Rating:

Not Rated

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

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

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Hayden Pike, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau

Additional Tags:

Relationship Reveal, Good Friend Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau Finds Out About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Miscommunication, Crack Treated Seriously, ilya rozanov/hayden pike - ish

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-06 Words: 7,046 Chapters: 1/1

problem solved: rozanov + pike(!)

Summary

Cliff Marlow arrives at the 2020 all-star game at 4p.m.

Cliff Marlow is kidnapped by Hayden Pike and Ilya Rozanov before 5p.m.

_____________________________________________________________________________

Or, Cliff Marlow learns of a secret relationship between Ilya Rozanov and a Voyaguer.

Notes

I have another fic (all's well that ends well (to end up with you)) that's ongoing - if anyone's clicking on this because of that, know that it's not abandoned, I'm just at war with the next chapter.

This one has been building in my brain for months so now I release it to all of you.

CLIFF

 

Cliff Marlow touched down in Anaheim on a sunny Thursday afternoon. The staff from the Raiders’ private jet helped him transport his bags to a car before bidding him farewell and best wishes at this year’s All Star weekend. Cliff worried that he heard a twinge of sarcasm in their words, but he couldn’t worry too much about it as he sped towards the hotel that would house a few dozen elite athletes for the next several days. 

The All Star Game invite was, admittedly, a little bit of a pity thing, Cliff thought. In his first few years in the league, Cliff had secured two invites to the event on his own merit – it had been exciting to be considered one of the best players in the league, it had been less exciting to trudge his way to Minnesota and then, god help him, Winnipeg while his teammates posted Facebook photos from sandy beaches, margaritas in hand. In Cliff’s fifth season with the Raiders, Ilya Rozanov showed up; before long, Boston’s management team was building a dynamic group around the young phenom and Cliff was no longer the best player on a terrible team, but a pretty good player on a pretty great team. His All-Star invites dried up quickly from there, Rozanov attending as the Boston representative instead, but it was a small price to pay for the Cup that Cliff had since lifted. 

Lately, Boston found itself crawling back towards the bottom of the standings. In the three years since Rozanov left, the team had deteriorated quickly. They’d played well the first season, finishing in a respectable third place in their division – it wasn’t the record-setting number of wins that they’d managed with Roz, but they were in the playoffs against a Florida team that they’d beat handily in the regular season. Florida should have been an entirely manageable challenge. The Raiders got their asses kicked. A five game series was all it took, Boston’s one win came in a grueling triple overtime ordeal off a bounce that was pure luck; in the locker room after the series was lost, no one spoke, each of them seeming to come to the collective realization that they were not the Cup contenders that they’d been touted as for so many previous seasons. Cliff had sat there lamenting, not for the first time, that the management team had not named a next Captain after Rozanov’s abrupt departure – someone needed to say something. A few breaths later, Cliff had heard himself break the heavy silence to tell his team that he was still proud of them, proud to be one of them; he made no promise of a return to glory next season, but he promised that he would stay. Then he offered to buy a round of shots. When he’d looked around the room, he saw the looks tossed between some of his fellow veteran teammates and he’d known that they’d not be back, known that they’d test free agency or request trades, chasing that next elusive win. Surprisingly though, he had seen much of their newer talent staring back at him, with eagerness and a whole hell of a lot to prove. 

The following season, as he’d predicted, Cliff found himself on a very different Boston team. Their average age was just over 27, and if they excluded Cliff from that calculation, the number was closer to 25. Most of October and November was spent being screamed at by the coaching staff, who couldn’t quite seem to acclimate to developing a brand new class of talent rather than puppeteering a proven group of winners. Cliff spent his time, or the little of it in which he was not being screamed at, running drills and explaining theory to kids far more talented than he’d ever been. It was usually his favourite part of the day. By Christmas, the Boston Raiders had managed just five wins over 22 games – it was the worst start in the team’s storied history. Mercifully, Cliff thought, it meant that the coaching staff was let go, replaced by the head coach of Boston’s junior affiliate on an interim basis. Coach Stretcher was young for a head coach, only in his mid-40s, but he’d worked with many of the young guys as they’d come up through the leagues; he was patient with them, offering praise and constructive criticism in equal manner. With Cliff, Coach Stretcher would offer the occasional piece of advice about turning his blade out slightly to hit the top corner of the next more cleanly, or to sink lower in his stride to compensate for the step he’d lost over the years, but more often the coach kept Cliff back to explain why he was running the powerplay units more than the penalty kill, or how to spot a players weakness is three strides or less. Cliff liked getting that insight. By the end of January, the Raiders had won another six games, Cliff had been named interim Captain, and each of the rookies had accomplished personal bests. They missed the playoffs by a lot, but it was the most fun that Cliff had ever had. 

By Christmas of this season, Boston had more than doubled their win pace from the year prior. They still weren’t in playoff position, and they didn’t expect to be, but it felt good, if a little bittersweet. Cliff had already decided that this season would be his last; his contract was up and while he was certain that he could bounce around the league for another couple seasons in search of a Cup or a few million dollars, he liked the idea of being a Raider for his entire career. He’d considered another season or two in Boston, a pay cut would be required with several of his teammates due for raises in the coming year, but that didn’t bother Cliff. What was bothering him, however, was a long list of aches: his knees creaked more than the floorboards of his old Victorian house in the suburbs, his right rotator cuff had been near torn for the better part of the past few years, the early signs of arthritis had started to appear in his hands, and he was about one solid head injury away from permanent damage. So, Cliff made the quiet decision to step away from hockey without a big farewell tour (not that he considered himself enough of a star to warrant it) or even a mid-season announcement to his teammates (he wanted to spare himself the pity party). 

All that to say, Cliff was incredibly surprised to get the call from MLH headquarters in early January to invite him to the All Star Game. Louis Karlsonn, a talented late round draft pick who had blossomed on Boston’s top line, had been their first representative, but a fractured wrist suffered late in the year would keep him out through February. Still, Cliff thought there were plenty of other teammates who were better suited to the ‘All Star’ title; when he shared as much with Coach Stretcher, the older man had shrugged with a grin before muttering something about the kids having booked a Cabo trip. 

“You know?” Cliff had asked, eyes squinted at his coach, trying to figure out what he’d said to Stretcher that could have revealed his intention to retire. 

“I don’t know,” he’d replied with a sigh. “But you’re compensating for your right side by exposing your left and I’m pretty sure that your shoulder is being held together by athletic tape. We all have to move on from the game at some point.” 

Coach Stretcher had confirmed that he’d put in a good word with the league when they called about a replacement, Cliff found himself oddly grateful, especially as he wandered into the lobby of a 5-star hotel with his picture flashing across a big screen. It had been a long time since he’d felt like a star in this league and while that typically afforded him some much sought after privacy, a little dose of attention was good for his ego. More than anything, though, Cliff was glad to be a part of this weekend because he hoped that the non-combative setting would give him the chance to speak with the league’s two most prolific athletes: Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov. 

Hollander deserved an apology, a personal one, for the hit Cliff had thrown years prior. At the time, he’d tried to visit Hollander in the hospital but Rozanov, of all people, categorically denied him entry. Cliff had sent a fruit basket and a note the next week, but he’d never had the opportunity to apologize to his face. Truth be told, it was the only hit that Cliff had thrown in his entire career that had actually injured someone, and with his own concussion history, it still rattled him. 

Rozanov would be a longer conversation. They’d been friends, good friends, for years before Roz made the move to Ottawa with no word of warning or explanation to the team. Cliff wasn’t angry about it, not like some of the other guys had been, but they’d gone from spending most of their waking hours together to sporadic texting on birthdays or holidays. Like most of the league, Cliff had his own ideas about why Rozanov left for Ottawa, most of his theories had something to do with Jane, the Montreal girl who made Roz blush – if they were in any way accurate, Cliff actually thought it was pretty romantic. Even if Ilya never shared the why, Cliff wanted him to know that there was no bad blood, at least on his end. 

This was going to be a good weekend, Cliff assured himself. He’d build bridges with Roz and Hollander, party like the star he used to be and then nap like soon-to-be retiree that he was now, hell, maybe he’d even score a goal or two. It would be fun, if a little predictable. 

Finished with check-in, Cliff spotted Hayden Pike walking past the elevators and decided to catch him. He’d play nice with Pike, apologize to Hollander, and then deal with the whole Rozanov ordeal. Actually, maybe he’d hit a bar and then deal with the whole Rozanov ordeal. 

“Pike! Hey, wait up.”

 

HAYDEN

Hayden Pike had been loitering around this damn hotel for almost an hour. When the flight from Montreal landed, Shane had taken one look at his phone, sighed loudly and turned to face Hayden in their seats. 

“Hayd, you know you’re my best friend in the world, right?”

Hayden groaned. This sort of question only ever preceded the request of a favour and, knowing Shane, it was a favour involving Ilya Rozanov. Weeks prior, Shane had launched into a similar diatribe and that conversation had ended with Hayden reluctantly agreeing to help the pair sneak around for the duration of this very weekend. 

“It won’t take much! We’ll just ‘room together’ so that if anyone comes looking for me, they’ll find you & you can say make up an excuse.” Shane had exclaimed. 

Hayden had sighed. “Didn’t you guys used to sneak around without needing my help?”

“Well, yes of course,” Shane had smiled, lost in that memory. Hayden coughed to snap him out of it. “We’d meet up during the day, when I could’ve, plausibly, been at the pool or a shoot or a restaurant. I never let myself stay the night, though. Didn’t want to get caught in the morning.”

“And you want me to be your morning cover?”

“I’d appreciate it,” Shane had replied, voice so full of longing that Hayden knew he wouldn’t be able to refuse. Even if it meant helping Ilya Rozanov.  

“Is this going to be like a sex retreat weekend for you guys?” He had tried to hold back his sigh, but Ilya Rozanov? Really? 

Shane had paused for a moment, evidently torn between telling the truth and keeping Hayden agreeable enough to capitulate. Eventually, Hayden saw the wide smile spread across his friend’s face, a dreamy look in his eyes. 

“It’ll scratch an itch.”

Hayden had complained, but ultimately agreed to Shane’s terms. Now, he found himself being faced with yet another proposition. 

“Ilya’s room isn’t ready yet. The hotel had a late checkout, they need another few hours.” 

Hayden knew what Shane meant: if their room was ready, could Shane and Rozanov use it as their sex dungeon until the next one came available. He didn’t love the idea, but Hayden also knew that the pair hadn’t seen each other in nearly a month. Montreal had taken off to California on a long road trip shortly after the holidays, Ottawa had followed in their footsteps about ten days later. The timing meant that Shane and Rozanov had barely been in the same time zone in January, let alone within driving distance. 

“Fine,” Hayden conceded. “But I’m going to the hotel bar and I’m charging it to our room.”

An hour later, as promised, Hayden found himself at the hotel bar. He slammed back a shot of their cheapest whiskey and then, remembering it wasn’t his damn bill, ordered a much nicer glass of scotch to sip. Over the next half hour, he nursed that drink and caught up on Instagram posts from everyone who’d been spared from All Star weekend. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the invite, he did, but sometimes a week in Punta Cana with his beautiful wife sounded preferable to an exhibition event with people he mostly considered colleagues. Especially with Shane abandoning him to spend time with Rozanov, Hayden was feeling just a little bitter about the whole ordeal. 

Halfway tipsy with nothing to do but kill time, Hayden found himself pacing the lobby and inventing excuses to use for Shane’s absence if questioned. 

“He’s in the bathroom!” (Worked, but had a limited run time if the inquirer decided to stick around. Unless he painted a very messy picture of Shane’s digestive system.)

“He’s in the shower.” (Better, but Hayden would likely need the foresight to turn on the shower before answering the door.) 

“He’s just running some errands and/or at a press thing.” (Good, vague enough that Hayden could pretend not to have specifics and the Nosy Nelly that asked would be on a wild goose chase while Hayden wrangled his friend. It did have a bit of a ‘business hours only’ limitation which could prove difficult for whatever activities Shane had planned with his … lover.)

“He’s at the gym.” (Very good, worked even at weird times because everyone knew that Shane Hollander was a freak about fitness. Though, there was always the risk that someone actually went to the gym and found no Shane Hollander in sight.) 

“He’s getting laid.” (Hayden laughed to himself about that one. Given Shane’s reputation, most of the league would laugh in his face and demand a real answer. The unfortunate truth of it meant that if Hayden said it and then Shane was spotted on Rozanov’s floor, the opportunity for rumours ran rampant. No, Hayden could not breathe a word to anyone about Shane having any sort of sex this weekend.) 

“Pike!” Cliff Marlow caught Hayden’s attention, moving quickly across the lobby before stopping in front of him. “Hey, you’re rooming with Hollander, right?”

“Yeah, we’re in 1731,” Hayden replied mindlessly, still flicking through excuses in his mind. 

“Thanks man, catch you later!” Cliff offered a wave before hustling over to the elevators. 

The shower one was probably the best, right? Maybe he could just turn the water on as soon as he got to his room and then let it run. He would plant a few trees when he landed back in Montreal as penance for the waste. One thing was for sure, Hayden was being tasked with keeping his best friend’s biggest secret, he for damn sure wasn’t going to fuck that up. 

Oh fuck, Hayden thought, watching the elevator doors close on an unsuspecting Cliff Marlow as the creeping realization finally dawned on him. Oh fuck, he’d fucked it up. 

 

ILYA

Ilya Rozanov sat on a queen sized bed, wondering why the hell Shane insisted on continuing to room with Pike after all these years. Sure, shared double rooms were always comped by the league, but Ilya had always been glad to pay the extra cash for privacy and a bigger bed. Especially when he planned on privately sharing it. 

Shane had been insistent that rooming with Hayden was integral to the success of keeping their relationship secret. Ilya didn’t think that counting on Hayden Pike to be successful was the best idea his boyfriend had ever had, but having some extra help couldn’t hurt. Probably. In any case, the extra room seemed like a good idea when the front desk informed Ilya that the suite he’d booked was hours away from being available. When he’d texted Shane the news, a text from Jane popped up minutes later. 

J: don’t worry. Hayden’s got our back. 

Ilya missed his boyfriend too much to think any harder about that. 

Twenty minutes later, Ilya sat on Pike’s bed (or well, he assumed it would be Pike’s bed - Ilya planned on fucking Shane through the other one and he reveled in the idea of being able to annoy Pike from three floors away). Shane spoke in frantic French on his phone and though Ilya couldn’t decipher the foreign words, the crease on Shane’s forehead and tightly clasped fist told him that this was not a pleasant conversation. 

“Il me dit que la réunion est demain, non?” 

Annoying. Shane’s perfect, annoying french. It was also adorable. 

“Ça va,” Ilya did not like the heavy sigh Shane let out. “Me donne dix minutes.”

They must have said their goodbyes because five minutes later, Shane was in a blazer and dress pants, kissing Ilya on the cheek and promising to be back as soon as possible. It made him proud that Shane juggled so many sponsorships and interviews and their charity, all in addition to a very successful professional hockey career. It also annoyed him endlessly when those obligations cut into their already limited time. The part that Ilya most hated to admit was that it also hurt a little, that the public got so much of Shane, except for all the pieces that included Ilya. He tried to brush that aside while he laid back on Pike’s bed. Ignoring the constant buzzing coming from his phone, Ilya closed his eyes and let himself think of the cottage, think of how before they had that, they always had this weekend. One day, when it couldn’t hurt Shane, Ilya imagined spending every day like the cottage, not caring who saw or who cared. 

Sooner than he expected, Ilya heard a knock at the door. He tried not to jump up, not to look eager – he was pretty certain that he failed. Going for smug and sultry, Ilya reached for the door. 

“Welcome back. As apology, you can suck my –”

Ilya’s question was cut off when he saw that the man on the other side of the door was not his boyfriend. No, instead of Shane, his ex-teammate stood in front of him. He had just asked Cliff Marlow if he was going to suck his cock. Fuck. This was bad. He and Shane had talked for days about the consequences of people knowing that Ilya was bisexual, given that Shane was largely out, at least to the league, as gay. It dawned on Ilya then that not only had he basically outed himself, he’d done it while standing in Shane Hollander’s hotel room. Double fuck. 

Maybe he could just close the door? Cliff was older now, maybe he’d also gone half blind? Or deaf? The look of shock painted on Marlow’s face suggested that neither possibility was likely. Okay, this would be fine. Ilya just needed to come up with a plausible reason for hanging around Shane’s room and requesting oral pleasure. Fortunately, his solution came sprinting out of the elevator in the form of Hayden Pike (actually, Ilya did not find it fortunate – this might be the worst plan he’d ever concocted in his life. Triple fuck.). 

“Uh, I’ll just go,” Cliff started to turn. 

“No!” Ilya yelped. “No, stay. Pike, stop him.”

Maybe that had been the wrong thing to say. Suddenly, it was like Ilya had sicced a feral dog on poor Cliff; Pike threw his body into the taller defenseman, sending both of them tumbling through the door at Ilya’s feet. Cliff rose from the ground first, but with Ilya’s body blocking the door, his only path was further into the room. Pike sprung to his feet moments later, already lunging at Cliff before Ilya could speak. At that moment, with two very large hockey players chasing each other around a small hotel room, Ilya knew he’d made a mistake. His plan, if that’s what he could call it, required a white lie and an adult conversation. Instead, he likely invoked the fight or flight reaction of two athletes that were primed for both. Three deep breaths later, Ilya decided on plan B. 

Shuffling to the windowsill, Ilya found the duffel bag that Shane had dropped off earlier that afternoon. Rummaging around it, Ilya located his target easily in the interior side pocket – quickly accessible and well hidden, very predictable, very Shane Hollander. Pushing past the bottle of lube and a long roll of condoms, Ilya’s hand brushed cool metal. Perfect. In a swift motion, he yanked the object from the bag and called for Pike’s attention. 

“Pike, catch!” The moment seemed to suspend itself. Pike dove for the metal flying through the air, Cliff launched himself towards the door, Ilya latched onto Cliff’s collar to halt his movement. 

In a matter of seconds, Ilya had shoved Cliff onto the bed and Pike clasped one shiny handcuff to his wrist, the other trapping Cliff to the headboard. Not exactly an elegant solution, but at least it afforded Ilya a moment of thought. 

“Roz, come on! You can’t just trap me here,” Cliff protested loudly. 

“Stop talking,” Ilya finally demanded. “I just, just give me a moment.” 

The room fell into a hush, just briefly before Pike interrupted it. 

“You’re not going to like …,” Pike’s words trailed off but he lifted his thumb to his throat and made a slicing gesture. Pike was an idiot. 

“Jesus Christ. I’m not going to kill him,” Ilya muttered in Russian, but he heard the exasperation shine through. 

The plan was simple, now – or at least simpler. First, Ilya needed to admit that he was bisexual; Cliff had heard too much when he knocked on that door, and if Ilya had any hope of selling the lie in step two, he needed to tell a little bit of the truth first. This was scarier than Ilya thought it would be, the words hanging heavy on his lips. He understood Shane a little better, the world was a scary place to be queer, the MHL was scarier still. Cliff had never, like, said slurs or anything outwardly homophobic around Ilya, which wasn’t exactly a credit to Cliff but more an indictment of the general state of the majority of the league. 

Ilya considered threatening him, something along the lines of ‘I am bisexual. Tell no one, or else,” but what could he realistically do? As far as he knew, Cliff didn’t have any immediate family that Ilya could leverage against him (not that he’d actually harm anyone, but Ilya was finding that fearing for a loved one could be a very powerful motivator in this moment). He thought he remembered Cliff posting something to Instagram a few months back, a new puppy he’d adopted from a local Boston shelter. Ugh. That wouldn’t work. Ilya couldn’t threaten a cute, defenceless puppy, even if it was empty. So the only option was being brave; he’d tell Cliff the truth and hope that the man who had been his friend for years could accept him. 

Realizing that his Russian response, followed by prolonged silence to the question of whether or not he planned to kill Cliff, was likely responsible for the mounting tension in the room, Ilya found his voice. 

“I am bisexual,” Ilya announced, watching Cliff carefully for the signs of disgust and was pleasantly surprised to find none visible. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Ilya spotted Pike using the moment of respite to take a drink of water, relief evident on his face that he wouldn’t need to help bury a body. Ilya almost felt bad for what he was about to do. 

“I am bisexual, and I am dating Hayden Pike.” 

 

HAYDEN

Hayden felt the sip of water fly past his lips before he could rein it back in. There were many things that he thought Rozanov might have said in that moment, like ‘I was going to smother Shane in his sleep so that I could finally win an Art Ross,’ or ‘I got lost looking for my very female booty call,’ or ‘my suitcase was delivered to the wrong room and I couldn’t find the exit.’ But no, instead Ilya Rozanov had come out to Marlow and then had immediately implicated Hayden in an affair. 

If Hayden really thought about it, it kind of made sense. Rozanov had never seemed all that concerned about his sexuality being known, apart from what it could implicate for Shane. This half-truth meant that Rozanov could be honest about himself, but protect Shane in the process. Sure, it meant Hayden was pretty fucked if Marlow ended up being a massive homophobe and told the whole league, but he’d rather take that heat than have Shane face the backlash of his not-really-a-rivalry with Rozanov coming to light. Besides, Hayden thought it might be fun to stage a very public dumping of Rozanov in a few months time. 

“Yes! Of course, yes, Rozanov is my boyfriend,” Hayden nodded, walking inches closer to him. Yeah, they were still more than a few feet apart, but the thought counted. 

“You two?” Cliff asked, shock evident. Damn, poor Rozanov – obviously Marlow thought that he was punching above his weight class. 

“Yes. Exactly. Us two.” Rozanov stuttered. God, he needed to lighten up if they were ever going to sell this. 

“He just called you Rozanov,” Marlow said. It sounded like an accusation. 

“Sexy roleplay game,” Ilya replied. It sounded like a rebuttal. 

“You’ve told me, many times, that Pike couldn’t score on an empty net if the refs gave him a penalty shot,” Marlow addressed Rozanov again. And hey, rude! Hayden could definitely score on an empty net, even without it being a penalty shot! 

“Well yes, I don’t date him because he is good hockey player,” Rozanov explained. Hayden rolled his eyes but didn’t bother interjecting. 

“Didn’t you break his wrist in like, 2014?” Cliff continued his prodding. Rozanov had broken his wrist, it was an awkward hit – that part hadn’t been intentional, but the force of it had been. Shane had revealed, years later and two beers in, that Rozanov had once confessed to being jealous of their very public friendship, hence the target on Hayden’s back. Once Shane and Rozanov fucking finally defined their relationship, Hayden had received considerably less physical aggression from Rozanov. Hayden heavily suspected that Shane had played a role in deterring that. In retrospect, it was sort of … sweet, how Rozanov wanted so badly to be linked positively to Shane that it drove him to jealousy over an entirely platonic relationship. Fuck, Hayden was really doing this. 

“That’s actually when it started,” Hayden heard himself say, forcing himself to walk over to Rozanov’s side. Let the record show that Hayden tried to hold hands with Rozanov, but at the very first brush, Rozanov lifted his arms and crossed them over his chest. “He visited me in the hospital, confessed his little crush, and everything just blossomed from there!” 

Hayden was cooing. Or at least he thought he was. When it was time to retire from hockey, maybe he could see if Shane would hook him up with Rose for some casting calls or something, he was killing this acting thing. 

Next to him, Rozanov was sighing deeply, jaw clenched so tightly that Hayden thought that he’d likely have to visit the MLH dental staff before tomorrow’s events. 

“Yes,” Rozanov finally gritted out. Damn, Hayden should offer him some acting pointers because he was not coming off as in love at the moment. 

“The hit was just misplaced aggression, you know?” Hayden smiled, nodded towards Rozanov like this guy, ya know? “He wanted to be with me, but you know how it is – homophobia and all – he was just acting out.” 

Rozanov kept nodding along stiffly, Christ, he was lucky that he had Hayden here to sell this. For his part, Marlow was remarkably calm for someone who had been handcuffed to a bed without sexual prelude, even if he still looked a little unconvinced. His gaze had been trained on Rozanov for most of their encounter, Hayden found himself unnerved when Marlow’s sharp gaze finally shifted. 

“Don’t you have a wife?” Marlow said as he turned his attention to Hayden.  

Hayden froze. Oh god, Jackie was going to be pissed about Hayden implicating himself in an extramarital affair. There were already enough people on the internet talking about Hayden and Shane, it would be a nightmare if Cliff let it slip that they should actually be talking about Hayden and Rozanov.

“Cheating, sad story,” Rozanov nodded in pity before Hayden could speak. 

“Yes,” Hayden gritted out. “I cheat on my wife. Because I’m dating Ilya Rozanov.” 

Mentally, Hayden sent out a million apologies to Jackie. Tomorrow, he’d buy her the biggest bouquet he could find to apologize for this whole nightmare. 

“Why did you come here?” Rozanov asked. Good. It was good that they were finally flipping the interrogation back to Marlow. 

“I was hoping to talk with Hollander, I feel bad about that hit, I wanted to apologize,” Marlow offered. It was actually kind of nice, Hayden thought. Marlow’s hit on Shane hadn’t been vicious, it was just a part of the game, but Shane’s head had been down and Marlow caught him at top speed. “Pike said that this was his room.”

Christ almighty, nevermind – Cliff Marlow was not sweet, he was a little rat. 

“What?” Rozanov snapped, head spinning toward Hayden. 

“I texted you!” Hayden hissed. 

“Who gave you my number?” Rozanov grumbled back. 

“Aren’t you two dating?” Cliff rolled his eyes. 

“Da, yes, I have new phone,” Rozanov bit back, seeming to compose himself. “Mine broke on plane, I was going to give my new number to my lover when I saw him.” 

God, Rozanov really could do a better job of hiding his disgust. 

“Yes, of course,” Hayden chirped happily. “Rozanov, um, my …. um, my boyfriend got a new phone. His broke, uh, after I gave him our room number and I didn’t realize.”

Marlow’s attention had flipped back to Rozanov who was, again, looking entirely unconvincing, but the questions had been quelled. Despite Rozanov’s lackluster performance, they really seemed to have pulled it off. Damn, Hayden couldn’t believe that Cliff Marlow was actually buying this. 

 

CLIFF

Cliff Marlow was not buying this. 

Pike and Rozanov could be standing in a burning building atop an erupting volcano on the sun and Cliff was pretty sure they’d still manage to avoid a spark. But Rozanov had seemed truthful about being bisexual, truthful about dating a fellow hockey player even. The loose thread holding their story together was that Ilya Rozanov had answered the door of Hayden Pike’s room, promising a blowjob. Hayden Pike and Shane Hollander’s room. 

Hollander and Rozanov were a whole different level of scandal, Cliff had questions about that too, but it made more sense, he thought. Flashes of the aftermath of that hit,  Rozanov hovering over Hollander on the ice, Rozanov ordering Cliff’s exit the following day. Then there was the rivalry itself. Sure, they’d spent most of their professional careers trying to one up each other, but there was always an admiration there too. It had certainly lacked the bitterness that would’ve suggested hatred. Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov, Cliff thought, would that be so crazy? 

Looking at his friend, spotting the fear in his eyes, Cliff made a decision. If this story was true, but Ilya was trying to conceal Hollander’s identity, Cliff would let him. 

“Okay,” Cliff announced. “Okay, so you’ve been harbouring a secret relationship with a Voyager for over a decade, moved to Ottawa for him, and you’re in love. I’m happy for you, Roz.”

“Really?” Pike asked, jaw to his chest. 

“Of course. Ilya, you’re my friend. Who you love is never going to change that.”

“Really?” Rozanov parroted. 

“Yeah, man. I guess a part of me always suspected that you’d gone to Ottawa for Jane. I didn’t realize that Jane was, um,” Shane Hollander, but Cliff couldn’t say that. “Um, a man. Still, it’s romantic that you went to a terrible team for love.” 

That was honest enough, Cliff thought. If Ilya needed to hide behind this very obvious lie about dating Hayden Pike, Cliff would let him. Still, he could promise to be a good friend – the bisexual thing would never be a problem, the Voyageurs thing would even be acceptable. 

“I’m sorry,” Roz gritted out. “Boston has been … bad. We could have won more, but I am very in love”

It was blunt, but Roz always was. Cliff knew now more than ever that Roz – Ilya’s – decision had been about something more than hockey. It would have been nice to hoist a couple more Cups, it would have been nice to retire as Raiders, but it was never in the cards. 

“Well, Ottawa isn’t exactly a dynasty either,” Cliff scoffed easily, because they’d be okay. Even if Ilya was never totally honest about why he moved to Ottawa, Cliff would support him. 

“Da, but the love of my life is here,” Roz smiled fondly, before glancing up at Hayden. Cliff pretended not to notice Roz’s cringe. “Or close enough.”

“So can I be released?” Cliff asked, teasing now that this kidnapping felt a little more casual. 

“Fine,” Roz acquiesced. “But this stays secret.”

 

ILYA

A frantic knock startled the silence that had fallen, Ilya was still three paces from the bed, key in hand to unlock Marlow. His head whipped toward the noise. 

“Oh no,” Ilya wasn’t sure if that had been himself or Hayden. This was bad. 

“Ilya! Ilya, please open the door!” Shane’s voice. Shane’s voice calling him Ilya. “I’m sorry the interview took so long.”

Another knock followed, but Ilya was already at the door. Shane, his normally careful and quiet and discreet Shane, was calling his name from the public hallway of a hotel where dozens of hockey players milled about. Whatever it took, Ilya was going to make sure that they never spent this long apart again – obviously it made them both desperate enough to be reckless. 

“Shane–” Ilya tried to warn, door ajar. 

“Mhm, let me in. Take your pants off,” Shane shoved the door open, grabbing at Ilya’s belt. “Want to suck your co–”

Shane stopped just past the entryway, finally spotting the bed. Ilya felt him freeze. Pike’s eyes were wide with panic, Ilya hadn’t exactly thought that Cliff was buying their story, but he’d hoped that they’d at least thrown him off the trail a little. The smirk spread across Marlow’s face told Ilya that he’d been very, very wrong. 

“Colleagues! I was saying colleagues!” Shane helped. 

“You want to suck his colleagues?” Pike whispered, face contorting into something like pity. When this was all over, Ilya was going to have a long conversation with both Pike and Shane about lying more successfully. These guys were brutal. 

“No! Of course not, I meant, like, hi colleagues!” Shane stammered, looking to Ilya for help he couldn’t possibly give. “It’s such a surprise to find you in my room! And handcuffed to my bed!”

Ilya had gotten a glare for that last part, evidently Shane had a bit of a jealous steak. Interesting. He’d file that away for later. 

In the end, Cliff was the one to put an end to Shane’s spiral. 

“Roz and Pike were just telling me about their torrid love affair,” Cliff said flatly. Ilya cringed. 

“Their WHAT?” Shane demanded, eyes flitting between Ilya and Hayden. Ilya cringed harder. Maybe Cliff hadn’t totally ended the spiral, just diverted it in a new direction. 

Ilya heard Hayden start to speak, something like a denial and a confirmation that convinced absolutely no one. Stepping toward Shane, Ilya used his left hand to grip his shoulder and his right to stop Pike from continuing to talk. 

“Marlow came up here while I was waiting, he thought he heard me say something and I did not know how he would act, so Pike and I caught him. We told him that we are dating,” Ilya willed Shane into making eye contact, he wanted to make sure the next part was clear. “Marlow, you said you are happy for me, da?”

“I am,” Cliff responded from the bed. 

“And you will keep my secret?”

“Of course.”

Ilya felt Shane relax beneath him. Safe. Cliff Marlow was safe for them. Shane’s warm palm found Ilya’s torso and squeezed gently, a sure sign of affection; the look in Shane’s eyes asked for confirmation, you’re sure? they begged, wanting to be certain before Shane gave up completely on Ilya and Hayden’s ruse. Ilya nodded, I’m sure. 

He knew that it scared Shane, having more people know – every additional person who knew their secret, increased the risk of it getting out exponentially. He also wondered if it was at all comforting for Shane, like it was for him, that those who knew chose to accept them.

Shane’s body slid against his, standing side by side and pressed closely so that they could both face the other men in the room. 

“Thank you, both. I know that this isn’t an easy secret to keep, but I’m very grateful that you’re both willing to,” Shane said sincerely, drifting further into Ilya as he spoke; Ilya dropped a kiss to his head in support. 

Murmurs of support came from both athletes. It was nice that they had allies in the league, people who were not just generic allies to queerness, but defenders of Shane and Ilya. But also, Ilya had the love of his life at his side, a hotel room, and some handcuffs he’d been hoping to put to good use – in other words, at least half of the people in the hotel room needed to vacate immediately, unless everyone, Shane included, was about get really cool, really fast. 

“Yes, is nice you two are not homophobic. Now please, get out,” Ilya announced. 

“Ilya!” Shane whined, he whined! Ilya wanted to tell him that it was not helping him want these people out of the room any less. 

Pike moved quickly towards the door. Ilya appreciated it. Ilya did not appreciate that he would probably need to learn to like Pike. Hayden. Whatever. 

“I really am sorry again,” Hayden apologized. 

There wasn’t really anything to forgive, Ilya knew. They were asking him to keep one of the biggest secrets in the league and despite his slip, Hayden immediately tried to rectify the situation by pretending to be Ilya’s cheating, gay lover. Still, that didn’t mean Ilya couldn’t use it to his advantage. 

“Give us two hours. If someone asks, Shane has migraine, da? Then we forgive.”

“Deal.”

With that, Hayden hurried out the door. Ilya found Shane turned toward the bed again, where Cliff remained shackled to the head board. 

“Really?” Shane hissed, in the cute way that Ilya was supposed to be scared of. “Handcuffs?” 

“I got them from your bag, muy lubov.” Ilya muttered back, grinning at the blush spreading across Shane’s face. 

“Okay! Marlow, sorry about all of this,” Shane said, chipper voice betraying both nerves and excitement. Ilya couldn’t wait to get him alone, at least he was being subtle about how badly he wanted Shane’s fucking pants off. 

Finally uncuffed, Cliff rubbed at his wrists and shifted off of the bed. 

“Happy for you guys, your secret is safe and, uh have fun I guess,” There may have been a slight blush on his cheeks as he ran toward the door. Maybe Ilya wasn’t being entirely subtle. 

Halfway out the door, Cliff turned back. “Sorry about your head, Hollzy!”

“My what?” Shane asked, indignant. 

“Hey! His head is very good,” Ilya heard himself cut in. Ilya liked teasing Shane about a lot of things (worse at hockey, hired a personal stylist, being boring), but bad head would never be on that list. 

“The injury,” Cliff sighed dramatically, like the whole day had taken something out of him that he’d never get back. “Sorry about the hit. Glad to hear everything else is in working order, I guess. See you guys on the ice.”

“Bye Cliff. I will send text later,” Ilya closed the door behind him, not caring if it hit Marlow’s ass on the way out. For the first time in weeks, he was alone with his boyfriend in the relative privacy of a hotel room. And they had handcuffs. Ilya grinned and latched onto Shane, this was going to be fun. 

HAYDEN

He has a migraine, Hayden practiced the excuse in his mind. That one was good. Fuck, he wished he’d thought of that. 

Hayden sat back down at the hotel bar and immediately ordered another scotch. He didn’t care whose bill it went on and he didn’t care about the damn hangover that was sure to follow. How Shane and Rozanov had managed to keep things quiet for years was a mystery to Hayden. He’d only known for six months and he was already making mistakes! No more, he vowed. Hayden Pike would take hockey’s best kept secret to his grave. Never again would he be the reason that Shane and Rozanov were outed.