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 living
room 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.”
Holland 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.
