Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid, Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationship:

Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau

Additional Tags:

Marleau being deliberately obtuse about his own sexuality, and says some dumb things, he got the spirit tho, Top/Bottom Versatile | Switch Ilya Rozanov, Bottom Ilya Rozanov, Ultimately hollanov but 99 percent of the story is about ilya and marleau having a very uncomplicated situationship

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of the system

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-07 Words: 4,649 Chapters: 1/1

The System

Summary

Cliff Marlow isn’t gay.
It’s a fact that he’s calm, confident and unbothered by.

He’s been hooking up with Ilya Rozanov on and off for a while now, but that doesn’t count.

Rozanov just plays better after he’s been laid.
And the team always plays better when Roz is playing well.

It was really as simple as that.

Cliff Marlow isn’t gay. 

It’s a fact that he’s calm, confident and unbothered by.

 

He’s been hooking up with Ilya Rozanov on and off for a while now, but that doesn’t count.

 

Rozanov just plays better after he’s been laid.

And the team always plays better when Roz is playing well. 

 

It was really as simple as that.

 

Cities like Montreal and New York - where Roz had regular hookups waiting for him - were a relief. Cliff didn’t have to keep an eye on him those nights. He could be confident that Rozanov was going to get looked after. Marlow had gotten a chance to meet Sveltana heading up with Roz to their hotel room while Marlow was heading out. He got to relax, have a few drinks. Get back to the room early in the morning with the room stinking like sex and Roz sleeping like a baby face down on rumpled, dirty sheets. 

 

Tampa and LA were fine as well. Rozanov almost always had a good time there. An hour or two out at a club and he would be pressed up against some girl who would take him home and put their legs around his head and send him on to the ice with a clear head and fire in his eyes. 

 

Utah was always a disaster, for some reason.

 

They were in Salt Lake City the first time it happened. A bad snowstorm had closed every bar in the city and had them stuck in their rooms. They were just off a bad losing streak of two days in a row. Everyone was bitter and stressed and on edge, but Roz was practically breathing fire. He was keyed up and restless. Marlow dragged him down to the gym to lift weights until he could barely lift his arms, and it helped for a little while. But by the evening Roz was jittery, snapping at the rookies who definitely didn’t need that knock to their confidence. It was still two years before he’d be made Captain and he hadn’t learned quite how to reel it in just yet.

 

Marlow couldn’t remember exactly how it happened. They both had a few shots of bad vodka at the hotel bar. 

Headed up back to the room.  

An argument over something dumb spiraled until they were at each other's throats. 

 

One of the rookies made the crucial error of peeking out into the hall to see if they were alright. Rozanov yelled at him to mind his own fucking business. 

 

“Hey!” Marlow snapped. “That’s enough! I get you’re having a pissy time, leave the rookies out of it.”

 

Roz turned on him, looking murderous. For a moment, Cliff thought that he was going to do something truly stupid like swing a punch at him. His eyes were dark, his nostrils flaring as he rounded on him.

 

“Let me suck your dick.”

 

Frankly, Marlow was just glad that Roz had finally stopped beating around the bush and gave him a workable answer. 

 

“Fuck, fine. Get in here.” Marlow dragged Rozanov back into their room, swinging the lock shut. He’d barely gotten it closed when Roz was on him, yanking down his pants and sinking down to his knees. The ghost of a chance that this might have just been him talking shit evaporated when Roz pulled out Marlow's thick, dark cock and sucked it down with a greedy moan. 

Oh shit, he’s done this before. Marlow realized, thumping his head back against the wall. Was Roz that much of a sex fiend? Sure he liked to pick up women. But he hadn’t realized to what lengths he’d resort to when there were no other options available. 

 

The silence was weird, so Marlow defaulted to what was normal for him when he was getting a blowjob. Roz’s hair was soft. With his eyes closed, it was easy to imagine it was some cute girl he’d picked up with a short cut. 

 

“There, that’s better huh?” He breathed out. Roz made a rough, ragged sound as he sucked Marlow's cock in further. Cliff got hard - it was basically impossible not to. Roz’s mouth was wet and tight and good at what it was doing. He gripped the back of Roz’s head, working his hips in small, circular motions. He didn’t like it when girls gagged on his dick, as much of a porno rockstar move as it was. 

 

“Fuck, you’re good at this.” Marlow groaned. Rozanov thrummed, he practically purred with delight under the praise. 

Marlow moaned roughly, letting his brain switch off. It didn’t take much to it. Blowjobs were fucking awesome. Turns out a mouth is a mouth when your eyes are closed. Rozanov was making kittenish and cute and thoroughly un-Ilya-like noises that made it easier to separate himself from the situation. 

 

“You gonna swallow for me, Rozy?” Marlow husked out. Shit, he was close. Sharp, dark eyes glowered up at him challengingly. Hands grabbed Cliff rough around the back of his thighs, taking him in nearly up to the hilt as Marlow climaxed roughly. 

 

And fuck - that was a good orgasm. 

He didn’t want to process how Ilya had gotten so good at giving head. He could see Rozoanov starting to panic as well, roughly wiping his mouth and slowly translating the words in his head for some sharp joke or excuse or threat. 

Rather than letting them settle into that, Marlow grabbed Ilya around the waist and pulled him onto the bed. He bracketed Rozoanov between his thighs, spat into his hand and reached into his pants and started jerking him off. From this position, it wasn’t too weird, almost like jerking himself off. The guy was already hard, his cock red and angry and not too far from completion himself. 

 

That was wild. Cliff couldn’t imagine getting hard from having a cock in his mouth. Roz must have really needed this badly.

 

“That’s the hardest I’ve come from a blowjob in a while.” Marlow laughed, rough and breathless as he worked his fist over Ilya’s cock. His other arm was wrapped snug around Ilya’s middle, pinning his arms to his chest. Ilya was doubled over, making soft, needy noises as he jerked and struggled. That was fine. Marlow wasn’t a small guy. He often attracted the attention of girls who liked to be pinned down. He was good at telling the difference between someone who wasn’t feeling it, and someone who was getting off on it. Besides, he knew Ilya and how strong he was. Marlow could probably pin him, but it would take far more force than he was using now. 

 

Marlow worked Ilya up, jerking him methodically until the muscles of his stomach were taut like iron, his thighs a trembling mess. 

Ilya swore something filthy in Russian, coming messily over Marlow's fist to pool down over his navel. The guy went soft and pliant against Marlow, his breathing a bit ragged. With his free hand, Marlow rubbed his palm against Ilya’s stomach a few times, as if soothing some feral animal. 

 

“C’mon man, scoot up.” He rolled off of the bed and into the bathroom to wash the spend off of his hands. 

 

“You can’t tell anyone about this.” Ilya said gruffly from where he was splayed out on the pillows. Marlow smirked. Ilya sounded spent. The bite and bitterness was gone from his voice. He sounded ready for a big sleep. 

 

“Tell anyone about what?” Marlow punctuated the question by lobbing a warm damp towel at Ilya that landed on his stomach with a wet slap. “Goodnight.” He threw himself onto his own bed and rolled over, and that was that.

 

The next day, Boston finally broke their losing streak with a 3-2 win over Salt Lake City.

 

After that, they played Indianapolis. At the hotel restaurant, the waitress slipped Ilya her phone number along with a free drink. The next day they won 2-0. 

 

Nashville was next. Ilya spent the night before at the club dancing with a pretty redhead with cute freckles and amazing thighs. But when her girlfriend had a breakdown in the bathroom over some dumb text message, Ilya went back to the hotel frustrated and alone. 0-1 Defeat for Boston.

 

Marlow took careful count of the numbers, feeling the familiar creeping sensation of superstition beginning to form.  NHL Players were fiercely protective of their rituals, once they were affixed in their mind - No matter how ridiculous it might seem. Carmichael had a lucky rabbit’s foot he needed to kiss twice before each game. Connors needed to put on his socks and skates in alternating order. Half of the team were fiercely defensive of what type of tape they used, and how it was applied to their sticks.

 

This one was no different - slotting into Marlow's place neatly as he watched Ilya get ready for a night out at a club in St Louis.

 

In order to win - Ilya Rozanov needed to get laid.

 

Fortunately, Ilya was extremely good at that. 

 

Marlow wasn’t put in a position where he really needed to test this theory until Ottawa. The city had notoriously terrible nightlife, and their flight had come in too late to go out. Marlow was privately annoyed at Montreal Jane, who he quietly thought could have made the effort to meet Ilya halfway for a quickie at least so the guy could focus on his game tomorrow.

 

Instead, Ilya was playing candy crush in bed with that deep rivet between his eyebrows and his cross between his lips. His nostrils were flaring, his foot tapping a bit where one was stretched over the other.

 

The guy was a wreck. 

 

Marlow sighed, rolling off the bed.

 

“I’m taking a shower.” He announced, pulling his shirt off and throwing it aside. “If you want to suck my cock you’ve got until I’m done in there.”

 

The cross fell out of Ilya’s mouth as his jaw dropped.

 

Whatever. They had already done it once. If Ilya was going to make a big deal out of it he would have done it already.

 

Sure enough, Ilya slipped into the shower somewhere between Marlow's shampoo and conditioner. He was on his knees, sucking him down before either of them could say a word to one another edgewise. Marlow gripped Ilya by the hair, shifting his body to keep the spray of the water out of his face. 

 

After, Ilya pressed his elbows to the glass of the shower as Marlow crowded in around him and let Ilya fuck his fist until he was cursing and coming in a hot shudder, the evidence quickly washing away under the spray of the water.

 

Satisfied, Marlow took a few pumps of the soap bolted to the wall and started scrubbing down Ilya’s shoulders. The guy was still leaning heavily against the shower wall, looking like he was contemplating sliding down the glass to lie in a puddle on the floor. 

 

“The fuck are you doing.” Ilya ground out. 

“What, you just kick girls out when you’re done?” Marlow frowned. Ilya was starting to tense up again, that wasn’t good. His thumb traced a line of stress between Ilya’s shoulder blades and pressed in. A strangled groan bubbled up from the back of Ilya’s throat. His knees trembled.

 

“Not a girl.” He groaned. “I’m a…” Another moan as Marlow worked strong hands into the tension point, working out the knot. “I’m a man. Marlow. You like men?”

“I like how you play after you’ve fucked.” Marlow answered seriously. “I don’t really care who is the one doing it.”

 

And that was that, for a while.

Boston defeated Ottawa with a 3-1 win and a hat trick from Ilya. 

 

Montreal was up next, and Montreal meant Jane and a night off for Cliff. 

They ended up losing that one, but it didn’t shake Marlow's confidence in The System. Montreal also meant Shane Hollander, after all. That guy was a force of nature that made his own luck. 

 

Playoffs was when Marlow really got his paces in. They were always tiring and stressful. The team rarely went out, saving their headspace and energy for the ice.

 

Ilya got over his reservations for Marlow's weird fixation on his orgasms and seemed to embrace the convenience of a quick, handy and hassle-free source of relief. 

 

“You should let me fuck you.” Ilya groaned into Cliff’s navel. It was a dirty move. He had just sucked Marlow off until his spine was taut and his jaw was set - balls tight and ready to erupt when Ilya had the audacity to pull off of him. 

“Let me fuck you, Marlow. I’d make you feel so good…” Ilya nuzzled against Marlow's chest hair. He sounded muzzy and almost drunk from the high of sucking dick. 

It was still lost on Cliff how someone could find blowjobs so appealing. The women he slept with who did it from time to time always treated it like such a goddamn favor and a chore.

 

“Fuck you, finish what you started, Rozanov.”

“And then I fuck you, yes?”

“I’m not gay, Rozanov.”

 

Ilya groaned with his entire body into Cliff’s stomach. The single sound managed to contain a litany of frustrations, objections and indignations that mostly flew over Marlow's head.

 

“How about this, you let me fuck you.” Marlow offered magnanimously, scritching Ilya’s hair in a way that never failed to make him purry and pliant. The hot erection pressed against Cliff’s side flagged as Ilya pulled a face. 

“What? Anal’s awesome. It can’t be that different with a guy, right?”

“You keep your monster cock away from my ass.” Ilya warned, eyes narrowing.

 

Marlow did feel a little bad though. He also didn’t want to upset whatever hockey deities decided that Ilya Rozanov’s sexual gratification was a necessary component to winning games.  Marlow decided to tentatively shift “sucking dick” over to the “not gay” column in his running mental tally. After Ilya got him off, Marlow slid down the bed to return the favor. 

 

It didn’t really do anything for Marlow the way that Ilya clearly got off on it. 

But then again, Rozanov was bi, and Cliff wasn’t. 

 

As long as he didn’t swallow and made Ilya be the little spoon after, Cliff figured it was probably fine. 

Rozanov hated that as well - being crushed up against Marlow's body. He wriggled for a bit, trying to turn around or get out from under the solid, heavy weight.

 

“Go to sleep, Rozanov.” Cliff grunted into the crook of Ilya’s neck. He could recognize the blustering when he saw it. The same way Ilya insisted that he didn’t blush, or that he didn’t secretly love it when the coach praised him for a good play. Cliff knew that Ilya hated thunder, and a storm had picked up heavily over the landscape. Beneath him he could feel the little shudders of stress that ran in the split second between the flash of light and deep rumble over the lashed evening.

 

If it was his niece, Marlow would have gotten her weighted blanket with the daffodils to help her sleep without nightmares. But this wasn’t Maisy, and there was no weighted blanket in the hotel room so Marlow made due with his body instead.

Eventually Ilya gave up and resigned himself to sleep, carried off deep in the afterglow.

 

-

 

Over the years, Marlow got good at reading Ilya.

 

What had started out as a superstition settled into an easy routine. The same way you had to stretch before a game, or ice up after. It was like a warm-up exercise, just part of the schedule. Check if Ilya had gotten laid, and if not - got him the rest of the way there.

 

It was because of this attunement, Marlow knew something was up the moment Ilya walked into the locker room. Ilya looked more miserable than Marlow had ever seen. It was hidden under about fifteen walls of bravado, but it was there. It was in the way he was slamming doors and tearing up the ice without any skills or refinement to back it up.

 

What the fuck did you do to him, Jane?

 

Because Marlow knew it was Jane. They were in Montreal, Cliff’s dependable night-off-from-dick-duty city. Ilya had been talking with Connors the day before about whether or not sandwiches counted as homecooked meals as far as dates were concerned. Ilya had begged off going out with the team the night before. All telltale signs things - up until then - were going fine. 

 

Ilya played a completely miserable game. The only thing that kept Boston from being thoroughly crushed was that Shane Hollander also seemed to be in a terrible funk. 

Ilya stopped going out. 

 

He also stopped letting Marlow touch him, which was extremely frustrating. After one or two failed attempts to engage him, Ilya even went so far as to change around their hotel roster so that he was rooming with Connors. Which - shit, fine. Ilya could have just said he didn’t want to hook up. It wasn’t like Marlow cared so much about winning that he’d challenge the guy’s personal boundaries.

 

Cliff braced himself for a series of bad runs for Boston, weathering the shitstorm while Ilya worked through whatever it was that had him in such a rut.

 

One time in the locker room he had dared to broach the topic. 

 

“Why don’t you just talk to Jane, man?”

 

Which - okay, sure. Throwing that out there without preamble or lead-up probably wasn’t the most refined way to approach it. But Ilya’s snarling, blustering and shouting as he stormed out did help clear up any doubts on what exactly was going on. 

 

The next time they circled back to Montreal, Connors sent a text to the group chat that they were going out. 

Marlow was cautiously optimistic to see Ilya there. He was looking surely and murderous, but he was there and he was going out and that was a marked improvement. 

Maybe he had finally resolved to get over Jane. 

Maybe…

 

Huh.

 

Marlow had one elbow up on the bar. He was sipping a drink in one hand. A pretty girl was chatting him up, but his attention was caught on a strange scene rolling out in front of him.

 

Ilya had been progressing well. He’d landed a pretty girl. They’d even started making out in time to the music. Marlow was cautiously considering leaving the guy to his own devices to enjoy his evening when Ilya had frozen on the dance floor. 

 

Across the room was some other guy in a terrible shirt. The two were staring each other down.

No wait.

Was that Shane Hollander? 

 

Fucking hell, Rozanov. Don’t deck Shane Hollander in a night club.

He wasn’t even sure that guy knew how to fight. He famously never did out on the ice.

Marlow knew the two didn’t get along, but if Rozanov got into an off-the-ice scrap it was going to be a PR nightmare. 

 

Marlow took another sip of his beer, trying to puzzle out exactly what he was looking at.

What he didn’t get was how nobody else seemed to notice.

Maybe it was just years of Marlow's presence at clubs going hand-in-hand with monitoring how Ilya’s evening was going for the sake of their collective hockey careers.

Though he never had to worry about Montreal.

 

Did Shane Hollander have something to do with Jane? Did he steal Rozanov’s girl? The thought came up unbidden, as the two hockey centers continued their weird stare-down on the dance floor.

 

No, that didn’t make sense.

Shane Hollander had just started dating some movie star. It had been all over the news.

And Jane definitely wasn’t a movie star. So Shane-

Shane. Jane.

 

Ilya Rozanov knows how to suck a dick.

 

Oh.

 

Oh.

 

Marlow took another gulp of his beer as the two disastrously closeted gay hockey players went in their separate directions. Poor Hollander looked like he was off to go throw up in a bathroom.

 

“Hey man.” Marlow tugged Connors away from his drink. “Rozanov’s wasted, I’m taking him back to the hotel.”

“What, already?”

“Yeah man, trade room keys with me.”

“Aw come on.”

“You want to deal with that mess?”

“Fair enough. Nice one, man.”

 

Marlow deliberately didn’t hurry after Ilya. He let the guy get ahead of him, even popping into a convenience store to pick up two bottles of water and a carton of cigarettes he knew Ilya liked.

 

By the time he got up to the guy’s hotel room, the water was running in the shower. 

 

Marlow set the convenience store back down on the table in the corner of the room, shrugging out of his coat. He didn’t have long to wait before Ilya emerged. Wet hair slicked back and a towel around his waist. He zoned in on Marlow at once, hackles going up. 

 

“The fuck are you doing here?” Ilya demanded. 

“You good, man?”

“Fine. Perfect.” Ilya’s gaze was cutting daggers. “Time of my fucking life.”

Ilya sounded rougher, rawer. 

Marlow supposed that made sense. Jane had dumped him for a movie star and Ilya was clearly not coping well. 

Marlow walked up to Ilya, reaching out to touch his shoulder. Ilya’s lip curled. He recoiled, slapping Marlow's hand away.

 

“Get the fuck off of me!” Ilya snarled. “I’m not some fucking horseshoe you get to rub for good luck!” Ilya spat out, squaring up against Marlow. 

 

Cliff held up his hands silently, taking two steps back. 

Truth be told, he hadn’t thought about their game once this entire night. But he got where Ilya was coming from.

 

“Yeah, man. Whatever you say.” Ilya looked dangerous and watery around the eyes, breathing heavily like a cornered wild animal. “You want to be alone tonight?” He asked. 

 

“Yes.” Ilya spat angrily. “Get the fuck out.”

 

“Okay.” Marlow moved slowly and deliberately, taking his coat and heading for the door. Marlow gripped the handle, and Ilya slammed his hand against the door, stopping him. 

 

Marlow kept his gaze fixed coolly ahead and counted slowly to ten. 

He glanced over to Ilya, who was glaring at the door. A tendon in his neck was working and flexing in agitation.

 

Cliff dropped his coat. 

His arms wrapped tight around Ilya, pinning his arms to his sides. 

Ilya growled, struggling. He lowered his head, his breathing rough and ragged. 

 

Cliff knew Ilya didn’t like this. Being made to feel small, or weak.

Marlow watched the deep pink flush spread over the back of Ilya’s neck. 

But there was something he quite possibly hated more than feeling weak.

That’s right, asshole. I’m here. Not going anywhere. 

That was what Ilya was testing with his struggling, with his straining. 

 

Do you want me to stay.

Do you want me to stay.

Will you keep me from pushing you away. Please.

Please.

Marlow sucked on the taut tension point on Ilya’s neck. He had to, since his arms were busy. Ilya groaned, his head falling forward. 

“It’s okay. I got you.” 

Their knees hit the bed and they fell forward together. Marlow kept his hand on the back of Ilya’s neck, gripping just tight enough to force him down. 

 

“I’m not-” Ilya ground out.

“Yeah man, me neither.” Marlow soothed, unbuckling his belt. 

 

Marlow held Ilya for a long time after. Insisted Ilya drink some water. The two each had a cigarette and resigned themselves to a fine from the hotel in the morning. 

He even turned on the television and tucked Ilya against his side. The guy sank into the position comfortably, half-splayed across the broad expanse of Marlow's chest. Ilya was still miserable, even after Marlow made him come twice. His stress was gone, but there persisted a quiet sort of ennui that only seemed to be balmed by physical touch.

That was fine. Marlow could do that for his friend. 

 

Marlow kept his fingers threaded in the curls of Ilya’s hair as they watched Miami get trounced by New York. Rozanov had nice hair. 

By the second half, Rozanov was making quips about Scott Hunter’s arthritic kneecaps, and Marlow breathed out a small sigh of relief. 

 

He liked watching hockey with Ilya. 

Actually, this was pretty great. 

Most of the recent girls Marlow had slept with - even some of the puck bunnies - really weren’t that interested in watching hockey with him. Especially not after sex.

When he mentioned as much to Ilya, he just got a sleepy scoff. 

 

“Then why don’t you just sleep with a man then, Marlow.”

“I’m not gay, Rozy.” Cliff reminded him, once again. 

“It’s pretty gay to have your cock in a man’s ass.” Ilya groaned, sounding far away and sleepy. 

“Nah.” Marlow lit up another cigarette. “As long as you don’t fuck me, I’m good.”

Ilya groaned, sinking his teeth into Marlow's chest. 

 

“We win the cup this year, you let me fuck you.” Ilya growled. 

Marlow barked out a laugh. 

“That wouldn’t count. There’s not a hockey player in the NHL that wouldn’t take a cock up the ass for a Stanley Cup.” He said with such blind confidence that it made Ilya’s head spin. 

Despite re-initiating their pre-game jackoff rituals, Boston got beat out for the finals. 

The two went their separate ways for the summer. 

 

Marlow went home, resuming his usual off-season practices of partying and clubbing. He took several pretty girls to bed, and most of them were a ton of fun. On one or two occasions though, Marlow found himself strangely haunted by Ilya’s words. 

 

Why don’t you just sleep with a fucking man then, Marlow?

 

Marlow went with some old college friends to Ibiza for the summer. He found a nearby sports bar that would be showing the NHL playoffs. He watched with raised eyebrows as Scott Hunter pulled a random guy out of the stands and kissed him right there on the ice.

 

Huh. How about that. 

 

Marlow peeled away from the bar where some girl was chatting him up. He took a cab to the far end of town. He wasn’t likely to get recognized in Europe - though if he was it was likely to be at a sports bar.

 

Cliff ended the night with his hands around the slim waist of a beautiful man with dark, smokey eyes. He tasted like sugar and mint and gin. 

He brought Cliff back to his apartment, where he laid the man out on the bed and sucked his cock. Muscled thighs hugged his ears, swearing poetry in Catalan. He sounded gone. Cliff drank in the moment. Making him feel good, the scent and heavy taste of him on his tongue. 

 

Fuck. Marlow groaned, his hips jerking, his cock painfully hard.

 

-

 

The first game of the season, Ilya Rozanov didn’t go out. 

Instead, he and Marlow got a drink together at a bar. 

 

“I’m transferring to Ottawa at the end of this season.” 

Marlow blinked at him.

“For real?”

“Yes. Very real.”

 

Marlow stewed on that for a long moment. The initial pang of betrayal, the feeling of loss. Bargaining, anger, all those stages of grief that simmered alongside the most prominent question of.

Why Ottawa?

 

He could only really think of one reason why.

 

“You work things out with Jane, then?”

 

Ilya’s cautious smile managed to dissipate the stormy waters that had been churning in his chest up to that moment.

The Jane Smile. 

The soft, tender little smile he only ever got when he was texting her.

Him. 

Shane Hollander.

Wild. 

 

“That’s great man, I’m real happy for you.” Marlow clinked their drinks together. He said it because that was what you were supposed to say when someone you liked made things work with someone they cared about. 

 

“You’re a good friend, Cliff.” Ilya said, knocking his elbow against Marlow's. 

“Even though I concussed your boyfriend?” 

“Yes, do not do that again please.”