there's angst in it, too, but i'm laughing about the idea of ilya going through with his plan at the hospital to say they should breaking things off
but not realizing that shane is too far in the stratosphere to fully grasp what he's saying
OR REMEMBER THE DETAILS OF THE CONVERSATION LATER
so ilya is trying to do this gently because he doesn't want to hurt him, but unfortunately this means being SO gentle that what high!shane gets is "i can't come see you more before i leave because it would be too hard" and shane is "okay :( i understand :(" because yeah, their team prob leaves soon and it was already nice that he made it here once, so that's okay :)
but then shane gets out of the hospital AND DOESN'T RECALL THAT HE WAS BROKEN UP WITH, so he keeps texting ilya, and ilya thinks it's just him trying to hold on, so ilya just doesn't respond because he wants this to be as easy as possible and if he just doesn't respond-
and then there's a knock at the door.
and in a reversal of the tuna meltdown, he is now facing a shane hollander who WON'T leave his house without talking because shane thought it was still grief about his dad or something and got worried and came to see him. and look. ilya is only human. shane is in front of him and beautiful and worried and so of COURSE they fall into bed together again, and this time shane falls asleep there and stays all night and like. okay. if hollander is this determined to make this work, maybe ilya just has to get a little braver, too.
and all goes well until the day ilya SO affectionately goes
"i'm glad you didn't listen to me"
"what? when did i not listen to you? 🤨"
*still SO soft and affectionate and sweet because shane pushed back and it's thanks to that they got here <3* "when i said we should break up and stop seeing each-"
*shane, sitting up so fast he almost pulls something* "when you WHAT?!"
one thing in tlg I'll never complain about is shane proposing when he did
like, when i read it my first thought was "marriage doesnt fix all your relationship problems" and then i thought a moment longer like. actually nevermind this is a very shane thing to do. he saw something traumatic and potentially life-threatening happen to ilya and immediately went for the logistics. "we need a WILL. we need a MARRIAGE CERTIFICATE. we need POWER OF ATTORNEY. oh ok yeah we can come out too i guess. we need a JOINT BANK ACCOUNT"
shane and ilya aren’t allowed to give dating advice anymore ever since the cens found out they were in a situationship for seven years before making it official. one of the rookies asked what he should do to turn his hookup into a relationship and ilya was like “well in my experience if you just keep hooking up with that person who won’t commit to you and never communicate your needs or desires it’ll all work out perfectly and you’ll fall in love and get married. so keep doing what you’re doing” and shane was like “have you tried getting a head injury in front of them”
I am a big defender of Shane not wanting to come out and one of the biggest reasons that I haven’t seen discussed much is how much worse it is to come out as a Gay Asian Bottom compared to coming out as a bisexual (white) man who is already regarded as a sex machine. Like Asian men are already overly feminized in the west. Shane’s general demeanor is subdued, he doesn’t drink or party often, and he abides by strict rules and a diet that already makes him an outsider. He doesn’t sleep around and has only has one public relationship with a woman under his belt, which ended very quickly. He’s the exact opposite of Ilya in all these ways and it puts him at a disadvantage. He has a “soft” image he spends his whole life actively opposing. His image is working against him; him being gay contributes to it and worsens it. Ilya’s image is working in his favor; being with a man is an anomaly OR further proof of his sexual prowess. And bc of Ilya’s well known history of sleeping around and generally aggressive attitude, it will be assumed he would be the top. Through a heteronormative lens, which is obviously the norm in hockey, that makes him the “man” in the relationship. If anything, his ability to “dominate” another man may bolster his image, make him even more of an “alpha male”. But being a bottom is seen as inherently demeaning and effeminate, thanks to misogyny, homophobia, and rape culture. The less bulky, quiet, shy man with a shocking lack of experience with woman is obviously the bottom (and this is even worse if they have the height and body differences canon to the books). Shane will be seen as weaker (and what could be worse than that in a contact sport like hockey). He’ll be viewed as the “woman” in the relationship, which is to say he will be viewed as inherently inferior. And draws further attention to the parts of him he’s tried to hide (aka autism symptoms) which will now be treated as further evidence of his sensitivity and otherness. Everything he does now is gay. But being with Shane is the only gay thing Ilya does. Without the threat of Russia, Shane has far more to lose from coming out imo. And his team’s reaction proves that. He deserves some grace.
Ilya's heart is pounding hard, as though he's just smashed through a defense line. He can be brave, just like dinosaur Scott Hunter. He grips his phone tight to his ear, so tight his fingers are aching. "I am coming to the cottage," he declares.
There is silence on the other end. And then, "uh... how do you know about my cottage?" Shane asks.
Ilya pauses, thrown. He kneads his fist into his chest where it is starting to hurt. "You asked me," he says. "You said 'come to my cottage.' "
"No, I didn't."
Ilya stares at his phone. His fingers are trembling. He doesn't gasp, or cry or flinch but he feels almost light-headed and can't think of a single thing to say. He considers hanging up.
"I wanted to ask you," Shane clarifies. "But then I got knocked out."
Ilya closes his eyes, relief whooshing through him so fast he feels wobbly. A smile creeps over his face. "Hollander," he says. "You did ask. You were fucking high, at the hospital. You don't remember?"
"No? What did I say?"
“You said, ‘Come to my cottage this summer. Don't go to Russia. Come to my house. It will be fun. I will suck your cock every morning for two weeks.’ "
"I did not!"
"I'm pretty sure you did, actually. You promised. You said, 'we will do yoga outside with you in my mouth. You will get to see all my pretty arching up close.' "
"No way I said that," Shane scoffs.
"You're going to break your promises?"
"Ok, the first bit I can believe because that's pretty much what I wrote down to say but the rest... no."
"Shane! You were high. Clearly this is deepest desire of your heart, can only be revealed while on drugs. You said 'come to the cottage, make me tuna melts every day and I will let you fuck me in the lake.' "
"No, Ilya," Shane wheezes with laughter.
"Oh very nice, he invites me to his cottage then un-invites me! Famous American hosting not so good now, is it?"
"Asshole. I'm Canadian. And you're still invited. Please come."
"Oh, I will."
"Good," says Shane.
"Good," says Ilya.
"I'm looking forward to it. I'll make up the guest bedroom," Shane adds.
Ilya splutters.
"Oh," says Shane. "You want the couch instead? You want to camp in the garden?"
"No."
"Hmmm. Well, maybe I can share. I don't want you doubting Canadian hospitality."
"Ok, Hollander. I will sleep where you tell me."
"You will sleep where I sleep."
"Then we will not be sleeping."
"For two weeks?"
"You did not know? Russians do not sleep in summer."
"Sure. Russians do not sleep, do not blush, do not cuddle."
"This is what you think of me? Russians cuddle. We would win gold medal in cuddle."
"Prove it."
Ilya can hear Shane's breathlessness. "Hmm. Ok." He taps his finger against his lip. "I will prove this. Give me the time and the address. I'll come. Goodbye, Hollander. Don't ring any more bells. Clearly not much brain left, so the rest is precious."
"Shut up! I won't. Goodbye. See you soon."
"Soon," Ilya smiles. He hangs up the phone and presses it to his lips.
Ilya slammed Shane into the boards hard enough for the plexiglass to shake. Troy, Harris, and Wyatt watched with a mixture of horror and awe. Practice had ended nearly ten minutes ago and yet their star players were still going at it. Shane, to his credit, maintained control of the puck and sped away.
“Jesus,” Troy muttered.
“I know,” Harris said mournfully. “I seriously don’t think there’s any footage from today I can use without people being worried for their safety.”
“Roz is a madman,” Wyatt agreed, watching the Russian spew chirp after chirp. Troy nodded.
“I don’t know how Hollzy handles him.” A tense silence fell over them, an unspoken question hanging in the air. Troy cleared his throat. “Do you think—” He looked over his shoulder before lowering his voice. “Do you think Rozy’s too rough with him? Like… outside of the rink.”
The other two looked at him quizzically. Troy rushed to explain. “I mean, you know how he is. I’m not saying he’s hurting Shane or anything but do you think he forgets his own strength.” He looked down at the ground, suddenly embarrassed for some reason.
“What, like in the bedroom?” Harris asked without shame. Troy shrugged and Wyatt’s jaw dropped.
“Do you really think so?” Wyatt asked, squinting his all-powerful goalie eyes at the duo on the ice.
“Maybe we should ask Shane,” Harris said firmly. Speculating was getting them nowhere.
They waited until Shane was out of the shower and dressed before approaching him. By the way panic flared in his eyes, they probably looked like they were staging an intervention.
“Rozy was crazy today,” Wyatt began tentatively.
“Yeah,” Shane said slowly, narrowing his eyes. He bent forward to put on his shoes. “He’s an asshole.”
Wyatt glanced at the others helplessly. He might’ve been Ilya’s friend but he had no idea how to talk about stuff like this. Luckily, Harris stepped in. “Is he like that at home?”
“What? An asshole? Definitely.” Shane sat up and looked at the three of them suspiciously. “Why?”
Harris shrugged and looked at Troy for backup. None of them knew how to go about this. “But he’s not too much of an asshole, right?” Troy bit his lip. “He doesn’t act the way he does on the ice in your, um, romantic life?”
Shane stared at him like he’d grown an extra head. Then it dawned on him. A wide smile slowly spread across his face and he looked like he was fighting the urge to laugh. He looked over his shoulder and called, “Rozanov.”
Ilya appeared out of nowhere with wet hair and a towel around his neck. “Да?”
“Show these guys your back.”
It was Ilya’s turn to laugh. He didn’t even question it. He simply turned around and tugged his shirt off. There were red scratch marks everywhere, from the smooth panes of his shoulder blades to the top of his hips, not to mention about a dozen hickeys.
“Oh my God,” Harris said. Troy and Wyatt had already averted their eyes.
“Jesus, Hollzy,” Troy muttered. Shane grinned proudly and patted Ilya’s back, signalling to him to drop his shirt again.
“Thanks for the concern, boys.” Shane looked up at Ilya with nothing but total adoration in his eyes. “But I can assure you, I’m fine.”
They had agreed, Yuna and him, to stay out of Shane's relationship. No advice. No helpful hints. Nothing unless asked. Which, given Shane's history, wasn't likely.
But, given Shane's history - was perhaps necessary.
Ilya's house in Boston was lovely. He'd been all puffed up, showing them around, sending sly glances at Shane when Yuna complimented the design and asked after the builders. It was also...very open. Cavernous. Echo-y, even.
David's hand twitched toward the tv remote and Yuna tutted. She was listening intently to the play-by-play behind them, almost drowned out by the clatter of dishware.
Almost.
They were holding back remarkably well, for a first-couple-fight. Or maybe a first-fight-in-front-of-the-in-laws.
"Keep your voice down!" Shane snapped for the third time.
Yuna ticked a finger up. She was keeping count. And judging.
This had to be a first-couple-fight. They hadn't quite learned how to do this yet. Either of them. Shane was getting worked up in a way that didn't bode well for the cabinetry and Ilya, well. It seemed like Ilya was just letting it happen.
"No one knows how to argue anymore," Yuna said under her breath, "I should have taught him," overshadowed by Ilya, just a little too loudly telling Shane that whatever it was, wasn't a big deal.
"Mistake," David muttered back.
"Well you only make that mistake once," Yuna bantered like a sports commentator and David smiled helplessly at her.
"C'mon, Yuna. Don't you remember the first time your parents had me over for dinner?"
Yuna snorted, "You were so scared. You let me hen-peck you the whole meal."
He had. But then, it had been awkward, intimidating. Yuna had refused to let him meet her parents until they were engaged, and given him a game plan of exactly what to do at that meeting. Bring gifts. Be respectful. Speak when spoken to. Agree with everything my father says.
"Remind you of anyone else's first impression?" David raised his eyebrows. Ilya had relaxed somewhat with them over dinner. Not enough though. There were obvious silences where Shane would shoot him a look, like he was expecting something. And he still stood like a guilty kid waiting in the principals office. Upright. Hands together.
It had been a relief to see how comfortable he was here, in his own space. Making room for them. How Shane clearly knew his way around.
"He wasn't that bad," Yuna said.
"At least his father-in-law isn't going to imply -"
"My dad didn't mean it like that," Yuna cut him off. She was still keeping tally but her attention was more present now, shoulders less tense.
"He said you had to find a," David huffed and accepted the knee Yuna knocked into his as given. Otousan had been so proud of his English, and so willing to insult him in Japanese. Years after the mans passing and David was still laughing about it. "gaijin to marry because only Western men were weak enough to let you walk all over them."
"First impressions last," Yuna said, as she always did. "And you did!"
"Do I?"
"Well," She leaned close enough their arms touched, which was as good as fireworks from her. "maybe not all the time."
A slam jolted them apart and David counted it lucky that Yuna had put her wine down to keep score.
"Shane."
Yuna's head whipped around so fast David near got a mouth full of her hair. "Settle down, ref - that's not a penalty yet," he whispered. Though it was certainly more forceful than they had ever heard Ilya speak. Not in interviews, not when mic'd up, and never to Shane.
"What?" Shane, at least didn't sound shocked by the tone. He sounded angry. Voice tight in the way he got when he was upset at his own performance.
"Come here."
"Yeah, no. I'm fixing this -"
"Come. Here."
A slam. A squeak of those weird house shoes on tile.
David was familiar with house slippers. House shoes were different. Still, they were comfortable, and it was kind of Ilya to have them ready.
"What?" Shane snarling too loud in the confined space.
"What is this about? Hm? You're yelling about a fucking dishwasher."
"Your dishwasher -"
"Our."
Yuna's eyebrows curved, pleasantly surprised. A finger on her right hand went down.
"If it's our dishwasher, what is the big fucking deal if I re-load it?"
"Fine! Fuck! It's not about the fucking dishwasher, Hollander!"
"Yes it is! Because it's not our dishwasher, it's your dishwasher, in your house. Like. God, why did you even ask me for a list if you weren't going to get anything I put on it? What's the point?"
"What is the point of what, hm? This is about groceries, now? "
"I would have gone grocery shopping. I like grocery shopping."
"So I got, what, wrong groceries? That is why you acting like shit and barely ate dinner? I got wrong groceries?"
"Ilya I have a diet plan -"
"Awful one, yes."
"It already restricts what I can have, so excuse me if I want to get the brands that actually taste or feel right!"
"You tell me this now? Instead of when I ask, or when we cook, or any other time? I'm mind reader now?"
"I don't want you to read my mind - I want. I -"
Something else slammed, and Ilya's voice fell so soft David could barely hear the buzz of it. More shuffling. Quiet, before Shane burst out - "I want to go grocery shopping with you. I could have just got the right things the first time, or argued with you about it then. Do you know how many times I've heard my parents argue and make up in the grocery store. Dad once got organic produce and mom didn't talk to him for 5 aisles because he clearly didn't listen when she was talking about how organic is just good PR and it's more expensive for no reason. We don't get to have that. And I know -"
"Shane. We'll get there."
"I know. This is the plan. I know that."
"Yes! And for now, I don't know, I'll be the crazy person talking on my fucking airpods in the grocery store while you rearrange our kitchen. Okay?"
The sharp tones faded into their normal cadence of bickering, the rough burr of Russian and Shane's hesitant picking at the language. Ilya apparently calling him a little teapot.
Because he was steamed. Right.
Yuna twitched and, unthinkingly, David grabbed her hand, folded her fingers down and brought her knuckles to his lips. He kept them there for a beat too long. They were red and raw, the way they always got in winter because she'd forgo gloves to keep her hands free for texting. "Aisle 6 make up," he muttered, "works every time." Just to feel the way his wife shook with suppressed laughter.
Behind them, the clatter of dishes being done picked up. David almost felt comfortable enough to reach for the remote again, but ticking the volume up now felt. Exposing.
"I feel crazy." He heard Shane sigh. "I want this to go well."
"Yes. I want that too."
"Do you?"
David winced. Shane and that lovely habit of his of sounding so judgmental while asking a genuine question.
"I just mean," Well, at least he learned to catch himself. "You're so…"
"What?"
"Nice! You're like a pod person. You're not giving me shit or teasing my mom for being worse than me at turning it off,"
"Well," she huffs.
"Don't start," David said, squeezing her hand.
"Or calling my dad boring,"
"Well," he said, just to make Yuna laugh.
"Yes. Obviously, I want this to go well, Shane."
"Oh," Yuna whispered. He nudged her, but she shook her head, looking a little lost. "Later."
"I want them to know you, Ilya. The real you."
"No, you don't."
He hadn't realized he'd edged forward until Yuna pulled him back, tapping her thumb against his wrist. "Easy, coach. Shane's got this."
"Don't tell me what I want. Stop being an asshole, Ilya. I just. They're going to love you - I know it. Just fucking. Let us love you."
A glass clicked too hard against the stone counter top. "Laundry's done."
"Ilya." There was the tone back.
"Shane." Passed and returned. "You wanted to have fresh sheets in the guest bed."
"Fucking. Fine."
Quickly, Yuna took her phone out and David leaned into her shoulder, pretending to stare at her screen in a way Yuna only rarely let him because she hated people hovering. Hilarious, as she was practically a professional hover-er in her own right. Usually, if she wanted to show him something, she handed him the phone and watched him read it over his shoulder, or told him about it while he read.
Often, he reminded himself it was her passion that made him fall for her in the first place.
It was only when they heard the dryer slam shut that Yuna relaxed, slightly. "Okay. Rozanov's good for him."
"Ilya," David corrected absently, "and we knew that already."
"Yes, but before, we knew he was good with him, now we know he's good for him. I like him, for Shane." Yuna looked smug. "He knows how to talk to him."
He loved that look on her. The way she settled content, like the cat that got the cream, when everything was going to plan. "And next step is we like him for him, right?"
"Exactly - once he settles a bit with us and we prove he can trust us, I think he'll fit right in."
Smothering a laugh, David pressed a kiss to Yuna's hair. "Divide and conquer, you go get Shane. I'll go to the kitchen."
"Are you sure?"
"I've got this."
And Yuna's wine glass could use topping up. Two birds, and all that.
Ilya barely moved when he came around the corner. His face was doing the Russian-thing. Cold and remote. "I'm sorry you heard that," He said, stilted. "We don't fight, usually. Not off the ice."
Absently, David noted that his English was perfect again. No missed articles or dropped contractions. "No, it's good. All loving couples argue, you know?"
"No. That. Uh, it has not been my experience."
"Ah. Well, it's reassuring, honestly. Shane is Yuna's son through and through. Once they get something in their head and a plan in place," he blew out a breath and mimed something taking off.
The smile that burst on Ilya's face was so wide and fond, it changed him entirely. Boyish. A little silly. And so very much in love. "Oh, I know how he gets."
"I would hate to overstep, Ilya. You've very kindly opened your home to us and we appreciate it."
Smile dimming, Ilya tucked his hands into his pockets, shoulders squaring. "But?"
Ah, damn. David wasn't good at tip-toeing. Never had been. Which was funny, in retrospect. When they'd met, all those years ago, he'd asked Yuna on a date before the end of their first conversation. She told him later that if he hadn't asked her out, she'd have never forgiven him. He just - he knew. David liked her so much and something told him, keep this. Hold onto this. He'd proposed too soon, as well. There'd been some gossip, but Yuna? Yuna was just excited to bring him home.
Her mother always told her, you only bring a man home if you're going to marry him.
"No, I just - " needing to make himself useful, David grabbed a dish towel and I moved to the small things Shane had clearly hand washed at some point. "I wanted to share some advice my father-in-law gave to me before I married Yuna."
Ilya took that neatly on the chin, and David had to watch his reflection in the kitchen windows as he turned away. "Okay." His voice sounded suspiciously thick.
"Sometimes, it’s better to let your wife be wrong in her way than for her to do it your way." David quoted, the quiet, strong inflection on the words was seared into his brain.
Ilya laughed, like David hoped he would, and his eyes were suspiciously bright when he turned back. "Wow."
"I know that's maybe not the most applicable," David started.
"No, no. It's perfect." Ilya grinned, coming over with his own cloth and shooing David with it. "I'm going to tell him this all the time. Go, sit."
"You cooked," David smiled. "And it was delicious."
"It's my house, you're a guest here, your Canadian manners mean nothing to me."
"Is it not our house?"
"Oh! Shane gets his sneaky jokes from you. I see this now."
One day, David thought, he would finish the quote. Otousan had clapped him on the shoulder then, and said, in his deep grave voice.
Shane fucking Hollander - or a Cliff finds out ficlet
[this is a first draft but bc ao3 is still down, so this is my offering in these dark times]
Cliff wakes up early. He loves to party but he’s still a professional hockey player and at some point getting drunk until 2 AM and then getting up for an early morning flight has just become second nature. Hydration, Advil, and a lot of coffee are the keys to survival.
When his internal clock wakes him at eight, he’s not mad about it. They have a noon flight so that gives him time for a shower, a nice greasy breakfast with Roz, and then herding the no doubt incredibly hungover rookies back to their hotel.
He finds a bathroom with fresh towels in the hallway. He’s not a fan of putting his old clothes back on, but he can just turn his boxers inside out and he’ll borrow a fresh shirt from Roz. It’ll be a little short but he can deal.
When he walks downstairs, Roz is in the kitchen in sweatpants and a Centaurs shirt, staring blarily at the coffee maker. There’s no sign the rookies are conscious yet.
“Well, you look like death warmed over.” Cliff doesn’t bother keeping his voice down, the rookies need to get up.
He thinks he hears a faint groan from the living room.
Roz stares at him with narrowed eyes. It would be intimidating if he didn’t look so pathetic.
“Come on man, we didn’t even drink that much last night.”
Roz waves him off. “Not used to it anymore.”
Cliff wants to prod him about that, about his new life with Jane and whether it makes him happy enough to make up for playing on such a bad team, but that’s when there’s noise from the livingroom and then Svenson and Brooks stumble into the room. They look even worse than Roz.
“Bathroom,” Roz says and points down the hallway. “Then coffee.”
They nod and shuffle down the hallway. There’s some noise, the click of a door and then Brooks reappears, blinking dumbly.
“Only one toilet,” he says.
Cliff sighs and hands over a mug of coffee. “Lightweight.”
Brooks gives him a betrayed look. “You made us drink vodka with a Russian.”
Roz nods. “Is true. Rookie mistake.” He snickers at his own joke then groans and grips his head.
“Roz isn’t even in drinking shape,” Cliff says mildly and pours more coffee.
Brooks stares in horror and then burns his mouth on his coffee. Cliff can’t help but laugh.
Eventually, Svenson reappears. His face is flushed and the tips of his blond hair are wet so he attempted some sort of wash. Cliff pushes a coffe cup in his direction and Roz digs out a bottle of Advil. He takes two before he hands it over.
“Grease?” Cliff asks.
“Eggs and bacon in the fridge,” Roz says, apparently unwilling to move from where he’s leaning heavily against the kitchen counter.
Cliff gets started and eventually Roz manages to help with the eggs. He throws some herbs in it which is definitely new but it smells nice so Cliff isn’t complaining.
Brooks reappears, lookin marginally more alive but also incredibly grateful for the Advil.
“You guys need to learn how to party,” Cliff says. “Roz here was a natural when he came to Boston.”
“I am a natural at everything,” Roz mutters but his bragging is lacking his usual energy. He still looks like he’s ready to go back to sleep.
“Yeah, I’m not comparing myself in anything to Ilya Rozanov,” Svenson mutters under his breath.
It’s not quiet enough because Roz nods and says, “I am incomparable.”
Cliff laughs again. Man, he misses Roz. He blames it on his own lack of sleep that he actually says that out loud.
Instead of ribbing him, Roz just bumps his shoulder against Cliff’s.
It's what gives Cliff the courage to say, “I feel like in compensation I should at least get to meet Jane.”
Roz’s instant “no” clashes with Brooks “Jane?”
“Shut up,” Roz says to the room at large.
“Oh come on, man,” Cliff says. “I already know she’s the reason you moved here.”
Roz stares at him with wide eyes. “What?”
The two rookies stare equally wide-eyed.
“Montreal girl.” Cliff says. “Jane.”
“In case you forgot, I moved to Ottawa,” Roz says with a snort but his shoulders are tense. Cliff should probably drop this—he dropped it last night—but fuck that. They were team mates for nine years, friends even Cliff likes to think, partied their way through every club in a city with a hockey team.
Roz was the one who bailed him out of jail after the whole thing in St Louis and Cliff was the one who took a punch to the face when it turned out Roz unknowingly hit on a married woman whose husband had a very short fuse and a mean right hook in Philly.
And then Roz just left, almost no warning, packed up and left for fucking Ottawa, giving Cliff nothing more than press answers and cryptic shoulder shrugs. And Cliff never pressed on the whole Montreal girl thing because Roz was touchy about it, clearly a sore subject with the long distance and her obviously not wanting to move to Boston for him, but pretending she’s not the reason Roz left for Ottawa and Cliff’s too stupid to know it… Cliff’s a laid back guy and he rarely gets angry, not even with Roz, but fuck this.
“You still moved for her,” Cliff says. “And I don’t know why you keep lying about it.” To me Cliff doesn’t say, but then he does because fuck this. “Come on man, you can tell me. You could always tell me.”
“Ottawa,” Roz says slowly, with emphasis, like he’s speaking to a toddler, “Is not Montreal.”
And Cliff is done with this bullshit.
“Yeah, well you couldn’t go to Montreal.” Cliff holds up a finger. “They would never sign you because you’re the most hated player in Montreal.” He holds up another finger. “Hollander would never play with you. He’d never move to second line for you and you’d never play second line for him. So unless you suddenly want to play wing, no dice. Never mind that even if the fans don’t set the Bell Centre on fire for signing you and Hollander doesn’t run you through with his stick, they still don’t have the cap space to afford you. So no dice on Montreal. And if my Canadian geography isn’t completely fucked, then Ottawa is the closest you can get to Montreal.”
Roz stares at him, shoulders slumped in defeat.
“What I don’t fucking get, is why she wouldn’t move for you?”
“That’s what you don’t get?”
Cliff shrugs. “You’ve been after your Montreal girl since rookie season. No one stuck around for as long as her except for Svetlana and you were always the one who said she’s just a friend. But Jane was never a friend. And then you stopped sleeping around last year, so it was obvious it was getting serious. But man, you’re one of the best and Ottawa is shit so… Why couldn’t she come to Boston?”
Roz looks up at the ceiling and mutters something in Russian. Cliff really only learned one Russian word, blyat, because it’s Roz’s favorite curse word. He hears it now too.
Behind Roz, the rookies are staring, mouths open but not making a sound.
Finally Roz says, “Jane has job in Montreal. Career. Would be stupid to move.”
“And it wasn’t for you?” Cliff asks incredulously.
Roz shrugs. “I can rebuild the team. Did it before in Boston, no? And… family is here, in Ottawa. So Jane is here a lot. It makes sense.”
It’s an odd mix of mushy and cocky, which is really Roz’s whole thing if you get to know him, just that he usually hides the mushiness more under layers of insults. Still, Cliff has questions.
“Okay, but what I don’t get is why you didn’t tell anyone? Like the fans might have not felt so betrayed you know?”
Cliff might not have felt so betrayed.
Roz shrugs again. “Jane is very private. I did not want the press to go snooping.”
That makes Brooks break. He lets out an incredulous noise.
Roz turns around like he forgot the rookies were there.
“Just,” Brooks stars helpelssly, falling silent under Roz’s hard look.
Svenson, now apparently remembering that he’s a six foot four MLH defenseman who regularly gets into fights on the ice, says, “What girl wouldn’t want to be seen with you?”
Roz snorts. “Jane is much too good for me. Trust me, I would not be good for reputation.”
The rookies both stare uncomprehending. Cliff gets it; Roz is their idol. They both had his poster on their walls just a few years ago. When Brooks got drunk with the team for the first time, he confided in Hammersmith that getting drafted to Boston was a dream come true because of Roz and that he’d honest to god cried when Roz went to Ottawa before Brooks ever got to meet him. It’s the main reason Cliff brought them with him last night, instead of catching up with Roz alone. The rookies’ sad puppy eyes had been too much for even Cliff to refuse.
“Still,” Cliff says, because he can be a dog with a bone when he has to, “now that I know, I could meet her? Just grab lunch or dinner or something? I really want to meet the girl who got you to move to fucking Ottawa.”
Roz blows out breath. “Sure. Some day.” There’s something heavy in Roz’s expression.
Some day. It doesn’t sound like any day soon. And it’s glaringly obvious that it’s not Roz’s choice.
Cliff stares into his coffee and wonders about this girl—or woman now, considering how long they’ve been a thing—who made Roz settle down and move to the worst team in the league. Who works in a field where she doesn’t openly want to date a hockey player. Who comes to visit Roz sometimes but doesn’t want to live with him full time.
Cliff is starting to hate Jane from Montreal a little.
The kitchen is quiet now, everyone staring into their coffee cups, the rookies still in shock and Roz just tired.
In the silence, the noise of the front door opening is very loud.
Roz’s head snaps up immediately.
There’s some shuffling, maybe a bag dropped, then a voice calls out. “Ilya?”
The voice is male. And vaguely familiar.
What the fuck?
Roz has gone as white as a sheet and hurries out of the kitchen. “Hey. I have—”
“Oh good, you’re up, I thought maybe you got so shitfaced with Marleau yesterday you’re still unconscious,” the voice says. There’s more shuffling, maybe a coat hung up or shoes toed off.
“We did and Marleau is still—” Roz starts, standing in the hallway, but then Shane Hollander steps into view, steps up right to Roz, takes his face into his hands and pulls him in for a kiss. Right on the mouth. And it’s not just a little peck either, it’s a full on lip smash, tongue swipe, going in for seconds kiss on the mouth.
What the…
One of the rookies squeaks and Cliff stares and Roz is frozen and Hollander—Shane fucking Hollander— pulls back.
Hollander makes a face. “You taste like an ashtray rinsed with vodka.”
Roz makes a helpless croaky noise. “I—”
Hollander rolls his eyes, plants another kiss on Roz’s mouth and then says, “Go brush your teeth. I missed you.”
“I didn’t know you were coming early,” Roz says, desperately, pleading.
Hollander grins. “Surprise.” Then his face falls, apparently finally registering Roz’s expression. “Not a good surprise?”
Roz shakes his head.
There’s a clinking noise and every head in the room turns to the kitchen island where Brooks just turned over his coffee cup.
“Sorry,” he says, a small puddle of coffee spreading over the counter.
Hollander stares, wide eyed. “Fuck.”
“Yeah, so Marleau and the rookies got so drunk last night, they couldn’t remember their hotel or room numbers so I took them home,” Roz says, somewhat weakly.
“And you couldn’t tell me this?” Hollander hisses.
Roz shrugs. “Was also very drunk. And didn’t think you were coming until later.”
“The interview was canceled,” Hollander says, almost absently, his eyes flitting back and forth between Cliff and the rookies. “Oh god. Fuck.”
And Cliff… he shakes his head, thoughts finally kicking into gear again. Because suddenly Roz’s secrecy about his Montreal girl makes a lot more sense.
And it’s… a lot. Fucked up probably. What about their whole rivalry? How long has this been going on?
But no, Cliff knows this. Montreal girl has been around since rookie season. He just has a hard time translating this to Shane Hollander—Shane fucking Hollander—having been around scince rookie season in his head.
Shane Hollander. Montreal girl.
Shane. Jane.
Jesus Christ.
Cliff lets out an almost hysterical laugh.
Roz rounds on him immediately, gets a fist into his shirt. “Marleau, I swear, if you—”
Still laughing, Cliff raises his hands. “Roz, no. I just… fuck, you were right.”
“Right?”
“Your Montreal girl really is too good for you.”
And then Cliff laughs again. Because Roz is in love with Shane Hollander. Has been in love with Shane Hollander for years, maybe his entire career, and no one fucking knew. How the fuck did no one know? Because it’s fucking insane, that’s what it is, but here Cliff is, hungover in Roz’s kitchen where Shane Hollander—Shane fucking Hollander—just kissed Roz square on them mouth. With tongue.
Roz stares, then he laughs too. “He really fucking is. I’m still best hockey player though,” he adds and Cliff slaps him on the shoulder.
“My brother in Christ, Hollander always had you beat,” Cliff says, and it's at least halfway true, and it’s Roz’s turn to punch him and none too gently.
“What the fuck,” Hollander says faintly behind them and Cliff really should have recognized his voice immediately.
Roz turns around, and his whole posture changes. He walks over to Holland slowly. “Shane. Is okay. Cliff is okay.”
Hollander nods, then stares at the rookies. Cliff doesn’t think he’s ever seen Hollander afraid, but it’s clear he’s now. And Cliff gets it. This is… a lot. And this is not Scott Hunter kissing his cute smoothie shop boyfriend after his cup win. This is the biggest rivals of the league being in a relationship. It’s kind of incomprehensible. Except they’re both risking their entire careers for this, have been risking their entire careers for this, and even if Cliff doesn’t get it, it’s got to be the real thing and Roz is still his friend, so Cliff will help him protect this. Even if it means threatening the rookies.
Roz just looks at the rookies for a second, his eyes suddenly burning with a promise that usually means someone is about to lose a tooth on the ice, then he turns back to Hollander. “The rookies will not say anything,” he says, voice calm and soothing. “They know I will kill them if they do.”
Brooks makes a noise again and Svenson goes very pale.
“We won’t tell,” Svenson says.
“Yeah.” Brooks clears his throat. “My cousin is a lesbian, so like, I’m down with the rainbow.” Then he cringes immediately.
“Svenson, are you also down with the rainbow?” Roz asks sardonically.
“I’m Swedish,” Svenson just says as if that explains everything. And maye it does.
“Cliff?” Roz prompts.
Cliff raises his hands. “Hey, man, I’m an ally. I went with Hunter to his bar the last time we played the Admirals.”
“And… us?” Hollander says, still standing very still and tense.
Cliff shrugs, decides to be honest. “I mean, it’s weird. I don’t understand how that worked for you guys. But like, I’ve watched Roz moon at his phone over his Montreal girl for years.”
“I did not moon,” Roz says, outraged.
“So whatever you guys have seems to be the real deal,” Cliff continues. “And I’m a romantic at heart.”
Roz snorts. “Stacey really domesticated you.”
“Pot.” Cliff points at Roz. “Kettle.”
And Roz, Ilya fucking Rozanov, smile as happily as Cliff has ever seen.
I don’t think I’ve read a single long Heated Rivalry fic where the timeline wasn’t in some way fucked. And like I can’t even blame them for this because it’s also fucked in cannon. Now I just laugh and try to figure out when things are supposed to be in the cannon timeline
early supernatural is actually so funny because sam n dean were dumbass twenty year olds burning gas in a classic car rolling up to crime scenes in five layers of plaid, a carhartt jacket, and their chippewa boots pretending to be fbi agents. all while frantically flipping thru their notebooks as that weeks monster attacks them
Love that Shane and Ilya are so insane for each other that it basically invokes the Forced Proximity trope from 500 miles away. Being in the same conference is too close for these fools. Being the same LEAGUE. What do you mean I have to see that guy once every six weeks and somehow keep my cool. What do you MEAN there's only a single international border separating us. How am I supposed to keep my emotional walls up when that guy sometimes occasionally comes within the general metropolitan area of my person. How can I fall asleep at night knowing that we're under the same constellations. This continent isn't big enough for the two of us. We're gonna have to kiss about it.
ilya: i didn’t set up an ad campaign with the two of us together, call you pretty, tease you in the shower, and then almost get caught by your mom in the elevator for you to get our anniversary wrong. since summer before, shane
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