Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

Gen, M/M

Fandom:

Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationships:

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

Characters:

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

Additional Tags:

Post-Episode: s01e06 The Cottage (Heated Rivalry), Canon - Game Changers Series & Heated Rivalry (TV) Combination, Good Friend Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau Finds Out About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Friendship, Shane Hollander Haunts the Narrative, this is my thesis that ilya would've had a much better time in tlg if he'd been allowed to have people who knew about him and shane, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Autistic Shane Hollander, author is not a man or a hockey player so the male hockey players are probably unrealistically emotionally aware, ofc is marleau's wife but don't worry she's not much of a character, POV Outsider

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-02 Words: 9,923 Chapters: 1/1

go walk into your dawn

Summary

"The Ottawa fucking Centaurs," Cliff spits, barely even aware of the words coming out of his mouth. "Eight years. Eight goddamned years, we've been building this team! We've made it to the playoffs for years now, we have a fucking Cup! You're the captain, you know this team would follow you anywhere. The fucking kids look up to you! And you've been in Boston since you came from Russia. You have a house here, you host get-togethers for the team, you know all our WAGs and families. And you want to leave this for fucking Ottawa, for the worst team in the league? What the hell, Ilya?!"

---

Or: Before Ilya Rozanov leaves Boston for the Ottawa Centaurs, he invites Cliff Marleau to his house for dinner. Cliff has known Roz for eight years and has been his best friend for almost that same length of time. None of that has prepared him to learn that his captain has, apparently, been in a secret relationship for the past eight years. With Shane Hollander.

Notes

Hi, Heated Rivalry fandom! There are so many amazing amazing fics in this fandom and I am so excited to contribute! I have been in a writing rut for years since starting my PhD program; I should have known it would take gay hockey players to get me out of it. :D

This takes place after the end of the show, but before the epilogue of Heated Rivalry. I've gone with the show spelling for Marleau because this is really written for the show version of his character over the book version. Book!Marlow is younger than Ilya and Ilya calls him an ass, which of course knowing Ilya could mean literally anything. I love the big brother relationship he has with Ilya in the show, and I love our fanon characterization of Marleau and the Raiders being the no. 1 Hollanov defenders. Show names for the teams for the same reason. I'm working my way through the books and am currently on Common Goal, so I haven't made it to The Long Game yet. This takes place before The Long Game, so hopefully it will be safe, but I apologize if I got anything wrong! Also, I know less than nothing about hockey; I didn't even know there were three periods before reading the book. There isn't much hockey in this fic, but I am so sorry if I messed up the timeline with the trade deadlines. :(

None of this work is AI; I really returned to my fanfiction roots with this one and wrote the whole thing in pen in a notebook during work hours. Title is from "Chords" by the inimitable The Amazing Devil.

February 2018—Boston, MA

The Boston Raiders are about halfway through what is shaping up to be a thoroughly average season when Ilya Rozanov pulls Cliff Marleau aside one day at the end of practice.

Rozanov's face is serious, his eyebrows pinched and his lips pressed tightly together. Instantly, Cliff forgets his idle background thoughts of what he wants for dinner and focuses completely on his captain. It's not that Rozanov is never serious—he's one of the best hockey players in the fucking league, of course he's serious—but Cliff has known the man for eight years now and can count the number of deep, important conversations they've had on one hand.

"Marley," Roz says, voice low. "I have news. It is important."

Cliff tries to keep the trepidation off his face. He isn't sure what he's expecting. He's Rozanov's A, of course, but also probably his best friend—here in Boston? At all? Cliff has no fucking clue. Roz is a brick wall. It's actually impressive considering how extroverted he is. But it means that Cliff can't even guess if this is news for Marleau, his alternate captain, or for Cliff, his best friend.

Cliff slaps an open palm against Roz's shoulder, who is watching him closely. His expression is kept purposely very blank, but Cliff thinks he almost looks… wary? "Of course, Roz. What's up?"

Rozanov chews on his lower lip for a few moments, his eyes darting between Cliff's and he deliberates. They're standing close enough together, off in a corner of the locker room, that he's able to follow the motion. Eventually, Roz seems to come to a decision. He squares his shoulders and turns his body slightly away. "Not here. Later. You could… come for dinner? You and Clara?"

Cliff's eyebrows fly up before he can even think to school his expression. By the way Roz turns his head away, he's noticed, but Cliff can hardly spare the thought for it, he's so taken aback. Because what?

He's been to Roz's house before: a large, sprawling fucking complex in Brighton that takes forever to get to from the Raiders' TD Garden rink. Cliff doesn't know how he deals with the traffic. (Roz actually drives instead of taking the T like a normal person because he "doesn't trust shitty American public transportation." Cliff considers that Roz's house is on the green line and decides that stance is reasonable enough.) But, anyway, going to Rozanov's house is fine in itself. He's the captain—he hosts game watch parties and team get-togethers. Everyone on the Raiders has been to his house. That isn't the problem here.

Because it's one thing to go to Roz's house as part of team events. It's even one thing to go to Roz's house with Clara, if they're holding an event with WAGs and families. But it's another thing for Roz to invite just Cliff and his wife. This can't be a team thing. But he doesn't understand why Roz would extend the invitation to Clara, too. They know each other at least somewhat after most of a decade of Cliff and Rozanov playing on the same team, but he wouldn't have thought that they were that close.

Across from him, Roz's expression has shuttered, and Cliff realizes that he's been lost in his thoughts for too long. He shakes his head a bit and reaches out to give Rozanov's shoulder another slap. He hopes this one comes off as reassuring, if it's possible for a shoulder slap to be fucking reassuring. He doesn't know. He has no idea what's happening here.

"Of course," he says, instead of any of that. "Dinner. We'll be there."

Rozanov's face does something complicated. A whole sequence of emotions flash across it, too quickly for Cliff to catch all of them. In the end, though, he settles on something that almost looks like… regret. Eyes crinkled at the corners, one side of his mouth twisted down, lips pressed so tightly together they're almost white.

Cliff sees all of this. He knows his best friend well enough to interpret it. But he still has no fucking idea what in the world Rozanov could want to tell him. He doesn't know what he would say, if he were to say something. But either way, he holds his tongue. Not here.

The regret—if that's even what it was—is quickly gone from Roz's face. He gives Cliff a shoulder slap of his own and hoists the strap of his bag higher up on his shoulder. "You are a good man, Marley."

Well, shit. Now Cliff is actually really fucking worried.

But Rozanov has already turned away, his attention now completely fixed on his phone in his hand. Cliff might have tried to say something anyway, if he wasn't intimately familiar with the soft little smile he spots on his captain's face. Roz has been with a lot of women since Cliff met him eight years ago, but his girl in Montreal is the only one who can make him blush like that. Jane, he thinks her name is.

Either way, Cliff knows a losing battle when he sees one. He tries to put it out of his mind, pulling his own phone from his pocket and tabbing over to the "favorites" to click on Clara's name.

It's probably fine, anyway. They see each other every day. How much could Roz possibly have to tell him?

---

Two hours later, Cliff has cursed everyone with a Massachusetts plate (or New Hampshire or Maine or—) all the way to Rozanov's ridiculously ostentatious house. Clara, in the passenger seat, is very unimpressed. They have an agreement, he and Clara, that Cliff will drive them places around the city, because he has never almost gotten hit by a green line train turning onto Comm Ave trying to "just turn quickly while it was stopped". Cliff maintains that his cautious approach (which, he thinks, isn't so much cautious as not batshit fucking unhinged) is the only reason why the two of them have yet to die in a car crash. Unfortunately, his stance means that he does actually have to drive a car in Boston. So.

Luckily, Roz's fancy-as-fuck Brighton neighborhood, right on the reservoir, is nice enough to be out of the way of the traffic and the noise of the city, at least somewhat. It's almost quiet when Cliff kills the engine beside one of Roz's colorful sportscars. Unfortunately, without the noise, there's nothing to distract him from his thoughts and the way he might, possibly, be just a tiny bit nervous. Clara notices at least some of what he's thinking and takes his hand as they exit the car. He's overwhelmingly thankful for her for approximately the millionth time that day.

Ilya Rozanov has always been a strange person, is the thing. He's a study in contradictions, which, even itself, is something that Cliff thinks most people never notice. On one hand, he's exactly what one would expect of a generational talent, of a twenty-something captain of one of the biggest teams in the NHL. He clubs, he parties, he lives and breathes hockey. For years, he was photographed at clubs until the early hours of the morning, always headed home with a different beautiful woman on his arm. Between that and the giant, stark house and the collection of expensive sportscars, Cliff couldn't blame anyone for looking in from the outside and thinking they had Ilya Rozanov all figured out. Cliff had been one of those people, back when Roz was first drafted all those years ago.

But even from the start, there has always been another side of Rozanov—one he keeps well-hidden. Well-hidden enough that it took years for Cliff to even realize it was there. It started with Montreal Jane and the way that while Roz may take a different girl home every week, his Montreal girl seemed to matter in a way that the rest of them didn't. From there, it was sincere "I love you"s that Roz gave the team after every game, win or lose, and the way he always, always seemed to notice everything about his teammates, from their injuries to changes in their playing styles to their wives' birthdays. Roz is fucking smart, Cliff has come to realize over the years, perfectly aware of what everyone around him thinks of him and able to use it to his advantage so flawlessly that no one ever realizes he's been in control the whole time.

Cliff considers Rozanov to be one of his best friends, and he thinks it's the same for Roz. He knows that he sees past the smoke and mirrors better than most everyone else in Roz's life. But even still, he's sometimes not sure how much of the real Rozanov he's seeing. More and more, he likes to think, as the years have gone on. You don't make someone your alternate captain unless you trust them, after all. But that doesn't mean he has any idea what this is about. He knows it has to be something big, he's not stupid, but does he even know enough about Roz's life outside the Raiders to speculate what "something big" could be? He has no idea how Roz could hide something like that, whatever that is, when they spend so much time together, but if anyone could hide a giant secret from someone he sees every day, it would be Ilya Rozanov. Is it something with his family back in Russia? Cliff knows he has a brother, Roz has complained about him before. Is he in some kind of trouble? Is Roz?

Cliff has never been one to catastrophize, really, but when Clara shoots him an alarmed look, he realizes that might be what's happening. Huh. It doesn't feel great. He shakes his head and tries to take a deep breath as Clara rings the doorbell. Theirs is the only car in the driveway apart from Roz's, he notices. Which, given how private Roz had tried to be earlier at practice, isn't exactly shocking. But it's something, still.

Only a few seconds pass between Clara ringing the bell and Roz pulling the door open. The house is big enough that he couldn't have been far away—he must've been waiting for them. Or seen them come in or something. Either way, it does not fill Cliff with much in terms of confidence. He notices that Roz looks a little green around the gills himself. Fantastic, that.

With a wordless gesture, Rozanov beckons Cliff and Clara into his mansion. Cliff exchanges a look with his wife, who, he sees, also looks wary, even if she's hiding it better. They silently follow Rozanov through the house. He heads directly for the kitchen, opens a cabinet, and grabs a glass and a bottle of clear liquid. Cliff doesn't speak Russian, but it doesn't take a genius to translate "водка". Roz pours himself a generous serving and immediately knocks half of it back in one swallow.

Okay, so this is going to be like that.

Rozanov seems a bit calmer with the help of the alcohol. His shoulders have dropped from underneath his ears, at least, when he looks back at them. "Marley. Clara. Thank you for coming."

Cliff can't quite get his words to work. Luckily, Clara steps in to rescue him because she is a saint. "Of course, Ilya. Cliff said it was important. Of course we'd come. Do you need any help with dinner?"

Rozanov smiles at her, the first real smile Cliff's seen from him since they were on the ice at practice. "No, but thank you. It's in the oven. Just needs a few minutes."

Clara nods and takes at seat at one of the stools at the kitchen island. Cliff follows her lead and Rozanov rounds the other side into the kitchen. He opens the fridge and offers them drinks. They both accept beers, left over from the last Raiders team gathering. Rozanov leans his elbows on the counter and asks Clara about her class of seventh graders. She complains about the annoying parents and asks Rozanov about practice, about their upcoming game against the Toronto Guardians. It's all perfectly fucking ordinary. If not for the still-tense line of Rozanov's shoulders, Cliff would think it was just any other day.

It's about fifteen minutes of the two of them talking about nothing before the timer on the oven dings and Roz retrieves a pan of herb-crusted salmon and roasted vegetables. He pulls the lid off the rice cooker on the counter and scoops brown rice into a bowl. Cliff and Clara stand to help him carry the food to the table, but Cliff is distracted trying to figure out when the fuck Rozanov came into possession of a rice cooker. He's positive it wasn't there the last time he was over.

It isn't quite uncomfortable, Cliff thinks as the three of them dig into their food. Just… tense. They know each other well enough to have a normal, and this is close to it. Everything is just a little off—Roz's chirping a bit lackluster, Cliff's retaliation more cautious, Clara's cheer just a bit more forced. Rozanov's shoulders drop slightly over the course of the meal, but never completely lose the tension. Cliff clocks the way he's pushing his food around his plate more than eating it. He's hesitant, obviously, to bring up whatever the news is, and hesitation from Roz—who always commits 100% to everything he does—unnerves Cliff enough that he's not going to be the one to address the elephant in the room.

They linger at the table for a long time over empty plates, like as soon as someone stands up, they'll no longer be able exist inside their bubble of small talk and pretend that the outside world doesn't exist. It's probably over an hour after they sat down before Roz sighs, pushes his half-full plate away, and shoves his chair back. The expression on his face is drawn and serious like he's heading into a fight. Cliff's never seen him look this way before a fight, though. Not even in a game against Montreal, their division rivals. Before Montreal games, Roz usually looks almost excited, like he can't wait to beat Shane Hollander. Knowing Roz, that's probably exactly what it is. Well, beating Hollander and, when they're in Montreal, meeting up with Jane.

In silence, the three of them bring the plates back into the kitchen. Stack the dishes into the dishwasher. Put the food away. Rozanov leaves the pans in the sink to be washed later. And so, with another glass of vodka for him and a beer for Cliff, the three of them migrate into the living room. Cliff sits beside Clara on one end of Roz's giant couch and the man himself sits in the L section, facing them. He draws in a deep breath like he's bracing himself. Cliff's hand unconsciously finds Clara's. Here they go.

Rozanov watches Cliff take his wife's hand and his face twists into something… sad. Cliff feels a little like he's been checked into the boards. Roz opens his mouth. Closes it. Takes a big swig of vodka.

"Ilya," Clara says, gently. "Is everything alright?"

God. Cliff is so, so grateful for her.

Roz stares helplessly. "Ебать," he says. "Fuck. I am sorry. I did not think this would be so…" He cuts himself off with a big, shuddery breath.

Cliff feels helpless, himself, watching his untouchable captain sit in front of him and struggle to get words out. He wishes he could do or say something to help, but he feels a lot like Roz in this moment. Unmoored. Roz is Cliff's best friend and Cliff is probably, possibly, Roz's, but they are also professional athletes. They've never done anything remotely like this before.

With her free hand, Clara reaches out and takes Roz's. His head snaps up to her in surprise, eyes wide. She gives him a reassuring smile, the one Cliff imagines she uses to calm down her middle schoolers. "It's okay. Whatever it is, it's okay. We're here for you, alright?"

Roz clings to her hand like a lifeline. His other hand is white-knuckled on his vodka glass. When he speaks, his voice is a bit strangled. "Thank you, Clara. You are… a wonderful friend."

Cliff thinks back to that afternoon, to You are a good man, Marley. Roz has always been more verbally affectionate than Cliff or anyone might've expected, but two cryptic statements in the same day, especially after whatever the fuck this night has been so far, is at least one too many.

"Roz, man," he says, somehow surprised by how unsteady his voice comes out. "You gotta stop saying shit like that, like you're dying."

Cliff laughs nervously at his own joke, but Rozanov just rolls his eyes with a little huff. He looks like he's holding himself back from snipping something in response, but the fact that he bothers has Cliff freezing. "You're not, uh… you're not dying, right?"

Roz rolls his eyes again, but Cliff thinks that this time he also spots the flash of a smile. "I'm glad your brain still works fine, Marley. No, I am not dying."

It's stupid, but Cliff actually fucking feels relieved. He blows out a breath and sets his beer down on the coffee table to scrub a hand over his face. "Right, right. So, what the hell is going on, then?"

Rozanov stares down at his lap for a long moment, where his fingers are randomly tapping against the side of his rocks glass. Cliff can't see his face, but something about the silence tells him not to try and break it. Whatever this is, he reminds himself, Rozanov did bring them here to tell them about it. Cliff's never seen him uncertain like this, but he wouldn't have invited them over if it wasn't something important.

When Roz eventually speaks, what he says is probably the last thing that Cliff would have expected.

"The trade deadline is almost over. My contract with the Raiders ends this year. I know there are… rumors. About why I have not resigned."

Cliff hadn't expected it, but he knows exactly where this is going. His stomach swoops down to his feet. "You're leaving Boston."

It isn't a question.

It isn't a question, but something in him tilts, a little, when Rozanov nods. "I am leaving Boston."

Now, it's Cliff's turn to cling to Clara's hand.

This is hockey. Cliff knows this is hockey. Maybe most guys in the NHL aren't traded every year like Ryan Price, but not everyone plays for the same team until retirement, either. Roz was drafted by the Raiders and he's led them to a Stanley Cup. This is the first contract he's had and he's currently at the height of his career. He has years, maybe even a decade, of hockey ahead of him, and he's a generational talent. Would be a once-in-a-generation talent, if not for Shane Hollander being drafted the exact same fucking year. It's not crazy for him to want to leave, to go somewhere new. The part of Cliff that understands hockey gets it.

Wherever Ilya Rozanov wants to go, he'll be able to fucking go. Any team in the league—in the world—would kill to have him. But the only team that's won more Stanley Cups since Roz joined the Raiders is the Montreal Metros and Shane Hollander. Boston currently has a whole roster of skilled guys who work well together, led by Roz, who has spent the time time understand and captain them. And their work has paid off, obviously—no one thinks getting another Stanley Cup with this team is impossible.

This is hockey. Cliff knows that. But they've got a good fucking thing going, here, and a large part of Cliff doesn't understand what the hell Rozanov is thinking, wanting to leave it.

"Oh, Ilya," he distantly hears Clara say. He doesn't think he's able to make his words work.

"I wanted you to hear first," Rozanov says. "From me. Before it is announced."

It's thoughtful, Cliff supposes. Roz has always been unexpectedly thoughtful. But most of Cliff can't be assed about that right now. He feels numb, mostly, but there's anger, too, creeping in at the edges. He grits his teeth and lets go of Clara's hand so he doesn't squeeze too hard and hurt her.

With how turbulent his emotions are, Cliff is surprised by how level his voice comes out when he says, "Where are you going?"

Both Rozanov and Clara look at him, but Cliff keeps his eyes on his captain. He looks hesitant. Cliff has no idea what his own face is doing right now. "What?"

And that "what?", for some reason, is the linchpin, and Cliff's blood is boiling.

"Boston is one of the best teams in the NHL right now. We have a fucking Cup. You have a team of guys who respect you and trust you to lead them as their captain! And you're the best player in the goddamned league, they pay you enough to afford this place in fucking Boston! So, where the fuck are you going, because I can't imagine what you could get somewhere else that you don't have here!"

Cliff is nearly shouting by the time he's done. He hadn't noticed, hadn't been aware of his voice getting louder, of the way he'd started to lean forward on the sofa. It's only once the words are out that he registers the way his heart is pounding, the way his chest is heaving but he still feels like he can't take in a full breath.

In contrast, the other two have gone utterly silent. Probably, he thinks, mostly from shock. Because it only takes a few seconds for Clara to cross her arms and say, "Cliff Marleau," in a low, quiet voice that means trouble. Cliff shrinks back a little. He knows they'll be having words once they go back home. Knows he'll deserve it.

But for now, he glares at Rozanov. It's been a long time since he was angry like this, this sharp, raw pain like a wound flayed open. He's gotten into his fair share of fights in his career—of course he has, every hockey player has—but never for one has he felt angry like this. And he knows why—he feels the hurt, of course he fucking knows why—but it just makes him angrier. Cliff almost wishes they were on the ice right now, so he could drop his gloves and take a swing just for a fucking distraction.

Rozanov is watching him, and it's clear from his face that he knows exactly what Cliff is thinking. Of course he does, the bastard. His entire body is one stiff line, every trace of hard-won calm from earlier in the night vanished, but he still says, "Ottawa."

Every thought in Cliff's mind screeches to a stop. He doesn't even know how he manages to get the word out. "Ottawa?"

"Ottawa."

"As in," Cliff says slowly, his voice nearly a growl, "the Ottawa Centaurs?"

Rozanov's face twists. Cliff can almost hear the sarcastic comment and he thinks that he'll punch him if he says it. He feels like he has a live wire running just below his skin.

"The Ottawa Centaurs. Yes."

"The Ottawa Centaurs," Cliff repeats. He's vaguely aware of the fact that his hands are shaking. "You mean, the worst team in the fucking league?!"

Rozanov doesn't answer. But then, none of them really need him to. The expression on his face is answer enough. Cliff looks at him and he wants to scream.

"The Ottawa fucking Centaurs," Cliff spits, barely even aware of the words coming out of his mouth. "Eight years. Eight goddamned years, we've been building this team! We've made it to the playoffs for years now, we have a fucking Cup! You're the captain, you know this team would follow you anywhere. The fucking kids look up to you! And you've been in Boston since you came from Russia. You have a house here, you host get-togethers for the team, you know all our WAGs and families. And you want to leave this for fucking Ottawa, for the worst team in the league? What the hell, Ilya?!"

It's only once he gets to the end, heaving for breath and blinking furiously against his godforsaken tears, that Cliff realizes he's standing. That he'd jumped to his feet at some point and has no memory of it. That now Rozanov and Clara are both looking up at him. Clara's face is a complicated mix of anger and sadness. She looks like she wants to yell at him and then apologize and give him a hug. And Roz…

Ilya's face looks flayed open. When Cliff finally actually looks at him for the first time, clocks his expression, it's enough of a shock that his legs give out, a little, and he unceremoniously plops back down onto the sofa.

His captain is staring at him like he's never seen him before. And Cliff has known Ilya Rozanov, in turn, for eight years. Seen him in all manner of circumstances. And yet, he doesn't think he's ever, ever seen Roz look like this.

He's pale, so deathly pale his face is ashen. And his eyes are wet and shining, even if he's not quite crying. Yet. He looks, for the first time in a long time, completely unguarded. Like he's feeling so much, so strongly, that it's impossible to hide.

"Cliff," says Ilya, voice hoarse. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. His eyes meet Cliff's, force him to hold his gaze and see all the pain there. "I… I'm so sorry. You are my best friend. I don't want to hurt you."

Fuck. Fuck. Ilya Rozanov is always 100% committed to everything he does. Cliff couldn't stay angry at him now if he tried. He blows out a breath and tilts his head up towards the ceiling, staring directly into one of the overhead lights to try and choke back the tears in his eyes. "What the fuck, Ilya," he says again.

Roz laughs a bit hysterically, but doesn't speak. The three of them lapse into silence for a minute.

Then, beside him, Clara shifts her weight. Cliff rolls his head to the side and sees the pained expression on her face. Like the rest of them, her eyes are shining. "Ilya. If this is what's best for you, then we support you. We just want you to be happy. But can I ask… why?"

Roz nods, looking slightly abashed. "Yes, sorry. This is why I have called you. To explain."

Clara lets out a tiny, relieved sigh. Cliff pushes himself off the pillows to sit up properly. God, he fucking loves his wife.

Roz's expression is back to being guarded, the pain hidden like it was never even there. The only indication that he was even affected by Cliff's outburst is the way his eyes are wet and rimmed with red. He hasn't cried yet, though. None of them have. Cliff wonders how much longer that will last.

Roz is silent for a long time. So long that Cliff almost wonders if he's going to change his mind. Only almost, though. He knows better.

"Marley knows—and maybe Clara, too? That I have… someone I see. In Montreal."

Cliff feels his mouth drop open. "Holy shit, Roz. Jane? Montreal Jane?"

Rozanov is blushing the way he always does when they talk about Jane. Cliff still remembers that time in the locker room. God, that was years ago. He isn't sure when Roz first started seeing Jane, but he knows that wasn't his first time teasing him about her.

But Clara is frowning. "Jane? I don't… the WAGs have never mentioned a Jane. How long have you been together?"

Cliff had been about to say something—teasing, the way he always is with Roz and Jane—but this brings him up short. Roz loves the Raiders' group of WAGs, and they all love him. Cliff's been aware of Jane for years, but every attempt he's made to get more information about her has been promptly shut down. He's always been curious, of course, because this girl must be something fucking special to get Ilya Rozanov to look at his phone like that, not even considering the distance and the fact that she lives in fucking Montreal. But despite his curiosity, he's never tried to pry. The locker room isn't the best place for important conversations, after all, and he didn't want to force Roz to give up the information before he was ready to share it.

Well, and also, maybe, there was a part of Cliff that thought it wasn't that serious. Rozanov had built a reputation for himself as a playboy, the type to have a girl in every city. Cliff's always known that Jane is different—she's the only one Roz ever texts, the only one whose name they even know—but he never talks about her. Cliff doesn't know how they met, what Jane's last name is, even what she looks like. None of this would be abnormal for a hookup, even a semi-regular one. But if Rozanov is moving teams for this woman, clearly Cliff and everyone else have missed some major fucking information there in the middle.

"They haven't?" Cliff frowns at Clara, then at Roz. "It's been… a while. I don't know how many years. You've never even introduced her to the WAGs? But you're moving for her?"

"Ah," Roz frowns. "I thought, maybe… but, is complicated. I am moving so we can be closer. Ottawa is only two hours from Montreal. And is Canada."

Well, Cliff thinks again, probably gaping. That's fucking that, isn't it? There's a lot that doesn't quite add up, here, and a part of him is still in disbelief that someone managed to tie down Ilya Rozanov to the point that he'd move countries to the worst team in the NHL to be with her. But the part of Cliff that's been happily married for years is more than a little impressed. He can't even be mad anymore. His chest still feels like one big bruise, but he can't be mad at Ilya leaving if it's for love.

"Who knew you were such a romantic." He's relieved when it makes Roz smile a little.

"That's really sweet, Ilya," Clara adds.

Ilya smiles again, and for the first time that night, it's wide and without any sadness. It's his Jane smile again, and Cliff's seen it before. He's been seeing it for years. "Yes, I am very romantic. I love my Jane very much. I will miss you—miss Boston—but it is worth it if we can be together."

Clara coos a little, and this time it's her hand that reaches for Cliff's. "Would you… even though you're leaving, would you introduce her to the WAGs? We'd love to get to know her! We could add her to our group chat."

"Maybe the team, too," Cliff adds. "All the guys are curious about Montreal Jane. You've been together so long and none of us have even seen a picture, man."

By the time Cliff is done speaking, the carefree smile on Roz's face has faded completely. He's back to the tense and almost sad look from before, and Cliff does not know what the fuck to do with this information. Doesn't understand anything, so far, that has happened tonight.

"I can't," Roz says. The way he looks actually, genuinely pained is the only thing that has Cliff holding his tongue. "Please. I will tell the team this. That I move to Ottawa for Jane. But I can't introduce you. Is too complicated, please."

The air in the room feels charged. Clara leans back on the couch, her expression confused and a little wary. Cliff has to take deep breaths against the way he feels knocked askew. This whole fucking conversation has been whiplash after whiplash. And Rozanov looks on the verge of tears, his face pleading with them to understand, his fingers tapping against each other restlessly. Cliff doesn't know what he's supposed to be understanding.

"Why not?" he spits. "You've been seeing this woman for, hell if I know, years. And now you're leaving the team for her. You love her. But you won't let any of us meet her. What's so fucking complicated about that?!"

"Cliff…" Clara says, quiet. But he barely hears her. Barely sees her, not past the tears in his own eyes.

"Please, Marley," says Rozanov at the same time. His face is agony, but Cliff doesn't give a damn right now.

"Tell us why. Tell us why you can't talk about her. I think we deserve that much, at least."

Cliff almost thinks he'll refuse. But then he reaches for his glass of vodka on the coffee table and knocks back the rest of it. Cliff eyes his half-full beer, which he'd forgotten about until this moment. Contemplates doing the same. He thinks he might vomit, though, if he drinks anything right now.

The glass clinks as Roz sets it back down on the table with a bit too much force. "Ебать, ебать, да," he mutters to himself. Then, to them, "Okay. Okay. Jane and I have been together for long time. But first it was just when we were in the same city. We pretended we were not more for many years. But since summer it has been… real."

Cliff thinks back to the start of the season. Roz usually goes back to Moscow for the summer. He's usually crabby and irritable before he leaves, then quiet and subdued when he returns. It takes a bit for him to settle back into himself at the start of a new season, and by now the Raiders have a collection of tricks they employ, things they know help bring him back more easily. This year, they hadn't needed to use any of them. Ilya had returned bouncy and excited, happier than Cliff has ever seen him. It was obvious that he hadn't gone to Russia. The team speculated on where he'd been instead, and Cliff wasn't the only one who'd thought he was with Jane.

They'll be happy for him, Cliff knows. Roz. When he tells the team he's moving to Ottawa for Jane, they'll be happy for him.

Ilya hesitates over his next words. "But it is complicated because… Jane is not Jane."

Cliff frowns. Ilya is staring down at his hands,

"What do you mean?" asks Clara.

"Is a fake name." Ilya still doesn't look at them. "I am bisexual. Jane is a man."

Cliff isn't sure he's breathing. Isn't sure if any of them are breathing.

"Holy shit."

Ilya smiles completely humorlessly. He looks… scared. It's like a bucket of cold water being dumped over Cliff's head.

Clara stands up and moves to the other side of the huge sofa. She takes both of Ilya's hands in hers and forces him to look at her. "Thank you for telling us. It doesn't change anything, okay? We still love you and we still support you and… Jane."

Ilya's eyes are swimming. He clings to Clara's hands. He's purposely not looking at Cliff.

And so, Cliff stands, too, and sits down on Roz's other side. Bumps their shoulders together. "Me, too. You're… you're my best friend, Ilya, I don't care if you're with a man. And I'm sorry if… if I made you tell us before you were ready."

Ilya, to Cliff's relief, is already shaking his head. He lets go of one of Clara's hands so he isn't turned towards her and can face both of them equally. "Thank you, Marley. I love you. I wanted to tell you, for long time. My Jane is scared. More scared than me. But he said I could tell you about us. About him. I knew you would be good about it and he trusts me."

Cliff's throat closes up, a bit, at the earnest expression on Ilya's face. He knocks their shoulders together and smiles a watery smile when Ilya knocks back. "I don't mind, I promise. You can tell him—Jane—that. Does he… if he told people, does he think they wouldn't take it well?"

Ilya presses his lips together. "He does not think his friends would be good, no. Most of them. But he knows my team is better. And he has people who know. His parents." He makes a face. "His ex-girlfriend."

Cliff snorts at the exaggerated disgust.

"The offer still stands," says Clara. "About introducing him to the WAGs. The Raiders are a good team, I don't think anyone would be homophobic. We'd still love to meet him. I can't imagine how stressful it must be, to not be out or have any support. And we might need to update the acronym, but he's still a WAG."

Roz snorts and wipes a hand across his eyes. "I will tell him you said this. He will love it. But… I think no, still. I will not tell the team, I think, that Jane is not a girl. Maybe someday, but not yet."

"Hunter's out now," Cliff points out. "So it wouldn't be quite so crazy. Do you think you'll come out, too? Once you move to Ottawa?"

Roz gives a noncommittal hum. "I think so. But not for a long time. It is still complicated, with us. More complicated than just being men. He is scared. Wants to wait. But I would kiss him on ice in front of cameras tomorrow, if he would let me. Would be better than dinosaur Hunter."

In his mind, Cliff is putting together a list of things he knows about Rozanov and his… boyfriend, he supposes. He's a man from Montreal, who has homophobic friends and is afraid of coming out. And there must be something specific about him to make this more groundbreaking than Scott Hunter and his boyfriend. And Roz is still calling him Jane.

Maybe he's trying to read too much into this, here. Rozanov is from Russia—he doesn't know the details, but Cliff knows it's hardly a safe place to be bisexual. Maybe he and Jane, whoever he is, want to wait until Roz moves to Canada and is safer. So they can, god, what, get married? Is Roz going to apply for Canadian citizenship?!

Cliff still has questions, of course. But Ilya has told them more, tonight, than he had to, than Cliff ever would have expected to find out. He doesn't need to know all the details to understand the danger Roz and his boyfriend could be in, or to respect their decision and support it.

And so, he wraps an arm around Ilya's shoulders and pulls them together briefly. Ilya goes willingly, but the expression on his face is almost pained. His eyes are wide. Cliff can't hold them for too long. "Good luck in Ottawa, brother. Seriously. Long-distance is shit, I hope the two of you get to be together. And don't worry about the team, alright? They'll understand. They'll be happy for you. We'll… we'll all miss you, Roz, but they'll be happy for you. And whatever you need, I'm here. Me and Clara."

Clara nods in confirmation. Ilya glances between them a few times, like he can't quite believe what he's seeing. Cliff knows the fucking feeling—there's a part of him that can't believe that this whole night hasn't just been some increasingly bizarre dream.

"I…" Rozanov starts, then cuts himself off with a sniffle. "Give me a minute."

And then, Cliff and Clara watch in bemusement as he whips his phone out from the pocket of his jeans. He leans back on the couch, eyebrows furrowed as his thumbs move furiously across the screen. Like usual when Roz looks at his phone like that, Cliff assumes he's texting Jane. Or, well, "Jane".

God. Who would've fucking thought?

"Okay," Roz says a minute or so later, lowering the phone. "I asked my Jane. He says it's okay to tell who he is."

Cliff pauses. He exchanges a look past his captain to Clara, and is relieved to see that she looks as uncertain as he feels. "I don't know, Roz. You said he was scared. I don't want us to… make him come out, or whatever. If you say it's complicated, then we believe you."

Ilya, though, is already shaking his head. "No. He would not say I can tell you if he didn't mean it. My Jane does not do things he doesn't want to do." He taps his fingers against his phone screen and for a moment, a fond, gentle smile splits his face. Cliff might almost call it besotted.

"And he knows what this means to me," Ilya continues. Now, his expression shifts to be a bit bitter. "Everyone who knows about us is in his life. We fight about this. I tell him I want to tell the people I love."

"Well," Clara offers a smile. "You can tell him that, whoever he is, we don't mind. Just as long as he makes you happy. And we won't say anything to anyone, I promise."

"I know," Ilya agrees, solemn. "You are very good friends. My Jane, he also knows you are safe. He says I can tell you, because he is scared, but he is also brave. He is scared, but he does the good thing anyway."

Even without this conversation as evidence, Cliff has known that he often sees a side of Rozanov that few others do. He's had his suspicions about Montreal Jane, after all, for years. Not that he was secretly a man the whole time, of course, but that she—well, he—mattered more to Roz than he would admit. And he's not the only one on the team who had thought it, but he also doesn't think any of the rest of them have caught Roz mooning over his phone quite as often as Cliff has.

But this conversation slots into what he knows about Rozanov in a strange way. It fits, but it also doesn't. On the surface, of course, it contradicts every aspect of the image the rest of the world has about Ilya Rozanov. But Cliff knows how deliberate that image is. He's seen the parts of his best friend that he guards more closely. So in that way, hearing the way Roz talks about his boyfriend isn't a surprise at all.

"Fuck, Roz," he says, the only thing he can think that accurately expresses his thoughts. "This is like… it for you, isn't it? You really love this guy?"

There's a lump in his throat that's difficult to speak around. Learning that Roz is bisexual and in love with a man had been so not what Cliff was expecting that he'd completely forgotten, for a few minutes, that the original reason Roz had called them over had been to tell them that he's leaving.

Roz snorts, the effect only minorly offset by his red and watery eyes. "No, not at all. I move countries for every guy I fuck."

Cliff laughs before he realizes it, the sound ripped out of him in surprise. "Go fuck yourself."

Roz bats his eyes dramatically. "Later."

Cliff shoves his captain with his shoulder and Ilya immediately shoves back with a wide grin. For a minute, it feels just like any other day, like they're fucking around in the locker room the way they always do after practice. It's catching Clara's eyes that does it, that reminds him where they are, even though she's shaking her head fondly at them and barely hiding a smile.

It'll be a long time before they get another moment like this. If it ever happens again. No, of course it will. Ilya is his best friend—him moving hours away for the man he loves, even if it's to the Ottawa fucking Centaurs, won't change that.

Rozanov, of course, seems to have noticed the direction Cliff's thoughts have turned. He stills, his smile fading, that serious look returning. "Yes, he is it for me. I want to marry him someday. I'm tired of living so far apart. I want to go to sleep by him and wake up together and have a home with him. It has been so many years, Cliff. I am so tired of hiding."

And Cliff can't even being to imagine what that might feel like. He looks at Ilya, at the way his captain, normally so self-assured and unapologetic, is wired and on-edge and has been for this entire evening. He hasn't even been as much of an asshole as usual, like he's been holding himself back. And all for… what? An evening with two of his closest friends?

Cliff can't even remember the first time he'd introduced Clara to Rozanov. It hadn't been unremarkable in the sense that it was disappointing, because Cliff had known even at the time that they would get along well. And it was two people he loved, so he was excited to bring them together. But it was unremarkable in the sense that he knows he didn't think much of it. He had a wife that he loves, he had a friend he was growing to love, too—of course he'd have them meet each other when they were both such big, important parts of his life. All the other guys on the team did the exact same fucking thing, and Cliff bets none of them ever thought about it for more than a second.

Ilya Rozanov is one of Cliff's favorite people in the world, and he and Clara love each other, too. But Ilya invited them, just them, to his home, cooked them dinner, and then sat them down like he was walking into an interrogation room. Just to tell them that he has someone he loves and that he needs to leave the city, the team, that has been home for the past eight years, just for the chance to build something that the rest of them all take for granted.

"That's not fucking fair," he says to the exhaustion on Ilya's face. "Seriously. It's shitty that you have to do this to be with the person you love just because he's a man. I mean, straight people don't have to come out."

Ilya barks out a laugh, almost like he's surprised by it. Cliff pretends not to notice when he quickly ducks his head to wipe his eyes. "A good idea. Maybe you should start." He turns pointedly to look at Clara with a dramatically raised eyebrow. "Marley. Is there something you want to tell me?"

Clara laughs, too, and Cliff hides a smile as he rolls his eyes and checks Rozanov's shoulder again. It doesn't do anything to stop the pleased look on his face as he flops against the couch cushions and looks between Cliff and Clara on either side of him. He still looks like he can't quite believe that either of them are there.

"Cliff's right, though," Clara says once they've all calmed down a little. "It's awful that you have to do all that. Whatever you need from us—either of you—let us know, okay? It doesn't even matter who Jane is or why it's complicated. We love you and we'll stand behind you both in any way we can."

Ilya laughs, a wet, hysterical thing, choked by tears. "You might not say this once you know who Jane is."

"Hey," Clara insists, leaning in towards Ilya. With the way he's leaning against the back of the couch, and with Cliff on the other side, there isn't anywhere for him to go and he's forced to meet her eyes. "Yes, I will. I don't care who he is. You love him and he loves you, right? That's enough, I love him already."

Ilya swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing. He sniffles and the first tears slip down his cheeks. Cliff rests a hand on his shoulder and tries to smile encouragingly. "Jane is Shane Hollander."

Cliff is man enough to admit that he wasn't expecting that. At all.

"Shane Hollander? Like, captain of the Montreal Metros, Shane Hollander? Your rival?!"

Ilya finally turns to face him. He's still crying those silent tears, but his mouth is pressed into a tight, angry line. "Do you know another fucking Shane Hollander?"

Cliff opens and closes his mouth several times. Clara is right, this doesn't change anything. Of course it doesn't. Ilya's still his best friend. But that doesn't mean that he knows what the hell to say here, because Shane fucking Hollander?! What the fuck. What the fuck? He wishes he could say something supportive because Rozanov's face is pinched and he looks like he might start throwing punches, but Cliff genuinely doesn't know if he'd be able to make words work.

It's been years that Rozanov has been texting Montreal Jane—texting Shane fucking Hollander. Years. Like, most-of-Roz's-eight-years-on-the-Raiders, years. It's a running joke between the two of them, by now, Cliff chirping Ilya Rozanov for being down atrocious for Shane Hollander, oh god.

"I—wow," Clara says, because Cliff's wife has always been more eloquent than he is. "Okay."

Ilya hums faintly. He glances up at Cliff, just a glance before his gaze return to his lap. His fingers are twisted together, clenching tight. When he speaks, his voice is strangled. "Marleau."

It's all he says. But it's all he needs. Cliff snaps back to himself sharply, like a rubber band springing back. He can't remember the last time Ilya called him Marleau.

He reaches out, no hesitation this time, and wraps an arm around Ilya's shoulders. Pulls him into his side. Ilya goes willingly, but his body is stiff, braced for impact. His hands are still clenched.

"Oh my god, Ilya," Cliff says, because he really does think that that about covers it. "Nothing's changed, obviously, but what? You've been in a relationship with Shane fucking Hollander for… how long has it been since we learned about Montreal Jane? Like five years? What the hell."

Ilya squints at him, his guard still up, but he doesn't pull away. Cliff is too busy having a minor panic to notice much, though, images of his captain and Shane Hollander kissing flashing unwanted through his mind. He shakes his head to try to clear it.

"It was not always… relationship. Was… casual, at first."

Cliff snorts, louder than he means to. "Brother, nothing about you and Montreal Jane was ever casual."

Rozanov scoffs and aggressively pushes Cliff off him. He falls against the cushion of the couch and that, for whatever reason, is what has him breaking into laughter. It's a touch hysterical, but this whole fucking day has been hysterical, too, so it's fine. He looks back at Roz, who is blushing. It's the blush he only ever gets because of Jane. Hollander. Because of Hollander.

God, that's going to take some time to get his mind around. But he's always known that Montreal Jane—that Hollander—was different from any of the women Roz slept with. That he'd always been the one to really make Roz happy.

"And," Roz says, his tone lighter now, "it's not five years. Longer than that."

Cliff pushes himself back up. "Longer? How much longer?"

The shit-eating grin on his captain's face is so familiar that Cliff almost wants to cry. "Whole time."

"'Whole time'? What does that mean, 'whole time'?"

"It means whole time. Before I came to Boston."

"Before you came to Boston?" Cliff's voice is more than a little high-pitched.

Ilya's fucking smirk widens. "Since summer before our rookie season. The CCM photoshoot."

And, look, he's not proud of it, but Cliff is lightheaded enough that he actually feels like he might pass out. So he bends forward and puts his head between his knees. "Rookie season," he mutters, mostly to himself. "Rookie season. What the fuck."

Clara's soft hand settles between his shoulderblades. Above him, he hears Ilya say, somewhat petulantly, "Summer before. Why does no one—summer before."

Cliff laughs, and then is finally able to take a deep breath. His head stops spinning and he sits up. Ilya looks concerned, although his face quickly smooths over when he notices Cliff noticing.

"Shane Hollander," he says, not a question.

"Shane Hollander," Ilya confirms, like a challenge.

Cliff shakes his head with the absurdity of it all. He cuts his gaze quickly to Clara and sees her watching with that same tiny, fond smile she always is giving Ilya. The last knot of tension in his ribcage loosens.

"Fuck," he breathes. "And you're leaving for fucking Ottawa."

Cliff doesn't say that he'll miss Rozanov. That the whole team will. That he's been the A to Roz's C for so long that he can scarcely imagine anyone else in those shoes, even himself. He doesn't tell Roz that the locker room will feel a bit emptier without him there to take up fucking space. That they'll feel his absence at every game, every post-game celebration, every team party with WAGs and families.

He doesn't tell Roz that Ottawa will be lucky to have him—that, yes, of course they're lucky to have Rozanov, one of the league's best players, but they're also lucky to have Ilya, who throws his entire self into everything and loves with his whole heart.

Cliff doesn't say any of this. But he thinks that from the look on his face, from the drag of his palm across Roz's shoulder, that Ilya knows anyway.

"We'll kick your fucking asses," Roz says, his eyes wet. Thank you, Cliff hears. Me too.

Clara, on Ilya's other side, wraps an arm around his shoulders and pulls him into a hug. He holds her tightly, almost clinging. And he's so much taller than her that it's almost comical, but he still folds himself into her side like a little boy. Cliff can't really see his face from this angle, but he glimpses the tear tracks on his cheeks as they shine in the overhead lights. His shoulders, his whole body, is slumped and loose in a way Cliff doesn't think he's ever seen. Well, he's never seen Ilya cry before today, either. Other than happy tears when they won the Cup, but everyone had been crying then.

The context is different—the context is as different as Cliff can fucking imagine—but he thinks he'd seen an unguarded version of Rozanov that day. Watching his captain hoist the Stanley Cup into the air was the most alive that Cliff has ever felt. He hadn't been thinking of anything at the time, his brain overwhelmed to the point that all he could do was feel. His teammates were the same—Cliff remembers the raw emotion on all their faces. Roz had been crying as he lifted the Cup, and even then, Cliff had knows that that was a sight he might never see again. He couldn't think of anything else that could strip Ilya so completely of his defenses, clear away the smoke and mirrors and offer a glimpse beneath the mask.

Ilya has always been so well attuned to those around him. Even when he was just a kid, fresh from Russia and struggling to keep up with all their English. It's part of what makes him such a damn good hockey player. Cliff has known for a long time that this is what Roz does, but it's not who he is. But he's perfected the art of presenting himself in different ways to the point that it almost appears effortless. To the point that Cliff never noticed—never even thought about—how tiring it must be.

Is Shane Hollander the only person in the goddamned world with whom Ilya Rozanov can be his entire self? Cliff thinks he might be. Because he, himself, has been Ilya's best friend for nearly a decade, but he sure as hell has never seen anything like this before.

As he watches his wife and his best friend embrace each other, Cliff Marleau comes to a decision. He and Rozanov are best friends, but they've always had a very specific kind of friendship. The one that's based on Cliff drawing shit away from Roz while he's on the ice, or rallying the boys behind whatever decision he's made, or piling on what the other says to get the rookies to go down the Cop Slide. Stupid shit. Things that don't actually mean anything.

Ilya Rozanov is leaving the only home he's had in the past eight years to move to a different country for the love of his life. The love of his life that happens to also be Shane fucking Hollander, but whatever, that's something that Cliff doesn't think he's ready to look into too closely yet. There are questions he isn't sure he wants the answers to. But if Ilya is going to do this, something big and important and real, then the least Cliff can do is match him. Stand by his side when he gives the abridged news to the team, stay by him when he starts over in fucking Ottawa to try and build the life he wants.

Cliff wonders if Roz telling them now means that he wants him and Clara to be part of the new home he and Hollander are making together. If this is Ilya reaching out a hand.

If it is, Cliff will grab it. He and Roz have always been best friends, but now, now things will be different, and not even Ottawa is going to change that.

When Roz finally pulls back from Clara, wiping his eyes with the back of a hand, Cliff claps a hand against his shoulder. High up, near where it meets his neck. Ilya's eyes are red-rimmed and the itchiness he feels tells him that his own probably aren't much better.

"This doesn't change fucking anything, Roz," he says, serious as he's ever been. "I mean it. Wherever you go, I'm with you."

Ilya's lower lip wobbles, then his face screws up and he ducks his head as his eyes fill over. He gives the most half-hearted shove that Ilya Rozanov has ever given anyone. "Fuck you, Marley. Asshole. You think I want to see your ugly fucking mug? Fuck off."

Cliff laughs, wet, and tightens his grip against Roz's shoulder. One of Ilya's hands drifts up and holds loosely to his forearm. Cliff feels the couch shift as Clara stands up and he spares her a glance. She kisses each of them briefly—Ilya on the forehead and then Cliff on the mouth. Then, she disappears into the kitchen so it's just Cliff and Ilya, holding onto each other in silence. It's something they've always been good at.

Rozanov is solid and warm under Cliff's hand, but his head is spinning. He and Ilya cling to each other like a lifeboat in stormy seas, trying to catch a moment of calm as the rest of the world spins around them.

There are still tears in his eyes, but an absurd part of Cliff almost feels like laughing. Shane Hollander. Ottawa. Ottawa.

Who would've fucking thought?