Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

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

Additional Tags:

POV Outsider, Post-Book 2: Heated Rivalry (Game Changers), POV Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Ilya Rozanov's Montreal Jane, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Drinking, Ottawa Centaurs Player Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau Finds Out About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Good Friend Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of Hollanov from the Outside

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-11 Words: 6,737 Chapters: 1/1

The Jane from Montreal Mystery

Summary

“So,” Cliff starts. “Ottawa.”

“Ottawa,” Roz repeats, and the way he says it, half-amused, half-quizzical, gives Cliff nothing.

“It’s not Montreal.”

Roz looks offended. “Why would I go to fucking Montreal?”

Cliff shrugs, going for casual. “Montreal Girl? I thought, you know, if you ever go to Canada…”

Roz scoffs. “You and Montreal girl. You say I am obsessed with her, but is you who always talks about her.”

“Yeah, because you’re always texting her!”

“Well, I like to get laid.”

And there’s Cliff’s opening.

Or: Cliff has been suspecting that Roz moved to Ottawa for his Montreal girl for a while now. And tonight, they’re going to go out for drinks and he’s finally going to get some answers. Not even two overeager rookies are going to stop him. Except things don’t quite go as Cliff planned and Jane from Montreal is not what he expected.

Notes

Original written during the great ao3 outage and posted on tumblr, but I decided to expand and clean it up. Many many thanks to aythia for support and handholding and flowers and chocolate to my betas ilikaicalie and masja_17 for whipping this into shape.
I love Cliff being a supportive bestie and I love star-struck rookies, so here we are.

“No.”

“But—”

“No,” Cliff says, more decisive this time.

In front of him, Daniel Brooks and Emil Svensson deflate. Boston’s new rookies fold in on themselves as if they’re not both clearing six feet easily and made of pure muscle. Brooks looks at Cliff, and his brown eyes are suddenly twice the size they usually are. How did that happen? Svensson is giving Cliff an equally pleading look, but where Brooks is stubbornly hopeful, Svensson’s already dejectedly sad, and that’s worse, somehow. Cliff can’t look at them.

“Jesus, you guys are fucking pathetic.”

“We get it,” Svensson says, his English almost accent-free even though he only came to the States a year ago for the draft and played for Boston’s AHL affiliate until he was called up this summer.

“Totally,” Brooks agrees. He spent two years in the AHL and got his break this year. “We’re definitely not good enough to hang out with you and Rozanov.”

Both of them are talented kids, and Cliff knows they need to rebuild the team after Roz left. Svensson’s a defender, but Brooks is a talented center. He won’t be able to fill the hole Roz left for another few years, but after Roz’s sudden departure, the Raiders need to rebuild somehow.

Cliff blows out a breath.

The thing is, he’s seen Roz already this season. Ottawa came to Boston a month ago, and while the fans in TD Garden mercilessly booed Roz for being a traitor, Cliff had hugged him on the ice. He’d gotten his share of flak for it on social media, but he ignored it. He and Roz had been teammates for eight years, friends even, as much as one could be friends with Ilya Rozanov.

Cliff only really realized how difficult that was when Roz left. Before that, Cliff had thought he had Roz’s number. A loud, cocky party boy who lived for the game and the thrill, whether that was scoring on or off the ice. A tough guy with a mushy core that he hid under insults, who didn’t talk about his problems, whether it was his dying father, his asshole brother, his dead mother, or his Montreal girl, whom he’d been chasing for years. Cliff never really thought about how bothered Roz might be because he was always fine. Well, mostly. He had off days, like everyone, and there was that whole period two winters ago where he’d been an intolerable ass for weeks, but otherwise, Cliff thought he knew Roz.

And then Roz went to Ottawa, and Cliff didn’t know his friend at all. Roz hadn’t given him or anyone a heads-up. The trade deadline had passed, and Roz hadn’t renewed his contract yet, but they all just assumed he was haggling for more money. Probably to buy another fucking sports car. And then the news came that Roz wasn’t re-signing with Boston. Ilya Rozanov, the guy who had built a bottom-third team into a Stanley Cup winner, was signing with Ottawa, the fucking worst team in the Eastern Conference.

Roz had invited some of them over to his place while he was in the process of packing it up. Cliff, Carmichael, St. Simon, Hammersmith, and Connors, they’d all hoped to get an answer that made sense. Roz gave them the press answer, that he wanted a new adventure, and he gave them the non-press answer, that he wanted a non-Russian passport.

“Right now, being in Russia is no good. But being Russian in USA is also not great. Canada is better. And I love Boston,” Roz said with a wistful look, “but Canada reminds me much more of home.”

“But Ottawa,” Connors said, like the name physically pained him. “It’s such a bad team.”

“And the city is so fucking boring,” Carmichael added. He’d gotten married two years ago, but before that, he’d been a bigger partier than even Cliff or Roz.

Roz shrugged. “Is best option. Not many Canadian teams can afford me right now. And is only four year contract.”

Cliff shook his head. “I still can’t believe it. Fuck man, you’re just leaving.”

Roz held up a bottle of vodka. “Is why we fucking drink tonight.”

So they did.

And when Ottawa came to Boston, and they beat the Centaurs 5-2, they went out drinking after. It was fun, like old times, in that Roz drank and talked about everything and nothing, but Cliff couldn’t help notice that Roz didn’t pick up a girl.

He hadn’t brought it up during the summer, but Roz hadn’t picked up a girl in a while. In at least a year. And he’d been glued to his phone with his Montreal girl smile even when they weren’t playing in Montreal.

Cliff had asked about that a few times during the season, but Roz was snippy, downright bitchy about it. When Cliff finally managed to catch a glimpse of her name—and a bit of their texts, and he really didn’t need to know that Roz planned to eat her out until she cried—Roz had almost taken his head off. So Cliff had backed off. For whatever reason, Jane from Montreal was a sore spot. Cliff thought it was probably the distance. Roz had been going after her for years, had stared at his phone in the Montreal visitors’ locker room with badly hidden longing and then gone out to party with Cliff before he finally started smiling and disappearing after their Montreal games. Cliff hadn’t paid that much attention at the time, but looking back, there was a long time where Roz was chasing her before Jane from Montreal gave in. And then Roz kept meeting Jane from Montreal. Until he didn’t, while he played like shit and was in a shit mood. And then he went back to meeting her. And stopped meeting anyone else. It wasn’t hard to guess what had happened. Jane from Montreal had put her foot down about Roz’s other women. And Roz had agreed.

Last season, Cliff had met a girl himself, well woman really, Stacey was all woman, and he was kind of busy not picking up women in clubs anymore but figuring out how to be a boyfriend. He’d dated before of course, but it was never serious enough to hand anyone’s number over to Carmichael, whose wife ran the WAGs chat. Asking Stacey if she wanted to sit with the other WAGs at a game was probably the most serious question he’d ever asked a woman. And the sex when she’d said yes and asked Cliff for a jersey with his name to wear had been pretty fucking spectacular. So Cliff was maybe also a little bit busy that last year. Maybe there had been signs that Roz was leaving, and Cliff had just missed them.

So now that he was in Ottawa, with no excuse of a bustling Boston Club to distract them, he was going to go drinking with Roz and finally get to the bottom of what was really going on.

Taking the two rookies with him was not part of the plan. But they’re looking exceedingly pathetic now, and Brooks had scored a pretty sweet goal, and Svensson’s defense game had been good enough to stop Roz from scoring a few times, and they’d won—which wasn’t a miracle against Ottawa, but still—and so Cliff sighs.

“Fine, you can come.”

Both of the rookies perk up immediately.

“For one drink,” Cliff says. “And then you’re going back to the hotel so Roz and I can talk about grown-up stuff, got it?”

The rookies nod, almost falling over themselves in gratitude, and Cliff reminds himself that he was once a rookie starting out in the MLH too. Though he’s sure he’d never been that starry-eyed.

Roz is waiting for them at Monk’s, the bar the Centaurs apparently frequent after a game. Roz doesn’t say to celebrate because then the Centaurs would never go out. Well, almost never. Now that Roz is there, they’re winning a little more, but mostly they just have more goals when they lose a game. Cliff remembers what that feels like. He came to Boston three years before Roz did, when the Raiders consistently missed the playoffs. And even with Roz, it took them another two years to make the playoffs, another two to win the Cup. They’ve regularly made the playoffs since then, winning more games than losing, and Cliff isn’t looking forward to the team sagging without Roz this season if their replacement for him doesn’t work out. But to imagine Roz willingly left a contender team to go through years of shitty rebuilding… Cliff can’t believe it’s just about the passport. About Canada reminding him of Russia. And the only other thing important enough in a man’s life, as Cliff has recently realized for himself, is meeting a woman. The right woman.

Cliff wonders if Jane from Montreal wasn’t willing to move all the way to Boston for Roz but maybe was willing to move to Ottawa.

He doesn’t get a chance to ask with the rookies around, but that’s fine. They’ll have time later. For now, Roz orders a pitcher and a tray of vodka shots, and then they just shoot the shit. They talk hockey. Roz and Cliff relive the good old times, but Roz includes the rookies in the stories, in the way that he has, loud and charismatic, making every head turn when he retells funny or outrageous anecdotes in his Russian accent but by now with almost perfect grammar. He asks the rookies about their season so far, about their time in the AHL, and their draft. Cliff doesn’t know if Roz realizes that he treats them like he’s their captain. He’s not captain in Ottawa yet, the C still on a veteran’s chest, but Cliff doesn’t doubt Roz will have it soon. He still acts like it with the rookies now, and they soak up his attention, visibly loosening up more than they ever did when Cliff took them out with the rest of the Raiders.

Roz keeps ordering beer and shots, and they keep drinking, and Cliff realizes too late that he’s getting more drunk than he meant to and that the rookies are still here and absolutely shitfaced. Brooks looks like he’s two seconds from falling asleep in the booth, and Svensson comes back from a bathroom trip with his face post-vomiting pale.

The thing is, Roz seems pretty drunk too, but as he’d once said, his blood is twenty percent vodka even when he’s sober, so he’s still upright and telling a story about the Boston Cop Slide. If Cliff wants a semi-serious conversation, now’s the time. The rookies certainly aren’t sober enough to pay attention.

“So,” Cliff starts. “Ottawa.”

Roz pushes another shot at him. Cliff takes it, and they drink.

“Ottawa,” Roz repeats, and the way he says it, half-amused, half-quizzical, gives Cliff nothing.

“It’s not Montreal.”

Roz looks offended. “Why would I go to fucking Montreal?”

Cliff shrugs, going for casual. “Montreal Girl? I thought, you know, if you ever move to Canada…”

Roz scoffs. “You and Montreal girl. You say I am obsessed with her, but is you who always talks about her.”

“Yeah, because you’re always texting her!”

“Well, I like to get laid.”

And there’s Cliff’s opening.

“Which you weren’t doing all last year.”

“Yes, I have.” Outraged, Roz pulls the last two vodka shots closer to him. “No more vodka for you, you are too drunk.”

“Fuck you, I’m not drunk,” Cliff says, definitely a little drunk. He still manages to steal back one of the shots and downs it. “Seriously though, you never hooked up when we went out last year. Half the time you didn’t even come out with us. So… did it get serious with Jane? Did she finally tame the great manwhore Ilya Rozanov? Did she move to Ottawa for you?”

Roz squints at him, downs his own vodka. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Marly. You were so busy wooing your Stacey and being… domesticated—” Roz does very exaggerated air quotes—“you didn’t see all the girls I hooked up with.”

“But Jane—”

Roz slams the vodka glass down on the table so hard an edge splinters off. “Jane is in Montreal. I am here. Enough now, okay?”

There’s a glint in Roz’s eyes now, one that Cliff has only ever seen on the ice when he was seriously pissed at an opponent and ready to drop gloves, so Cliff holds up his hands.

“Alright, fine. Fuck. I just…” Cliff shrugs helplessly. “I thought you really liked her, you know. Your Montreal girl. I mean, you went after her so hard. And she’s been putting up with your bullshit for years. It would have been a good story, you know?”

So maybe Cliff’s romantic side has been coming out more and more the longer he’s been dating Stacey. But apparently Jane from Montreal did not want to move to Ottawa for Roz.

Roz sighs. “My Montreal girl.” He lets out a laugh. Cliff can’t decide if it’s happy or nostalgic. He’s possibly more than a little drunk. That last shot didn’t help.

“My Montreal Jane,” Roz says, a faraway look in his eyes. “You’re right, has always been Montreal Jane.” Roz is slurring now, Jane almost sounding like Shane.

The bell for last call rings loudly through the bar.

Roz raises his arm. “One more round!”

Cliff protests, but when the shots arrive, Roz raises a glass and says, “To love. May we survive it.”

Roz looks happy and sad at the same time though, and he might be an asshole but he’s also a good guy and Cliff doesn’t understand why Jane from Montreal is stringing him along like this. Roz moved to fucking Ottawa for her. Doesn’t she understand what a big fucking deal that is? There must be more to it, some big… reason, something, anything, but Cliff’s brain is too fuzzy to figure it out. He just knows he’s not a fan of Jane from Montreal right now, but he’s not drunk enough to say that out loud. He has a feeling Roz wouldn’t like it.

So Cliff drinks his shot and keeps his mouth shut.

Brooks is snoring on Svensson’s shoulder, and Svensson is slowly, methodically peeling the label off his beer bottle with the concentration of the absolutely wasted, so Cliff and Roz drink their last shots too.

Around them, the bar starts swimming. Roz gets up to settle the bill, and when he comes back, Cliff has no idea how much time has passed. He’s taken out his phone to text Stacey, and now he’s staring at the last selfie she sent him, one where she’s sitting in bed, wearing one of his old Raiders shirts and her hair up in a messy bun.

“I think I want to marry her,” Cliff says to no one in particular.

“Grattis,” Svensson mutters. “We were worried you’d become an old grumpy bachelor.”

And before Cliff can answer that, more like fucking hit him upside the head for it actually, Brooks startles up. “Married? That’s—that’s fucking amazing! Love is for everyone! All ages.”

“Fuck you, you fetuses. If you’re not careful I’m making you both fucking flower children at the wedding,” Cliff grumbles and almost knocks over his beer in his hurry to take another drink so he doesn’t have to ponder how old exactly the rookies think he is. Just because his shoulder is creaking every morning doesn’t mean he’s getting old.

“I look good in a flower crown,” Svensson says absently.

Brooks collapses back against his shoulder. “Is that a midsommar thing?”

“You need to stop watching horror movies before bed,” Svensson says.

“They help me sleep,” Brooks protests nonsensically. “Otherwise I just replay all the ways I screwed up on the ice.”

Svensson pats his head. “Try a podcast.”

A big hand lands on Cliff’s shoulder. He tilts his head up to see Roz smirking lazily at him.

“What are we talking about?”

“These fucking punks—” Cliff starts.

“Marly not dying a spinster,” Svensson says earnestly.

“Svenny looking good in a flower crown,” Brooks says equally earnestly.

Cliff hates everything.

“I can see it.” Roz ruffles Svensson’s hair. “Not as good as me obviously.” He smiles. Happy. But also sad? Actually, it looks a lot like his Montreal girl smile. What the fuck?

Svensson blinks at Roz.

“Is the curls,” Roz explains.

That was probably not Svensson’s question. It’s certainly not Cliff’s.

This time the rookies’ not-existent filter works in his favor when Brooks asks, “Picture?”

Roz’s expression shutters in a way Cliff’s hating to recognize. “No.”

Oh yeah. Cliff’s got a fucking bone to pick with Jane from fucking Montreal.

“Time for bed,” Roz says suddenly, like nothing happened, nodding first at Cliff, then at the listing rookies.

“Sure.”

“What hotels are you guys at?” Roz lists three possible options, and Cliff… Cliff has no idea. When he’s on the road, they all blur together.

He also realizes he doesn’t have his key card. He’s rooming with Carmichael, who goes to bed early these days and will kill him for waking him. Cliff could probably get a different key card from the hotel staff, right?

Brooks, barely awake now, just blinks at them. Svensson looks equally lost. Fucking children.

Roz looks at Cliff, one brow raised.

“Not the Marriott,” Cliff says, which is the only thing he’s sure of. So maybe he’s not used to this much alcohol anymore. More nights in with Stacey seem to have lowered the tolerance it takes to party with Roz.

Roz snorts. “Alright. My place, all of you.”

Cliff gets up from the table, sways a little, and thinks, yeah, alright. The entire ordeal of possibly going to the wrong hotel first, asking for a new key card, and getting a lecture from Carmichael seems way too daunting right now. Huh. Maybe he is getting old.

He follows Roz out into the cold Ottawa fall night. They keep leaning against each other, none of them walking a straight line anymore. The rookies are propping each other up so badly that Cliff grabs Svensson’s shoulder to steer them in the direction of a cab.

The driver looks less than enthused by them, but Roz just gets in the front and presses a bunch of Canadian bills into his hand while Cliff wrangles the rookies into the back and folds his long body into the backseat next to them.

That’s when the cab driver’s eyes widen, looking at Roz.

“Mr. Rozanov,” he says. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—it’s alright, you don’t have to pay here.”

Roz waves him off. “Take it. You will be happy to have it to clean up after them.”

Brooks makes a sound like he’s going to throw up but thankfully manages to swallow it down.

“Right,” the cab driver says faintly, and starts the car.

They make it to Roz’s house without anyone throwing up in the cab, but they need to shake the rookies awake.

Roz’s house is way too big for one person, but it’s not ostentatiously rich people fancy. Cliff will have a closer look around tomorrow, right now he’s only half awake, and he helps Roz herd the rookies into the house.

“Where?”

Roz looks up the stairs, presumably where the guestrooms are, then points toward the living room.

“They can both fit on couch, I’m not dragging them upstairs. You can have guest bedroom, second door to left.”

They dump the rookies unceremoniously on opposing ends of the couch. Roz makes a detour to the kitchen, grabs two water bottles, and throws one to Cliff. Then he opens a bottle of Advil, swallows two, and throws that bottle at Cliff too. Some things never change.

They amble up the stairs, and Cliff goes left and Roz goes right. Cliff kind of expected to have to hunt for blankets and pillows, but the bed is freshly made. Cliff wonders briefly what kind of visitors Roz has, but sleep takes precedence. Cliff takes off everything but his boxers, drowns half the water bottle, and plops down on the bed. He’s out like a light the moment his head hits the pillow.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Cliff wakes up early with a slight headache. He loves to party, but he’s still a professional hockey player, and at some point getting drunk until 2 AM and then getting up for an early morning flight has just become second nature. Hydration, Advil, and a lot of coffee are the keys to survival. He got the first two on his nightstand; the third is somewhere downstairs.

The clock on the nightstand reads eight o’clock, and Cliff’s not mad about it. They have a noon flight, so that gives him time for a shower, a nice greasy breakfast with Roz, and then herding the no doubt incredibly hungover rookies back to their hotel.

He finds a bathroom with fresh towels in the hallway. He’s not a fan of putting his old clothes back on, but he can just turn his boxers inside out, and he’ll borrow a fresh shirt from Roz. It’ll be a little short, but he can deal.

When he walks downstairs, there’s no sign the rookies are conscious yet. Roz is in the kitchen in sweatpants and a Centaurs shirt, staring blearily at the coffee maker. He drags a shirt from the counter and throws it at Cliff, who doesn’t manage to catch it in time. He picks it up from the floor. It’s another Centaurs shirt.

“Dude,” Cliff says but puts it on anyway. He appreciates that Roz still knows him well enough.

Roz just gives him half a smirk, but it’s not hitting as hard as usual with his drooping eyes, his hair sticking up in all directions, and the way he’s slumping against the counter like they’ve just finished game seven of a playoff run.

“Well, you look like death warmed over.” Cliff doesn’t bother keeping his voice down; the rookies need to get up.

He thinks he hears a faint groan from the living room.

Roz stares at him with narrowed eyes. It would be intimidating if he didn’t look so pathetic.

“Come on, man, we didn’t even drink that much last night.”

Roz waves him off. “Not used to it anymore.”

Cliff wants to prod him about that, about his new life with Jane and whether it makes him happy enough to make up for playing on such a bad team, but that’s when there’s noise from the living room, and then Svensson and Brooks stumble into the room. They look even worse than Roz.

“Bathroom.” Roz points down the hallway. “Then coffee.”

They nod and shuffle down the hallway. There’s some noise, the click of a door, and then Brooks reappears, blinking dumbly.

“Only one toilet,” he says.

Cliff sighs and hands over a mug of coffee. “Lightweight.”

Brooks gives him a betrayed look. “You made us drink vodka. With a Russian.”

Roz nods. “Is true. Rookie mistake.” He snickers at his own joke, then groans and grips his head.

“Roz isn’t even in drinking shape,” Cliff points out mildly and pours more coffee.

Brooks stares in horror, obviously imagining Roz in drinking shape, and then burns his mouth on his coffee. Cliff can’t help but laugh.

Eventually, Svensson reappears. His face is flushed, and the tips of his blond hair are wet, so he attempted some sort of wash. Cliff pushes a coffee cup in his direction, and Roz digs out another bottle of Advil. He takes two before he hands it over.

“Grease?” Cliff asks.

“Eggs and bacon in the fridge,” Roz says, apparently unwilling to move from where he’s still leaning heavily against the kitchen counter.

Cliff gets started. There’s a surprising number of ginger ale cans in the fridge, but Cliff ignores that in favor of making breakfast. Eventually Roz manages to help with the eggs. He throws some herbs in them, which is definitely new but it smells nice, so Cliff isn’t complaining.

Brooks reappears, looking marginally more alive but also incredibly grateful for the Advil.

“You guys need to learn how to party,” Cliff says. “Roz here was a natural when he came to Boston.”

“I am natural at everything,” Roz declares, but his bragging is lacking his usual energy. He still looks like he’s a cup of coffee away from passing out again.

“Yeah, I’m not comparing myself in anything to Ilya Rozanov,” Svensson mutters under his breath.

It’s not quiet enough because Roz nods. “I am incomparable.”

Cliff laughs again. Man, he misses Roz. He blames it on his own lack of sleep that he actually says it out loud.

Instead of ribbing him, Roz just bumps his shoulder against Cliff’s.

“I feel like in compensation I should at least get to meet Jane.”

Roz’s instant “no” clashes with Brooks’s “Jane?”

“Shut up,” Roz says to the room at large.

“Oh come on, man,” Cliff says. “I already know she’s the reason you moved here.”

Roz stares at him with wide eyes. “What?”

The two rookies stare equally wide-eyed.

“Montreal girl,” Cliff says. “Jane.”

“In case you forgot, I moved to Ottawa,” Roz says with a snort, but his shoulders are tense.

Cliff should probably drop this—he dropped it last night—but fuck that. They were teammates for eight fucking years, friends even, Cliff likes to think, and partied their way through every club in every city with a hockey team.

Roz was the one who bailed him out of jail after the whole thing in St Louis, and Cliff was the one who took a punch to the face when it turned out Roz unknowingly hit on a married woman whose husband had a very short fuse and a mean right hook in Philly.

And then Roz just left, almost no warning, packed up and left for fucking Ottawa. Cliff never pressed on the whole Montreal girl thing because Roz was touchy about it, clearly a sore subject with the long distance and her obviously not wanting to move to Boston for him. But pretending she’s not the reason Roz left for Ottawa and Cliff’s too stupid to know it… Cliff’s a laid-back guy, and he rarely gets angry, not even with Roz, but his head is still throbbing, and fuck Ilya fucking Rozanov for being a shitty friend.

“You still moved for her,” Cliff says. “And I don’t know why you keep lying about it.” To me, Cliff doesn’t say, but then he does because fuck this. “Come on, man, you can tell me. You could always tell me.”

“Ottawa,” Roz says slowly, with emphasis, like he’s speaking to a toddler, “Is not Montreal.”

And Cliff is done with this bullshit.

“Yeah, well, you couldn’t go to Montreal.” Cliff holds up a finger. “They would never sign you because you’re the most hated player in Montreal.” He holds up another finger. “Hollander would never play with you. He’d never move to second line for you, and you’d never play second line for him. So unless you suddenly want to play wing, no dice. Never mind that even if the fans don’t set the Bell Centre on fucking fire for signing you, and Hollander doesn’t run you through with his stick for joining his team, they still don’t have the fucking cap space to afford you. So no dice on Montreal. And if my Canadian geography isn’t completely fucked, then Ottawa is the closest you can get to Montreal.”

Roz stares at him, shoulders slumped in defeat.

“What I don’t fucking get is why she wouldn’t move for you?”

“That is what you don’t get?”

Cliff shrugs. “You’ve been after your Montreal girl since rookie season, man. No one stuck around for as long as her except for Svetlana, and you were always the one who made it clear she’s just a friend. But Jane was never a friend. And then you stopped sleeping around last year, so it was obvious it was getting serious. But man, you’re one of the best, and Ottawa is shit, so… Why couldn’t she come to Boston?”

Roz looks up at the ceiling and mutters something in Russian. Cliff really only learned one Russian word, blyat, because it’s Roz’s favorite curse word. He hears it now too.

Behind Roz, the rookies are staring, mouths open but not making a sound.

Finally Roz says, “Jane has job in Montreal. Career. Would be stupid to move.”

“And it wasn’t for you?” Cliff asks incredulously.

Roz shrugs. “I can rebuild the team. Did it before in Boston, no? And… family is here, in Ottawa. So Jane is here a lot. It makes sense.”

It’s an odd mix of mushy and cocky, which is really Roz’s whole thing if you get to know him, just that he usually hides the mushiness under more layers of insults. Still, Cliff has questions.

“Okay, but what I don’t get is why you didn’t tell anyone? Like the fans might not have felt so betrayed, you know?”

Cliff might not have felt so betrayed.

Roz shrugs again. “Jane is very private. I did not want the press to go snooping.”

That makes Brooks break. He lets out an incredulous noise.

Roz turns around like he forgot the rookies were there.

“Just,” Brooks starts helplessly, falling silent under Roz’s hard look.

Svensson, now apparently remembering that he’s a six-foot-four MLH defenseman who regularly gets into fights on the ice, says, “What girl wouldn’t want to be seen with you?”

Roz snorts. “Jane is much too good for me. Trust me, I would not be good for reputation.”

The rookies both stare uncomprehending. Cliff gets it; Roz is their idol. They both had his poster on their walls just a few years ago. When Brooks got drunk with the team for the first time, he confided in Connors that getting drafted to Boston was a dream come true because of Roz and that he’d honest-to-god cried when Roz went to Ottawa before Brooks ever got to meet him. It’s the main reason Cliff brought them with him last night, instead of catching up with Roz alone. The rookies’ sad puppy eyes had been too much for even Cliff to refuse.

“Still,” Cliff says, because he can be a dog with a bone when he has to, “now that I know, I could meet her? Just grab lunch or dinner or something? I really want to meet the girl who got you to move to fucking Ottawa.”

Roz blows out breath. “Sure. Some day.” There’s something heavy in Roz’s expression.

Some day. It doesn’t sound like any day soon. And it’s glaringly obvious that it’s not Roz’s choice.

Cliff stares into his coffee and wonders about this girl—or woman now, considering how long they’ve been a thing—who works in a field where she doesn’t want to openly date a hockey player. Who made Roz settle down and move to the worst team in the league. Who comes to visit Roz sometimes but doesn’t want to live with him full-time. Doesn’t even want to move to Ottawa for him, when he moved to fuckass Ottawa for her.

Cliff is starting to hate Jane from Montreal a little.

The kitchen is quiet now, everyone staring into their coffee cups, the rookies still in shock and Roz just tired.

In the silence, the noise of the front door opening is very loud.

Roz’s head snaps up immediately.

There’s some shuffling, maybe a bag dropped, then a voice calls out. “Ilya?”

The voice is male. And vaguely familiar.

What the fuck?

Roz has gone as white as a sheet and hurries out of the kitchen. “Hey. Wait, I have—”

“Oh good, you’re up. I thought maybe you got so shitfaced with Marleau last night, you’re still unconscious,” the voice says. There’s more shuffling, maybe a coat hung up or shoes toed off.

“We did and Marly is still—” Roz starts, standing in the hallway, but then Shane Hollander steps into view, steps up right to Roz, takes his face into his hands, and pulls him in for a kiss. Right on the mouth. And it’s not just a little peck either, it’s a full-on lip smash, tongue swipe, going-back-for-seconds kiss on the mouth.

What the…

One of the rookies squeaks and Cliff stares and Roz is frozen and Hollander—Shane fucking Hollander—pulls back.

Hollander makes a face. “You taste like an ashtray rinsed with vodka.”

Roz makes a helpless croaky noise. “I—”

Hollander rolls his eyes, plants another kiss on Roz’s mouth, sweet and way too long considering his statement on how Roz’s mouth tastes, and then says, “Go brush your teeth. I missed you.”

“I didn’t know you were coming early,” Roz says, desperately, pleading.

Hollander smiles softly. “Surprise. I realized we could get a few more hours together and I didn’t want to waste any of it, and…” Then his face falls, apparently finally registering Roz’s expression. “Not a good surprise?”

Roz shakes his head.

There’s a clinking noise, and every head in the room turns to the kitchen island where Brooks just turned over his coffee cup.

“Sorry,” he says, a small puddle of coffee spreading over the counter.

Hollander stares, wide-eyed. “Fuck. Oh fuck.”

“Yeah, so Marly and the rookies got so drunk last night, they could not remember their hotel or room numbers, so I took them home,” Roz says, somewhat weakly.

“And you couldn’t tell me this?” Hollander hisses.

Roz shrugs. “Was also very drunk. And didn’t think you were coming until later.”

“The interview was canceled,” Hollander says, almost absently, his eyes flitting back and forth between Cliff and the rookies. “Oh god. Fuck. Oh fuck.”

And Cliff… he shakes his head, thoughts finally kicking into gear again. Roz and Hollander. Roz and Shane Hollander. How? When? Why? Cliff’s mind is a madhouse, still sluggish from the booze, but there’s Roz’s sudden move to Ottawa, Roz no longer partying or picking up girls. There’s the whole gay or European thing Roz always had going on, that no one ever suspected was gay simply because Roz hooked up with so many women. There’s also Roz’s no tolerance policy of slurs after Hunter came out. But then there’s Montreal girl. Jane from Montreal.

Oh.

Oh.

Suddenly Roz’s secrecy about his Montreal girl makes a lot more sense. Because Roz’s Montreal girl is apparently Shane fucking Hollander.

And it’s… a lot. Fucked up probably. What about their whole rivalry? How long has this been going on?

But no, Cliff knows this. Montreal girl has been around since rookie season. He just has a hard time translating this to Shane Hollander—Shane fucking Hollander—having been around since rookie season.

Shane Hollander. Montreal girl.

Shane. Jane.

Jesus Christ.

Cliff lets out an almost hysterical laugh.

Roz rounds on him immediately and gets a fist into his shirt. “Marleau, I swear, if you—”

Still laughing, Cliff raises his hands. “Roz, no. I just… fuck, you were right.”

“Right?”

“Your Montreal girl really is too good for you.”

And then Cliff laughs again. Because Roz is in love with the golden boy of hockey, Shane Hollander. Has been in love with Shane Hollander for years, maybe his entire career, and no one fucking knew. How the fuck did no one know? Because it’s fucking insane, that’s what it is, but here Cliff is, hungover in Roz’s kitchen where Shane Hollander—Shane fucking Hollander—just kissed Roz square on the mouth. With tongue.

Roz stares, then he laughs too. “He really fucking is. I’m still best hockey player though,” he adds, and Cliff slaps him on the shoulder.

“My brother in Christ, Hollander always had you beat,” Cliff says, and it’s at least halfway true, and it’s Roz’s turn to punch him and none too gently.

“What the fuck,” Hollander says faintly behind them, and Cliff really should have recognized his voice immediately.

Roz turns around, and his whole posture changes. He walks over to Hollander slowly. “Shane. Is okay. Cliff is okay.”

“Nothing about this is okay.” Hollander drags his hands over his head. “Fuck, this is—we’ve been so fucking careful, this is like my dad all over again, only this time it’s worse, because it’s—it’s them.” Hollander gestures wildly at the kitchen.

Cliff’s kind of worried he’s going to start hyperventilating any moment.

“Will be fine,” Roz says, and wraps a hand around Hollander’s neck, pulls him in so close their noses are almost touching. “Listen to me, it will be fine. Cliff will not say anything, he is good friend, okay?”

For a moment, Hollander leans forward, presses his forehead against Roz’s shoulder, and Roz wraps him in his arms. It’s so fucking intimate, Cliff needs to look away. He feels like he’s spying or some shit.

Still trying to process Roz and Shane fucking Hollander, he looks over to the rookies. They’re both staring at Roz and Hollander, Brooks with his mouth hanging open and Svensson with something like awe, the look a kid might get when they see Santa. Or well, Santa and the Easter Bunny kissing.

Hollander pulls away from Roz, his hands tight on Roz’s shoulders though. “Okay. Okay, this is... not ideal, but we can… Cliff is fine, he’s—” Hollander looks over, but his eyes get stuck on the rookies.

“Fuck.”

Cliff doesn’t think he’s ever seen Hollander afraid, but it’s clear he is now. And Cliff gets it. This is… a lot. And this is not Scott Hunter kissing his cute smoothie shop boyfriend after his cup win. This is the biggest rivals of the league being in a relationship. People are going to lose their fucking minds. The league might have tolerated Hunter and his wholesome boyfriend, but this would hit like a bomb. They’re fucking competing against each other, and Cliff knows Roz well enough to know that he loves winning more than anything and especially winning against Hollander, which was always true, always, but who else is going to believe that? It’s kind of incomprehensible. Except they’re both risking their entire careers for this, have been risking their entire careers for this, and even if Cliff doesn’t get it, it’s got to be the real thing, and Roz is still his friend, so Cliff will help him protect this. Even if it means threatening the rookies.

Roz just glares at the rookies for a second, his eyes suddenly burning with a promise that usually means someone is about to lose a tooth on the ice, then he turns back to Hollander. “The rookies will not say anything,” he says, voice calm and soothing. “They know I will kill them if they do.”

Brooks makes a noise again, and Svensson goes very pale.

“We won’t tell,” Svensson says.

“Yeah.” Brooks clears his throat. “My cousin is a lesbian, so like, I’m down with the rainbow.” Then he cringes immediately.

“Svensson, are you also down with the rainbow?” Roz asks sardonically.

“I’m Swedish,” Svensson just says as if that explains everything. And maybe it does.

“Cliff?” Roz prompts.

Cliff raises his hands. “Hey, man, I’m an ally. I went with Hunter to his bar the last time we played the Admirals. And you’re still my friend.”

“And… us?” Hollander asks, still standing very still and tense, his hands opening and closing in a death grip on Roz’s shoulders, who doesn’t seem bothered at all by being used as a human stressball.

Cliff shrugs, decides to be honest. “I mean, it’s weird. I don’t understand how that worked for you guys. But like, I’ve watched Roz moon at his phone over his Montreal girl for years, so.”

“I did not moon,” Roz says, outraged.

“Whatever you guys have seems to be the real deal,” Cliff continues. “And I’m a romantic at heart.”

Roz snorts. “Stacey really domesticated you.”

“Pot.” Cliff points at Roz. “Kettle.”

And Roz—Ilya fucking Rozanov—smiles as happily as Cliff has ever seen.

As Cliff considers the years of secrecy, the shit show this will be if it ever comes out, the way Shane fucking Hollander kissed Roz on his gross hangover mouth and went back for seconds, and how fucking happy Roz looks right now, he thinks that maybe he shouldn’t hate Jane from Montreal after all.