Rating:

General Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

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

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau

Additional Tags:

Sickfic, Coming Out, Friendship, Caretaking, Clingy Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Good Friend Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau Finds Out About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, POV Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Post-Episode: s01e06 The Cottage (Heated Rivalry)

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-10 Completed: 2026-04-13 Words: 7,831 Chapters: 3/3

The Miraculous Nature of Homemade Soup

Summary

Ilya should have been scratched before the game against Montreal, but what was a little bronchitis in the face of Boston's legendary rivalry? When he collapsed during a face off, Cliff assumed he was going to be the one nursing his sick friend back to health. Instead, he became party to one of the best kept secrets in Major League Hockey.

Chapter 1

Chapter Notes

Roz started coughing again during morning practice, and the assistant coach pulled him off the ice. Cliff exchanged a look with Connors, worried for their friend and their chances in the game that night. Montreal was on a six-game winning streak on the road, and the team was watching their hope of breaking it choke on air.

To everyone's surprise, Coach didn't scratch him. Roz stood in the locker room, gearing up for the game that night with a droop to his shoulders and his jaw stoically set. As LeClaire went over the last-minute lineup changes and shifts to strategy, Cliff kept an eye on his friend.

First period went fast, with Hollander dominating the puck every time he was on the ice, and the Raiders first line playing defense to limit his shots on goal. Rozy shifted and glowered about being moved to second line center, but Coach had been adamant about keeping him rested for the power-play. Even playing at 80% of his normal capacity, Rozy was better than most of their line-up but pitting him against Hollander for the whole game was guaranteed to wear him out. Rozy always pushed himself harder against his long-time rival.

Despite the changes, they were holding the Metros to a two-point lead (MTL-3/BST-1) by the end of the second period. LeClaire swore as Hammersmith took a hard check from Comeau, setting Hollander up to steal the puck and speed off for a last second goal attempt. He hauled back and took his shot, but the puck landed safely in Nelson's glove. With the night their goalie was having, the game would have been a shutout against any other team.

Roz's goal remained their only point on the board as third period started. His face was flushed, and his eyes were glassy as Coach frowned out at the ice.

"Fuck it!" Le Claire spat, glaring at Thériault’s smug smile. "Rozanov! You're up! Get us back in this goddamn game!"

Roz jumped the boards with less energy than usual, but Cliff thought you'd have to know him well to notice. Hollander's eyes narrowed as he approached the opposite side of the line.

"You look like shit, Rozanov," Hollander observed, flat and calm like he was commenting on the weather.

"Thank you," Roz replied, his attempt at sarcasm hampered by the rasp in his voice.

As the two of them bent for the face off, Hollander watched Rozy's face rather than the circle. Just before the puck dropped, his eyes widened and his jaw dropped.

"Fuck!" Hollander shouted. Sticks clattered to the ice, and Cliff tensed, instinctively preparing to fight. Instead, he watched in horror as Roz toppled forward into Hollander's arms.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" Hollander braced himself to keep them both upright and whipped his head to one side. "Hayden!" He barked.

"On it!"

Pike started clearing a path for the medics, and it broke through Cliff's shock. He slid to Roz's side, dropping his gloves to get a decent grip on him. Hollander's gloves were already on the ice, and his knuckles were white against the black of Roz's jersey.

"Fuck, you're heavy," Hollander muttered to Roz. Cliff grabbed one of Rozy's arms and dragged it up over his shoulder; Hollander shifted so he could do the same. "Say something, if you're conscious," Hollander ordered.

Roz mumbled in Russian.

"That's not..." Hollander grunted as Roz's skate tried to slide backwards. "Keep your feet under you. You're not going to be happy if you end up on the ice."

"Not happy now," Roz grumbled. "Had plans tonight... sexy plans."

"I think those plans will have to wait, lover boy," Cliff told him, trying to inject some levity into his tone.

The trainers approached to help Roz off the ice, and he shook his head. His helmet clicked against Hollander's more than once, and he leaned away from Cliff. "No, sh-"

"Hey, you're good, Rozanov. Rozanov! It's ok. They're gonna get you taken care of, alright?" Hollander's voice was soft and oddly caring. Cliff was reminded of last season, their teamwork at the All Star game and Roz's worry as Hollander hit the ice during the playoffs.

Cliff shifted to one side and let the trainer take his share of Roz's weight. As he slid back, he saw that Roz's hand had dug into Hollander's jersey; the H O and L were crushed in his grip. Another trainer tried to take Roz's other arm, but he shook his head, clinging to Hollander.

"Careful, his hand's caught," Hollander told the trainer. Cliff watched as Hollander gently pried Roz's fingers open, cradling his hand as he draped Roz's arm around the trainer's shoulders. "You're okay. Let them help you. Let them help, okay?"

"Okay," Roz agreed, hanging his head as he moved away. Cliff blinked and looked around, noting that someone had already collected their gear.

"Hey, bud, you alright?" Pike got Hollander's attention, handing him his gloves and holding his stick.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

Cliff watched him tear his eyes away from Roz's back as he was half carried down the tunnel. Hollander was a terrible liar.

Cliff was glad he had taken the garage remote from Roz's car before they left the arena.  Roz stumbled a few times as they walked from the garage into the house; whatever the team doctor had given him made him dizzy.

"Let's get you into bed, man," Cliff said, trying to steer Roz down the hallway.

"I need a shower. I smell bad." Roz wrinkled his nose in disgust. "I don't want to smell bad."

"I don't think you can stand long enough to shower," Cliff replied, shaking his head. He wasn't going to lie to Roz and say he smelled fine, but one stinking night wouldn't kill him... falling in the shower might.

He got them both into Rozy's bedroom and steered him towards a chair. "Can you get your shoes off and get changed?"

"My clothes are not in here. Laundry delivered this morning," he replied with a frown, swallowing to suppress a cough.

"Right," Cliff thought for a moment. "Laundry room is off the kitchen. Are they in there?"

Roz nodded, then he leaned forward and began to tug at his shoelaces.

Cliff was used to looking after drunk rookies, and he figured a sick Roz wasn't too different. The chair was sturdy, and even if he fell out of it, he wasn't far from the carpet. "I'll go get you some clothes."

Despite being unable to find the light switch, Cliff found the basket of neatly folded clothes beside a washing machine that he suspected Roz had never used. He grabbed the basket and carried it to the bedroom.  He heard Roz on the phone, voice weak and raspy. "...Miserable and unhappy, and I stink."

With Roz on the phone with his "sexy plans," Cliff figured he had time to puzzle through the doctor's instructions. He set the laundry basket by the door.

Returning from the garage where he parked his car, Cliff set the plastic bag and printouts on the island. He could still hear Roz murmuring from the bedroom. Connors and a few other guys suspected that Rozy had gotten serious about a girl, but he was cagey when they brought it up.

The instructions from the doctor were dense and trying to read them made Cliff realize how tired he was. Skimming down the page, he saw something about fluids and breathed out a sigh of relief. He might end up calling the doctor for clarification on the rest of it, but he could get Roz a drink.

Maybe he wanted one of his ginger ales? They had just gotten back from a road trip, but Roz only drank them when he was having a bad day, so there were bound to be a few left. He opened the fridge and blinked; it was stocked with fresh food and two cases of ginger ale.

He heard beeping from the front door and his shoulder tensed. He swung the refrigerator closed again, waiting for the lock to error and the visitor to knock. When the electronic lock hummed and clicked open, Cliff's brows shot upward.

In addition to hockey specific orientations, Roz took it upon himself to give their rookies lessons in celebrity that ranged from fan interactions and club safety to home security. (He gave incredibly thorough and profane sex ed lessons, that included the words, "Your reputation reflects on your team. Don't be a selfish asshole in bed.")

One thing Roz was adamant about was not giving a key or door code to someone just because you were sleeping with them. Maybe he was finally going to meet Roz's mysterious girlfriend. There was a soft thump and a heavy sigh from the entryway.

"You're not dying, but you certainly haven't done yourself any favors."

At the sound of a familiar man's voice, Cliff froze. He shook his head, incredulous, and stepped around the corner to see... "Hollander? The fuck are you doing here?"

On the ice, Shane Hollander was unflappable. Chirps and hits, even borderline illegal ones, were met with either a flat profanity or a determined clench to his jaw (that nearly always led to an impressive play.)

In Roz's entryway, his eyes went wide with panic.  "Ilya, Marleau is still here." He pulled the phone from his ear, and his breath hitched. Slowly, he ended the call and put his phone in his pocket. From the bedroom, Cliff heard a thump and a swear.

Blankly, Cliff took in the sight of a tired Shane Hollander, obviously showered and changed since leaving the arena. His Reeboks were kicked off beside an expensive black roller bag, and the strap of his duffel bag tugged on the shoulder of his hoodie. Hollander kept his eyes on Cliff as he carefully lowered his bag to the floor and half turned to blindly throw the deadbolt.

Cliff was staring, his tired mind trying to understand. Shane Hollander didn’t belong in Ilya’s house, casually dressed and barefoot. He belonged on the opposite side of the line as Rozy chirped him ahead of a face off.

Feet scuffed the carpet, and Hollander’s gaze flicked to one side. Cliff followed his eyes to where Roz swayed in the hall that led to the kitchen. His face was flushed, and he squinted as he glanced between them.

“Marly?” Roz blinked at him, frowning. “The fuck are you still do— ” He cut himself off, choking. His hand reached out to one side, grasping at the wall for support as he doubled over coughing loudly.

Hollander was past the kitchen and sliding an arm around Roz before Cliff could shake off his confusion. Even off the ice, that fucker moved fast. Hollander braced Roz with a shoulder under his armpit and murmured something soothing as they moved together towards one of the bar stools.

“Easy, I’ve got you.” Hollander’s voice was low, with that same gentle tone he had used on the ice. “Just lean on me and try to breathe. Slowly, okay?” Rozy nodded, letting himself fall into the chair. He held tight to Hollander even after he seemed stable in his seat.

Cliff opened the refrigerator again, grabbing a Gatorade from the door. “Try to drink something, man,” he said, twisting the cap on the bottle before he passed it across the island.

When Hollander shifted backward, Roz leaned toward him, holding on to Hollander’s waist and letting him support his weight. “No, Shane… Stay…” His voice wavered, weak and unhappy.

“Okay.” Hollander immediately agreed, pressing back into Rozy’s space and propping him up. Hollander's gentle expression hardened as he looked at Cliff. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Cliff ignored the suspicion from Hollander as he tried to puzzle through the scene; nothing about what Cliff was seeing made sense. While their rivalry had mellowed into respect and competition over the years, Roz and Hollander weren’t friends. And they definitely weren’t the sort of friends that visited each other's homes and… hugged? Because a hug was the closest word he had for what Roz was doing to Hollander in that moment.

Roz had wrapped an arm around Hollander’s waist as he finished his drink. The moment he emptied the Gatorade bottle; he dragged Hollander closer and leaned his face into Hollander’s chest. Hollander met Cliff's eyes, daring him to protest as Hollander put both arms around Roz and rubbed his back. There was a dramatic sniff and whine from between Hollander’s pecs.

“I can’t hear you,” he told Roz, tilting his head down to talk into his ear. “What did you say?”

“I said, I’m sick.” Roz leaned his head back but clung tighter to Hollander’s waist. “I haven’t seen you in two months, and I’m sick. You could have had time off at home, resting instead of being stuck here with me.” Roz clenched his jaw and glared at his countertop. His eyes were red and wet with tears.

Cliff shuffled his feet, not sure what he was intruding on, but feeling like he should have left the two men to their conversation. Roz might have forgotten him, but Hollander flicked his eyes over to the opposite side of the kitchen where he hovered beside the fridge. Cliff froze, determined not to interfere in whatever he had stumbled upon.

Roz’s jaw tensed and he pressed his lips together. He sniffed, his nose crinkling as he refused to look at Hollander. Despite his expression, Roz never dropped his arms.

“Hey.” Hollander’s voice was soft and gentle. “Hey, look at me.” He slid a hand down Roz’s cheek and cupped his jaw, tilting it up. The tender gesture resurrected a niggling suspicion Cliff had fostered years back when a drunken Roz had agreeably gone home with a girl and her boyfriend at a club. (It hadn’t been her ass Roz had been ogling as they walked out into the night.)

Their eyes met, Hollander's gaze steady, and Roz's flicking back and forth. Rozy's lips trembled, but he settled slowly, as though Hollander's focus soothed him.

"Ilya, I'm sorry that you're sick, and I absolutely wish you would take better care of yourself," he said, his voice quiet and firm. Roz tried to look away again, but Hollander nudged his chin back up. "But I am so glad I can be here right now. You have to understand, if you had collapsed on the ice while I was in Montreal or you were on the road... I would be losing my mind. So let me take care of you while I can, please."

"Okay," Roz mumbled. He dropped his head back down to rest on Hollander's chest, telling his pecs something that Cliff didn't catch.

"I love you, too," Hollander replied, once again rocking the world under Cliff's feet. He pressed a kiss to Roz's unwashed curls and rubbed his back. "Do you have any medicine you need to take tonight? What did the doctor say?"

When Roz shrugged unhelpfully, Cliff chuckled. "My sister says that men revert to toddlers when we’re sick. I never wanted to believe her, but I can see what she means." He passed Hollander the notes the doctor had printed out, sighing inwardly at Hollander’s guarded posture.

Hollander kept one arm around Roz as he held the page out, frowning and squinting. After a second, he sighed. "I can't read this. Ilya, you need to let go so I can get my glasses."

"No," Roz said clearly, finally turning his head toward Cliff. "He has a spare set, in the living room. Same table as the XBox controllers. One drawer down."

"Is that where those went?"

Cliff sighed, relieved to have a task, and he walked away from the couple as they murmured to each other. "Couple," he muttered to himself, still baffled by the evening's revelations. Maybe he would wake up soon and spend a few hours trying to psychoanalyze himself or maybe he would just blame his weird dreams on an off night.

He opened the console drawer where Roz kept video games and controllers, then he shook his head and closed it. When he opened the drawer below it, he snorted a laugh. "Forgot about your fucking stash, Roz."

Behind the box of condoms and single use packets of lube that Roz had been known to hand out to rookies along with his safe sex lectures, there was a pack of unscented disposable towelettes and a black plastic box. When Cliff opened it, he saw a pair of wire-framed glasses inside. How long had they been there without anyone noticing; what else Roz had hidden right under his nose?

In the kitchen, Roz relaxed his clinging embrace enough for Hollander to make sense of the medicine bottles and directions. "We need to get some food in you before you take these."

Roz wrinkled his nose. "Not one of your gross smoothies."

"They're healthy."

"They taste like lawn clippers."

Cliff chuckled. "Clippings, Roz. I think you mean they taste like lawn clippings."

"Whatever. They are green and gross, and they make me gag." Despite his complaining, Roz leaned heavily into Hollander's side.

"This from a man that eats McGriddles and smokes cigarettes."

"You two bicker like my parents," Cliff remarked.

"I like your parents," Roz mumbled. "They've been married a long time."

"Thirty-five years last year," Cliff confirmed. He opened Roz's snack cabinet and pulled out a handful of protein bars. "Here, eat this while we figure out what you have for real food."

Hollander opened one for each of them. "We set up the grocery delivery for us to cook a few times while I'm here, but not really the sort of things that you feed a sick person." He chewed on his lip as he thought. "There's stuff for sandwiches." He looked down at Roz and ran a hand through his curls. "Want a sandwich? You need something more substantial than a protein bar."

"Do you have a recipe? Going to make a dozen sandwiches?" Roz smirked at Hollander, blinking tiredly.

"No, asshole, I don't have a recipe for fucking sandwiches." Hollander kissed his temple before walking around the island to drag out a loaf of bread and a stack of ingredients. "It was one time," he muttered. "And we ate all the burgers by morning anyway."

Roz leaned his head on his hand, mechanically chewing his protein bar. Reluctantly, Cliff grabbed one for himself, watching with Roz as Hollander neatly lined up slices of bread. He only needed two tries to find a knife and a few spoons, efficiently spreading some sort of paste on all the bread slices before layering on slices of chicken and topping everything with some olive mixture and a spoonful of diced tomato.

"Thanks," Cliff said, accepting his plate. He took a bite, nodding approvingly. "Fancy."

Hollander shrugged. "It's what we were planning to make for lunch tomorrow. It's easier to make it now rather than figure out what else we have."

"We," Cliff repeated. "About that we business... "

"Not tonight, Marly," Roz requested, sliding his other sandwich half towards Cliff and laying his head down on the island even as he chewed.

Hollander kept an attentive eye on Cliff while he ate. Finally, it clicked. "You're still waiting on me to throw a punch, aren't you, Hollander?"

Roz shook his head, eyes wide. "He wouldn't, ever." His defense warmed Cliff's heart, even as he felt a pang at whatever led Hollander to be wary of some homophobic attack. "Cliff isn't like those fuckheads, Shane. I wouldn't be friends with him."

"Sometimes, people disappoint us, Ilya. You know that better than anyone." He dropped a pill on Roz's napkin and passed him another Gatorade. "Take your medicine so we can get you cleaned up for bed."

They fell into an exhausted silence as they finished eating. When Hollander started cleaning up, Cliff stacked up their plates to load into the dishwasher.

"My dad's sending me the list of things I need for Miracle Soup," Hollander told Roz. "I'll need to go to the store in the morning. I'm pretty sure we don't have what we need for it."

"Miracle soup?" Roz blinked up at him, not lifting his head. "You're going to make me soup?"

"Yeah, it's way better for you than anything you can buy. My dad's been perfecting the recipe since I was a kid." Hollander turned to the utensil drawers. "Do you have a rolling pin and a pasta roller?"

Cliff snorted. "Does he have a what?"

At the same time, Roz scoffed. "Do you own a pasta roller, Mr. Culinary?"

"No, because the only times I need one, I’m at the cottage and can borrow my dad’s." Hollander crossed his arms over his chest and managed to look like a stern parent, impressive given that they were all the same age. "But I'll need one for Miracle Soup, so..."

"I'll bet my sister's got one that I can borrow." Cliff heaved a sigh. "In fact, send me your list when you have it. Doubt you'll like the gossip that would come from Shane Hollander grocery shopping in Boston a day after the rest of the Metros have left town."

“Good point. Thank you.” As Hollander pulled out his phone, his shoulders finally relaxed. “Put your number in, please. That way I don’t have to get it from Ilya in the morning.”

Cliff typed the number into a text and sent himself a simple, “Hi.”

Roz blinked at them both and held out his hand imperiously. “Give.” Hollander didn’t hesitate to pass over his phone. As Roz tapped the screen, he cautioned. “Marly, no one can know about us right now. It is serious for a lot of reasons, dangerous for me and bad for Shane.”

He handed Hollander back his phone and held his hand out to Cliff. “What are you doing,” Cliff asked, even as he unlocked the device for him.

“Names. He will be Jane in your phone. You are Marla in his.” He shrugged. “People see you texting a woman, no one gets suspicious.”

“Clever,” Cliff took his phone back, smirking at the sight of Jane (Roz’s Girl) at the top of his text message. “So, your Montreal girl?”

“Is very pretty, yes?” Roz grinned up him, face still flushed but decidedly less miserable. His eyes met Hollander, and they shared a sweet smile that made Cliff consider redownloading a few dating apps.

Chapter End Notes

Head canons that invaded this fic:

Single players on a team stick together & look after each other - especially if they don't have family nearby.

Ilya Rozanov considers any man that doesn't put their partner's pleasure first in sex to be an embarrassment to his gender.

David Hollander is the family cook & has spent Shane's life crafting and refining nutritionally dense but comforting meals for his athlete son.

Shane Hollander isn't much of a cook, but he will meticulously follow a recipe. (David makes sure that his recipes are detailed and thorough for his son.)

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

Cliff let himself into Roz's house; cursing Hollander, grocery stores, and fancy cooks around the world. At least, he had gotten up early to go shopping. There were no crowds, and he would still have time to hit the gym later. He argued with the door from the garage, overloaded with plastic bags since he refused to make a second trip to the car.

"...want to choke on your fat dick." Roz's voice was barely strong enough to carry from the living room, and Cliff nearly snorted a laugh at his feeble attempt at seduction.

"You would cough on my dick," Hollander replied, his tone dry and unimpressed.

Cliff shook his head, listening to the bickering as he set everything on the island. A pot simmered on the stove, and the savory scent of chicken and spices made his mouth water. Bowls were set to one side, filled with chopped onion, garlic, and suspiciously green piles of what might have been cabbage. Apparently, the cart full of groceries he'd been tasked with buying wasn't even everything Hollander needed for this "Miracle Soup."

"I don't understand how you can be this horny with Bronchitis," Hollander told Roz as Cliff stole a Gatorade and made his way to the living room.

"I'm always horny for my beautiful boyfriend," Roz insisted. "If I'm ever not horny for you, take me to the hospital because I'm dying."

"Don't let him fool you, Holzy," Cliff warned, the nickname slipping out. Did people call him Holzy?  "Last month this asshole got bricked up flipping through Architectural Digest in an airport. He's just a horny mother fucker, all around."

"Architectural Digest?" Hollander smirked at Roz. "Really?"

Roz flopped back on the couch, grinning up at Hollander. "Yes, really. You and all your fucking brand deals follow me everywhere. Why do you need to be shirtless to sell watches?"

"Fuck off." Despite that, Hollander reached out and brushed his hand over Roz's before he turned away. "Since Marleau was nice enough to get supplies, I'm going to get started on lunch."

Assuming that he was being left to entertain Roz, Cliff sat down on the opposite end of the couch. "You look like you're feeling a little better."

"Hmm," Roz agreed with a shrug. "Still feel like shit, but at least I don't stink like it anymore." He ran his hand through his hair, lifting the damp curls away from his scalp. "Shane helped me shower this morning. It was much less fun than showers with Shane usually are but still good."

Cliff shook his head. "I've learned more about Shane Hollander's sex life in the past five minutes than I ever expected to know."

"His sex life is my sex life, Marly," Roz declared, using the couch cushion to pull himself upright. He froze once he was sitting up, grimacing. "Fucking meds make me dizzy."

"Least you're not coughing so bad."

“Hmm.” Roz frowned down at his feet, leaning forward slowly. He shoved backwards at the couch, and his hands sank into the cushions. “Fucking —” He scooted to the edge of the sofa, muttering, “Stupid. Fucking—” He tensed and tried to heave himself to his feet.

“Woah! Roz, man! Where do you think you’re going?” Cliff reached out a hand to help him up. “You need to piss or something?”

“I am going to the kitchen.” He took Cliff’s hand and, together, they got his heavy ass off the couch.

“Kitchen, sure.” Cliff slung an arm around him. “Just let me help you, alright?”

It was slow going; Roz’s shuffling walk set their pace. By the time Cliff got Roz settled into a bar stool, he was sweating and trying not to pant with the effort. Cliff carefully stepped around Hollander, who was frowning at the instructions for Roz’s new pasta roller. Still think it was rude of Suzanne to laugh at me when I asked to borrow one. How would I know it’s not a normal thing to own?

“What are you doing?” Hollander slid his glasses down and narrowed his eyes at Roz. “Why aren’t you resting on the couch and visiting with Marleau?”

Roz rested his chin on his hand and pretended that the trek from the couch hadn’t sapped his strength. Hollander lifted an eyebrow, reminding Cliff of his dad when faced with a chaotic mess and three kids that refused to look him in the eye. Proving he was at least smarter than a room full of children, Roz heaved out a sigh and hung his head guiltily.

“I see this asshole all the time. I’ve spent more time with him in the past month than I got with you all last year.” Roz leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. Sick or not, he was going nowhere.

Hollander let out a breath and nodded. “Okay, but if you get too tired, say something and I’ll help you back to bed.” He assessed the kitchen and checked the clock. “Lunch will take me about an hour, but there’s some precut fruit and a protein dip in the fridge if you want it.”

Cliff’s stomach grumbled, reminding him that his breakfast was several hours ago. “Fruit and dip sound good, but you keep working on your gadget. I’ll get it.”

A few minutes later, Cliff was glad he decided to snack, because Roz’s kitchen was filled with the delicious aromas of simmering chicken broth and sautéing onions. Hollander had rolled up his sleeves and was kneading out pasta dough on the far side of the kitchen island. Roz was staring again.

“So, how did all this happen anyway?” Cliff broke the silence to ask, waving his hand generally around the kitchen.

Hollander blinked at him. “Are you asking me for the history of soup in general or this recipe in particular?” Roz laughed, and Hollander smiled smugly.

“Should have known you’d end up with a smart ass, Roz,” Cliff grumbled.

“His ass is many things… has many wonderful and amazing qualities.” Roz’s grin belonged on Cliff’s word of the day calendar, beside lascivious.

Cliff persevered. “Alright Hollander, how did you end up in Roz’s kitchen making him homemade soup? And if you start giving me your travel schedule, so help me…”

“That is a very long story,” Roz admitted. He met Hollander’s eyes, his silent question answered with a nod. “It’s difficult to know how to start it.”

“So, you mentioned the Montreal girl last night,” Hollander said. “How long have you known about her?”

Cliff smirked. “I’ve been giving Rozy shit about a Montreal girl for a while at this point. But I didn’t even have a name or anything to go on.” He shrugged. “He just had this look on his face sometimes.”

“Well, Jane is me, obviously.” Hollander nodded toward his phone on the counter. He flushed and glanced at Ilya through his eyelashes. “Guess you’re more careful about who sees your phone screen than I am. Hayden’s been calling you Boston Lily for three years.”

“Holy shit.” Cliff started to lean back against the counter, but he misjudged the distance in his shock. He winced when the granite corner dug into back; Roz smirked at him. “Montreal girl is way more than three years back, Roz.” He flicks a panicked glance at Hollander, suddenly worried that there might have been more than one Montreal hookup. “I mean…”

“More than three years,” Hollander agreed. He scattered more flour on the counter and grabbed the rolling pin. “How much longer? Guess it depends on how you want to define a beginning.”

Definitions Cliff understood. “Alright. Roz said your sex life is his sex life… so how long has that been the case?”

“Since this past summer,” Hollander said.

“Since previous All Stars Game,” Roz corrected. Hollander took a breath, and Roz held up a finger. “We discussed it over the summer, but I hadn’t been with anyone but you since Tampa. And we both know you live like a monk, so…”

Cliff lifted both brows. “Wait, so, that whole Virgin Holly bullshit is real? I just figured you had a stack of NDAs and lawyers on speed dial.”

“He is no virgin.” Roz grinned, then coughed. “Trust me.”

Hollander sighed and shook his head. “Can you get him something to drink? He needs to stay hydrated.”

Cliff opened the refrigerator and stuck his head inside it. He turned back to Roz, asking, “You want a Coke, a Gatorade, or one of your ginger ales?” Roz’s eyes widened comically, and he shook his head.

Hollander kept working on his pasta. “He doesn’t drink those. He just keeps them for me.”

There were two packs of ginger ale in the refrigerator and two cans in the door. Cliff knew that there had been six cans in the door last time he visited. He met Roz’s gaze and winked. Holzy didn’t need to know that his man drank his favorite drink when he missed him.

“Gatorade, then?” Cliff didn’t wait for an answer and passed one to Roz, whose shoulders relaxed. He gave them both a moment before he returned to the interrogation. “So, that’s the exclusivity thing… but how long were you not exclusive? Cause, Roz was all over the club scene, and Holzy, you dated Rose Landry, for fucks sake.”

Roz glowered, and Hollander rolled his eyes. "Ilya doesn't like to talk about that."

"You tried so hard to not be gay you pulled a fucking movie star at a party."

"I tried so hard to not be gay that I made us both miserable." Hollander walked around the island and pressed a kiss to Roz's temple. "But I'm here now, and I love you."

"I love you, too," Roz rested his head on Hollander collarbone, but, behind his back, Roz pressed his hand into the coating of flour on the counter. He closed his eyes and smiled as his boyfriend kissed him again. When they separated, Holzy sported a partial flour handprint on his ass. 

"This stuff is good." Cliff slurped the broth off his spoon before going back for another bite of stuffed pasta. "If I hadn't been standing here, I wouldn't believe you made it from scratch." He shook his head and elbowed Roz. "Handsome, rich, talented, and a good cook... How the fuck did you get this lucky?"

Roz grinned. "I am fantastic in bed. Shane couldn't resist me."

Hollander rolled his eyes and blushed. "Shut up."

"You're not denying it, man," Cliff pointed out with a laugh. "C'mon, this fucker's been bragging about his prowess in bed for years. You've got to give me something to work with here. His ego is out of control."

"Prowess? Marly, where the fuck do you get this shit?"

"I'm not usually one to talk about my sex life, Marly." Holzy's mouth twisted into a smirk. "But I'm not complaining either."

Rather than triumph, Roz's expression melted into a soft smile that reminded Cliff of watching cartoons with his niece and nephew. If it were humanly possible, Roz would have hearts drifting in the air around his head.

As Hollander and Roz stared adoringly at each other, reality crashed over Cliff. They were in love, and the barriers to being together loomed like an insurmountable stone wall.

"Hollander, when is your contract up?" Cliff asked the question quietly, dread building in his chest.

"Don't, Marly," Roz pleaded. His shoulders slumped, and he stared down at his empty bowl.

"Cause, Roz is a free agent at the end of this season," Cliff continued. He regretted bringing up the topic when Hollander avoided his gaze and started cleaning up the food. The silence weighed on them, dragging down their mood.

Finally, Hollander took a breath. "I've got two more years."

"Fuck!" Cliff spat. Hollander flinched, and Roz glared at him. "Fuck," he repeated more quietly. "You two can't keep going like this for another two years. Hell, I thought long distance was bad with one hockey schedule to worry about. Carmen and I barely made it for six months."

"We're not doing it for another two years, Marly," Roz agreed. "I'm not going to re-sign with Boston."

His wholesome soup sat in his stomach like a rock, and Cliff shook his head, denying reality. "Where are you going to go then? Metros fans take videos spitting when they say your name. They burn you in effigy before games!" He grimaced, remembering their first game in Montreal that season when a figure, recognizable as Cliff Marleau, had joined Roz on the pyre.

"We can't afford him anyway," Hollander said flatly. "We don't have the cap space." He took a deep breath and met Cliff's eyes. "But Ottawa does."

"Ottawa?" Cliff repeated, the name still not making sense. "What the fuck is in Ottawa?"

"It's my hometown," Hollander said quietly. "My home team..." He flushed a little and shrugged. "My parents still live there."

"But they suck!" Cliff declared, wincing as Rozy glared at him.

"They won't suck once I am there." He sat upright, crossing his arms and clenching his jaw. "Boston sucked until I joined the team, too."

It was the truth, but it wasn't the whole truth. The Raiders, under a new GM, had shaken up the whole organization in an effort to break their losing streak. One player, no matter how good, couldn't turn around a team by himself.

Cliff stared down at his feet, swallowing hard. "Rebuilds take time, Rozy. You know that." When he looked up, Roz's gaze was locked onto Hollander, even as Hollander turned away from them to put something in the freezer.

"I like winning," Roz admitted, his voice rough. Hollander's shoulders tensed, bracing for a blow. "But I love Shane. Hockey is not --" His voice broke into a cough, then Holzy was beside him. He rubbed Roz's back, supporting him in his chair until the fit subsided.

"We don't have to talk about this right now, Ilya," Hollander said, keeping an arm around him. "Maybe you should get some rest."

Roz leaned heavily into Hollander's side, his eyes wet and red from the violence of his fit. "Will you lay with me?"

Hollander flicked his eyes around the still messy kitchen and looked back at Roz; eyes closed as he rested against his shoulder. "Yeah, I'll lay down with you for a minute. I think you need some more medicine first, ok?"

"I'll load the dishwasher," Cliff offered; his gut still twisted with guilt at upsetting Roz. "You need help getting him into bed?"

"Never had an issue before," Holzy answered, smiling down at Roz. "Medicine first, then you need to sleep."

"Medicine, blowjob, and then a nap?" Roz suggested, fluttering his eyelashes up at his boyfriend.

"We'll see what you can stay awake for..."

Cliff rinsed their soup bowls as Roz took a shot of couch syrup. Hollander laughed at his revolted shudder. "So mean to me," Roz muttered, but his pout quirked up at the edges.

"C'mon, back to bed," Hollander insisted, sliding an arm around Roz's waist. "Let's go."

"You know what would help me sleep?" Roz lifted his eyebrows suggestively, and Holzy laughed.

Their voices faded into mumbles as they shuffled toward the bedroom. Cliff set the pot aside to handwash and surveyed the rest of the mess. As he went through the motions of cleaning up, his mind rolled around the idea of Roz and Holzy... Roz and Ottawa...

Roz would leave a void in their team when he left, and it hurt to know it was necessary. But, for all that they liked to pretend otherwise, hockey wasn't forever. Cliff felt confident that Roz and Hollander could be, if they wanted it badly enough.

He looked toward the bedroom, but Hollander didn't reappear. Cliff chuckled. "Think I'll just let myself out."

Chapter End Notes

Head Canon that invaded this chapter -
Cliff uses a word of the day app. I will not be taking any questions on that regard.

Shane feels a little warm and sentimental at the idea of Ilya playing for Ottawa. His favourite person on his hometown team...

Ilya drinks ginger ale when he's missing Shane. He does not want Shane to know.

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

Three months later

The whole house buzzed with chatter as the Raiders enjoyed what Cliff had called an invasion. The team had two days off after their road trip, and Roz had admitted that he had no plans. Cliff suspected that he had agreed to host out of guilt. The season was half over, and he hadn't told anyone else about it being his last.

"Ok, how the fuck does this thing... Woo! Fuck yeah, I got it." Connors stood at the far end of the kitchen island; hands raised in triumph after he finished assembling the pasta roller.

Vic peered at the iPad screen, scrolling through the recipe that Cliff had saved as Montreal Miracle Soup. "This is really thorough," Vic marveled. "There's even links to tutorial videos for the different steps."

"Yeah," Connors agreed as he cracked eggs into the mixing bowl. "I thought Roz got himself some amazing cook when I found out that stuff was fresh chickpea pasta, but apparently, he just found someone that could follow directions."

Roz grinned. "My Jane follows directions very well," he drawled, his voice low and suggestive.

"Jane's gonna kick your ass one of these days," Cliff replied, pulling back as steam billowed up from the pot of browned chicken pieces.

"Maybe I would enjoy it." Roz laughed and ducked as Vic swatted at him with a kitchen towel.

Cliff's tablet dinged with a notification, and Vic snorted. "Better be careful Roz, seems like your girl heard you."

"What do you mean?" Roz frowned at him.

"Looks like a text from Jane." Vic tapped the screen, tilting his head in confusion. "You've got her saved as Roz's Girl?"

"Vic, you idiot, that's my tablet." Cliff put the lid on the pot and reached across the island to snatch his device. "And don't read my text messages."

"Roz's girl texts you?" Vic asked, moving backwards, tablet in hand. "That's pretty weird, man."

"What'd she say?" Connors asked.

"You're a nosy fucker," Cliff protested. "Leave it alone." He was pretty careful about deleting any messages that would suggest the actual identity or gender of Roz's lover, but he still felt uncomfortable with anyone seeing them.

"She says, this water stinks, and my socks are wet." Vic blinked down at the message as the tablet dinged again. "Apparently that wasn't for you."

Roz pulled his phone out and rolled his eyes. "The message was for me." He tapped out a reply and slid his phone back in his pocket.

Connors sidled up beside Vic and started scrolling on the tablet. Cliff charged around the island. "Give me that. What is wrong with you?"

He should have known better. Connors’s eyes lit up, and he danced away with his iPad. "What kind of stuff does a man text to his best friend’s super secretive girlfriend?" He made a show of scrolling again.

"Uhoh, on Tuesday after practice, Marly texted - Hey Beautiful... Dude, you call Roz's girl beautiful?" He glanced over a Roz cautiously, but he was ignoring them in favor of his phone. "Roz, he calls your girl beautiful. That doesn't bother you?"

Roz shrugged. "Good to know that Marly's not blind."

"Hey Beautiful," he started reading again. "Where can I find another pair of those Reeboks you got for Roz? My nephew would love them."

Marly inwardly blessed his paranoid habit of deleting the messages that included any reference to Hollander’s specific brand deals. His teammates were oblivious, but even they might find it suspicious that Roz’s partner got advanced and limited release Reeboks.  He pulled out his phone and started tapping through the settings. Somewhere, there was an option to disconnect messages from his tablet.

A new message popped up on the thread to Jane. “Why are your socks wet?”

Marly spat out a swear and glared at Connors. “Don’t fucking message Jane! Fuck!”

Before he could warn Holzy that someone had his tablet, he got a reply. “Fucked if I know why it’s necessary. Something about implying the sultriness of a tropical rainstorm. As if there’s anything seductive about getting drenched, no matter where you are.”

Marly finally found the disconnect command, and Connors groaned. "Dude! You suck!"

"Respect people's privacy, asshole!"

Fortunately, the next message wouldn't have been too revealing, even if had shown up on Marly’s tablet. "Pretty impressive that my make-up hasn’t gotten fucked up, but I feel like I'm entering a wet t-shirt contest."

"I can think of somebody that would like that." Marly laughed and turned his screen for Roz to see. His eyes lit up.

"I wonder if I can get copies of the photos from this shoot?" Roz grinned. "Give me something pretty to look at when we're on the road."

Vic perked up at the comment. "You're fucking a model? Roz, what the hell? Why have you been holding out on us? Who is this girl?”

"None of your fucking business, that's who." Roz glared at Vic. "Nosy fucker. How about we focus on making more soup for your wife, since that's all she wants to eat right now."

They all got back to work, but Connors and Vic continued to complain about being left out of the loop.  Once the pasta dough was resting, Connors pulled up his phone and turned to screen toward Vic. Cliff ignored them in favor of cooking the pasta filling.

Roz, who had declared that his kitchen and the recipe were his contributions to the project, was typing away on his phone with the special smirk he always had for Holzy. He huffed and shook his head. “Apparently, they are having technical problems. My Jane will be stuck there all day.”

"That sucks, Roz.” Cliff stirred the vegetable mixture one more time and added seasoned tofu crumbles to the pan.

"So, your girl is from Montreal, right?" Connors asked. When Roz glared at him, he nodded. “I’ll take that as a yes.” He muttered to Vic, “Montreal model... gotta be a reason for the secrecy.”

"Leave it alone, guys," Cliff told them, sighing.

"She's not married," Vic insisted. "Roz, she's not married, right?"

Connors hissed in surprise. "Holy shit, she's not married!"

Cliff froze, cold horror washing over him. They've kept this thing secret for years. Fuck, is it going to be my fault that they get outed? He swallowed hard, resolutely keeping his face turned away.

"The Metros GM has five daughters," Connors declared. "Three of them are models."

"Hot models! None named Jane though," Vic pointed out. Cliff could feel their inquisitive gazes on him.

"Could be a fake name."

Roz stood beside Cliff, his jaw clenched. Even the suggestion that his mystery girl was connected to the Metros felt too close for comfort.

"Oh, hell, the GM's wife is running for office." Connors laughed, and Marly saw him shaking his head in the distorted reflection from the vent hood. "Fuck Roz, no wonder she doesn't want anyone to know about you. Which one is it?" He crossed the kitchen to shove his phone in Roz's face. "Is it the hot blond, the tall brunette, or the curvy tall brunette?"

"Whatever you think you know, you don't," Roz said flatly. He exchanged a glance with Cliff, and they silently agreed that this was a better cover story than they would have thought up.

Cliff went along with Roz's play, as he always did on the ice. "Leave it alone, guys. Make the damn pasta so that we can get this done in time for pizza and beer."

"Yeah, ok," Vic agreed, apparently happy with the explanation. He started to lift out the pasta dough and frowned down at the tablet. "What's the point of putting flour on the counter? Doesn't that just make a mess?"

"I think it keeps the dough from sticking." Connors peered over his shoulder at the iPad. "Yeah, see, in that picture?" Cliff let out a silent breath, relieved that the crisis was averted.

Roz's phone lit up; Jane was calling. "Hello, my beautiful. How is the wet photo shoot?” He moved away before anyone could hear the murmurs of a reply. Whatever Holzy said made him laugh as he made his way to his bedroom. “Well, how can I entertain you while they fix the cameras?” he asked, closing the door behind him.

Cliff shook his head, turning back to the pasta filling. Behind him, Vic and Connors laughed and swore as they tried to roll out pasta dough. He wondered how long it would take for them to click on the tutorial video that was linked in the recipe. I hope Vic's future kid appreciates this. Miracle Soup is a lot of fucking work.

Chapter End Notes

Head Canons that invaded the epilogue

Hockey players are a bunch of gossips

Ilya has a soft spot for his teammates' wives and girlfriends