for Missions, and the dressing room afterwards is a mess. Guys are caught in the nerves of it, but they know they’re going back to Boston, and that makes a difference. Rozy’s up to four goals in two games and that gets the guys going too. 

Superstitions ratchet up tenfold. Before their first game back in Boston the team go through tape like they’re being paid to do it, guys wrapping and re-wrapping their sticks, skates laced and unlaced and laced and unlaced and laced again. It’s fucking insane to see, to be part of it. Cliff goes through his own paces, writes Tiff’s name on the handle of his stick and then covers it with a piece of blue tape like he’s been doing since he was a kid.

Rozy is locked the fuck in, jaw clenched on the bench. He doesn’t make a very long speech - he doesn’t need to. It’s only the third game, and they need to win but they can’t get much further without a few more under their belts. Cliff’s the last guy out onto the ice before Rozy and their helmets click together audibly before they head down the tunnel. The atmosphere in the arena is fucking electric, fans screaming like they’re being paid to do it, like this is the final itself. 

They win that one. They win 4-2. It’s the biggest margin they’ve won by yet, and Cliff feels like he’s on fire. They win the next one, too, and Rozy’s up to nine goals now. It’s fucking insane, he’s the best player any of them have ever seen, let alone played with. They’re so close to the fucking Cup that Cliff can practically taste it, blood in the water, in the air. 

Their fifth game is in San Francisco. Cliff thinks the nerves have never been higher. If they win this, that’s it. They’ve won the Cup. Nobody wants to say it but they’re all thinking it. Rozy stands in the dressing room and gives a speech that’s cut throat, about wanting to kill San Francisco in their own territory. It’s a fucking blur, Cliff barely remembers it. They go out onto the ice so fucking determined.

The game is a disaster from the start. The Missions are playing dirty, playing rough and hard. Cliff gets checked into the boards in the first period so hard he sees stars, makes himself get up and keep going. Rozy scores a goal right at the end of the first period, and it’s like they have hope for a little bit. 

They don’t score again. The Missions beat them 3-1. There’s no way in, their defence rock solid, their enforcers out on missions. The Raiders goalie is fighting for his fucking life but it’s not enough. 

Afterwards, the dressing room is bleak. Guys are nursing bruises and black eyes, cut lips – St-Simon has lost three teeth. The A burns on Cliff’s chest and he turns tired eyes to Rozy, standing with his back to the dressing room, heaving. It’s a moment before he says anything, turning back. “Shake it off,” he says, voice tight and gaze fixed. “We are still up. Our next game is Boston. We are going to win that fucking game. The Cup is ours. Don’t fucking forget that.” 

He doesn’t say much else, but Cliff lets out a low noise, and the guys all clap - once, together. 

He sits next to Rozy on the flight back to Boston, their shoulders pressed together like soldiers being shipped off to war, finding quiet solace in having each other’s backs. The night before game six, Cliff finds himself in Rozy’s living room, sitting on the edge of the stupidly massive couch, elbows on his knees. 

“You’re fucking great at speeches, Rozy. You always give a good one.” 

“I have never fucking given an almost Cup speech, Marly.” 

“Yeah you have, you did that in San Francisco.” 

Rozy turns a scowl on him where he’s stood in the middle of the room, and says, “Yes, because that went so fucking well. We fucking lost that game.” 

“Okay? Like you said, we’re still one up. We win this, we win the fucking Cup.” 

Rozy looks like he wants to argue, but – well. They were his words. “Okay. I fucking - will talk about how we are going to win -”

“Yeah, good place to start.”

“Fuck you! You said you wouldn’t be an asshole about this,” Rozy puts his hands on his hips and looks affronted. “If you are going to be fucking mean you can go.”

“Oh fucking relax. Yeah, talk about winning. You gotta make sure they shake off that last loss as well.”

“Was my fault,” Rozy says, and looks like he means it.

“No it fucking wasn’t? You were the only one that scored.” 

“One fucking goal. You know I am better than that.” 

Sure, yeah, Cliff does know that. He also knows that if Rozy takes that on, blames himself, that takes the pressure off the rest of the guys. “Okay, say that. But it’s not fucking true. Get that shit out of your head before we get in there.” 

For a second, Rozy looks like he wants to argue. And then, lips pressed together, he nods instead. “You think we can win?” It’s quietly vulnerable, and comes after a stretch of silence.

Cliff tries not to look shocked by it. It’s something like doubt, and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen Rozy with this level of doubt, before. He pushes himself up off the couch and closes the gap between them, taking Rozy by the shoulders. “I fucking believe it, kid. Because you’ve got us this far, and I’ve never seen you back off a challenge you’ve set yourself. So if you say we’re winning, then we are fucking winning.” 

Rozy stands where he is, blinking at Cliff. And then, for the first time in their friendship, Rozy wraps Cliff into a hug of his own free will. Cliff hugs back, easy about it, pats Rozy on the back. “Okay. Okay. Let’s win the fucking Cup.” 

The dressing room is tense, quiet in a way that only anticipation can make it. Sticks are taped and laces are tied, guys sat in their sweaters watching Rozy as he looks around the room. Cliff keeps his gaze fixed, stern. Rozy speaks over the last few overlapping voices, and it falls quiet.

“Okay listen the fuck up. Look, I don’t give a fuck how many goals I’ve scored. I don’t give a fuck how I played two fucking nights ago. I don’t need to think about that, that was yesterday, that was before.” Cliff glances around him. The guys are watching Rozy like he’s the second coming of Christ, like he’s delivering last rites. “Now, I only need one thing. I. Need. To. Win. Here, at home, tonight! As much fun as it would be to go to California and humiliate them there, but I want to hear our fans. I want to hear them scream. I want to fuck San Francisco.” 

Guys are nodding, and Cliff finds himself leaning forwards, drawn in to Rozy’s energy, his determination. His voice is raising, filling the dressing room, and the guys are caught up, starting to feel it. Fuck, Cliff knew this speech was coming and he feels it. “I know you can do it. I’ve seen you fucking do it, I’ve seen every one of you do it. So leave it all the fuck out there tonight. Because this is our fucking night. This is our fucking Cup, fucking fuck San Francisco!“

The guys are yelling before he’s even done, on their feet. Cliff goes straight for Rozy, grinning when he says, “Great fucking speech.” 

“Go fuck yourself!” 

And that’s it, they’re heading out, their helmets on - Cliff watches Rozy tell each and every one of them that he loves them, that he believes in them. Cliff is last in line, thunks his helmet against Rozy’s and then they’re out on the ice. 

The Raiders skate like they’ve got the devil in them. Rozy scores their first goal in the first five minutes of the first period – San Francisco respond two minutes later. Whoever among the Raiders wasn’t fired up already gets fired up now. 

Cliff gives Carmichael the assist for their second goal in the last five minutes of the second period. They’re two up, and that’s not enough for any of them – they don’t just want to win, they want to win unequivocally. 

Fifteen minutes into the third period, the Raiders score their third goal. Rozy scores their third goal. Cliff’s so fucked up on adrenaline he’s shaking with it, desperate for it, and the last five minutes are the longest of any of their lives, Cliff thinks. 

By the time the final buzzer goes, Cliff thinks he’s near death. But that’s it – that’s fucking it. 3-1 and the Raiders win the Cup. They crash into each other screaming, crowding Rozy, the ice filling with gloves and sticks, all of them shaking. They bring out the Cup, the fucking Cup, and Cliff is crying with the realisation that his name is about to be on there, all their names, every single one of them – 

It’s the best night of his fucking life. Rozy looks elated, glowing and shining with it, twenty-three years old and the captain of a Cup winning team. 

They get so drunk that night Cliff almost dies. It’s so fucking worth it. That’s his fucking rookie. 

Chapter End Notes

not the cup. OUR cup <3

Chapter 5: an interlude

Chapter Summary

“He’s good, huh?” Cliff says, and it’s casual, easy. They’re both drunk, so he figures now’s probably a good time. 

“Yeah,” Rozy says, and his voice is soft, gentle. Then he blinks, cuts his gaze to Cliff. “For second best player in the league, yes. He is good.” 

It’s a weak fucking defence. Cliff doesn’t call him on it. “I’ve known you a long fucking time, brother. You don’t hate him like the reporters say.”

OR:
The Metros win the cup for a second time, and Cliff learns something.

Chapter Notes

They don’t stop trying, after that Cup. That’s not what it is. They’re trying like they always have, it just doesn’t feel as urgent. Montreal win the next year, anyway, and Cliff doesn’t even see it because Tiff drags him to Italy - which is apparently her and Steph’s favourite place in the world now - and Cliff spends six days straight on the beach, drunk out of his mind, and he spends five consecutive nights being treated to really nice food suggestions by his sister and her beautiful girlfriend, all of which he pays for. 

It’s kind of a perfect vacation. 

The year after, they get knocked out – not even that early on, but Cliff is tired enough that he doesn’t actually care by the end. He figures, then, that they can probably have a watch party at least. Rozy beats him to it, which makes sense - he’s got a big fancy house, and is the Captain. Cliff comes over with a crate of beer because it feels easier, and there’s already a ton of people there so he just makes himself at home.

They’re all pretty sure that Montreal are gonna win it, because Hollander has always been at Rozy’s throat when it comes to records, and Cliff figures that one win probably isn’t enough for him. He’s spent long enough seeing their rivalry to know that they’re coming at it from different angles. Rozy likes to win, and once he’s proved his point he backs off. Hollander wants to be the best – and it’s a good thing he’s pretty close to it, or Cliff would find it pretty fucking embarrassing to watch. But no - the kid’s got the game to back up the determination, and that’s fun to watch. Not that he’ll fucking say that. 

So they sit on the couch to watch it together, and Rozy puts on a big fucking performance and it should have been me! and all this bullshit, tipping into Svetlana, who looks really beautiful tonight. Not that Cliff will be saying anything to her - he values his life. 

The guys filter out slowly, as the night wears on. Cliff hasn’t asked, but he’s planning on crashing here tonight. He knows Sevtlana’s probably staying, too, but he figures they won’t mind the extra company. Is right, he thinks, because they’re down to the three of them, highlights playing on the TV, when Svetlana stretches, kisses Ilya on the temple, and says something to him in Russian that goes completely over Cliff’s head. Then she kisses Cliff on the temple too, winks at him - she wants him dead, probably, if she’s doing that in front of Rozy - and heads in the direction of Rozy’s bedroom. 

So it’s just the two of them, then. On the TV, they keep showing play-by-play of Hollander’s best goals, of all the moves the Metros pulled tonight to get them the Cup. Rozy is watching, washed out in the glow of the screen. Cliff is watching him. 

“He’s good, huh?” Cliff says, and it’s casual, easy. They’re both drunk, so he figures now’s probably a good time. 

“Yeah,” Rozy says, and his voice is soft, gentle. Then he blinks, cuts his gaze to Cliff. “For second best player in the league, yes. He is good.” 

It’s a weak fucking defence. Cliff doesn’t call him on it. “I’ve known you a long fucking time, brother. You don’t hate him like the reporters say.”

Rozy’s expression is unreadable for a second, before he says, “I don’t know. Is fucking annoying when he wins shit and I don’t.”

“You don’t care that much about that shit,” Cliff’s raising his hand to stop Rozy’s defence before it even comes, “I know you fucking like winning, but not like Hollander. Fuck, no one likes winning as much as that fucking guy does.” 

The corner of Rozy’s mouth tips up. Jesus, he looks fucking fond. “He is proving something, I think. I don’t have shit to prove. Fuck, Marly, who the fuck am I proving anything to?”

Something shifts in the air. This isn’t a joke, anymore, things tilting so quickly Cliff feels dizzy with it. He’s soft when he says, “What’d you mean?”

For a brief moment, Rozy looks like a deer caught in the headlights, completely thrown off by the question. He runs a hand through haphazard curls, his cheeks pink. Cliff almost wants to walk back the question, because it seems like too much. But he waits it out - he’s gotten good at that, with Rozy. It takes a long time, but finally, Rozy lets out a breath, and says, “I have no one to prove anything to, Marly. My brother hates me, my father hardly knows me, my mother is -” Cliff holds his breath, “dead. So. What the fuck do I have to prove? Let Hollander win for his parents, for his fucking country.”

Something inside Cliff’s chest feels like it’s splitting. He hasn’t asked - he doesn’t think Rozy would have answered him anyway, if he’d asked earlier. Fuck, even if he’d asked last week. So this feels like something he has to be so, so fucking careful with. “Fuck, Rozy -”

“No, don’t. Don’t fucking feel sorry for me, Marly. I don’t fucking want - don’t do that.” Rozy waves his hand in the air, looks like he regrets saying anything to begin with. 

But Cliff is drunk, and he thinks – fuck, he needs to say something. He leans over, puts a hand on Rozy’s shoulder, even if the kid looks like he wants to shake it off. “Look at me. Fucking - Roz, look at me,” it takes a second, but he does, “I won’t ever fucking bring up what you just told me ever again if you don’t want me to. I won’t. But I need you to fucking hear me for a second, okay? Whatever the fuck else happens, you’ve got me, alright? Fucking…emergency contact, guy you call when it goes tits up, brother, whatever the fuck you want to call me. I don’t give a shit what the people who should care about you think of you. I fucking care about you, okay? You’ve got me.” 

Silence lingers for a long moment, and then Rozy nods. His eyes are rimmed red, but he’s not crying. “Sure. Yes. Me too.” 

It’s as much as Cliff figures he’s gonna get here. So he nods, squeezes Rozy’s shoulder, and pushes himself up to standing. “Okay. Go hang out with your beautiful girl, and get some sleep. I’m fucking making breakfast. You always fuck up the eggs.” 

Rozy makes an affronted noise, which is exactly what Cliff was going for. They end up stumbling their way through cleaning up the living room together, and then stumble into a fucking hug, of all things, before they separate. Rozy gives him a look that’s incomprehensible, and Cliff nods in the face of it, quiet and solid, the way he’s always been taught to be. 

Cliff makes breakfast the next morning – bacon and pancakes and mountains of fucking eggs. They’re all perfect. Rozy grins at him about it - Svetlana gives him a kiss on the mouth when he perfects her fried eggs. And if that isn’t fucking family, Cliff has no idea what is. 

Chapter End Notes

just a little baby chapter. don't worry, it's The Rose Situation next

Chapter 6: 2016

Chapter Summary

“You don’t fucking know anything,” Rozy’s teeth are gritted, and Cliff thinks he knows exactly where this is going. “I’m not fucking – doing this because of some - fucking relationship. The Raiders are a fucking joke, right now. You are a fucking joke right now, can’t even take a fucking hit -” 

“Fuck you, man. Fuck that.” Cliff says it sharply enough that he sees Rozy almost physically recoil, his gaze dropping like he hasn’t fully realised the impact of what he’s saying until the words have hit Cliff. “Fuck, even if we take all that other shit for what it is, you don’t talk to me like that. Not me.” 

Rozy has the decency to look ashamed, at least. Even past that Russian bullshit. It still takes him several moments of working up to it before he says, “I know.” Then, abruptly, he drops his head into his hands and looks…fuck, Cliff doesn’t even know. “Shit. Fuck, this is – fucking bullshit.” 

OR:
The Rose Year

Chapter Notes

Okay, so maybe Cliff was wrong. He’d been pretty sure that Rozy and Hollander had a thing going on. There was a rhyme involved, the timelines made sense. It all made a lot of sense to him, it was really clear.

Except that now, Shane Hollander has a girlfriend. A very public girlfriend. A very famous, public girlfriend - one that Rozy had seemed shocked about, when they’d shown him the news in the gym. And Cliff had figured, when he first saw it, that maybe Rozy and Hollander had split up, or maybe they were just…open or whatever. But the way Rozy had reacted - yeah. No, he hadn’t seen that coming. Which is…bad, probably.

And then it goes from bad, probably to terrible, definitely. Rozy changes in a way that Cliff, in all the years he’s known the kid, hasn’t ever seen before. He’s sharper, angrier, snaps at everyone including Cliff for no fucking reason at all. Fuck, Cliff is spotting him in the gym and Rozy yells at him so bad Cliff almost walks away. Almost. But he’d meant what he said – Rozy’s got Cliff, even if he’s trying his best to fucking act like he doesn’t. 

The games are harder, too. Rozy seems to be looking for a fight everywhere, and while Cliff isn’t an enforcer he’s a big fucking guy, and most teams know, now, that if Rozy’s angling for a fight then Cliff isn’t far behind. The girl he’s been dating for like six months, Vanessa, asks him one night if hockey players do anything but fight and Cliff, whose torso is bruised black and blue, has to laugh and pretend like this is normal for them. Like taking fist after fist for his captain is part of the game. 

And that’s the thing, really. Enforcers get the shit beaten out of them all the fucking time. It’s kind of part of the job. But Rozy’s never been the kind of player to need that kind of enforcer, and Cliff’s never been that kind of enforcer because, fucking crucially, he isn’t one. Not for their team, anyway. Just for Rozy. 

They’re halfway through the season - and a month into Hollander dating Rose Landry - when Cliff, intercepting some fucker from Toronto that Rozy’s been chirping all night, gets boarded so hard he feels it in his teeth. He hits the ice like a sack of bricks, just barely stops himself from throwing up. It’s hard, and heavy, and there’s no getting up from it, not under his own steam. There’s shouting, and gloves hitting the ice which is nice – when Cliff looks up Rozy’s in the midst of it, looking angry and desperate. It’s the last clear image Cliff has as he’s hustled off by the trainers, back into the tunnel, to the hospital. 

It feels like fucking overkill, but Cliff doesn’t fuck around when it comes to this shit, so he’s probably the most compliant hockey player they’ve ever come across. At least this season, anyway. 

Turns out he’s mostly fine. Concussion, which is the way these things go - Cliff’s fourth, so far, and he’s keeping the first two to himself because they’re technically not from hockey so whatever. His ribs are fucked, so he’ll be missing some games, but it is what it is. They’re not likely contenders for the Cup this year anyway, so there’s no sense in losing his shit over it. The hospital let him know they’ve called Tiff, which means that Cliff has to call Tiff, who yells at him over the phone and then immediately apologises for yelling at him because he has a concussion. The thing is that he’s mostly fine. They’re keeping him as a precaution, and because he’s vaguely important to some people, and they’ll let him go in the morning. 

So he fully expects to be taxi-ing home, but morning rolls around and Rozy appears at his hospital door, looking sheepish and…young, somehow. He’s like a fucking shapeshifter, the way he does that. 

They drive back to Cliff’s in silence, mostly. Rozy stops at the pharmacy to pick up Cliff’s meds, which is nice of him. Or, actually - and Cliff thinks this bitterly - it’s the least he can fucking do. 

They get to the door and Cliff must look unsteady enough that Rozy feels the need to escort him all the way into the living room. And then he lingers, after Cliff’s settled on the couch. Shifts his weight from foot to foot until Cliff says, “Fucking sit down, asshole,” and he does, glaring the whole time. What the fuck ever. 

If Cliff didn’t have a concussion, he’d probably be able to wait Rozy out. As it is, he lasts all of thirty second before he says, “Are you fucking trying to get yourself killed?”

Rozy sputters at that, and Cliff waits that out at least. He’s pretty sure he witnesses Rozy go through all of the stages of…fucking grief. Denial, whatever. He goes through fucking something before he manages to speak again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Bullshit,” Cliff’s shaking his head, and that’s a bad idea because it fucking hurts but whatever. “You’ve been stupider than usual lately. You’re going after guys you know are gonna swing for you, you’re starting fights with guys you know you’ll lose to. You’re either trying to prove something or you’re trying to get the shit beaten out of you, and I don’t know which one is worse. What I do know is that you doing that shit is getting me fucking hurt.” 

It’s a low blow, probably. Rozy hasn’t asked Cliff to fight for him. But then he doesn’t have to - Cliff has been doing it since Rozy’s fucking rookie year. They’re…brothers. That’s what it boils down to. Cliff was the one stupid enough to go to bat for the fucking Russian bastard whose got a mouth on him and now he’s here. Out for a handful of games and fucking pissed about it. 

“You don’t have to fight for me.” 

“Fuck you. You know I’m going to.” 

“I didn’t ask you to.” 

“That’s not how it fucking works, Roz! You’re my captain, you’re my fucking –” Cliff can’t bring himself to say it, knows how it’ll sound, knows how Rozy will take it right now. “You’re my teammate. Of course I have to fucking fight for you. I just wish you’d stop making me.”

“I’m not making you! Fuck, let me take the fucking hits, Marly, Jesus!” 

“No! And that fucking attitude right there is exactly why I won’t. Because if you get fucking hit you’ll keep swinging until they pull you off or you fucking die.” Cliff’s got his hands clenched into fists, white-knuckled and terrified. “There’s a difference between being a menace and whatever the fuck it is you’re doing, and I don’t care if you got your fucking heart broken but you need to stop.” 

Rozy goes very, very still. Cliff has a feeling he’s made a terrible mistake. 

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” Rozy’s voice is cold, calculated. He’s shifted, sitting on the edge of the sofa like he’s going to make a run for it. Fuck, he might. 

Cliff takes half a second, trying to put everything together in his head. He wishes he wasn’t fucking concussed about it. “I’m not fucking saying anything here. You live your fucking life, Rozy, you do what you need to do.” He wants, desperately, to remind Rozy that Tiff is gay, that’s she’s the best thing in Cliff’s life and he doesn’t fucking care about who she loves because he wants her to be happy. That it extends to Rozy, too, that he’s okay with whoever Rozy is into, even if it’s the guy that’s meant to be Rozy’s greatest rival or whatever. He can’t say any of that. “But you can’t throw yourself into every guy with a vendetta against you because something went south.” 

“You don’t fucking know anything,” Rozy’s teeth are gritted, and Cliff thinks he knows exactly where this is going. “I’m not fucking – doing this because of some - fucking relationship. The Raiders are a fucking joke, right now. You are a fucking joke right now, can’t even take a fucking hit -” 

“Fuck you, man. Fuck that.” Cliff says it sharply enough that he sees Rozy almost physically recoil, his gaze dropping like he hasn’t fully realised the impact of what he’s saying until the words have hit Cliff. “Fuck, even if we take all that other shit for what it is, you don’t talk to me like that. Not me.” 

Rozy has the decency to look ashamed, at least. Even past that Russian bullshit. It still takes him several moments of working up to it before he says, “I know.” Then, abruptly, he drops his head into his hands and looks…fuck, Cliff doesn’t even know. “Shit. Fuck, this is – fucking bullshit.” 

Cliff watches him, doesn’t bother trying to reach out for the moment. Instead, he says, “Listen, you don’t have to tell me shit. But you have to stop doing this. You have to stop acting like you can just fucking…take any hit that comes at you. Like you want to take those hits. No one is worth you getting this fucked up over, man, shit.” 

Rozy doesn’t look at him. That feels right. “You are the one that got fucked up,” he says, finally. 

Cliff snorts, and that’s a bad decision because it fucking hurts. “Yeah, I know that. I didn’t mean like - your body. But your head, your - whatever.” He’s not saying heart, he refuses to do it. “You’re taking it out on the rest of us. Fuck, Rozy, you’re taking it out on me.” 

This, at least, hits. Rozy looks stunned, confused, that quiet crinkle between his eyebrows that Cliff recognises because he knows Rozy. And when Rozy speaks again it’s quiet, almost dangerous. “I didn’t ask you to.” 

“Man fuck you, I’m not doing this again.” Rozy opens his mouth to speak and Cliff throws a hand up, “No, shut up! Fuck you! You don’t ask for shit like this, it just happens. I’ve known you since you were eighteen fucking years old, I’ve fought for you the whole fucking time not - !” a hand up again, and it makes his chest ache but whatever, “because you asked me to, but because that’s what teammates do. Fuck, Rozy, I say this shit to you over and over again and you don’t fucking hear me but you’re my rookie. You’re my brother, whether you like it or not. I still call that fucking room yours! So feel what you need to feel but stop acting like the way you act on the ice isn’t hitting the rest of us, too. We’re worried about you,” Cliff takes a breath, and realises it’s shuddering. He’ll blame the tears in his eyes on the concussion. “I’m worried about you.”

Rozy sits back like he’s been deflated. Like all the air’s gone out of him, like he’s got nothing inside him. He looks…fuck, Cliff doesn’t even know. Young, again. It’s shit. 

“I’m not saying that to be a dick,” Cliff says, and this time he does reach out, closed fist gentle as it bumps against Rozy’s knee. “I’m saying it because you need to hear it. I know you’re used to doing your own shit -” being on your own, “- but I got you, Rozy. Even when you’re fucking shit up, I got you.”

His gaze is fixed on the floor, but Rozy nods. He lingers like that, and nods, and Cliff figures it’s better than him running. “Okay.” It comes out a little cracked, a little distant, but there. And fuck, Cliff will take that. 

“Okay,” he says right back, then goes to pick up his Playstation controller just to break the tension a little. Rozy reaches across, slaps it out of his hands, and Cliff’s eyes widen. “What the fuck?” 

“No screens. Your brain is fucked up.”

“You don’t give a shit about concussion protocol!”

“If you turn that Playstation on, I tell Tiff.” 

Cliff stares at him for a second, and then leans back into the couch, arms crossed over his chest, glaring. “Low blow.” It makes his ribs ache, but it’s worth it. 

Turns out Ilya fucking Rozanov cares about other people. He’s just a fucking shit about the way he shows it. 

Chapter End Notes

pov you know your teammate is having a gay crisis and you are trying to psychically convey to him that you're chill about it

Chapter 7: 2017 (part one)

Chapter Summary

Right. Sure, yeah. That’s what it is - political. Not anything else. “Sure, okay. You think he’ll centre you?”

“Fuck’s sake,” Rozy laughs around his beer, shaking his head. “You and fucking Sveta. Why am I the fucking wing in this scenario?”

“Because you can fucking play wing, you idiot. He can’t.” Well, no, Cliff thinks he probably could, but not as well as Rozy could. And he won’t say it out loud, but Hollander’s a really fucking strong centre. It makes more sense that way around. “Whatever. I’m gonna see if I can convince one of the guys to part with their money. Don’t be a dick to people.” 

OR:
It's All Stars in Tampa, and Cliff Marleau has both eyes open.

Chapter Notes

Things…mellow. They don’t get better, necessarily, but they do mellow. Rozy seems to find some kind of middle ground between beating his own team into the ground and beating the rest of the league into the ground. It’s pretty effective - it means that they all buy in again. He still seems borderline miserable, and the team take up a silent sort of dedication when it comes to making sure Rozy doesn’t spend too many nights alone – Cliff’s usually the first one to volunteer for obvious reasons. 

They’re middle of the league - they make it to the playoffs but don’t do much with it. It’s like the heart of it isn’t there anymore, not like it was when they got the Cup back in ‘14, but they’re pulling together and that’s all that matters, really. Tiff proposed to Steph in the middle of the previous summer and married her in the 2017 Bye Week in Italy, because Cliff had made it very clear that if he couldn’t attend he’d start committing some very serious crimes. Cliff is her best man, doing everything he can not to cry his fucking eyes out the whole time.

Rozy comes, too. Gets drunk with Cliff during the reception, which is fucking sensational. They’re the last two guys out on the dance floor by the end of the night, clinging to each other and grinning. The hangover the next day is brutal, and Cliff only knows Rozy’s as bad as him because they’re in the same hotel room – even though Rozy spends any spare moment he has between throwing up and lying prone to tell Cliff that Russians do not, in fact, get hungover. Which is bullshit. 

They fly out to Tampa together, too, for the All Stars game. They end up with an iPad between them, watching one of the Fast and Furious movies because it’s the only thing they can ever fucking agree to watch together - whatever. There’s a whole buzz, this year, around the teams. Rozanov and Hollander on the same line, big fucking deal. And Cliff is being so normal about the whole thing, because again - he’s pretty sure, pretty sure, that Hollander is Montreal Jane, and that him and Rozy broke up when Hollander started dating Rose Landry, and that it was really sordid based on the way Rozy had reacted. 

Rozy. Rose. That’s a fucking – whatever, that’s a different thing. 

Point being that Cliff hasn’t seen Rozy text Montreal Jane since the Hollander-Landry thing went public, so there’s that. And now there’s a whole conference versus conference thing so Hollander will be playing with Rozy. Same line, probably, if the powers that be can find a way to swing it. Cliff wants to ask Rozy if he’s nervous, if he’s excited – but he doesn’t know how to do that without making it seem super obvious that he knows, or suspects, what’s going on. Went on. Whatever, semantics. 

So he doesn’t ask. Instead, he checks into his hotel room, puts on something suitable for the Florida heat, and meets Rozy in the bar for a drink. He seems…quieter. 

“This shit’s always crazy to me.” 

“What shit?” 

“All Stars or whatever. Guys that we try to kill out on the ice and we’re all buddy buddy, playing on the same team or whatever the fuck. Like yeah we’re friends outside of hockey, but it’s crazy that we can all go from slamming each other into boards to playing on the same line.” It’s not targeted, but Cliff knows he’s not exactly being subtle, either. 

Rozy cuts him a look, eyebrows flicking up for a moment. “You want to say something, Marly?”

“Me? No.” Cliff takes a sip of his beer just to fill the space. “Just think it’s crazy.” He’s not gonna say it. He’s not, he won’t fucking - “Like you and Hollander.” Jesus fucking Christ, Cliff, come on. 

But Rozy’s shaking his head, not smiling like most people normally would but smiling in a way that’s entirely Rozy’s. Amused, but not sad. “Me and Hollander,” he repeats, in a tone that tells Cliff absolutely nothing. 

“Yeah, like - you guys have had this whole fucking rivalry thing going since your fucking rookie year. Like ten years or whatever, right? But people are so excited to see you just…play together. That’s gotta feel weird.” 

Rozy’s shoulder lifts, and he takes a sip of his beer, like he’s contemplating. “No. Is hockey. Like - Price, you know? One season we play with him, let him take hits for us, next season he is the one we are taking hits from. Can’t get fucking…political, about it.”

Right. Sure, yeah. That’s what it is - political. Not anything else. “Sure, okay. You think he’ll centre you?”

“Fuck’s sake,” Rozy laughs around his beer, shaking his head. “You and fucking Sveta. Why am I the fucking wing in this scenario?”

“Because you can fucking play wing, you idiot. He can’t.” Well, no, Cliff thinks he probably could, but not as well as Rozy could. And he won’t say it out loud, but Hollander’s a really fucking strong centre. It makes more sense that way around. “Whatever. I’m gonna see if I can convince one of the guys to part with their money. Don’t be a dick to people.” 

It’s a useless warning - not because Rozy will be a dick to anyone, but because off the ice Rozy is pretty fucking tame at the best of times. Chirps, sure, but they all do. So Cliff slides off the barstool and goes to find someone he knows – it isn’t hard, All Stars games are like that. 

It means that half an hour later he’s in the middle of trying to talk Benny into putting a bet on the stick handling competition when Hollander arrives. He looks – fucking different, actually. Cliff has no idea where the fuck he got that suit from but he’s not sure he likes it. He’s also not sure he likes the way Hollander goes straight for Rozy, sliding in next to him like they’re old friends. 

They don’t talk for long – Cliff doesn’t even know what they talk about, because he’s too far away to hear, and for the most part he does keep up with what Benny’s saying, only cutting the occasional glance over. They look friendly, at least. That’s good, Cliff thinks. 

Then Hollander’s up again, making his rounds. He’s technically Cliff’s captain for this game, so Cliff greets him easily, grabbing the offered hand, chirping him about the suit because seriously, what is that? And then Hollander’s off again, and Cliff looks back to Rozy. 

He’s smiling. That quiet, secret little Rozy smile that Cliff only knows so well because it comes out at Christmas every year. And fuck, Cliff hates to admit it but it settles something in his chest, to see. Thank fucking god for that. 

The game is good, too. They win - of course they fucking do - captained by Hollander, but Cliff just…kind of keeps watching Rozy. Rozy, who seems to be so much more in his element here than he has been in a long, long time. Cliff doesn’t fully understand it, because Rozy’s one of the best hockey players he’s ever seen, but like this it’s - he doesn’t know. Charged, somehow. Him and Hollander seem to click in a way that Cliff thinks it usually takes players years to get to. It’s fucking fascinating to watch, actually, and he’s kind of…not jealous, but he knows he’ll never be that fucking good. And he’ll definitely never be that good with someone else. 

The thought slides away before it can dig its claws in. Cliff is good at what he does – he fucking loves what he does, too, and that makes a difference. So yeah, he’s not overly concerned with it – even if Rozy is kind of his best friend. Actually, when Cliff lets himself think about it afterwards, showering off the sweat and heat of the game, he’s happy for Rozy. The kid’s a lot of things, but overtly happy isn’t one of them, and seeing him out there with Hollander like that? It’s a big deal. Cliff’s not shy about the fact that he fucking loves the kid, and this is…good. It’s good. 

He catches Rozy for a drink after, too, grinning about the whole thing when he says, “Who woulda thought you and Holly would be that fuckin’ good together huh?” 

Rozy’s grinning, even as he says, “Fuck you,” like it’s second nature. “I am the best player in the league. He is also okay. Means we are good together.” 

Cliff barks out a laugh, shakes his head, throwing up air quotes when he says, “Okay, sure. What the fuck did they used to say about him? Highest hockey IQ out of anyone? Fucking okay -”

“You want me to say he is better than me? Me? Fuck that -”

“Never met a guy so fucking full of himself Jesus -”

It devolves after that the way it always does, broken down into bits and pieces and ribbing, until they settle in with their second round together, quiet. Rozy’s contemplative before he says, almost tentative about it, “Compatible.” 

Cliff blinks at him, eyebrows raised, and says, “Are you having a fucking stroke?” 

“Fuck you. It’s – someone said it, earlier. Compatible. I think I know but - what does it mean?”

“What the fuck am I, a dictionary?”

“Oh, you don’t know meaning of word in language you fucking speak, Marly?”

“Fuck off. Fuck, fine, compatible, fucking use it in a sentence -” They shove at each other before Cliff shrugs, grinning, and says, “I don’t fucking know. It’s like – two things that fit together. They match, or whatever the fuck. They work together. I don’t know. Who said compatible to you and more fucking importantly why do you care?”

But Rozy doesn’t really seem to be listening. He mouths fit together to himself and Cliff has to fight not to raise his eyebrows. Then Rozy, all at once, finishes off his beer and puts the bottle down with more force than necessary. “Thank you. Good. Okay. See you later.”

And then he’s gone, leaving Cliff with more questions than answers and, “The fucking bill you moron!” 

Except the thing is that on the flight back to Boston, Rozy looks so fucking content with himself that Cliff can’t really fight him on anything. So he doesn’t. He settles back and tries not to think about why the fuck Rozy cares what the word compatible means. 

Chapter End Notes

i'm going to kill ilya's dad next

Chapter 8: 2017 (part two)

Chapter Summary

The game is fucking fun, too, is the thing. They play like they’re pulling the whole thing together, like they’re a team for real this time, and Cliff is grinning as he gives Rozy the assist to get him to a hat trick. The ice floods with hats and Cliff slams into Rozy with a joyful yell, knocking their helmets together. Rozy’s flushed with joy, looks like he’s on top of the fucking world. 

They’re trailing back into the dressing room and he’s all fucking cocky about it, too, bragging and shit, and some guys says, “So you’re paying us all three thousand, Cap?”

Rozy’s quick with it, the way Cliff’s come to expect, when he says, “No, no, no, it’s not true, I said you fuckers owe me one thousand dollars for every goal I score. You each owe me three thousand fucking dollars -” 

“Fuck off, Rozy!” Cliff calls, pulling his helmet off. 

“You all agreed, huh?” He’s turned back, pointing at the room as he goes for his phone. Cliff glances over and catches the way Rozy’s face drops as he answers, quick and in Russian. Brother, Cliff figures. 

But then something shifts.

OR:
Rozy's dad dies.

Chapter Notes

Things shift again after the All Stars game – this time it’s better, definitely. Rozy seems lighter, somehow. Seems more himself than he was before. Even on the plane back, he’d had this self-satisfied little smile on his face that Cliff didn’t even want to tease him for, too relieved to just see it happen. He’d exchanged lifted eyebrows with some of the other guys, a silent little think we’re through the worst of that bullshit kind of look. 

The team start playing better again. It’s just how things go – your captain gets his shit together, and suddenly the whole team starts pulling together. They’re not favourites for the Cup, but they play like they want people to feel stupid for discounting them. Rozy starts hosting dinners again, and Cliff couldn’t be fucking happier.

He comes over a little more, too. He’s sprawled on Cliff’s couch one evening, Playstation controller in his hands when his phone buzzes. Cliff glances over, watches Rozy’s eyebrows pull together before he declines the call and tosses the phone away. It immediately starts buzzing again, and Rozy leans over to grab it, turning it off this time. 

“You good, man?” 

“Mm,” it’s the kind of answer Rozy gives when it’s no but he doesn’t want to talk about it. 

“Montreal Jane?” Cliff figures he might as well ask. 

The corner of Rozy’s mouth tips up, his gaze still fixed on the game. “No,” he says, sounding vaguely fond. And then it drops just a little, as he says, “Is just things at home. Russia.” He tips his head towards Cliff then, and there’s something sad in his eyes that his smile doesn’t quite cover. “Don’t worry, Marly. Will still be able to kick your ass.”

“Fuck you.” Cliff grins at him, because that feels like the right thing to do. And then, a little quieter he says, “Seriously, though. If you need…whatever, let me know.”

“Yes. Thank you.” 

And they leave it there. That’s all there really is to it. Rozy is never going to share before he’s ready, and he’s almost never ready. Cliff learned pretty early on in their relationship that pushing just got Rozy’s back up, made him defensive and angry about the whole thing. So he doesn’t push, he just stays. 

It’s a Boston game, against Montreal, and Rozy’s back on top form. They’re getting ready to go out when he starts up, and Cliff’s already grinning as he hears him get everyone’s attention. 

“Okay, listen up. The rumours are true! One thousand dollars for every goal scored tonight. Okay, boys? Montreal goes home crying -” He’s really playing it up, dragging his fingers down his cheeks, pouting with exaggeration, and Cliff shakes his head as he stands from lacing his skates. “Please! Please!” 

Cliff jumps in easy with it, supportive, says, “You fucking heard him, boys! Let’s go boys!” As they head towards the ice. 

“Roll out!” Rozy calls, and leads them towards the tunnel. He saw Montreal Jane, earlier, that much is fucking obvious. Whoever else he’s sleeping with, he’s always so much more on it after her. And yeah, Cliff’s theory seems to be going strong because why the fuck would Montreal Jane be in fucking Boston? And it’s public knowledge now that Shane Hollander and Rose Landry aren’t a thing anymore. The rumours say that it dates back to around the All Stars game - maybe just before. 

Cliff hates that he’s this fucking invested in it. Jesus Christ. 

The game is fucking fun, too, is the thing. They play like they’re pulling the whole thing together, like they’re a team for real this time, and Cliff is grinning as he gives Rozy the assist to get him to a hat trick. The ice floods with hats and Cliff slams into Rozy with a joyful yell, knocking their helmets together. Rozy’s flushed with joy, looks like he’s on top of the fucking world. 

They’re trailing back into the dressing room and he’s all fucking cocky about it, too, bragging and shit, and some guys says, “So you’re paying us all three thousand, Cap?”

Rozy’s quick with it, the way Cliff’s come to expect, when he says, “No, no, no, it’s not true, I said you fuckers owe me one thousand dollars for every goal I score. You each owe me three thousand fucking dollars -” 

“Fuck off, Rozy!” Cliff calls, pulling his helmet off. 

“You all agreed, huh?” He’s turned back, pointing at the room as he goes for his phone. Cliff glances over and catches the way Rozy’s face drops as he answers, quick and in Russian. Brother, Cliff figures. 

But then something shifts. The other guys haven’t noticed, ribbing and arguing with each other, but Rozy’s face goes fucking ashen, and something in Cliff’s stomach dips. He finishes getting his skates off and gets himself in front of Rozy. He’s not crying, but his eyes are shiny, as pale as Cliff has ever seen him. It’s just sort of muscle memory, Cliff’s hand finding the middle of Rozy’s chest to push him backwards, down onto the bench. He waves off one of the other guys as he starts unlacing Rozy’s skates, even as Rozy’s still talking on the phone, urgent and low, now. 

The call lasts maybe a minute, in which Cliff manages to get Rozy’s skates completely off. He hangs up, and looks at Cliff. For a second the whole world hangs on freeze, and then Rozy says, “My father is dead.”

“Oh, shit, Roz. Fuck, I’m -”

“I need to book a flight. I need to be in Russia.”

Cliff has known Rozy long enough that the pivot doesn’t surprise him. He pulls his own shit together, nods. “Do it. Get yourself ready to go and I’ll tell coach. I’ll follow you back.” Rozy opens his mouth like he wants to protest, and Cliff shakes his head. “You’ll pack faster with help. Book your flight.” 

He rises, changes faster than he ever has and seeks out their coach. It’s a weird conversation, but Cliff is technically Rozy’s emergency contact after Svetlana, so he’s allowed to make calls like this sometimes. Given that Rozy has never taken personal time fucking ever, It’s fairly easy to get everything together.

When he gets back to the dressing room to grab his shit, Rozy’s already gone. Some of the guys ask about it, and Cliff shakes his head, says, “If anyone asks you shit about where Rozy is you don’t say a fucking word, you get me?” He makes sure every single one of them nods, and then he says, “Assume he’s not gonna be at the next couple games. I’ll see you at the airport for Nashville.”

He throws his shit in his car and drives the familiar route to Rozy’s place. He calls Tiff on the way, voice shaking a little. “Hey, it’s - fuck, Tiff, Rozy’s dad is dead.” 

There’s a sharp intake of breath, and she’s quiet when she says, “Oh, that poor kid. How’s he doing?”

“He’s Rozy. He’s flying out to Russia as soon as he can and he looked like he’d been fucking shot. Fuck, Tiff, I’m no good at this shit.”

“You’re going to his now?”

“Yeah, but what the fuck do I say? Sorry for your loss? He found out like an hour ago, how the fuck am I supposed to help? I don’t even think he had a good fucking relationship with his dad, but it’s still –”

“Cliff, fucking relax. You don’t have to talk about it if he doesn’t want to. All you have to do is be there, do what he needs you to do. Don’t ask more questions than you have to. Drive him to the airport even if he says he doesn’t need you to. You’ve got this shit. You know the kid.”

Cliff takes a breath, nods even though she can’t see him. “Yeah. Okay, yeah. Thanks, T. Don’t text him.”

“I’m not a fucking idiot. Love you.”

“Love you.”

He’s at Rozy’s ten minutes later, parking carefully despite himself. He lets himself in, and finds Rozy in the bedroom, suitcase open on his bed. Rozy himself is sitting, feet planted on the floor, staring at nothing in particular. He must be fucking out of it, because he startles when Cliff comes in. “Fuck. Jesus, Marly. Fuck off.”

“What time’s your flight?” Cliff goes to the walk-in closet, starts pulling out things he’s seen Rozy wear a lot, comfortable shirts, sweats. He’s got a shitload of suits, but the size of his suitcase makes Cliff think that he’s probably got stuff in Russia in that regard. 

“Fuck off, Marly. I don’t need your fucking help.” 

When he comes out of the closet, Rozy hasn’t moved. Cliff takes his pile to the bed and starts folding as best he can, putting shit in the case. “What time?”

Rozy stares at him, and Cliff ignores him, continues with what he was doing. Finally, he relents, quiet when he says, “Three hours.” 

“Okay.” Cliff says, folding another shirt. “Go find your passport, and make sure you have your wallet. I’m driving you to the airport. That’s not a question.” 

The stare continues, but if Cliff was gonna fold to an angry Russian he would have done it years ago. He goes to the drawers, pulls out boxers and socks without any preamble. They’ve all seen each others dicks, he doesn’t really care about underwear. Eventually, Rozy stands, leaves the room. Cliff lets out a quiet breath, and finishes filling the suitcase with anything he can think of. He leaves it open so that Rozy can have final say.

Speaking of. Rozy comes back with a small black backpack, and Cliff does him the favour of assuming everything he needs is in there. “Good. Got shirts, pants, a sweater, and underwear in there. Grab whatever else you need. We’ll leave in ten.” 

He leaves the room then to let Rozy do what he needs to do, and heads to the kitchen. Cliff doesn’t have much experience with grief - his grandparents died when he was a kid, and since then he’s been fucking lucky enough not to lose anyone else. But he knows the basics. He puts together a sandwich, grabs a bottle of water. Rozy won’t be able to take the water through security, but at least it’s there for the wait. 

Ten minutes and he’s by the door. Rozy comes out in all black, and Cliff knows it’s more to do with going unseen than it is mourning. He doesn’t say anything, just hands Rozy the sandwich and water to put in his backpack, and grabs his suitcase while the kid gets his shoes on. Cliff takes it out, making himself breathe really fucking carefully about the whole thing. It goes in the trunk, and he climbs into the driver’s seat, waits. 

Whatever argument Rozy had for not letting Cliff drive him doesn’t make an appearance. He just climbs into the passenger seat and clips his seatbelt in place. They drive in silence, because Cliff doesn’t want to ask, and it seems clear that Rozy doesn’t want to offer. It’s not awkward, it’s just – tense. Sad. 

Cliff has a brief crisis when they get to the airport, and then decides fuck it and gets out of the car, pulling Rozy’s suitcase out. He doesn’t give Rozy a chance to protest, just pulls him into a brief, tight hug, hand on the back of his head. “Let me know when you’re back. I won’t let the media say a fucking word.” 

When he pulls back, Rozy’s eyes are glassy, and he sniffs hard, nods. For a moment, Cliff has no idea what the fuck he’s thinking, what he might say. And then, in true Rozy fashion, he says, “Don’t let the team go to shit while I’m gone.” 

It catches Cliff off-guard enough that he laughs. He reaches out, a hand on the side of Rozy’s face. Brief, affectionate. “You got it, brother. Take care of yourself.” 

He watches until Rozy’s inside the airport and then sags against his car a little, letting himself fucking feel it before he climbs back in. He calls Tiff again on the way home, but mostly just to feel less fucking insane about the whole thing. 

He’s back at the airport the next day anyway, because they’re flying out to Nashville. The boys ask, and Cliff is clipped and quiet. Rozy’s got a loss in the family that he needed to go back to Russia for, they don’t say shit to the press until Rozy okays it. It goes without conversation that if anyone’s filling in for Rozy during this, it’s Cliff. Fine by him.

They don’t lose a single fucking game while Rozy’s away - and he’s only away for a week, which probably isn't long enough but...yeah It's Rozy. Cliff keeps his name out of the press, responds either with stony silence or no comment when they ask him about it in post game interviews. And when Rozy texts him after a week of radio silence with his flight details, Cliff gives it a thumbs up and plans around it. 

He’s there early, waits in the car. Rozy looks exactly as he did when he left. Same black fit, small suitcase that he throws in the back of the car. But he looks…Cliff doesn’t know. Lighter, maybe. 

He climbs into the passenger seat and says, “I bring Russian vodka. For you.”

“Great, can’t wait to not remember drinking that.” 

Rozy cracks a smile, quiet about it as Cliff pulls out of the parking space. He lets the silence linger before he speaks again. “Thank you. I - someone told me that the media was very quiet about everything. My agent will make a statement later, now that I am back to deal with it.” Cliff nods, easy about it. “You did not lose any games. I am surprised.”

“Fuck you.” 

“Yes,” when Cliff glances over, Rozy is watching him, looking affectionate in a way that Cliff has very rarely seen. Especially directed at him. “Thank you, Marly. Was fucking shit. Thank you for making it…less fucking shit.”

“Deny it all you want, but you’re my kid, Roz. Whatever you need.” 

“Well don’t fucking say that. I am very selfish, will exploit the shit out of that.”

Cliff laughs, shakes his head. “No you won’t.”

“No. I won’t.” 

Chapter End Notes

in the next chapter marly kills shane hollander (and feels REALLY bad about it)

Chapter 9: 2017 (part three)

Chapter Summary

The hotel feels fucking oppressive, and Cliff is violently aware of the fact that they’re in Montreal and he just took out their hockey team’s favourite player, who also happens to be the captain. He keeps his gaze fixed on the floor, shoulder to shoulder with Rozy as they make it to the elevator. He doesn’t even remember his fucking floor number, but Rozy does, apparently. Somehow has his room key, too, because he lets them in and points to the bed. 

Cliff crosses the space and sits down heavy, still a little numb, still a little fucking sick about it. 

“Was an accident, Marly.” 

He startles at Rozy’s voice, blinking hard before he looks up at where Rozy’s leaned against the wall opposite him. “I fucking went in for the hit.”

OR:
Cliff Marleau almost kills Shane Hollander. He feels really bad about it.

Chapter Notes

It feels insane, the turnaround – a week without Rozy and then he’s back on the ice like nothing happened. First game back after his dad’s death so of course it has to be Montreal. Cliff wonders, absently, if there’s anything to that. He’s stretching, watches Hollander skate over to Rozy, who’s stretching close to centre ice. They exchange a few words, and then Hollander’s back to the boards with Pike. Well - it’s not nothing. 

Rozy seems good, though. Seems like he wants it. Cliff’s there on the face off, wing to Rozy’s centre, and he thinks people must be crazy not to see the way they look at each other. Maybe it’s just because he’s looking, though. The puck drops and Hollander wins the face off – Cliff drops back towards the defenders, skating hard, coming around. He goes in for a clean hit, dropped low, but –

As soon as he makes contact he knows something’s wrong. Hollander’s body gives way too easily, he goes down on the ice like he’s been shot, and he doesn’t get back up. 

Cliff doesn’t even have time to process it – he hears someone yelling at him - Marleau you motherfucker! - and then Pike’s in his face, swinging at him. Cliff swings back, instinctive, trying to keep fists out of his face. He catches a few good hits, ones he knows will bruise and sting later, before the refs are pulling them off each other. There’s fights all over the ice but Cliff is being wheeled towards the penalty box and he looks around and – and fucking Hollander’s surrounded by medics, they’re bringing out a board and Cliff feels sick. 

He’s a big guy - he won’t pretend he hasn’t put in a lot of hits over the years, hasn’t taken a fair fucking few himself. But that’s what hockey is. It’s fast, and violent, and people get hurt. But Cliff has never hurt anyone like that before. He’s never sent anyone to the hospital, never – fuck. He tastes blood on his tongue and realises he’s bitten the inside of his cheek hard enough to make it bleed. Rozy’s still out there, hovering, they’re telling him to get back to his bench and all Cliff can do is sit in the penalty box, numb, as they get Hollander off the ice. 

It feels fucking surreal, Cliff feels like he’s trapped in some kind of fucking nightmare. He doesn’t do that, he’s not that guy. He’s not an enforcer, he doesn’t get sent out to – fuck, to do shit like that, he didn’t mean to -

They call a five minute penalty and Cliff drops his head, breathes out hard through his nose. It was an accident. It was a clean hit, it just landed wrong, and that’s – they clear everything, reset, and the game continues, somehow. They just took Montreal’s captain off the ice on a stretcher and the game keeps going. Cliff watches from behind the plexiglass, Montreal fans screaming fucking death threats at him from behind, and it’s all he can do not to throw up. 

Montreal don’t do a fucking thing with the power play. Cliff gets sent back out, goes back to his bench. Stays there for almost the entirety of the game, his shifts quick snatches, less than the usual. He can’t look at Rozy. He doesn’t even know the final score of the game.

In the dressing room he feels fucking numb, getting his gear off with shaking hands. One of the guys, Corey, grabs Cliff by the shoulder and says, “Happens to the best of us, man. It was a clean hit, just landed wrong. Shake it off.” 

Cliff offers him a vague expression that was meant to be a smile and gets the rest of his gear off. He showers in water that’s far too hot, and comes out feeling raw and sick, still. The dressing room’s mostly empty – a few of the rookies are lingering, making plans around one phone, and - and fucking Rozy’s still there. He looks a little hollow, but his gaze goes to Cliff straight away. 

He feels fucking pinned. He goes back to his own stall, pulls on his clothes. He’s trying so fucking hard not to look at Rozy, and when he finally gives in to himself, Rozy’s still looking at him. “Fuck,” he says finally, and he smiles but he can feel the burn behind his eyes. The smile slides away and he drops to sit down, elbows on his knees. “Fuck.”

“Marly -”

“I did that. I fucking did that, Rozy. Fuck, it was - I didn’t mean to, y’know? I didn’t think I hit him that hard, that bad, but he just -”

“Marly, it -”

“They took him to the fucking hospital, what if - what if he broke something, what if I fucking - I could have killed him -”

“Marly!” 

Cliff’s head snaps to the side, gaze fixed on Rozy, who looks like shit himself. His eyes are red-rimmed, not like he’s been crying but like he’s been trying not to. He looks pale, and fucking sad, and Cliff says, “Shit, Rozy, I -” and there’s nowhere he can go with that without saying what he wants to say. 

“Get your shit, Marly. I’ll get us a taxi.” 

“What -”

“Five minutes. Get your shit.” And then Rozy’s standing, his own bag slung over his shoulder as he heads to the door. 

For a long moment Cliff lingers, feeling – well. If everything he thinks is true is true, then he just laid out Rozy’s – what? Fuckbuddy? Boyfriend? Lover? He doesn’t - whatever they’re using to name the thing they have, Cliff is the only that did that, and it - what? Rozy wants to drive him home, now? But he doesn’t really feel like he has much of a choice. He gets his things together and heads for the door. Contemplates, briefly, bypassing Rozy’s offer altogether, getting his own taxi. But they’re in the same hotel until tomorrow, so it’s - it wouldn’t make sense. Besides, Rozy’s already there, standing by a black cab, door open, waiting. He tilts his head to the seat when he sees Cliff.

So Cliff gets in. Rozy shuts the door behind him and rounds the car, gets in the other side. Cliff can’t look at him, has to turn to tilt his head out the window. He reaches up absently to press his fingertips against the tender, bruised skin of his cheek where Pike punched him. A cool touch on his wrist makes him flinch, and when he looks, Rozy is reaching out to push his hand down again. He barely looks at Cliff, but it’s enough to make Cliff stop, drop his hand. 

The hotel feels fucking oppressive, and Cliff is violently aware of the fact that they’re in Montreal and he just took out their hockey team’s favourite player, who also happens to be the captain. He keeps his gaze fixed on the floor, shoulder to shoulder with Rozy as they make it to the elevator. He doesn’t even remember his fucking floor number, but Rozy does, apparently. Somehow has his room key, too, because he lets them in and points to the bed. 

Cliff crosses the space and sits down heavy, still a little numb, still a little fucking sick about it. 

“Was an accident, Marly.” 

He startles at Rozy’s voice, blinking hard before he looks up at where Rozy’s leaned against the wall opposite him. “I fucking went in for the hit.”

“You play hockey. We all go in for the hits. Does not mean we want to hurt each other like that.” Rozy’s expression is stern, but something in his eyes says that maybe he’s – fuck, Cliff doesn’t know. More upset than he’s letting on. “You have never tried to hurt anyone like that, before. No one will think this is what you wanted.” 

Cliff laughs, this bitter little fucked up thing, and says, “Yeah they fucking will. You know hockey Twitter’s a fucking nightmare.” 

“Is why you will not look at your phone tonight.” 

“What, you’re fucking grounding me?” Cliff feels affronted, and - angry, maybe. He can’t tell, yet. “I want to fucking - call Tiff.” 

“Yes. You have hotel phone for this. You are not going to look at your phone, you are not going to watch the news, you are going to call your sister and get room service and stop fucking blaming yourself.” 

Cliff scrubs his hands over his face, shakes his head. “How the fuck are you being so calm about this? I mean, I fucking took out Hollander. You and him are -” he cuts himself off, almost too late, and his gaze flicks up to Rozy, wide and fucking sick all over again.

Rozy’s gaze is steady, calm. And something about it gives Cliff the vague sense that Rozy knows exactly where he was going with the end of that sentence. So maybe he’s expecting Rozy to deny it, or tell Cliff he’s being a fucking idiot to even think he and Hollander would ever want to be in the same room together, or – Cliff doesn’t know. Instead, quietly, he says, “Yes. We do not hate each other like press says.” 

It’s as much an admission as anything could be. Cliff blinks, and tries not to do anything stupid like cry. “So you should be fucking furious with me.”

Rozy shifts, then, sits down on the bed next to Cliff. “Yes, maybe. But bad news is I know you very well. Against my will, for longer than I have known most people in this country,” he knocks his knee against Cliff’s brief and careful. “Is why I know you did not mean to do what you did. Also why I know that you will not say anything about me and Hollander.” 

Part of Cliff is almost waiting for the end of the sentence. Maybe like Rozy meant to say about me and Hollander being friends. But he doesn’t say that. So Cliff takes a quiet breath, still a little shaky, and says, “No. I wouldn’t ever say anything.” 

For a long moment, Rozy is quiet. Then, he says, “Call your sister. I will stay here. And tomorrow, when I go to the hospital, I will tell Hollander you did not mean to hurt him, and you will not tell the team where I am.”

 He says it like it’s a given - like he already knows he’ll be visiting Hollander tomorrow, no matter what. Cliff examines him for a moment, gaze searching his face, and then nods. “Sure.” 

“Okay.” Rozy’s hand lands on his shoulder, squeezes once, and then he’s standing to give Cliff access to the phone, while he pulls out his own mobile. “Call Tiff. She will tell you what I have said.”

So Cliff calls Tiff while Rozy throws himself down on the couch in the room and scrolls his phone. And Tiff does, in fact, say all of the same shit that Rozy said, except this time Cliff does cry, turned away from Rozy and hunched around the phone like he might be able to hide it. He thinks Rozy is pretending not to notice anyway, which does help.

“You play a violent game, kid. Violent things happen. But we both know you always lost when we wrestled because you never wanted to hurt me. You never, ever would have hit him if you knew he’d go down like that.”

“Okay,” Cliff says, quiet, still kind of crying. “Point made. You keep going and I’ll end up really fucking embarrassing myself.” 

“You? Never.” Tiff’s voice is so warm over the phone that Cliff can’t stand it. 

He laughs a little, shakes his head. “Fuck you.”

“You too.” 

He stays there, quiet for a little, before he says, “Love you. Thanks for fucking – talking me off the ledge.”

“Anytime, Cliff. You got me, you know that. Get some food and go to bed, alright? Steph says you have to come visit next time you’re home. She’s got some new cocktail she came up with that she wants to show you.” A beat, and then Tiff says, “Bring Ilya, too, if you want. Probably needs the company these days.”

Cliff glances over his shoulder at Rozy, who’s scrolling his phone still, an anxious little furrow between his eyebrows. He catches Cliff’s eye and flips him the finger, expression still tight but clearly trying. Cliff shakes his head, smiling, turns away again. “Yeah, alright. See you soon.”

“See you soon. Love you too.”

He hangs up the phone and turns to Rozy, quiet when he says, “Any updates?”

If Rozy is surprised Cliff knows he was looking for information about Hollander, he doesn’t say it. He just says, “No. Not yet,” and leaves it at that. 

So Cliff orders them room service, and they sit in the quiet while they eat. It’s well past midnight before Rozy goes back to his room, but not before hugging Cliff – and Cliff thinks maybe it’s as much for Rozy himself as it is for Cliff’s sake. 

The next morning Rozy’s not at the team breakfast. When they ask, Cliff shrugs and says, “Dunno. Probably with Montreal Jane. You know how he gets.” 

Six hours later they’re back on the team bus and Rozy arrives just as the doors are closing. He slides into the seat next to Cliff, hands in his pockets. He’s quiet for a moment, and then says, “Concussion. Fractured collarbone. Will be fine.”

Cliff lets out a breath that’s been holding anxiously in his chest since he first laid Hollander out and he nods, bumping his shoulder against Rozy’s. “Good. I’m glad.” 

“Yes, me too.”

The ride back is quiet – they share a pair of headphones to watch a shitty action movie on Cliff’s iPad, and he feels less like he tried to kill Hollander and more like…well. Like something entirely different has shifted into place.

Chapter End Notes

pov youre pretty sure your teammate just found out about your gay situationship but said situationship is in the hospital rn so you cant care about all that

next chapter's gonna focus on the transfer maybe. i haven't decided yet. thanks for all the love! <3

Chapter 10: 2018

Chapter Summary

Cliff stands there, staring, arms out at his sides, in the middle of a breath. When they drop, it feels dramatically loud. The air goes out of him, and he’s shaking his head. “Wh - what the fuck are you talking about?”

Rozy’s hands land on his hips, chewing on his lip for a second before he seems to steel himself. “This is my last season with the Raiders. I am leaving, at the end of it. Signing with a new team.”

A moment longer, and then Cliff starts laughing. “Oh, motherfucker. Good one! Really good one, Roz, you got me! Yeah, fucking Ilya Rozanov is leaving the Boston Raiders I fucking bet, sure fucking thing -” but Roz isn’t laughing. Cliff’s laughs peter off, and that ugly silence rears its head again. Finally, Cliff turns and walks deeper into the house, dropping down onto Rozy’s couch, head in his hands. “You’re not joking.”

A quiet shift of air, and then Roz is sitting too, knee knocking into Cliff’s. “No. I am not.”

OR
Cliff learns about the trade. Ilya learns about Cliff.

Chapter Notes

It’s a fairly uneventful end of season, all told. Well, apart from the Hunter thing, which causes waves like no one’s ever seen before in the hockey world. There’s a brief handful of back and forth in the Raiders groupchat before Cliff carefully types: next guy to call hunter a fag is gettin his fuckin teeth knocked in first practice back (: which puts an end to things pretty quick. Rozy is conspicuously absent from the whole thing, and Cliff doesn’t bother texting. He knows Rozy didn’t go back to Russia this sumer, but past that he has no fucking idea what the kid’s plans are. None of his business, either. 

Cliff spends the summer like he normally does, drunk on a beach in Italy that’s ostensibly attached to his summer house, but really belongs to Tiff. It’s great, he comes back tanned as fuck and four words of Italian richer. Not a bad run, all in all. 

They start the season off strong – they’ve been doing that a lot, lately. And Rozy’s different, somehow. More determined on the ice, but happier, too. He arranges dinners all the time, takes them on nights out to clubs - Cliff notices that he’s stopped picking up girls, on those nights out, but otherwise he’s same old Rozy. 

It’s around Christmas that something seems to shift. Not in Rozy, not in hockey, not in the playing. Between them - Cliff and Roz. It’s some off-handed thing, Cliff throwing up a hand and going, “Yeah, next season’ll be the one Roz, I’ll outskate you by the end of it just watch,” and Roz goes quiet. And stays quiet. 

For fucking weeks. 

He still talks to Cliff, but it’s stilted, and uncomfortable. He turns down invitations to dinners, sits away from Cliff where he can on the bus, on planes. It gets to the point where one of the other guys takes Cliff aside and says, “Listen, man, none of my business, but what the fuck did you do to Roz?” 

That breaks the dam. That’s what sees Cliff banging on Rozy’s door at fucking almost midnight because he can’t sleep. And yeah, he has the code to the kid’s house but that’s not the point. 

The massive fuck off thing swings open to reveal Rozy shirtless, in sweats, hair askew like he’s just been sleeping. “Marly what the fuck -”

“No, fuck you,” Cliff says, and shoulders his way inside, ignoring Rozy’s protests. “You don’t get to fucking ice me out for weeks and then act surprised that I’m here. That’s not how this shit works.” He kicks his shoes off out of habit - fucking European bullshit - and turns on Rozy, arms spread. “So lay it on me.”

For a moment, Rozy just stands there, blinking at him. Then, finally, in a tone Cliff fucking hates, he says, “Nothing to lay on you, Marly. Nothing is wrong.”

“Bullshit!”

“You are going to come to my fucking house in the middle of the night and yell at me -”

“Yeah I fucking am you dick! You can’t fucking -”

“Is none of your fucking business! We’re not fucking kids who need to have sleepovers and braid each other’s hair -”

“Just fucking talk to me, what the fuck -”

“I’m leaving next season!”

It’s like the air gets sucked out of the room.

Cliff stands there, staring, arms out at his sides, in the middle of a breath. When they drop, it feels dramatically loud. The air goes out of him, and he’s shaking his head. “Wh - what the fuck are you talking about?”

Rozy’s hands land on his hips, chewing on his lip for a second before he seems to steel himself. “This is my last season with the Raiders. I am leaving, at the end of it. Signing with a new team.”

A moment longer, and then Cliff starts laughing. “Oh, motherfucker. Good one! Really good one, Roz, you got me! Yeah, fucking Ilya Rozanov is leaving the Boston Raiders I fucking bet, sure fucking thing -” but Roz isn’t laughing. Cliff’s laughs peter off, and that ugly silence rears its head again. Finally, Cliff turns and walks deeper into the house, dropping down onto Rozy’s couch, head in his hands. “You’re not joking.”

A quiet shift of air, and then Roz is sitting too, knee knocking into Cliff’s. “No. I am not.”

“Why, man?” Cliff looks up at him, earnest, searching his face. Rozy’s expression is carefully neutral, a mask that he pretends is all inherited Slavic bullshit but that Cliff knows for a fact takes time and effort to maintain. “The Raiders are yours. Your team.” 

Because the thing is that Cliff’s not an idiot. He knows he’s a good player, but he’s not number one draft pick Rozanov. He’s not greatest of all time Raiders center Rozanov. He’s not best Captain in a generation Ilya fucking Rozanov. The Raiders were struggling before Rozy, changed around him, bolstered and encouraged by how good he was, how good he made them. 

Rozy’s face shifts, something unreadable but so fucking sad settling in. “Is just a team.” 

Cliff’s shaking his head before Rozy’s even finished speaking, leaning away from him like it can’t be helped. “Nah, fuck that. We’re your family man. I’m your fucking -” His voice catches, and Cliff shakes his head, looks away. He draws in a hard breath through his nose and looks back. “Where?” 

“What?”

“Where the fuck are you going? You’re leaving the Raiders so it’s gotta be for a fucking good team, right?”

There’s that fucking silence again. If Cliff could shoot an invisible thing it would be whatever fucking silence is invading this house every five goddamn seconds. Except that when Rozy finally breaks it, Cliff wishes he hadn’t. “The Centaurs.” 

It takes a minute to settle in to Cliff’s head, because - “The fucking Centaurs? You’re leaving the Raiders to go play for a team that hasn’t won since fuck knows when? That’s at the bottom of the fucking league, that’s fucking –” A beat, and then, “in Ottawa.” The pin drops. “This is for Jane.” 

Credit to him, at least, because Rozy doesn’t try to deny it. “Yes. But if you tell anyone on the team, or the fucking media, I will deny it until I die and kill you as well.” 

“Fuck you,” as if Cliff has ever been that guy. Still, leaving his team for a girl is - except. Well. “Can I ask you something?” 

“Maybe,” Rozy says it carefully, watching Cliff warily. 

It makes Cliff take his time, at least, with how to phrase it. “Alright. Answer me honestly, yeah? And on every fucking thing I hold dear, I promise I won’t ask any follow up questions.” 

“Marly don’t be fucking weird -”

“Is Jane a man?” 

From the look on Rozy’s face, he knows it too. He’s gone a little pale, watching Cliff carefully. His gaze is dark, guarded, and it breaks Cliff’s fucking heart to see it. To watch him steel himself, like the prolonged silence isn’t enough. Finally, and in a voice way too small for the man Rozy is, he says, “Yes,” and despite everything else, Cliff swears he can see a weight lift off Rozy’s shoulders.

He could ask follow ups. A thousand spring to mind, starting with does the man you’re moving to Ottawa for like hockey? and ending with is that man Shane Hollander?

But you don’t ask shit like that. Don’t ask anyone shit like that, but certainly not Rozy, who has shared maybe five personal details about his life with Cliff in all the time they’ve known each other, three of which were against his will. So Cliff doesn’t ask another fucking question. What he does is nod, get a hand on Rozy’s shoulder, and say, “I’m not gonna pretend I understand. Not the guy thing, guys are hot, good for you,” Rozy huffs a laugh and it sounds a little wet, whatever, “the transfer thing. But if guy Jane is the same Jane you’ve been head over heels for in all the time I’ve known you, and this is the way it works out for you, then…y’know. I got your back. You’ve still got me.”

Rozy looks fucking incredulous, which is honestly kind of insulting. Cliff has a whole gay sister, what the fuck? Seriously, rude. But when he speaks again, he says, “One of these days you are going to be the kind of guy every motherfucker thinks you are and I will be like yes fucking finally because it’s fucking rude that you keep doing this shit to me.”

Which means it’s Cliff’s turn to laugh, pulling Rozy into a rough hug before he shoves him away, ruffling his hair as he goes. “No fucking chance. Tiff raised me right, remember?” 

“Yes, she did,” Rozy’s expression has softened, still tinged around the edges with sadness but better than it was. Cliff can deal with that. One thing at a time. 

“You planning on telling the rest of the team?”

“Not yet. And please don’t - any of it, Marly. They can’t -”

“You know I was the third person Tiff came out to.”

“What?” 

Yeah, Cliff had thought that would work. “Yeah. Third. Well, fourth technically, but I think the first person was the girl she was making out with at some college party when she realised, so that doesn’t really count.” 

“Marly, what the fuck are you talking about?”

“Me, asshole. I know that’s different for you and your self-obsessed bullshit.”

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Fuck me. Anyway, listen,” it must be interesting enough for Rozy to listen, because he settles back a little, watching. “Yeah, so. Third person. Which means by the time she told me, my mom and dad already knew. I didn’t know shit except that they were all kind of being weird with each other, and one day I’m like motherfuckers tell me what the fuck is up. So she sits me down, right, and you know Tiff, toughest motherfucker on the planet,” Rozy nods, and Cliff grins before he sobers again. “Yeah. And she says Cliff, I gotta tell you something, and you might hate me for it but I can’t live not being me anymore. And I’m thinking shit, she killed someone or something, except it couldn’t be that, because she knows I’d help her bury a body.” 

Cliff’s gone serious with it. He hates this part. Hates himself for it, always will. “So she says to me, right, that she has a girlfriend. That she met this girl and felt this thing she’d never felt when she was with guys, this thing that all her friends talked about that she figured would come eventually. And it did. Just not with any of them. She’s so careful about it. And you know what I did?”

Rozy shakes his head, caught up in the story.

“Got up and walked out. Didn’t say a fucking word to her. Because at that point I’m so deep into hockey that it’s my whole fucking life, and you know the shit the guys say. You know what they say in the dressing room, on the ice, the chirps that come outta those guys mouths. And I remember thinking I’ve said all that shit. I’ve called guys that, I’ve talked about shit like it’s degrading, like it makes them worse than me if it’s true.” Cliff shakes his head, rubs at his eye, tearing up, embarrassed. “And I couldn’t get past it. This idea that while I was out there saying all that shit, my sister was figuring out that she belonged with that group of people. That the people she was scared of finding out about the people she loved were guys like me, who slung that shit around without thinking about it, who made a joke out of it.” 

Rozy goes to say something, and Cliff holds up a hand, shaking his head. “Nah, man. Whatever else it was, it was so fucking shitty of me. I didn’t speak to her for three days, and I swear to god that was the dumbest decision of my life, but it wasn’t because I didn’t love her, or I hated her for it. I fucking hated myself. And then like half a week later she’s stood in front of me in the kitchen and says if you don’t fucking love me anymore just say it, but I can’t handle your melodramatic bullshit, and I just started crying. Apologised to her like fifty times in a row until we were both crying, fucking curled up on those shitty tiles together, y’know?”

Cliff’ll never say it later, but Rozy looks a little misty-eyed about the whole thing, too. “After that, I decided that I couldn’t ever be that guy again. And I’m not gonna pretend I’m a fucking saint, right? I hear what the guys say, I don’t stop it, not as often as I should. But I don’t say it. I try to be better, because I love my sister, and there are so many fucking people that feel like her, that don’t get the chance to live the way they should because the people around them are too caught up in their own bullshit. And as much as you fucking hate me knowing it, I know you ain’t got that many people, Roz.”

He’s so careful, now, when he reaches out, hands on Rozy’s shoulders. Fuck, he looks small. He looks small, and young, and scared, and it strikes Cliff not for the first time that this is the kid that moved across the world as a teenager to play a sport in a country where no one spoke the same first language as him, and now he’s about to pick up his whole life again to move to another country. Except this time there’s a whole extra layer in that he loves someone that most of the guys in their job would hate him for loving. 

Cliff shakes his head, lands a hand on Rozy’s face, achingly careful about it. “You don’t ever have to tell me shit you don’t want to, but I will never fucking turn my back on you for loving someone, alright? Not ever.” 

Rozy doesn’t cry. It’s not quite that dramatic. But he does bridge the gap and pull Cliff into a hug that’s borderline bone-crushing. Cliff thinks probably they both need it.

When Rozy pulls back his cheeks are pink, his eyes red-rimmed, but he sniffs, and nods, and says, “I always said Tiff was better than you.”

Cliff laughs, caught off-guard, this big barking thing even as he’s nodding. “Yeah, don’t we both fucking know it.”

Quieter, then, Rozy says, “Thanks, Marly. It’s - I think it will be hard, going. Leaving. But is nice to know that you are here. That you give a shit.”

“Always, man,” Cliff nods, ruffles Rozy’s hair again just to break the tension, just to hear him squawk. “And if you eventually decide you want the world to know about the person you love, call me, alright? It’s hard as fuck out there, but you’re not on your own. Not if I can fucking help it.” 

That’s that, then. Rozy goes to the kitchen and gets them each a beer. They spend the rest of the night playing video games and talking about nothing at fucking all. 

When June rolls around and the trades start coming, Cliff acts as surprised as anyone about the news of Rozy’s signing, like he hasn’t spent the last three weeks helping the kid pack up his life. Cliff can’t pretend he isn’t terrified for Roz, either. But when he drops him off at the airport, Rozy has this look on his face, like he’s found something close to peace. And fuck, if that doesn’t make the whole thing make sense.

Chapter End Notes

okay ahhhh not sure about this one! not sure about it! happy pride month lol <3