Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Player Shane Hollander, POV Outsider, Age Difference, Captain!Ilya, Rookie!Shane

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of The Hollander-Rozanov Equation

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-23 Completed: 2026-06-08 Words: 16,848 Chapters: 3/3

The Shane Hollander Problem

Summary

At the end of 2014-2015 MHL season, the Boston Raiders end up with the second pick in the 2015 draft. They draft Shane Hollander. Cliff Marleau proceeds to spend the 2015-2016 MHL season trying (and mostly failing) to figure out why his best friend and captain, Ilya Rozanov, is so fucking weird about their new rookie.

Notes

This started as the funny prequel I wrote to pass the time while outlining the actual fic I wanted to write (Rookie!Shane and Captain!Ilya, Shane POV) and grew a life of its own. Cliff Marleau and the Boston Raiders ensemble, I know nothing about you, but you have bewitched me body and soul.

Chapter 1: Chapter One

The 2014-2015 Boston Raiders season was a series of small disasters that culminated in the disaster to end all disasters: Boston receiving the second pick in the 2015 MLH draft.

The first disaster happened at the beginning of January, almost exactly halfway through the season. Cliff watched Roz take a brutal hit at a bad angle in Minnesota. He left the game early and didn’t come back. The Raiders lost to the Nomads 2-3, the first portend of their slow, frustrating slide down the MHL’s rankings. It was the season after their cup win, and with minimal changes to their roster, they should have coasted into the post-season with a good chance to make another deep playoff run. But no, instead Roz’s fucked up shoulder took him out for nearly 20 games. 

And if it had just been Roz’s injury, they could have managed. No team liked playing without their best player and captain, but the Raiders were resilient. But then a week after Roz was placed on injured reserve, Cliff collided with a New Jersey player on home ice and somehow ended up with fucking concussion. Not even Cliff’s attempts to bribe the medical staff were enough to get him out of several weeks of sitting at home in a dark room. It fucking sucked.

“This is not good,” Roz said over speakerphone.

“You’re telling me,” Cliff said, his voice muffled. He was lying face down on the couch, his phone on the coffee table. He had decided that talking on speakerphone wasn’t a violation of concussion rules since he technically wasn’t looking at a screen. “We’ve left St. Simon to hold down the first line all on his own. The kid’s good, but I don’t think he can play center and both wings at the same time.”

“No, I mean your concussion,” said Roz. “I think maybe you don’t have enough brain cells left to lose.”

Cliff spluttered, “Fuck off, Roz. Like you’re doing much better. Sitting at home without even a working right hand to entertain yourself.”

“Bold to assume only option is my hand, Marly.”

“Oh, now I know you’re fucking with me. No way medical cleared you for any ‘strenuous activity.’ Please Roz, you gotta tell me your secrets. What have you been doing for the past week? I’ve only been home 48 hours, and I’m already bored out of my mind.”

There was a pause. “Okay, I will put on the Bachelorette and narrate for you while you keep your eyes closed so that your broken brain does not get anymore broken.”

That pulled a laugh from Cliff. He rolled on his back. “The Bachelorette? Really, man?”

Roz scoffed, “Kaitlyn will find love, Marly. This I believe.” 

“Alright, fine. But we never tell anyone about this, right?”

“Of course, Marly. I will take this secret to the grave. Unless it is ever funnier to tell, then I will share with the whole team.”

When in February, Dubek, their best defenseman, took a puck to the face followed shortly by half of the team getting norovirus, Cliff started to think 2015 might be cursed. The GI bug moved in waves through the team, ensuring that for the entire month, the Raiders played each game with at least one man down. The resulting ever-shifting line combinations along with the continued absence of two of the Raiders’ top scorers made for some abysmal games. And as the March trade deadline approached, the Raiders found themselves further and further from playoff contention.

Management apparently took this as a sign. A series of rapid moves before the trade deadline resulted in several of their veteran players being traded for younger, greener players and draft packs. Players with potential but lacking in polish. By the time both he and Roz were both back on the ice, there were only a handful of games left in the season. And with all the changes to the roster, it felt like they were playing with a brand-new team. They managed to get their shit together enough to start winning games just in time for the season to end. They ended the year with the Raiders in 23rd place; the middle of the pack of the 14 teams that didn’t make the playoffs. And a month later at the 2015 MHL draft lottery, despite only a 6% chance, the Boston Raiders ended up with the number two draft pick.

In any other year, ending up with the second draft pick wouldn’t have been particularly special. Sure, it was a great chance to pick up a young, talented player, but there were plenty of those in the MHL. But the 2015 draft was different because this draft had Shane Hollander. Every few years, a top MHL prospect was anointed as the future savior of hockey. In 2009, it was Ilya Rozanov. This year, it was Shane Hollander.

Cliff watched the news of the draft lottery order break and next to him, his phone started buzzing. He picked it up and thumbed into the suddenly very active Raiders’ group chat.  

Cliff grinned. As much fun as it was to imagine Hollander on their team next year, he agreed with Tommy and Vic; there was no way Hollander wasn’t going to go first to Montreal. 

A week later found Cliff letting himself into Roz’s house. Roz’s flight was tomorrow and Cliff had bullied him into one final lunch before he fucked off to Russia for the next two months. The living room was empty when Cliff wandered in.

“Roz?” he called out.

“Coming,” Roz called back from somewhere upstairs.

Cliff’s eye caught on the TV which was paused on a hockey game. Cliff didn’t recognize the jerseys. Interested, he pressed play on the remote sitting on the couch’s armrest.

“What a beautiful goal from Team Canada’s captain, Shane Hollander,” the announcer said, “breaking the 1-1 stalemate of the second period and putting Canada in the lead 2-1 as we head into the third.”

“Yes, Hollander has not missed a step this entire tournament. With 15 points in seven games so far, Hollander has had a hand in nearly every goal scored by Team Canada,” the second announcer chimed in. 

“He’s been absolutely key to the way Canada has dominated this tournament. The expectations were high going in, but Hollander has delivered. Incredibly smart, incredibly fast, and a playmaker in all situations.”

On screen, Cliff watched the replay as Hollander’s slick snap of a shot from behind the dots sailed past the Russian goalie. It hadn’t taken Cliff long to realize this was a recording of the 2015 World Junior Championship final from this past January, Canada versus Russia. Which for some godforsaken reason Roz was watching at 1pm on a random Saturday in May. 

“Not a bad shot.”

Cliff startled, jerking around to find Roz standing in the doorway. “Jesus Christ, Roz. You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

Roz smirked. “Hasn’t anyone taught you it’s rude to snoop, Marly.”

“Fuck off. Why are you even watching this?”

“Research.” Roz’s gaze flicked over to the screen where Hollander, cheeks flushed with exertion and hair damp with sweat, was answering questions in the between periods interview. “It would be interesting to play on a line together, no?”

“You itching to play on Hollander’s wing, Rozy?” Cliff asked.

Roz laughed, “Marly, that’s funny. I thought concussion knocked all the jokes out of your head, but I guess not.” Still grinning, Roz gave the Hollander on screen an appraising look. “They won’t shut up about how adaptable Hollander is. Well, maybe he can adapt to my wing.”

Cliff rolled his eyes. “You can do all the ‘research’ you want, Roz. Doesn’t change the fact that Hollander’s going to be a Voyager next season.”

Roz shrugged. He picked up the remote and turned off the T.V. “We’ll see.”

May rolled into June and before Cliff knew it, it was time for the MHL Draft. A week ago, Brad Hammersmith - Smitty - had sent the world’s shittiest e-vite in the group chat, inviting any Raider still in Boston over to his apartment to watch “The Shane Fucking Hollander Draft.”

Cliff showed up with a bag of chips and a ridiculously large plate of wings. He knocked and Smitty threw open the door. “Oh, thank fuck,” he said, ushering Cliff inside. “Marly brought food,” he yelled down the hall; an announcement that was met with cheers.

Cliff walked into the living room, noting Victor St. Simon and Alexander Cadyn each sprawled in an armchair while Ryan Carmichael was fighting with Connor Connors on the couch for control of the remote. The coffee table in the center of the room was littered with three different kinds of beer, two distinct brands of hard seltzer, and exactly no food.

Lex’s entire face brightened when he saw the wings. “See, this is why they gave you the A, Marly. Look at you being like a responsible adult and shit and bringing food.”

“I can’t believe none of you idiots thought to bring something other than alcohol,” Cliff said, dropping the food on the table before cramming himself on the couch in between Carmy and Connors. “Now shut up, we have a draft to watch.”

Soon enough, it was time for the first pick. The Montreal general manager stood on the stage, the Voyagers logo flashing behind him. “With the first overall pick in the 2015 draft, the Montreal Voyagers are proud to select-” the entire room was quiet, “-Vincent Lemaire.” Cliff’s mouth dropped open as pandemonium erupted around him.

“No fucking way,” yelled Lex.

“Let’s goooooo,” Smitty screamed.

“What the fuck,” Vic said in a dazed voice, “Did that actually happen or am I hallucinating?”

Cliff watched as Vincent Lemaire hugged his family. It became clear that whoever was in charge of production for the MHL draft was in it for the drama because as Vincent Lemaire walked to the stage, the screen split, a second camera showing Shane Hollander where he sat with his family. 

On screen, the commentators started weighing in. “Wow, with the first pick in the draft, the Voyagers select defenseman Vincent Lemaire, the freshman from North Dakota.”

“An excellent player, the point leader among all NCAA defensemen this season, and certainly expected to be a top five draft pick this year. However, I think I speak for quite a few of us when I say I was expecting a different first pick from the Voyagers.”

“No shit,” murmured Cliff. On screen, he watched as Hollander dutifully clapped, the corners of his eyes tight and his mouth curved into something that looked closer to a grimace than a smile. Clearly the pick was as much a surprise to Hollander as it was to everyone else. Cliff couldn’t help but feel bad for the kid. Shane Hollander had likely spent the better part of the past year dreaming of and expecting to go first in the draft. And he couldn’t even crash out about the disappointment like a normal person because his face was being fucking broadcasted nationwide while it happened. 

Vincent Lemaire left the stage and then it was Boston’s turn. The Raider’s GM Keith Howard strode on stage and leaned into the microphone. 

“Everyone shut the fuck up, it’s happening,” Carmy said and the room quieted once more. Cliff leaned forward, eyes fixed on the screen.

“With the second pick in the 2015 draft, the Boston Raiders are thrilled to select Shane Hollander.”

The room devolved into chaos once more.

“This is insane,” Connor said. 

“I love being right,” Smitty said smugly, pulling out his phone, fingers flying across the keyboard. “You think Dubek is awake in Czechia? ‘Shane Hollander is never going to be a Boston Raider.’ How does it feel to be the most fucking wrong person in the world, Tommy.”

Cliff grabbed his own phone, opening his text thread with Roz.

Cliff watched as the three dots indicating Roz was typing appear, disappear, then appear again. Several minutes later, Roz’s text came through.

Cliff watched as Shane Hollander, now clad in a Boston Raiders jersey, shook hands with Howard and posed for pictures.

“And in a twist no one quite saw coming, Ottawa’s Shane Hollander will be a Boston Raider next season,” a commentator said.

“It's a terrific and astoundingly lucky get for the Raiders, who likely would have been playoff contenders this year without the string of injuries that plagued their roster,” one of the other commentators observed. “With captain Ilya Rozanov recovered from his upper body injury and the addition of Shane Hollander, the Raiders are going to be a force to be reckoned with this year.”

Cliff had to agree. He had a good feeling about this season. And no matter what, it was going to be better than last year. It was admittedly a low bar to clear, but Cliff was hard pressed to think of anything happening this season that would make it worse than the last. It would take something genuinely catastrophic.

“Gentleman,” Smitty said, rising to his feet and taping the side of his beer bottle with a fork, “a toast.” He raised his beer in the air, “Welcome to Boston, Shane fucking Hollander.”

If he were honest, Cliff kind of forgot about the Shane Hollander thing after that. He spent the weeks after the draft back home in Maine, getting bullied by his sisters and playing everything from street hockey to elaborate marco-polo games in the pool with his gaggle of nieces and nephews. By mid-July, he was back in Boston and the only thing on his mind was conditioning and the push to be in top form for the next season. August passed in a haze of sweat and sore muscles. By the time September arrived, Cliff started to feel it - the itch to get back on the ice, to finally be back playing the game he lived for.

It was a Wednesday in mid-September when Cliff was reminded that in a few short days, he would be sharing the ice with Shane Hollander. He was at the rink, meeting up with one of the trainers to make a few tweaks to his lifting routine, when he remembered the Raiders' potential rookies were probably there too, training for the Prospect's Challenge - a series of showcase games between teams in the Atlantic division. 

Curious, Cliff made his way to the ice. The prospects were in the middle of a scrimmage. Cliff’s gaze swept across the rink and snagged on a figure in a black hoodie slouched in a seat at the back of the first level, face half in shadow. Cliff grinned and made a beeline for his captain. He dropped down into the seat next to Roz with a laugh. Roz flicked his gaze over, acknowledging Cliff with a nod before he refocused on the ice. His eyes were sharp, intense as they watched the game below.

“Roz, what the fuck are you doing here? And why are you hiding back in basically the nosebleeds?” Cliff was surprised to see him. Most of the players on the ice wouldn't end up making the roster, so there wasn't much for a Captain to learn from watching them play. But as Cliff watched Roz, he saw that he was focused on one player - number 24, Shane Hollander.

Roz smiled but didn't turn to look at him. “Get lost on the way to your car, Marly?” He said, “Or has summer training gone so bad that LeClaire thinks you need to brush up on skills with the rookies?”

Cliff shoved Roz in the shoulder. “Fuck off, Roz. I was at the rink working with one of the trainers and figured I would come and scope out the prospects. You know, see if Hollander lives up to the hype.”

Roz nodded, his eyes still trained on the ice. Cliff followed his gaze again and sure enough, it was still fixed on Hollander with an almost unsettling intensity. It seemed Roz's curiosity about Hollander had gotten the better of him as well. It was interesting, Cliff hadn’t ever seen Roz so fixated on a rookie before.

Together, they watched as Hollander corralled the puck in the offensive zone before making a filthy pass, elevating the puck over a defenseman who had sprawled on the ice in front of net to find the stick of his teammate on the other side of the goal who proceeded to bury the puck in the net. 

Cliff whistled. “Roz, if you're not careful, that kid’s going to come for your spot on the first line.”

Roz finally looked away from the ice. “Hm, I think not. Can't be a first line center with a weak backhand.”

“Yeah okay, Roz,” Cliff said with a grin. “Whatever you need to tell yourself to sleep at night. Personally, I think it's going to be fun to watch Hollander skate circles around you at training camp next week.”

Roz smiled. “He can try.”

The first day of training camp dawned grey and with a torrential downpour of rain. Cliff tried not to take it as an omen.

He arrived at the rink over half an hour early with the express intention of intercepting the Raiders’ newest rookie before he got to the locker room. To no one's surprise, Shane Hollander had made the roster. Cliff knew next to nothing about the kid, but if he had to bet, he’d bet Hollander was the type to get to the rink obnoxiously early. Roz was the same way, first on the ice and last to leave. 

It was because he knew Roz would be alone in the locker room when Hollander got there that Cliff was - for the first time in his life - early to practice. It wasn't that he didn't trust Roz with rookies. Roz was a fucking fantastic captain. He didn’t tolerate hazing and treated their rookies with combination amusement, constructive coaching, and of course, consistent chirping. As much of an asshole as Roz was to other teams, in the Raider’s locker room, he made it clear that no one crossed the line into animosity or cruelty.

So yes, Cliff had never worried about how Roz would treat a rookie before, but that was before the rookie was Shane Hollander. Cliff had watched Roz be weird about Hollander one too many times to leave this meeting up to chance.

Sure enough, as Cliff rounded the corner to the locker room, he saw Shane Hollander standing in front of the doors. Cliff loved being right.

“Hey man,” he said walking up to Hollander.

Hollander started. “Oh, hey,” he said, turning to face Cliff, an uncertain smile on his face.

“You're early. Someone prank you by giving you the wrong time for practice?”

Hollander shrugged, his shoulders stiff. “Uh, no. I'm just chronically early. Always.”

“Alright, man, whatever works for you. But if anyone does mess with you, come and find me. I'm Cliff Marleau, one of the A's. But you can call me Marly, everyone does.”

“I'm Shane… Hollander.”

“Yeah, I know.” Cliff grinned. “Welcome the Raiders,” he said, extending his fist out for a bump.

Hollander blinked at him before carefully bumping his fist back, somehow making it seem like it was the first time he had ever fist bumped someone. 

Hollander’s smile finally relaxed into something more natural. “Some of the guys on my old team called me Hollzy.”

“Excellent, we'll be stealing that then. You settling into Boston okay, Hollzy?”

“It's been a lot, but good,” Shane said. “I like my apartment and I like being able to smell ocean air when I run along the water.”

“You Canadians and your love for communing with nature. You guys do anything else up there besides look at trees, contemplate lakes, and bird watch?”

Shane shrugged. “The occasional game of hockey."

Cliff laughed. “The ‘occasional game.’ Yeah, okay kid,” he said and rolled his eyes. “Now come on, I'll introduce you to Roz.”

“Rozanov is here?” Shane said, eyes widening as he took half a step backwards. 

“Yep,” Cliff said. And before Shane could get too in his head about the whole thing, Cliff threw open the locker room door and pushed him inside. “Roz, meet our new rookie.”

Cliff followed Shane’s stumbling step through the door. As expected, Roz was alone in the locker room. He was sitting shirtless on the bench in front of his locker, halfway to dressed for practice. His gaze snapped to Hollander.

Cliff watched Shane blink several times in rapid succession before he took a hesitant step forward. There was a moment of silence.

“Ilya Rozanov?” Shane finally said, “Shane Hollander.” And he extended his hand for an actual fucking handshake. 

After a moment, Roz rose from the bench, stepped forward and shook Hollander’s hand.

Shane smiled, small and relieved. “You’re an awesome player to watch. I- um, I was at your game against the Cens in your rookie year when you finally hit 50 goals. My parents took me. It was unreal. It was hard not to watch you and think it could be me someday." 

“Yes, it is always exciting to watch the best player in the league,” Roz said.

Cliff rolled his eyes.

“And it seems like you will get your wish, Hollander. You also will play your rookie season on the Raiders. But do you think you will also break 50 goals?”

There wasn’t even a moment of hesitation before Shane’s answer. “Yes,” he said, holding Roz’s gaze.

Cliff grinned. His joke about Hollander coming for Roz’s spot on the first line might not have been too far off the mark.

Roz tilted his head, his gaze appraising. “We’ll see.”

It took no time at all for Shane to find his footing in practice. He slotted into their drills like he had always been there, keeping pace with seasoned MHL players with seemingly no effort. Cliff watched as Shane scored on the shooting drill, his shot quick and strong, snapping the puck with surgical precision into the right upper corner of the goal.

Next to him, Smitty dug an elbow into his side. “Dude. The team is going to be fucking fire this season."

Towards the end of practice, Coach organized them into a series of three-on-three scrimmages, rotating players through different line combinations. 

Roz was in the face-off circle, Cliff on his left and Vic on his right. Across from them, Smitty and Carmy stood in the wings waiting for Coach to send in a center to match up against Roz. 

“Send in the rookie,” yelled Connors from where he leant against the boards.

“Yeah Coach, give us Hollzy,” Carmy said, turning a pleading gaze towards LeClaire.

LeClaire paused. “Fine, Hollander. Go,” he said and the watching Raiders cheered.

Cliff watched Shane skate forward and meet Roz at the face-off dot. They both bent forward.

“Shane Hollander,” said Roz, his eyes locked on Shane. “Will you disappoint them?”

Shane looked up. “Nope,” he said. The puck dropped and Shane won the face-off clean snap, sending the puck to Smitty. 

Cliff skated forward, angling for the puck, but before he got there, Smitty passed to Carmy. Carmy only had the puck for a moment before he flicked it backwards and Hollzy was right there, in the open lane in front of the net. He made his shot and it sailed into the net over the glove of their goaltender.

“Now that’s what I’m fucking talking about,” Smitty yelled as he crashed into Hollzy in celebration behind the goal.

Carmy met them there, laughing as he patted Shane’s helmet. “A real beauty, Hollzy.”

Shane grinned, his cheeks flushed.

Roz skated over to Cliff; his gaze on the celebrating trio.

“A little slow on the face-off dot, Roz?”

“Fuck off.”

Cliff grinned. “Shoulder still not 100%? Get distracted? Or maybe you’re losing your edge in your old age.”

“I’m 24,” Roz said.

“Practically ancient,” Cliff said with a shake of his head.

“You are 25.”

“Yeah, and he’s 18,” Cliff said, nodding his head towards Shane. “What are you going to do if he actually breaks your rookie year scoring record? Kiss him or kill him?”

“He will not break my record.” Roz said.

“Wouldn’t be so sure, Roz.”

The first month of the season passed in a flash. Hollzy fit into the Raiders’ lineup like he was born to be there. He scored 18 minutes into his first MHL game and didn’t stop. He quickly secured his spot as the second line center, most often with Carmy and Smitty on his wings. The combination of a first line centered by Roz and a second by Hollzy was a lethal one-two punch, one most opposing teams were not prepared for. After all, coming into the season, no one knew exactly how good Hollander was going to be. And he was good. The Raiders won and then won some more. And it didn’t take long for Hollander to start competing with Rozanov as their team's point leader.

So, hockey was good. No, hockey was great. It was what was happening off of the ice that was giving Cliff headaches.

Shane didn’t just fit in the lineup; he fit with the team. He spent plane rides sitting with Vic, the two of them speaking in rapid French. He’d been effectively adopted by his wingers Smitty and Carmy who made it their mission to drag their reluctant center along to team outings at various bars and clubs after wins. He and Hanny - Elias Johannson, their goalie - did yoga together after practice. Their polite, fastidious, and hockey-obsessed rookie quickly endeared himself to the entire team - to everyone except Roz.

It took a while for Cliff to notice that Roz barely interacted with Shane. It was subtle, but once Cliff noticed how hard Roz worked to avoid Hollzy, it was hard to miss. During practice, Roz handed out advice and well-meaning teasing to all the younger players except Shane. In the locker room, Roz laughed with and chirped everyone - everyone but Shane. On the bench during games, Roz always put at least two other players between him and Hollzy. In bars when the team was out celebrating a win, if Shane joined the conversation of a group of players that Roz was also part of, it was barely a minute before Roz was detaching himself from the group and making his way to the bar or dance floor - anywhere where Hollander wasn’t. 

Cliff had no idea what to make of it. Why couldn’t Roz just be fucking normal about Shane Hollander? And why was Cliff the only one who had noticed? Because he was fairly sure he was the only one who had noticed.

For a while, Cliff thought he wouldn’t have to deal with it. Because whatever weirdness was going on between Roz and Hollzy, it didn’t seem to be affecting the team. They were playing beautiful hockey and off the ice, Shane seemed happy - content with his place in the team. 

Cliff wondered if Shane even realized Roz was effectively pretending he didn’t exist. He kept wondering right up until a 4-3 win against Toronto in mid-November where Shane scored a beautiful goal in overtime to win them the game. In the locker room afterwards, Shane was showered with praise and hair ruffles that he tried to dodge while laughing, his eyes bright. Cliff watched as Shane eventually turned to find Roz, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. Roz grabbed his towel and walked right past Shane without even looking at him. Cliff watched Shane’s gaze dim and his smile slip, his brows furrowing with a mix of confusion and hurt as he watched Roz walk away from him. The expression was only on Shane’s face for a second before Vic was bumping his shoulder and saying something to him in French. Shane quickly pasted a smile back on his face and answered Vic, but Cliff saw the way his gaze kept flickering back towards Roz’s retreating back.

So clearly Cliff was not the only person who had noticed Roz avoiding Shane. Shane also knew. And it obviously made him miserable enough to look like a kicked puppy when Roz did it. Fuck. Cliff looked down at the A on his jersey and cursed again. Because he was going to be the one who had to try and fix this, wasn’t he? Cliff could feel the telltale tightening behind his eyes that signaled an incoming headache. Why couldn’t anything be fucking simple on this team?

Chapter 2: Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

This chapter contains hockey written by the worlds most casual hockey fan (#gopens). Please excuse any and all mistakes - they were made in the name of the greater good (writing gay fanfic)

Cliff tried talking to Roz about it exactly once. They were at Cliff’s apartment, playing video games. As they waited for the next match to load, Cliff, in his most casual voice, asked, “So, Shane Hollander…” 

Silence. 

Cliff risked it, glanced over at Roz, and almost dropped his controller. Roz was staring at him, his gaze cold and flat. It was fucking terrifying. If looks could kill, Cliff would be dead and buried.

“Yes?” Roz finally said. “What about Hollander?”

“Never mind,” Cliff said, looking back at the TV. Christ, Cliff was never doing that again. And really, he shouldn’t have asked in the first place. They were professional hockey players. Cliff wasn’t sure they were capable of having an honest conversation about Roz’s feelings. Clearly, Cliff would have to get creative with his problem solving.

Cliff spent a week contemplating the Shane Hollander Problem before throwing in the metaphorical towel and calling his oldest sister, Sara. Sara was the most competent and emotionally intelligent person Cliff knew. Sara called it “eldest daughter syndrome.” Cliff didn’t know what that meant, but he called her at least twice a month for advice and she always came through for him. Cliff definitely could not have handled the Ryan Carmichael accidental border crossing/magic mushroom-laced banana bread incident from last year without her help.

“How’s my favorite little brother?” Sara asked.

“I’m your only brother,” Cliff said.

They spent a few minutes catching up, Sara filling him in on the latest updates from her family - her wife Maggie’s new promotion and their kids Carter and Ellie’s latest extracurricular and scholastic exploits.

“So,” Sara said, “Did you just call to chat, or do you have a dumb hockey crisis that needs solving?”

“Hey,” Cliff said, “I love talking with you.” A beat of silence. “But let's say, hypothetically, there’s this situation.”

Sara laughed. “Okay, lay it on me.”

“Alright, so let’s say your coworker who is also kind of your boss has some sort of weird grudge against the new hire - the new hire who everyone else loves and who is a great fit for the office. And said new hire has noticed this weird grudge and you’re worried about how it's going to affect team- I mean office morale.” Cliff paused, “Hypothetically.”

“Cliff, you know I keep up with Raiders news, right? That I know all your teammates? That I’ve met most of them - including your best friend Ilya Rozanov - many times?”

“Yes?” Cliff said. 

“So why exactly are we talking in hypotheticals,” Sara said, amused, “Instead of you telling me Roz has some sort of problem with Shane Hollander.”

“Well, excuse me for trying to protect my teammates’ privacy,” Cliff said.

“Oh, we care about privacy now? The number of secrets you’ve told me about Raiders players would be enough to fuel hockey gossip columns for the next century.”

“Secrets you pinky swore you were going to take to your grave.”

“A promise is a promise,” Sara said with a laugh. “Now, what’s going on between Roz and Hollander?”

Cliff groaned. “I don’t know, that’s the problem! Roz has been weird about him since the beginning and lately, he’s resorted to straight up ignoring him. And Shane just looks at him with these big, sad eyes. I’m honestly surprised the rest of the team hasn’t picked up on it. But as soon as they do, it’s going to make for an awkward locker room.”

“And if Hollander keeps playing the way he has been, he’s not going anywhere anytime soon,” Sara mused. “He’s having quite the rookie season so far - on track to break a few records, including some of Roz’s.”

“Exactly. If the front office has their way, Roz and Hollzy are going to retire as Raiders. And I, for one, refuse to put up with this bullshit for the next however many years. I am going to fix this or die trying,” Cliff declared.

“Okay drama queen, calm down. Have you tried asking Roz what’s wrong?”

“Yeah, and I got nowhere. That man has his feelings locked down tighter than Fort Knox. Although to be fair, the last time Roz told me something personal, it was only after we had finished most of an entire bottle of vodka between us. Hey,” Cliff said, perking up. “There’s an idea, should I get Roz drunk?”

“Should you get your best friend drunk for the express purpose of making him reveal something he doesn’t want to tell you when he’s sober?” Sara asked.

“Well, when you put it that way, it sounds like a bad idea,” Cliff said.

“Let’s call that Plan Z, only to be deployed if Plans A through Y fail.”

Cliff scrubbed a hand over his face. “Well then help me think of a Plan A! Come on, what do you do when Carter and Ellie are fighting?”

Sara laughed. “Are you comparing your grown MHL teammates to my six and eight-year-old kids?”

“You’re right. I’m doing Hollzy a disservice. Roz however…” 

“Well,” Sara said, clearly humoring him, “Whenever the kids have a bad fight, after some time apart to cool off, we make them do something together. It doesn’t really matter what - a chore, putting together a Lego set, playing a board game - by the end, they usually remember that they actually like each other.” 

Cliff made a considering noise. “Interesting, forced proximity.”

“Cliff, I want to emphasize that this is conflict resolution for elementary schoolers,” Sara said.

And Cliff heard what she was saying, but he thought this might actually work. Roz had managed to avoid dealing with his Hollander issue because he never spent longer than a few minutes in Shane’s presence. But maybe if they were forced together, Roz would have to sort out his shit.

“Well, you know what they say, desperate times, desperate measures and all that. Thanks, Sara. Coming in clutch, as always.”

“I should start charging for my advice,” Sara said. “You’re going to tell me how it goes, right? I’m invested now.”

“Obviously,” Cliff said. “Give my love to Maggie and the kids.”

“Bye, Cliff.” 

Cliff hung up. He had a tentative plan. Now all he had to do was figure out how to get Roz and Hollzy in the same place for an extended period of time, preferably with no easy escape route. Which, when Cliff thought about it that way, did give off some serial killer vibes. Whatever, he wasn’t putting them in a Saw trap, just forcing them to have a conversation. They could deal. Honestly, the things Cliff did for this team. 

It was a few weeks later when the opportunity Cliff had been waiting for fell into his lap. Jess, the Raider’s Team Services Director, was walking through the logistics of their upcoming California trip: Anaheim to L.A. to San Francisco.

“And I’ve got some bad news for you boys, due to a last minute schedule swap of the L.A. and San Francisco game days that happened right after the season’s schedule was finalized, we were later than usual when making hotel reservations and-” 

Groans had already broken out in the locker room, the team sensing where this was headed.

“And unfortunately,” Jess forged on, “You’ll be doubling up for this road trip.”

“Dibs on rooming with anyone except Tommy,” said Smitty. “If I have to try and sleep through his snoring, I will not be responsible for my actions.” 

Tommy threw a roll of tape at Smitty who ducked out the way, laughing. “Fuck you, Smit. Like I would want to spend the entire road trip forced to listen to the shitty EDM playlists you feel compelled to play 24/7.” 

As the room devolved into chirps, Cliff sidled up to Jess with his most charming smile. “Jess, what exactly would it cost me to make a roommate request?”

Jess smiled at him. “Who do you want to room with?”

“Oh, it's not a request for me,” Cliff said.

After a few minutes of haggling that ended with Cliff promising to use his "friend of a friend" connection to secure VIP Celtics tickets for Jess and her nephews, Jess had laughed and agreed to Cliff’s request. Shaking her head but still smiling, she crossed out a few names on her clipboard, moving players around until at the bottom of the list she penned in the last roommate pairing: Rozanov and Hollander.

Look, Cliff was just a guy trying to get through the hockey season without another catastrophe, and if that meant he had to do some light meddling, so be it. Sure, there was a 50% chance Roz and Hollzy would try and kill each other after seven days of sharing a room, but Cliff figured there was also a 50% chance they would figure their shit out. And Cliff had taken stupider risks with worse odds. 

Cliff was sitting next to Roz on the bus to the Anaheim hotel when the roommate pairs were announced. 

“Marleau and St. Simon,” Jess said. “Rozanov and Hollander. Carmichael and Hammersmith.” 

Jess continued to list roommates, but Cliff was no longer listening. Next to him, he'd felt Roz stiffen. Cliff watched as Roz’s eyes widened before flicking over to where Hollzy sat a few rows ahead with Vic. Shane, who had also stilled in his seat at the announcement. Cliff thought he saw a brief moment of panic in Roz’s gaze before he masked the expression and looked away.

“You good, man?” Cliff asked.

Roz huffed out a breath. “Yes, I’m fine, Marly. But I cannot believe I have room with Hollander, the most boring teenager I have ever met. He probably is in bed by 9 P.M. He probably listens to hockey podcasts to fall asleep. He probably unpacks entire suitcase to put in the dresser even if we are only in the hotel for two days.”

Cliff laughed, “Thought a lot about rooming with Hollzy have you, Roz?” 

There was a pause and Roz gave Cliff a quick assessing look. Cliff raised an eyebrow and Roz rolled his eyes. “Only because of how boring it will be. It will probably kill me, Marly,” he said.

“I think you’ll live,” Cliff said. “And who knows, a good habit or two of Hollander’s might rub off on you.” 

They played in Anaheim and L.A. and came away with one win and one tough overtime loss, but no discernible change in Roz and Hollzy’s dynamic. Despite rooming together, Roz seemed just as determined to avoid Shane and Shane had started to take his cue from Roz and was ignoring him back. Cliff would have been worried his plan was doomed to fail if it weren’t for the rising tension that seemed to wind tighter in Roz and Hollzy with each passing day they spent in icy silence.

On flights and on buses, Cliff watched Roz fiddle with his cross, tap his fingers against his phone, and run restless hands through his hair. In the locker room, Roz was louder than usual, his smile a little too sharp. And on the ice, his play took on a vicious, physical edge that Roz typically reserved for important games - playoffs or division rivals - not a random Wednesday game against L.A.

Cliff watched Hollzy order and re-order his gear in various locker rooms until everything was perfectly spaced and at right angles. During training and before games, Shane wore his headphones for longer and longer, head down as he blocked out the distracting noise of the team. And in the game against L.A., all that inward focus crystalized into cutting speed and cool precision.

By the time the team arrived in San Francisco for their last game of the trip, Cliff was optimistic that Roz and Hollzy were at their breaking point. 

The game against the Mission was a mess from the start. San Francisco had neither forgiven nor forgotten their 2014 Stanley Cup final loss to the Raiders and came to the game with something to prove. By the end of the second, there had been at least three fights, and it seemed like half of each team had spent at least a few minutes in the penalty box. The Raiders were down 1-3, the Mission managing to keep both Roz and Hollzy off the scoreboard through two periods, an impressive and rare occurrence these days. 

During the intermission between the second and the third, after Roz had finished giving his speech where the central premise was “Fuck San Fransisco” - clear, straightforward, actionable - Cliff watched Roz make his way over to LeClaire. Roz started talking, his voice pitched too low for Cliff to hear what was being said. Coach shook his head and replied. Roz frowned and spoke again, his hands making a sharp, emphatic gesture. 

They filed back out to the bench for the beginning of the third. Coach called out the starting lines. “Connors and Dubek. Marleau, Rozanov-” He paused, “Hollander.”

Cliff blinked, nonplussed as he swung over the boards and onto the ice. Now this was a twist. But as Cliff turned over the idea in his mind, he remembered his conversation with Roz from months ago, the two of them joking about Hollander playing on Roz’s wing and vice versa. Now that he was thinking about it, he was surprised Coach hadn’t tried it sooner.

Hollzy, not as quick to overcome his shock, whipped around to face LeClaire, his eyes wide. “Uh, Coach-” he started.

LeClaire crossed his arms with a huff. “Hollander, you’ve played right wing before?”

“Yeah, a bit in juniors, mostly in tournaments with one too many centers, but-” Shane said.

“Well now you get to do it in the MHL. On the ice, Hollander,” LeClaire said.

Shane shut his mouth with an audible click. Cliff watched him swallow and settle, his expression smoothing over as he climbed over the boards to join him and Roz on the ice. Roz watched him, his eyes dark. 

As they arranged themselves at center ice, Roz at the faceoff dot, Cliff to his left and Shane to his right, Cliff glanced over and caught Hollzy’s eye. He gave him a smile and an encouraging nod. Shane, eyebrows drawn and face serious, nodded back before refocusing on Roz and the ice in front of him, his gaze analytical and anticipatory. Cliff’s smile widened.  

It took less than two minutes for them to score. Hollzy won a battle for the puck against the wall behind San Francisco's goal and without hesitation or a backwards glance, he flicked the puck behind him. Like metal snapping to a magnet, the puck found Roz’s stick where he was positioned in front of goal, and he sent it flying into the top corner of the net with a neat wrist shot. 

The goal horn sounded and Cliff watched Roz skate into Hollzy, nearly knocking him off balance. Cliff skated over to meet them. “That’s what I’m fucking talking about,” Roz shouted as he hooked an arm around Hollzy’s neck, pulling him close. 

Ten minutes later they did it again to tie the game, 3-3. This time, it was Roz who won the puck in the Raider’s zone before sending it flying down the ice to where Hollzy was already skating towards San Francisco’s goal, a Mission defenseman right on his heels. For a moment, Cliff thought Shane wouldn’t get there in time, but with a last minute spurt of speed he caught the puck on his tape. A quick cut and a spin to the side and he was past the defenseman. He lifted his stick and his slapshot sent the puck between the goalie’s pads for a lovely five-hole goal. 

As they skated back towards the bench, Roz nudged Hollzy. “Where is my thank you, Hollander? Is easy see, ‘Thank you Rozanov for beautiful, perfect assist.’ I thanked you-”

“Actually, you didn’t,” Hollzy said.

Roz barreled on, “So it is the least you could do. After all, is not every day you get to play on a line with the best center in the league.” 

“Fuck off, Rozanov,” Hollzy said shoving Roz away and skating to the opposite end of the bench from where Roz usually sat before climbing over the boards. 

“See you on the ice soon, Hollander,” Roz called, with a little wave of his fingers.

Hollzy glared back at him, expression flinty. He looked a little like he was contemplating strangling Roz, which Cliff thought was a reasonable reaction. Roz had apparently decided to break his habit of ignoring Shane to try and annoy him into an early grave.

“Dude, one more chirp and Hollzy is going to kill you,” Cliff said as he settled next to Roz on the bench. “Homicide at center ice.” 

“No, he won’t,” Roz said. “He wants to win too much.” 

In the final minutes of the third, a hooking penalty by one of the Mission’s defenders put the Raiders on the power play. There wasn’t even a question of Hollzy moving up to the first power play unit with Roz. 40 seconds into the 5-on-4, Cliff watched Roz and Hollzy race towards the San Francisco goal. There was chemistry and then there was whatever this was; Roz and Hollzy playing like they knew exactly where the other was going to be without having to think twice. It was a little sickening to watch, and Cliff was suddenly very glad he played for Boston.

Roz passed the puck to Hollzy who slipped through the Mission’s defense before passing back to Roz who one-timed it straight into the goal, putting the Raiders in the lead 4-3 with minutes left in the game. Cliff surged to his feet with the rest of the bench as it erupted into cheers. 

Hollzy climbed over the boards and settled onto the bench. Roz skated down the line of the bench for his fly-by celebration before climbing over and sitting down right next to Hollander. 

“Thank you, Hollander,” Roz said with a smirk, “For beautiful, perfect assist.”

Hollander, his cheeks red and lips parted as he worked to finish catching his breath, scowled. “Rozanov, sincerely, from the bottom of my heart, go fuck yourself.” 

When the game ended a few minutes later, the score was still 4-3 for the Raiders. The mood in the locker room after was boisterous. And while the idea of going out to a club to celebrate was shot down by a few of the older players given their early morning flight home the next day, they did all agree to meet later at the hotel bar for drinks.

Unsurprisingly, both Roz and Hollzy were tapped for media. Shane was quiet, the outlier in the high-spirited locker room. While the rest of the team laughed and joked, Shane sat in front of his locker, brows drawn together and frustration lingering in the tight press of his lips. Cliff watched as the press entered the room and several microphones and phones were shoved in Shane’s face. Shane’s expression smoothed over into media-trained blankness.

After a few questions about the first two periods of the game, one reporter finally asked, “Shane, you and Rozanov played on a line for the first time tonight and combined for three goals and six points. Is that chemistry something you've been working on?”

Shane glanced over to where Roz was giving his own post-game interview before focusing back on the cameras in front of him. “Um, not really,” He said, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “I mean, I haven’t played a lot as wing - Rozanov’s or otherwise.” 

The reporter laughed. “Well, something tells me that might change after tonight.”

The team was on round three or maybe four of drinks at the bar and making increasingly ridiculous toasts.

“To Carmy, for deleting Spotify off of Smitty’s phone and saving us from the worst pre-game playlist of all time,” Vic said, raising his glass.

“Fuck off,” said Smitty, flipping him the finger. “More like here’s to Roz, for managing to stay out of the box for an entire game. That’s what we call character growth.”

“To Hollander,” Roz said, “For playing on my wing so well that he will be lucky if Coach lets him play center again this season.” Roz tipped his glass at Shane, holding his gaze as he drank. It wasn’t the first time Roz had tried to get a reaction from Hollzy since they had all squished themselves into several booths in the hotel bar, each little comment of his carrying a sharper edge than the one before it. And Shane had sat quietly through them all, perched at the edge of the booth with hands wrapped around a beer that Cliff had yet to see him take a sip of. 

But with this last barb, Shane had apparently reached his limit. He stood. Conversation stopped, the team glancing at him.

“Yo, Hollzy, you good?” asked Carmy.

Shane jerked his head in half a nod. “Uh, yeah. I just- um, I’m going to use the bathroom,” he said, his words tumbling over each other. He turned on his heel and started walking in exactly the opposite direction of the restroom towards the front door. 

Roz watched him go. A minute later, he was pushing himself out of the booth and despite the protests of the rest of the team, following Hollzy out the door.

Cliff knocked back the rest of his drink and got up to follow Roz. The whole night had been like watching a car crash in slow motion and Cliff worried that if he didn’t intervene, there would be fatalities. And Cliff felt slightly guilty. There was an argument to be made that this situation was a little bit Cliff’s fault. He figured he owed it to Roz and Hollzy to try and keep things from devolving further if he could.

“Hollander,” Roz called out. But Hollzy didn’t stop or turn, just kept walking down the corridor.

“Hollander, wait,” Roz said, his pace quickening as moved to close the gap between them.

“Shane,” Roz said as he finally caught up to Hollzy and grabbed his arm.

Shane spun around to face Roz and wrenched his arm out of his grip. “Do not fucking call me that,” he said. His brows were drawn, his mouth tight with anger

Roz raised placating hands. “Sorry, sorry.” He paused, “You’re mad about joke? About playing wing?”

“Fuck off, Rozanov. As if I wouldn’t play any position on this fucking team if it were what we needed to win.” Shane ran a frustrated hand through his hair.

Roz raised his brows. “Okay, what is wrong then?”

“Why do you care? Why are you even here? You haven’t spoken more than three words together to me this entire season, but now that you’ve realized I can help you score goals, I’m suddenly worthy of your attention?” Shane glared and took an angry step forward into Roz’s space. “It’s bullshit.” Their gazes locked and held.

“Hollander-” Roz started.

“Save it, Rozanov,” Shane said, cutting him off. “Go back to the bar, finish getting drunk, and tomorrow we’ll pretend like this night, this conversation didn’t happen. You can go right back to ignoring me. You’re good at that.” Shane turned and pushed open a nearby door to a stairwell, leaving Roz standing in the hallway watching him leave.

As the door banged shut behind Shane, Roz pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and let out a quiet, “Fuck.”

“Dude,” Cliff said and Roz jumped, turning around to face him.

“Fuck, Marly.” Roz narrowed his eyes. “How long have you been there?”

“Long enough,” Cliff said. “You know that if you don’t go after him and at least try to explain, you’ll be even more of an asshole than Hollzy already thinks you are?”

“Marly, you are meddling,” Roz said.

“Me? Meddling?” Cliff said innocently. “I would never.”

Roz gave him a pointed look before his gaze flicked over to the door Shane had disappeared through. “I am not so sure he wants to listen right now.”

“Apologize anyways. Get down on your knees if you have to.” Roz made a funny choking sound that Cliff ignored. He clapped Roz on the shoulder. “Do it for team unity if nothing else. It doesn't bode well for the rest of the season if our two leading scorers can't make nice.”

“Marly,” Roz said, staring at Cliff like he was an idiot. “For the good of the team, you want me to get on my knees for Shane Hollander.” 

Cliff did not understand what Roz's hangup was, but what else was new. “Roz,” he said, “We have a Stanley Cup to win.” 

Roz stared at him, incredulous. “Shut your fucking face, Marly,” he finally said, turning and opening the door Shane had left through.

“Apologize!” Cliff called out after him. “Grovel! Whatever it takes to make him agree to play to wing again!”

Roz flipped Cliff off as the door banged shut behind him.

Why did everyone always tell Cliff to fuck off when he gave advice? Cliff gave great advice. Well, Cliff gave the best advice out of anyone on the team. It was admittedly a low bar to clear when your teammates shared a single brain cell. But beggars (Roz) could not be choosers and Cliff thought he'd made some compelling points as to why Roz should smooth things over with Hollzy. Roz might even listen.

Cliff returned to the bar and supervised rounds five and six before their approaching midnight curfew forced the remaining Raiders out of the bar and back into the hotel. As Cliff shepherded a stumbling St. Simon down the 11th floor hallway to their room, he paused outside of Roz and Hollzy’s door which was diagonal from theirs. It was quiet, almost too quiet. Well, quiet was better than yelling. Probably. 

A few hours later, a thud in the hallway woke Cliff up from a dead sleep. Rubbing his eyes, Cliff looked at the clock on the bedside table which read 2:48 A.M. There was another noise from the hallway followed by the murmur of voices, one hushed and one louder. Familiar voices. Cliff glanced at the other bed, the noise hadn’t woken Vic. Quietly, Cliff slipped out of bed and into the corridor. 

Propped against the opposite wall was Roz. Hollzy was in front of him, one hand on Roz’s shoulder bracing him against the wall and the other hand digging in Roz’s front pants pocket. They were also both drenched, clothing soaked through to the skin, and smelled strongly like chlorine. Water dripped from the ends of Roz’s slicked-back curls and had turned Shane’s white t-shirt translucent.

“Rozanov, where the fuck did you put the key card,” Hollzy hissed.

“Hmm, maybe other pocket,” Roz said, his accent more pronounced and words slurring slightly into each other. Cliff recognized the cadence.

“Roz,” Cliff said with barely suppressed glee, “Why are you drunk in a hotel hallway at 3 A.M. And Hollzy, why are you both wet?”

Shane spun around to face him, eyes widening. But with Hollzy no longer holding him against the wall, Roz tilted sideways.

“Shit,” Shane said, grabbing onto Roz to keep him from falling over.

“Hollander pushed me into the pool,” Roz said.

“I absolutely did not,” Shane said, glaring at Roz. “You have to stop telling people that.” Shane looked back at Cliff. “I didn’t push him into the pool.”

“That sounds a lot like something someone who pushed Roz into a pool would say,” Cliff pointed out. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Shane said.

“Hollzy, be straight with me, did you break curfew, get your captain drunk, and then try to drown him in the hotel pool? Rookies really think they can get away with anything these days, don’t they,” Cliff said, shaking his head and trying to sound stern. He wasn’t sure he was succeeding. After all, Cliff wasn’t going to hold a minor attempt at manslaughter against Hollzy; Roz deserved it. 

“I could have been in Montreal,” Shane said, gazing upwards like he was hoping for an act of divine intervention to get him out of this situation. “Dry. Asleep at a normal time after playing a normal hockey game with normal teammates.”

“Gross,” Cliff said, wrinkling his nose; his knee jerk reaction to any mention of Montreal.

“Over my dead fucking body” said Roz and Shane glanced at him, startled. 

Cliff fought down a laugh. “Do you need a hand with him, Hollzy?”

“No,” Roz answered for him, still leaning most of his weight on Shane, arm draped over his shoulders. “Go away, Marly.”

Shane rolled his eyes. “Let me just-” He slipped the hand that wasn’t wrapped around Roz’s waist into Roz’s other pants pocket.

“Hollander,” Roz drawled, “Just because I am drunk does not give you excuse to take advantage of me.”

Shane flushed red and elbowed Roz in the side, hard. Roz let out a little oof, but didn’t move an inch. His eyes were half-lidded, mouth curved in an almost smile as he watched Shane.

“Shut up,” Shane said. “You’re such an asshole.” After a moment of searching, Shane made a triumphant sound and fished out the key card from Roz’s pocket. Dragging Roz forward a few steps, Shane managed to slide the card into the lock and open the door to their hotel room one-handed.

Looking back over his shoulder, Shane met Cliff’s eyes. “This,” he said gesturing between the three of them, “Never happened. We are all going to go to sleep and never mention anything about this night ever again.”

“Boring,” Roz said as Shane pulled him through the doorway.

“Goodnight,” Cliff said, “Make sure Roz sleeps on his side! And maybe force him to drink a glass of water if you think you can refrain from dumping it over his head, Hollzy.”

“Go the fuck back to sleep, Marly,” Shane said and closed the door in his face. 

The next morning found Cliff sliding into the seat next to a hungover Roz on the team bus to the airport. Roz was wearing sunglasses and drinking from an excessively large to-go cup of coffee. 

“Rough morning?” Cliff asked.

“I do not know what you’re talking about,” Roz said.

“I can’t even remember the last time you were hungover,” Cliff said, delighted.

“I am not hungover,” Roz lied. “Russians do not get this.”

“So,” Cliff said, “You gonna tell me what really went down between you and Hollzy last night?”

Roz took a sip of his coffee. “No.” 

“You don’t understand, Roz. I need to know,” Cliff pleaded. “Plus, you owe me.” 

“For what?” Roz asked.

“Toronto,” Cliff said. “And Philadelphia.” Two other nights they had promised to never speak about again.

Roz huffed out a laugh. “Fine. Hollander yelled. A lot. And then pushed me into pool. Now we are friends. The end.”

“And you getting drunk, was that before, after, or during the yelling?”

“Not important,” Roz said, waving a hand.

“So, you and Hollzy are friends, as simple as that?” Cliff asked skeptically. After all, Shane had spent the morning, first at breakfast and then as they waited for and boarded the bus, pointedly ignoring both Cliff and Roz.

“Yes.”

“Does Hollzy know that? Because I’m pretty sure the kid still kind of hates your guts - and maybe mine by association.” 

“I know,” Roz said, sounding inexplicably fond. “But it will not be that way for long.”

As they boarded the plane, Shane settled into his traditional window seat towards the front of the plane. Boarding the plane behind Roz, Cliff watched as St. Simon made to slip into his usual seat next to Shane only to instead be shoved forward by Roz. 

“Keep walking,” Roz said as he swung himself into the seat next to Hollzy.

“What the fuck? Roz, seriously?” Vic exclaimed.

Cliff snorted. “You heard the captain,” he said, nudging Vic forward.

Shane slanted Roz a withering look as he settled into the seat. “No,” he said.

“Yes,” Roz said with a grin.

Shane narrowed his eyes before putting in his AirPods and turning away from Roz to look out the window.

Cliff watched as Roz plucked one of the headphones out of Shane’s ear and put it in his own. “What are we listening to, Hollander?”

Shane’s head whipped around. “What the fuck? Give that back,” he said, reaching over to try and reclaim the AirPod.

Roz laughed, dodging Shane’s hand. He paused for a moment, listening. “Hollander, is this an audiobook about 1980 Winter Olympics? What, you need to think about hockey every day or you die? Is Canadian thing?”

“Shut up,” Shane said, giving up trying to reclaim his headphone and slumping back in his seat. “Maybe I’m really finding joy in stories where Russia suffers national humiliation right now. I wonder why.” 

“Fine, we listen to boring hockey audiobook for one hour, but then I choose what we watch for the rest of the flight,” Roz said. 

Whatever had happened in San Francisco, it was as if a switch flipped in Roz. Back in Boston, Cliff watched Roz take all the energy he had used to avoid Shane and channel it into pestering Shane into being his friend. Shockingly, it seemed to work. Instead of being put off by Roz’s newly unshakeable - and often annoying - presence in his life, Hollzy seemed reluctantly charmed by it, by him. Roz stole the seat next to Shane at team meals, claimed the treadmill next to him in the gym, and orbited Shane like a particularly loud star on the ice at practices. Cliff watched as Shane's glares turned into fond eye rolls and his frowns into warm smiles. Cliff hadn't realized how guarded Hollzy was until he started to relax in Roz's, and consequently, the team's presence. 

As Hollzy played more and more often on Roz’s wing, he also began claiming the spot to the right of Roz on the bench during games, their heads tipped together as they talked strategy and bickered over plays. During practice, Shane started allowing himself to have something resembling fun as he and Roz competed to one up each other during drills and in scrimmages, all the while honing their eerie synchronicity on the ice. After games, Hollzy let himself be dragged with increasing frequency to bars and clubs where more often than not, he wound up sprawled in a booth next to Roz, drinking ginger ale out of whatever ridiculous piece of glassware Roz had managed to procure from the bar and laughing as Roz talked.

Cliff watched it unfold with satisfaction. His plan had fucking worked. Honestly, he should have meddled earlier. It was good to know that when he retired from hockey, he had a bright future in conflict mediation.

So for one blissful month, everything in Cliff’s life was perfect. Hollzy and Roz had made peace. The team was gelling and playing some amazing hockey. Cliff finally found the perfect conditioner to round out his increasingly convoluted haircare routine. He even went on three amazing dates with a woman extremely out of his league. Allison was a lawyer, beautiful, funny, and a little bit mean, and Cliff thought he had good odds of convincing her to say yes to a fourth date. So of course, because Cliff was apparently cursed, this was when things got weird again. And obviously, it was because of Roz and Hollzy.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you so much to everyone has read, left kudos, or commented on my silly fic! It means the world to me <3

Chapter 3: Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

It started with a video. Smitty dropped the link in the group chat accompanied by crying emoji and the crying laughing emoji. Intrigued, Cliff clicked on the link.

It was a social media video from the Raiders Instagram. On screen, Hollzy dressed in a Raiders T-shirt and backward baseball cap sat stiffly in a director’s chair. Text appeared on the screen as cheerful music played: Get to know the Rookie featuring Shane Hollander. 

“Alright, Shane,” Katie, one of the PR staff said off screen. “We have a mix of questions, some from fans and some from the social media team. Ready?”

On screen, Shane smiled and shrugged. “As ready as I’ll ever be, I guess.”

“We’ll start off easy. What’s your hometown?”

Before Shane could answer, another voice off-screen spoke. “Ottawa, Ontario, Canada,” said the unmistakable Russian-accented voice of their captain. The camera swung around to fix on Roz who grinned. “This is very obvious question, like anyone who meets Hollander does not know he is painfully Canadian.”

The camera panned back to Hollzy who leant forward, eyes narrowed. “Why is he here?” He asked the PR staff before looking back to Roz. “Why are you here?”

“What? Team captain can’t be at his own rink?” Roz said.

“On our day off? At the exact same time I’m filming this?”

“Coincidence,” Roz said serenely.

“Shane, do you want us to kick him out?” Katie asked.

Shane rolled his eyes before settling back in his chair. “You can try.”

“I will be quiet,” Roz promised.

“You won’t,” said Shane, but he was smiling.

“Aright, next question then. What’s your favorite guilty pleasure treat?”

Shane drummed his fingers against his thigh. “I don’t really-” he paused, a small wrinkle between his brows. “I guess ginger ale? More sugar than I should probably be drinking,” he said with a shrug.

“Hollander,” said Roz. “Drinking sad Canadian excuse for soda is not a guilty pleasure. Snickers bar is your guilty pleasure.”

“This is not you being quiet,” Shane huffed. 

“Answer questions correctly and I will be.”

“Oh,” Shane said with a raise of his eyebrows, “You think you can do better?”

“Yes,” said Roz.

The video cut to black for several seconds with elevator music playing cheerfully in the background. When it resumed, Roz was sitting in his own director’s chair next to Hollzy holding a stack of index cards. The text on the screen now read Get to know the Rookie featuring Shane Hollander, now with special guest Captain Ilya Rozanov? Hollzy smiled at Roz, his earlier stiffness gone.

Roz grinned back. “Yes, this is much better. Now I ask questions and keep you honest. Accountability,” Roz continued with a solemn nod, “It is important for rookies to learn this.”

“The questions are literally about me.”

“Yes, it's very embarrassing you are getting them wrong.” 

Shane crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes. “Ask the next question.”

“What is your birthday?” Roz dutifully read off the card. Before Hollzy could speak, Roz answered for him, “May 10th. Taurus,” Roz said with a grin. He flipped to the next card in the stack. “What is your middle name?” Again, he didn’t wait for Shane to answer. “Andrew,” Roz said, flicking the card to the side.

“Are you going to let me answer a question?” Shane asked, bemused.

“And risk putting the audience to sleep? I don’t think so. Although we may be doing that anyway.” Roz looked off-screen at the PR team. “These are very boring questions. Okay,” Roz said, refocusing on Shane. “Now I ask my question.”

“Oh god,” Shane said.

“Do you like playing center or my wing better?”

“Center,” Shane said immediately with a grin.

Roz shook his head in mock disappointment. “First question I let you answer and answer is a lie. Very disappointing, Hollander.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself to sleep at night, Rozanov,” Shane said.

Cliff watched, amused, as they covered Hollzy’s off ice hobbies, yoga and hiking.

“Yes, yes,” said Roz. “By now, no one is surprised by what you think is fun.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, what hobbies would you recommend? Maybe building my own collection of luxury cars - half of which you can’t drive in a Boston winter - and designer silk shirts?”

Roz raised a brow. “They teach you how to drive stick in Canada?”

They moved to how many languages Shane spoke, English and French.

“I am bilingual too,” Roz said.

“This is an interview, not a competition,” Shane said.

“Именно это сказал бы тот, кто проигрывает.”"That's exactly what someone who was losing would say."

And Roz gave his objectively correct opinion on Hollzy’s favorite music to run to: “Nothing. Just silence and his own thoughts. Is terrifying to watch.”

The rest of the video was more of the same banter back and forth. When it finished, Cliff scrolled down. Despite being posted for less than an hour, the video already had an impressive number of views, and the comments were stacking up.

The Raiders’ group chat wasn’t much better.

The chirps continued to roll in, Cliff’s phone buzzing every few seconds. As Cliff read the texts, his thoughts snagged on the middle name comment, and he scrolled back up to it. He frowned. Roz was his best friend and he had no idea what Roz’s middle name was. 

Cliff opened up google and typed in: Ilya Rozanov middle name. He opened up Roz’s Wikipedia page. Ilya Grigoryevich Rozanov is Russian professional ice hockey player who is a center and captain for the Boston Raiders.

“Grigoryevich,” Cliff mouthed to himself, working his way through the very Russian middle name. 

Fuck. Was Cliff a bad friend because he didn’t know Roz’s middle name? Cliff scrolled back to the beginning of the video and rewatched it, paying closer attention this time. It wasn’t just the middle name. Wow. Roz knew a lot about Hollzy. Roz really could have done this video without Hollzy because he knew every fucking answer. There was being a good friend and then there was whatever this was. 

Okay. So, it was a little weird, but it was weird in a mostly nice way? Maybe this was Roz overcompensating for all those weeks he’d spent ignoring Hollzy. Well, whatever was going on, it didn’t seem to be causing any problems. Thank god. There’d already been enough drama this past year to give Cliff premature greys in his beautiful hair. 

The next time Cliff noticed… something was halfway through the third period of a game with Colorado. They were tied 2-2 and Roz had just come out of the box after taking a frankly stupid penalty against Colorado's number 14. It didn't escape Cliff's notice that it was the same number 14 who had gotten away with a nasty cross check against Hollzy in the second. 

It clearly didn't escape Hollzy's notice either. Hollzy glared as Roz stepped off the ice and threw himself down on the bench into his usual spot next to Shane. These days, Hollzy spent more games than not on Roz's wing and the minutes between shifts next to him on the bench, bickering, strategizing, and making observations on the game as it played out before them.

Roz turned to look at Shane. “What?”

“You know what,” Shane said. 

“If you have something to say, Hollander, say it.”

“That was as stupid penalty,” Shane said. “I'm not angry, just disappointed.”

Cliff letting out a snort and waited for the inevitable ‘fuck off' from Roz, but there was only silence. 

Cliff looked over at Roz and choked on the sip of water he was taking. Because instead of rolling his eyes and chirping back, Roz actually looked guilty. Cliff didn't even know that was an emotion Roz was capable of having. 

Cliff looked over at Shane whose lips were pursed in what could only be described as a pout, although Hollzy would deck him if he called it that.

Cliff looked back at Roz and watched with fascination as Roz - his captain and the cockiest player Cliff knew - fought against the instinct to fold like a cheap plastic chair in the face of his 18-year-old rookie's disapproval. 

“What the fuck,” Cliff said underneath his breath. 

After a moment of struggle, Roz finally gathered enough backbone to remember how to chirp back. “‘Not angry, just disappointed?’ Hollander, you are 50-year-old divorced father of three?”

Shane rolled his eyes. “Rozanov-”

“No, really. You are tenured college professor who wears tweed? You are old enough to remember the end of communist Russia?”

“No, that’s you,” Shane said.

Roz continued talking, choosing to ignore Hollzy’s little jibe. “You are Scott Hunter?” 

Shane huffed out a laugh. “Fuck, that is something Scott Hunter would say, isn’t it?” 

“Yes,” Roz said, “Because he is a million years old.”

Shane shook his head, but he was still smiling. “Okay, okay. I get it.” His expression softened and he leaned in. “But no more dumb penalties, okay?” He said, voice low enough to only reach Roz’s ears. And Cliff’s, apparently.

“Okay,” said Roz.

Cliff watched as they silently stared at each other, doing their non-verbal communication thing they’d been doing more and more often lately, both on and off the ice. Weird. The whole exchange had been weird. But before Cliff could think about it anymore, Coach tapped him on the shoulder, sending him over the boards with Roz and Hollzy.

The last thing Cliff expected when walking into the locker room was it being plastered with photos of Shane Hollander half-dressed. Cliff made his way past his loud teammates to his stall next to Roz. Conveniently, one of the photos was taped directly to it. Cliff studied it. It was objectively a good photo. Hollzy was in tuxedo, bowtie undone, shirt open as he unbuttoned his shirt cuffs, Rolex watch prominent on his wrist.

Half of the team was clustered around Hollzy.

“Avert your eyes Carmy, that’s our son,” Smitty said, clapping his hands over Carmy’s eyes.

“Fuck off,” Carmy said with a laugh, fighting his way free of Smitty’s grasp. “I want to see Rolex pimping out Hollzy.”

“The devil works hard but Yuna Hollander works harder,” Vic said solemnly, nudging his shoulder against Hollzy’s.

Hollzy rolled his eyes, cheeks faintly pink. “You can all fuck right off.” 

“Oooh, the rookie gets Rolex money and suddenly he’s talking back?” Lex said.

“I guess this means the first round is on Hollzy the next time we go out?” Cliff said with a laugh, glancing to the side at Roz, Roz who was sitting on the bench next to him.

Roz wasn’t laughing or joining in on the team’s chirping. Instead, he was staring at the nearest copy of the advertisement with dark eyes and a minute frown. 

Cliff clapped him on the back. “Roz, you good, man?” Roz loved nothing more than fondly making fun of his teammates. He should have been all over this.

Roz startled but finally looked away from the photo and met Cliff’s eyes. He shrugged. “Did not sleep very well.”

“Late night?” Cliff said with a grin. 

Roz’s gaze flickered over to Shane. “Something like that.”

Cliff looked at Roz and then at Hollzy and then back at Roz before deciding nope, he was not dealing with this today. Cliff had learned his lesson weeks ago. Asking Roz questions about Hollzy was like walking into a minefield. Cliff wisely stayed silent and continued changing. 

The Raiders had lost to Detroit. A tough overtime loss that most of the team was taking personally considering that the Raiders were just a few points behind Detroit in the Atlantic division’s standings, number two to Detroit’s number one. Not feeling up to going out, most of the team had gathered in the hotel bar to drown their sorrows. There were a few absences, players with families who had begged off to call their wives and kids, some of the younger players who knew they wouldn’t get served, and strangely, Roz.

Although now that Cliff thought about it, Roz had gone out less and less this season. And when he did go out, he tended to leave early and, more often than not, alone. Which was unusual behavior for Roz.

After two drinks, Cliff decided enough was enough. He wasn’t going to let Roz wallow by himself in his room when he could wallow perfectly fine down here in the bar with his friends.

Cliff dragged himself out of the booth and into the elevator, hitting the button for the 12th floor. He knocked on the door of room 1206 and it pushed open. Clearly it hadn’t been closed all the way before, caught on the carpeting. Cliff pushed the door the rest of the way open and stepped into the room.

The TV was playing a MHL game, the Admirals against the Carolina Cyclones, volume so low the voices of the commentators were barely audible. Roz was sitting on the bed, back against the headboard. Next to him, laying on his stomach, facing the television with his head pillowed on his arms, was a sleeping Shane Hollander. Cliff’s gaze dropped to where Roz’s hand was curled around Shane’s ankle, thumb sweeping back and forth over the bare skin, before he looked back up to meet Roz’s gaze. 

Roz stared at him with murderous eyes, which Cliff thought was a little uncalled for. Cliff widened his eyes and opened his mouth, ready to apologize even though he didn’t know what he was apologizing for. It felt like he was interrupting.

Roz sharply shook his head and Cliff’s mouth snapped closed. Roz jerked his head to the side, towards the door of the en suite bathroom. Cliff took the hint and walked towards the bathroom. He watched Roz slide off the bed, moving slowly to keep from waking Shane. 

Roz stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. He crossed his arms. “What do you want, Marly?”

“Dude,” Cliff said, “Why is Hollzy asleep on your bed?”

Roz gave Cliff an appraising look, like he was deciding exactly how much to say. “He gets in his head sometimes,” he said eventually, “After a loss.”

“Okay, and you do what? Get him out of his head?”

“I’m his captain,” Roz said, like that was an explanation. Like this was something he’d done before regularly with other rookies and not some strange ritual specific to Shane Hollander.

“Sure,” Cliff said and paused. “You two do this in Boston too?”

“Why are you here, Marly?” Roz said instead of answering Cliff’s question.

“Just came to see if you wanted to join the rest of us at the bar.”

“I’m busy,” Roz said flatly.

“Busy watching Hollzy sleep?” Cliff asked with a grin.

“Okay, time for you to go.” Roz said, opening the door to the bathroom and pushing Cliff out into the room.

Cliff held up his hands and mouthed, “I’m going,” glancing over to the bed where Hollzy was still fast asleep. He stepped out into the hallway and slowly closed the door, making sure it clicked shut as quietly as possible. 

Cliff tried to stop noticing it. He did. Ignorance was bliss and all that, but unfortunately, the universe and Ilya Rozanov were working against him. 

The game against Montreal had started off chippy, but by the time they got to the third with Boston up 2-1, it had become downright brutal. Cliff loved it. Games like this got the heart pumping, the adrenaline making everything feel sharper. The bench was buzzing. Roz loved games like this too - lived for them. And usually so did Hollzy, no matter how much he tried to hide it under his good-boy persona. But tonight, he was quieter than normal. Tense. 

Cliff was pretty sure it was because they were playing the Voyageurs. Hollzy had never said it, but he’d been playing his entire rookie season like he had something to prove. He played like he wanted Montreal to spend every day regretting they hadn’t picked him first in the draft. 

Cliff watched as Roz skated up to the face-off dot to meet Comeau, the second line center for Montreal. As they bent over, Comeau smirked and said something, voice too low for Cliff to catch the words. But Cliff did see the way Roz stiffened, his mouth flattening into a hard line. Seconds later, after Comeau managed to gain possession of the puck, Roz slammed into him, a brutal but clean hit that caused Comeau to crumple for a moment against the boards before he was able to right himself. 

Cliff wasn’t surprised when on their line’s next shift, one of the Montreal defenseman high sticked Roz straight in the face. Roz jerked his head back, but not quick enough. Trails of red blood trickled down Roz’s brow over his cheek, and he dropped to one knee on the ice. The ref whistled play to a stop a second later, but Cliff was already skating over to Roz.

“Roz, fuck,” Cliff said, stopping in front of Roz. “You good?”

“Marly, I am bleeding into my eye and mouth and they are going to make me get stitches instead of letting me stay on ice so I can murder every single Voyageur,” Roz said as he shook off his gloves and pressed the heel of his hand to the bleeding cut on his forehead.

“Well, if you’re making threats in complete sentences, you’re probably not concussed,” Cliff said.

“Stop touching that with your bare hands,” Hollzy said, finally skating up to join their little group on the ice.

Cliff glanced over at him and saw the reason for his delayed arrival. Hollzy had stopped by the bench to grab a clean towel that he thrust into Roz’s hands. 

Roz’s thunderous expression softened as he pressed the towel against the cut. “Hollander, I know you will tell me the truth, am I still beautiful or is Montreal going to need to pay for my plastic surgery?”

“You’re covered in blood,” Hollzy said. Together, he and Cliff hauled Roz to his feet.

“That is not an answer,” Roz said as they skated towards the bench where a member of the medical staff was already waiting.

Roz stepped off the ice. “Score for me,” he said looking at Shane with a grin, “If you think you can remember how without me on the ice.”

“On second thought, maybe you do need that concussion protocol,” Hollzy said with his own smile, but Cliff didn’t think he was imagining the worry in Shane’s gaze.

Hollzy watched Roz walk down the tunnel until he disappeared from view. Then, he refocused on the ice, his eyes tracking across the Montreal players until they settled on the defenseman responsible for the high sticking - already sitting in the penalty box - and narrowed. 

One minute and 14 seconds later, Hollzy scored on the power play, a neat wrap-around goal that he snuck past the Montreal goalie Drapeau’s right pad.

The rest of the period passed without any further goals and without Roz returning to the ice. Minutes later, the final whistle blew and the game ended 3-1, a win for Boston. 

In the locker room, Cliff stripped out of his gear. His gaze snagged on Roz’s empty stall next to his. Coach had told them Roz was fine, no concussion and he’d just needed a few stitches, so why wasn’t Roz back yet?

Cliff left the locker room and walked towards the medical room. As he approached the half-open door, he heard Roz say something, voice too low for Cliff to make out the words, and then a second voice reply. Cliff already knew who it was before he even made it to the doorway and looked inside the room.

Roz was sitting on one of the examination tables, stripped to the waist. The blood had been mostly cleaned off of his face and he had a neat row of stitches on his forehead close to his hairline. Standing in between Roz’s spread legs was Shane, also in his base layer, close but not touching. It was clear Shane had just paused in the locker room long enough to get out of his pads before coming to find Roz. 

“You’re really not going to tell me what Comeau said?” Hollzy asked.

“No,” Roz said, “You should not have to hear. You do not need to spend any time thinking about that asshole or what he maybe said.” 

“Whatever it was, I’m sure I’ve heard it - or something similar before.”

Roz snorted. “That does not make me feel better.”

“The hit-” Hollzy started.

“Was clean,” Roz interjected.

“Ilya,” Shane said.

“Shane,” Roz said.

Shane let out a frustrated sound. “Ilya, you can’t single out every player who says something shitty about me.” 

“No? What is stopping me?”

“Common sense, hopefully. And me,” Shane said. “Me asking you to.”

“Shane-”

“Do you think it was fun for me, seeing you bleeding on the ice? Having to finish the game while you were here getting god knows how many stitches in your fucking head?” 

“Was only six,” Roz said. “Barely a scratch. Hollander, Shane, do not frown so hard, it will make your pretty head hurt,” he said and Cliff watched as Roz ran a thumb between Shane’s brows, smoothing out the furrow there. “You played well, scored for me just like I asked.”

“Rozanov-”

“Hm, what happened to ‘Ilya?’”

And that finally broke Cliff out of his stupor. He turned on his heel and walked back to the locker room, his mind stuck on ‘Ilya.’ Because no one called Roz ‘Ilya’ except for, apparently, Shane Hollander. 

The first name incident, as Cliff had started calling it in his head, was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Because now that he had noticed how weirdly codependent Roz and Hollzy were, he couldn’t stop seeing it.

He noticed when Roz and Hollzy started arriving to practice together more often than not. And on days when they arrived separately, he noticed the smoothie or tea that appeared in Shane’s stall, the ‘Roz’ scribbled on the side a dead giveaway to who had left it there. He watched as they were glued to each other at practice, during video review, in the gym, and on the bench at games. And when they were separated, running different drills at practice or on separate lines on the ice, all Hollzy had to do was nod his head or beckon with his glove and Roz would appear at his side as if summoned by a spell. On the plane to and from away games, Roz always claimed the seat next to Hollzy. And if it was a late flight, more often than not Cliff would walk past and see Shane asleep, head on Roz’s shoulder. 

He was fairly sure they were spending most of their time outside of the rink together too. The last few times Cliff had texted Roz to go out to a bar, or a club, or even just grab food, he had gotten back a succinct ‘can’t’ or ‘busy.’ Last weekend, 30 minutes after Roz had texted that he already had plans and couldn’t grab coffee with Cliff, he posted on his Instagram close friends story a photo of him and Hollzy fucking getting coffee together. Cliff had texted Roz ‘where was my fucking invite’ with a screenshot of the post and Roz had left him on read.

Fuck, at their most recent team dinner, Roz even ordered for Hollzy while he was in the restroom and Hollzy hadn’t batted an eye when he got back to the table. Just hummed and agreed the halibut over morels with fresh salsa verde sounded good and thanked Roz for also getting him a ginger ale.

Cliff could not figure them out. Roz held his cards closer to the chest than anyone Cliff had ever met. They’d been friends for six years and Cliff could count on one hand the number of sincere and genuine personal conversations they’d had. So how had Shane Hollander made his way past Roz’s many high walls and defenses, seemingly without even trying? 

Cliff was on the verge of creating one of those conspiracy theory boards, red string and all. Had they committed a crime together and were bound together by the terrible secret they were keeping? Maybe they’d had a joint near-death experience and were now trauma bonded, like those cats that couldn’t be separated at animal shelters? Was Roz blackmailing Hollzy? Was Hollzy dying of some incurable illness and only Roz knew? 

Unfortunately, because Cliff was getting nowhere figuring this out himself, he knew what he had to do. He’d avoided doing this as long as possible, but he was desperate. So, Cliff bit the bullet. He pulled out his phone and created a new group chat with the Raider’s core, minus Roz and Hollzy.

Cliff closed the chat and threw his phone on the couch where it continued to buzz with incoming texts. Why was Cliff so invested in this? It was a valid question.

Part of it was selfish. He could acknowledge that. The Raiders were on a tear, battling it out with Detroit for the top spot in the Atlantic division, and a lot of that was due to Roz and Hollzy who were a lethal combination on the ice. Cliff had gotten repeated whiplash this season from how quickly Roz and Hollzy had gone from strangers to hating each other to now weirdly codependent friends. Cliff couldn’t help feeling like they were one wrong step away from reverting back to hating each, and Cliff did not want to think about what would happen to the team’s chemistry if they did. 

But then there was also the Roz of it all. Because Roz was different this season. Calmer, more settled, happier, even. And the only thing that had changed in Roz’s life was Hollzy’s presence in it. Forget team chemistry, Cliff didn’t want to even think about the crash out Roz would have if Hollzy started avoiding him again.

So yes, Cliff wanted another Stanley Cup, and he wanted his best friend to remain emotionally stable, and if that meant doing his best detective work to solve the Rozanov-Hollander problem, then Cliff was willing to take one for the team.

The night before the All-Stars break found the team and WAGs in a private room of a bar, celebrating before they all scattered to different destinations for the week-long stretch without games. Most of Cliff’s teammates were using the break for a well-deserved vacation or to visit family; everyone aside from Roz and Hollzy, that was. 

Roz was the Raiders’ All-Stars selection this year, like he had been practically each year he had played for Boston, and Hollzy was invited after winning the fan vote by a landslide. So Roz and Hollzy were flying to Nashville tomorrow and were, for the first time, slated to play against each other given that this year’s All-Star format was team Europe vs. team North America. The announcement had been met with raucous chirping and debate in the Raiders’ locker room and Cliff was mildly alarmed by the amount of money laid down on bets over whether it would be Roz or Hollzy walking away with the win.

Cliff was pleasantly buzzed, seated in a booth next to Vic with Roz and Hollzy across from them. Roz’s arm was stretched out across the back of the bench and Shane was pressed against his side, practically falling into him. Hollzy’s cheeks were pink and eyes a little glassy after he’d let Vic encourage him into drinking the two beers he allowed himself every other month. Vic and Hollzy had slipped into French and Cliff watched Roz watch Shane as he laughed at whatever Vic had just said. He watched Roz slip the empty bottle out of the loose curl Shane’s fingers when he finished drinking it and nudge a glass of water into its place. Shane shot him a quick, grateful smile and Roz smiled back, soft and fond, the fingers of his outstretched hand trailing over Hollzy’s shoulder.

Cliff scanned the rest of the bar. Connor and Lex were doing shots at the bar with some of the other single Raiders. Over in the corner, Smitty was losing terribly to Carmy at pool, their girlfriends perched on nearby stools. In the next booth over, Dubek and his wife Natalie were sitting across from Johansson and his girlfriend. Tommy had his arm around Natalie and was smiling down at her as she chatted with Johansson’s girlfriend. Cliff paused. He looked at Tommy and Natalie and then at Roz and Hollzy and then back.

The realization hit him like a check to the boards, wiping out his buzz and leaving him feeling abruptly and unfortunately sober. Oh, Cliff thought. 

Like dominoes falling into place, every weird moment this season between Roz and Hollzy started to make a little more sense. Roz had feelings for Shane. Roz wanted him. Fuck. Roz might even love him. Ilya Rozanov, Stanley Cup champion, two-time league MVP, Captain of the Boston Raiders, and notorious playboy was fucking gone for Canadian golden boy, future savior of hockey, and 18-year-old rookie Shane Hollander. 

Cliff had never had an epiphany before. He wasn’t enjoying it. But he was sure he was right. Well, like 90% sure. 

Oh god, his sisters were going to be insufferable about this. They would have a lot to say about “heteronormativity” and “locker room culture” and MHL culture specifically and they would be right. Because now that Cliff thought about it, there really was no heterosexual explanation for most of Roz’s behavior this season. Cliff’s mind had actually jumped to ‘committed a serious crime together and are hiding it’ before ‘he’s into him’ as an explanation for how Roz acted around Hollzy. God. Cliff had to stop getting concussions. 

Thinking of telling his sisters brought Cliff up short. Because he abruptly realized he couldn’t tell anybody about this. Cliff knew and Roz knew but that was probably it. Cliff wasn’t even sure Shane knew. He didn’t know Shane well enough and couldn’t read him the way he could Roz. And now that Cliff knew, he had no idea what to do with this information. Because there would be consequences if it got out.

It wasn’t that Roz liked men - that he was bi or pan or maybe just Shane-Hollander sexual? - Cliff couldn’t care less about that. Roz was his best friend, they won the fucking cup together, Cliff loved him like brother. No, it was the fact Roz had fallen for objectively the most unobtainable person in the world to him. 

There was falling for a guy when you’re a professional athlete in a sport with no queer players, there was falling for a guy who was also a professional athlete, there was falling for a teammate, and then there was what Roz had gone and done: falling for your barely legal star rookie - who statistically speaking, was probably straight - when you’re his captain, have a Russian passport, and you both play in a famously homophobic professional sport. It was such a Roz thing to do. Roz loved a challenge, and if it came with a side-helping of risk and self-destruction, even better.

“Marly. Marly. Cliff!” 

Cliff jolted back to awareness. He realized Vic had been trying to get his attention while Cliff had been dissociating. He tuned back into the conversation, answering Vic’s question absentmindedly while his brain continued to spin in the background.

An hour later, when the gathering had started to break up, Cliff watched Roz deposit Hollzy in an Uber before calling his own. Cliff sidled up to Roz. “Roz, let’s split the ride?” 

Roz arched a brow at him, but nodded, adding Cliff’s address as a stop. 

When the car pulled up at Roz’s house, Cliff turned to him. “Can I talk to you about something?” Cliff had gone back and forth in his head on whether talking to Roz about his realization was a good idea, but he’d had just enough to drink tonight to convince himself it was. Also, he knew if he didn’t talk to Roz about this now, the secret would grow and grow inside of him until it tumbled out of his mouth at the worst possible moment.

Roz who had been shooting curious glances at Cliff through the entire car ride smiled. “Of course, Marly. Come in for a drink.”

Cliff followed Roz up the path to his front door and then into the kitchen where Roz grabbed two tumblers and a bottle of vodka out of the freezer. “We will need alcohol for this conversation, yes?”

“Yeah man, probably,” Cliff said, running a hand through his hair.

Roz poured them both a generous serving and slid one of the glasses across the island to Cliff. “Is this about why you were so distracted at the bar tonight?” Roz asked. Sometimes it was annoying how perceptive Roz was when he wanted to be.

Cliff took a sip of his drink, stalling. There wasn’t a subtle way for him to ask what he wanted to ask, so he just had to say it. “Yeah. Roz, are you and Shane-” Cliff paused, scrambling for the right word. “Together? Or, uh- involved?”

Roz stilled, the hand holding his glass frozen halfway through the motion of bringing it to his lips.

Cliff rushed to fill the silence. “Because if you are, it’s totally fine. Obviously. I mean, I’m cool with it. Not that you need my permission or anything, but I suppo-”

“No.” Roz said, thankfully interrupting Cliff’s rambling. “We are not together.”

“But you want to be,” Cliff said and he could tell by Roz’s expression he was right.

“Don’t ask stupid fucking questions, Marly,” Roz said downing the rest of his drink before setting the glass down on the counter. He met Cliff’s gaze, eyes sharp. “Okay. We will imagine you are not an idiot and are right. That whatever you have seen between me and Hollander that made you ask these questions is something. We could not. We cannot be anything.”

“Roz-” 

“But because you are not right,” Roz continued, “You will forget anything you have maybe noticed, yes?”

Cliff sighed. “Is that what you want? Me to shut up?”

“Always, Marly,” Roz said with a smirk.

“Fucking fine, Roz. I’ll never mention it again if that’s what you want, asshole. But if you ever want to talk about it, we can, okay?”

Roz stared at him for a long moment before giving the tiniest, begrudging nod. Silence settled between them. Roz poured himself a second drink. 

Just as Cliff was gearing up to say his goodbyes and get the fuck out of there, Roz spoke. “It is obvious?” He asked. The ‘how I feel about Shane’ went unspoken.

“No one else knows if that’s what you're asking. But six years, bro,” Cliff said with a shrug. “From being roommates your rookie year to every stupid fucking decision that nearly got us arrested the year you turned 21 to winning a cup together, Roz.”

Roz’s gaze softened. “You are a good friend, Marly.”

“Yeah, I fucking know,” Cliff said. He stepped around the island and pulled Roz into a quick one-armed hug. “Have fun at All-Stars. Good luck against Hollzy, you’re going to need it.”

“Who did you bet on?” Roz asked as he walked Cliff to the front door.

“Hollzy, of course.”

Roz made an outraged noise. “Over your captain?” 

“Did I bet on my captain who showed up to last year’s All-Star game hungover-”

“Our team won and I scored three fucking goals-”

“Or did I bet on Shane Hollander who I’m pretty sure would commit murder at center ice if it meant winning a hockey game, even one as ridiculous as All-Stars?”

Roz grinned. “Maybe I am taking All-Star game seriously this year.”

“I bet you are,” Cliff said with a grin. “Bye, Roz.”

“Goodnight, Marly.”

That night, for the first time in weeks, Cliff fell asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow, head blissfully empty.

The next week, Cliff strolled into practice, well-rested, tanned, and feeling optimistic about the rest of the season. Sure, his best friend and captain was in likely unrequited love with their generational talent rookie, but god, did they play beautiful hockey together. Cliff briefly contemplated if being in love with another player would make him better at hockey before discarding the idea as probably not something worth pursuing. 

His good mood lasted right up until Roz and Hollzy walked into the locker room. Separately. And not speaking to each other. Cliff watched the rest of practice with a growing sense of horror. Roz and Hollzy weren’t ignoring each other, but they were coolly polite. It was like they were distant, professional acquaintances rather than the two most codependent teammates Cliff had ever had. Fuck, Cliff thought, here we go again. Goddammit. Cliff was never going to win that second fucking Stanely Cup.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you to everyone who patiently waited between chapters 2 and 3 and who has left kudos and comments <3 I really struggled about the ending point of this fic and actually had a good additional chunk written, but decided to scrap it because it got too much into the events of the Shane-POV fic of this same timeline. But who knows, maybe at some point I'll return and write more Cliff POV (he is my favorite himbo).