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Cliff Marleau knew what people thought of him.
Big defenseman. Loud laugh. First guy to drop the gloves, last one to leave a party. The kind of player reporters described with words like heart and grit when they couldn’t think of anything smarter to say.
Bit of an idiot.
Cliff had heard it often enough.
Not always out loud. Sometimes it was just the tone. The way people explained things a little slower around him. The way they stopped worrying about what they said when he was nearby.
He never bothered correcting them.
Honestly, it worked out pretty well.
When people assumed you weren’t paying attention, they stopped paying attention to you.
Cliff paid attention to everything.
Not in a complicated way. He just watched long enough for things to make sense.
He’d been watching Ilya Rozanov since the first morning the kid walked into the locker room.
Eighteen years old. First overall pick. Fresh off the Russian junior team and carrying himself like the draft had only confirmed something he already knew.
His English wasn’t bad. That was the first thing Cliff noticed.
It just had holes in it.
On the ice, talking systems, Ilya sounded sharp and precise. Ask him about neutral zone coverage and he’d give you an answer that sounded like it came straight out of a coaching manual.
Ask him about his “transition to North American culture,” and you could see the gap open behind his eyes while he tried to line the words up.
Physically, though, there were no gaps.
The kid was already built like something the league was going to have to deal with eventually.
Most rookies that age still had some softness to them. In their faces. Their shoulders. The way they hovered around conversations like they were waiting for permission to belong.
Boys trying to look like men.
Rozy didn’t hover.
He had thick shoulders, a sculpted chest, thighs like he’d grown up skating uphill in bad weather. When he stepped onto the ice for his first skate, half the room went quiet without really meaning to. Nobody said anything. They didn’t need to. But they could see Rozanov had something special.
He almost looked like a man.
Almost.
Up close, Cliff could still see the edges.
The hair-trigger temper. The way Ilya’s jaw tightened when he didn’t understand something. The way he’d rather scowl than ask someone to repeat a question.
Pride, mostly.
And something else Cliff couldn’t quite name yet.
Cliff was twenty-one then. Two seasons in the league.
Not a veteran. But old enough to know how the room worked, and how fast the league could chew up a kid who didn’t.
He made two decisions that morning.
Simple ones.
The kid was going to be unreal.
And he was probably going to need someone who could translate how things worked around here.
The media scrum a few days later confirmed it.
Reporters crowded in after practice, recorders shoved forward. One of them leaned in and asked,
“Ilya, how do you feel adjusting to the pace and physicality here compared to the KHL development structure?”
Ilya blinked once.
Cliff saw it happen. The little pause where the question turned into a puzzle.
Then Ilya took a swing at it.
I am the best. I score more goals,” he said evenly. “They adjust to me.”
Cliff leaned in just enough to keep his voice low.
“They asked how you’re settling in,” he muttered. “Not if you’re God’s gift to hockey.”
Ilya didn’t look at him.
“Same answer.”
Cliff snorted.
“Next time just say ‘great opportunity.’ Trust me.”
Ilya repeated it quietly, like he was memorizing it.
“Great opportunity.”
Then he glanced up.
“I still like my answer.”
Of course he did.
After that, Cliff stayed nearby.
Nothing obvious. He just made sure he was within earshot whenever the kid might need him.
The first real test came later that week at a team dinner when the conversation got loud and fast. The guys were talking over each other, slang flying everywhere.
Cliff noticed Ilya had gone quiet, posture straight, listening like he was studying tape.
“Guy was chirpin’ me all night,” someone said.
Ilya frowned.
“Chirping is… like bird?”
The table lost it.
Cliff leaned back in his chair.
“Means trash talk. Talkin’ shit on the ice.”
Ilya nodded once.
Another day during practice someone told him to "Keep your head on a swivel.”
Ilya muttered, genuinely confused.
“Why my head would rotate?”
Cliff shrugged.
“Means pay attention.”
Ilya shook his head.
“Your language is stupid.”
“Yeah,” Cliff said. “You’re stuck with it.”
That was the first real smile Cliff got from him.
Quick. Sharp. Controlled.
Like he hadn’t meant to let it out.
From there it built in small ways.
Cliff translating when someone spoke too fast. Explaining which jokes were harmless and which ones actually meant something. Clarifying that “we’ll see you out there” wasn’t a threat.
A week later, Cliff showed up at Ilya’s apartment with a case of beer and a controller. He didn’t call first.He just knocked.
Ilya opened the door and looked at him.
“You invite yourself?” Ilya said.
“Yeah,” Cliff said, walking past him. “You’re welcome.”
Cliff looked around.
“You live like a serial killer.”
“I have couch,” Ilya said immediately. “PlayStation. Television.”
“You don’t have a table.”
“I will get one eventually.”
They settled into something easy after that.
Conversations about women, cars, parties. Cliff explaining why American muscle cars mattered, hands moving as he talked about engine noise and torque.
“It’s about the sound,” Cliff said. “You feel it in your chest.”
Ilya shook his head.
“American cars are loud for no reason.”
“That is the reason.”
“Compensation,” Ilya said smoothly.
Cliff blinked.
“Where’d you learn that word?”
“Your mother teaches me many things.” Ilya replied with a smirk.
When Ilya ran out of words, he replaced them with certainty.
“This car,” he would say, cutting shapes through the air, “it handles like… like…”
“A dream?”
“No.”
He waved his hand again.
“Like weapon.”
Cliff nodded.
“Okay. That’s way cooler.”
As the weeks passed, the visits became routine.
And sometimes, in the middle of a game or a debate about engines, Ilya’s phone would ring.
The change was instant.
He would answer in Russian, voice going sharp and fast, then disappear into the other room. Cliff never tried to listen closely. He didn’t understand the words anyway.
But he understood the tone.
It always sounded like an argument disguised as a negotiation.
When Ilya came back out, he would stand still for a moment, breathing slowly through his nose before setting the phone down.
“Blonde or brunette,” he would say abruptly. “Choose.”
Cliff would blink at the pivot.
“That’s not how conversations work.”
“Choose.”
“I don’t know. Brunette.”
“Wrong.”
And just like that, the tension was gone.
Cliff didn’t notice it all at once.
With Ilya, things rarely arrived that way. It started as a handful of small details that didn’t seem to mean much on their own. Cliff filed them away the same way he filed away how a winger shifted his weight before cutting inside or how a goalie favored one post over the other.
Watch long enough, patterns showed themselves.
The first thing Cliff noticed was how Ilya moved when he was relaxed.
Not the way he moved on the ice. That was fast and aggressive and precise, the kind of skating that made announcers start talking about instincts and natural gifts.
This was different.
It showed up in quiet places. In the apartment when the television had been on for hours and neither of them was really watching anymore. In empty hallways at the rink after practice when everyone else had already filtered out toward the parking lot.
When Ilya forgot he was supposed to look like the kind of man who fought people for a living, his body loosened.
He leaned on things.
Not the wide territorial sprawl some players used when they wanted to take up space. Ilya leaned like gravity was optional. His shoulder against a wall, one hip hooked against the counter, an elbow draped over the back of the couch while he talked.
His head tilted when he listened.
Just slightly.
Enough that his hair shifted across his forehead and his eyes narrowed in a crooked, curious way whenever Cliff said something particularly stupid.
His wrists loosened too.
That was the detail Cliff kept getting stuck on.
Most hockey players carried tension in their hands even off the ice. You could see it in the way they gripped bottles or kept their fingers curled like they were still holding a stick.
When Ilya talked, his hands moved.
His fingers flicked through the air while he searched for the right English words, his wrist loose instead of locked.
They had been arguing about food one night when Cliff really noticed it.
“You can’t tell me New York pizza’s better,” Cliff said, pointing at the box. “Boston wins that fight.”
Ilya looked personally offended.
“Boston pizza is crime.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“It is accurate.”
Cliff laughed. “What makes it a crime?”
Ilya lifted his hand, fingers sketching a circle.
“The crust is… too soft. Like bread that gave up.”
Cliff snorted.
“And the cheese,” Ilya continued, wrist flicking again, “it stretches like…”
“Rubber?” Cliff offered.
“No,” Ilya said firmly. “You are idiot.”
Cliff shrugged. “Been called worse.”
Rozy was smiling when he said it.
Not the sharp little smirk he used on the ice when he got under someone’s skin. Something wider. Easier.
That was another thing. He smiled more when he forgot to think about it. Not quieter. Not softer.
Ilya was still loud, still argumentative, still perfectly happy to needle anyone within reach just to see how they reacted.
If anything, the relaxed version of him was worse.
More talkative. More amused by everything. His chirps got sharper and more creative in that mood, delivered with that slight tilt of his head like he was enjoying the exchange too much to bother hiding it.
Cliff didn’t think much of it at first. Guys acted different when they were comfortable. That wasn’t exactly shocking.
The second thing he noticed was when it disappeared.
And it disappeared fast.
Too fast for anyone who wasn’t already watching.
They would be leaning against the bar after a game, Ilya half-slouched against the counter with one wrist hooked loosely over his glass while he complained about the officiating.
“Blind,” Ilya said flatly. “Entire officiating crew is blind.”
“Pretty sure that’s not the medical diagnosis,” Cliff said.
Ilya’s head would tip toward him, eyes narrowing with amused disbelief.
Then someone from the team would walk over.
Or a reporter.
Or a coach.
And just like that, the shift happened.
The lean disappeared first. Ilya would straighten almost automatically, shoulders squaring like someone had nudged them back into place. The tilt left his head. His wrist tightened around whatever he was holding.
His voice dropped too. The same flat, controlled tone he used in interviews or when he lined up across from an opposing center.
And the smile went away.
Not completely.
It just shrank into something smaller and sharper, the smirk Cliff saw every night under arena lights.
The extroversion stayed.
The confidence stayed.
He was still loud. Still impossible to ignore. Still perfectly willing to start a fight or needle a teammate just to keep things interesting.
But the looseness disappeared.
Everything about him looked tighter. More deliberate.
Like the difference between someone walking naturally and someone remembering they were on camera.
Once Cliff noticed it, he started seeing the timing.
Cliff had spent two seasons in the league by then. He knew guys had different versions of themselves depending on the room.
Everyone did it.
This wasn’t quite the same.
The moment that stuck with him happened in the locker room after practice.
Ilya was sitting sideways on the bench near his stall, one leg stretched out while the other bounced lazily against the floor. His stick rested across his thighs, one wrist hanging loose over the shaft while he talked with a couple of the younger guys about a blown coverage from the morning skate.
His head tipped slightly as he listened to one of them argue back.
He laughed—an actual laugh, quick and bright.
For a second he looked almost boyish.
Then one of the veteran defensemen walked past.
Cliff saw it happen.
Not a full change. Just a correction.
Ilya’s hand tightened around the stick. The tilt left his head. His shoulders pulled back a fraction, and the easy smile shrank before it could settle.
The whole adjustment took maybe half a second.
The veteran kept walking. The conversation kept going.
No one else noticed.
Cliff sat there with his skate half unlaced, staring.
Because that hadn’t looked like instinct. It had looked practiced.
Like Ilya had caught himself doing something and quietly put it back where it belonged.
And once Cliff saw it, he couldn’t stop seeing it.
Tiny corrections, over and over, like Ilya was constantly checking himself against some invisible outline of the way he was supposed to look.
Cliff had played with plenty of guys who put on an act.
This didn’t look like that.
The loudness was real. The confidence was real. The way he got under people’s skin and grinned about it like a kid who’d just thrown a rock through a window. That was all genuinely Rozy.
But sometimes, when he forgot to think about it, something in him relaxed a little more than the league usually allowed.
By midseason, Cliff could not pinpoint when Ilya’s apartment had started feeling less like somewhere he visited and more like somewhere he defaulted to. Ilya began knocking once before entering Cliff’s place. Cliff started buying extra groceries without thinking about it.
On the ice, the shift was just as gradual. They were not officially paired, but they gravitated toward each other in drills, in scrimmages, in tight situations. Cliff would glance up and find Ilya already watching him, waiting for a cue like it was instinct.
Off the ice, it worked the same way. Cliff filled in the blanks when someone talked too fast. Ilya filled in the silence when Cliff did not feel like talking at all.
One afternoon a teammate nudged Cliff.
“Didn’t realize you adopted him.”
Cliff shrugged.
“He’d starve without me.”
Across the room, Ilya looked up immediately.
“I would not starve.”
“You don’t own a frying pan.”
“I have microwave.”
“That’s worse.”
Ilya flipped him off, smiling this time, and Cliff felt something settle in his chest that he did not examine too closely.
They started going clubbing the week Ilya discovered that, technically, he wasn’t allowed to drink.
The discovery bothered him for about half a day.
Then he decided it was more of a suggestion than a rule.
In Canada, being a first overall pick meant you got carded once for formality and then waved through forever, Rozy was over 18 anyway. In Boston it depended on who was working the door.
Most of the time the answer was the same.
Half the bouncers didn’t follow hockey closely enough to recognize him. The ones who did usually took one look at his face, his shoulders, the quiet certainty in the way he stood there, and decided checking ID was unnecessary work.
Ilya had a way of waiting at a door that made it feel less like waiting and more like he was deciding whether the place deserved him.
One shoulder angled toward the rope. Chin tipped slightly down. Eyes steady.
He didn’t smile. Didn’t posture either.
He just looked at the bouncer like the outcome had already been settled.
Cliff watched it happen the first time with mild curiosity, fully prepared to step in if things went sideways.
They didn’t.
The bouncer opened his mouth, hesitated under the weight of Ilya’s stare, and lifted the rope without another word.
Inside was where Cliff started noticing something else.
There was always a moment when they stepped onto the floor.
Bass vibrating through ribs and glass. Lights sliding over shoulders and bare skin. Heat thick enough that breathing felt heavier than it should.
And Ilya would go still.
Not uncertain.
Just… still.
His gaze moved across the room once.
Slow.
Cliff had seen that look before.
It was the same look Ilya used on the ice before a faceoff. The quiet scan before deciding where the puck was going to end up.
He wasn’t taking in the room.
He was narrowing it.
Then he moved.
Ilya didn’t hover in clubs.
He didn’t drift between groups or wait for someone to notice him.
He picked someone.
Then he walked over.
At the bar he’d lean in just enough to be heard, voice even, expression calm.
“You look bored,” Ilya said evenly. “I can fix that.”
No grin.
No performance.
Just a statement delivered like he already knew she’d agree.
Most of the time she did.
Within minutes she’d be leaning into him, laughing against his shoulder like that had always been the plan.
On the dance floor the same pattern held.
His hands settled low and stayed there, drawing her closer with slow, deliberate movements that didn’t bother pretending to be accidental.
Nothing frantic about it.
Nothing sloppy either.
He moved with control, hips rolling in a steady rhythm that made the intention obvious without looking desperate.
He didn’t hide it.
If anything, he made sure people could see it.
He’d bend close to say something in her ear, eyes open, paying attention to her reactions and the space around him at the same time.
The team noticed.
They always noticed.
“Rozy’s on the hunt again,” someone would call from the bar.
Ilya rarely reacted.
Maybe a brief glance over his shoulder.
Flat. Unimpressed.
Then he’d pull her closer like the commentary had only confirmed something obvious.
Cliff never wondered whether Ilya liked women. He’d seen him disappear down alleyways with girls pressed against brick walls. Seen him duck into Ubers without looking back. Watched him vanish into apartment buildings and private corners of clubs that technically didn’t advertise private corners.
There was nothing hesitant about it.
Which was why the first crack in it stuck.
The first time Cliff figured he’d imagined it.
They were downtown, the floor packed tight enough that moving meant bumping into someone else. Cliff was half listening to a teammate complain about ice time when his attention drifted back toward the dance floor.
Ilya had a woman pulled close, hands low on her waist, her mouth near his ear while she tried to talk over the music.
But Ilya wasn’t listening.
He was looking past her shoulder across the floor.
At a guy.
Tall. Broad through the back. Dark shirt clinging with sweat.
The look held a second longer than it should have. Cliff knew that look. He’d seen it a hundred times before games.
Full attention. Focus sharpened down to a point.
Then Ilya blinked.
The moment disappeared.
His gaze dropped back to the woman in front of him. His mouth curved slightly as he leaned down to say something that made her laugh.
Just like that the moment folded in on itself.
Cliff told himself he’d misread it.
Crowded room. Strobe lights. Too much motion for clean conclusions.
Except it happened again in a different club, a different city, same look.
This time it was a guy at the bar.
Thick forearms. Sleeve tattoos. Nursing a drink.
Ilya’s eyes tracked him in a slow sweep that lasted maybe a second.
Quick enough that no one else would notice.
Cliff did.
What caught his attention wasn’t the look.
It was what came after.
Ilya’s fingers flexed once at his side.
His jaw tightened.
Then relaxed.
His shoulders shifted slightly as he turned back toward the woman beside him, attention settling over her again like nothing had happened.
The correction was smooth.
Practiced.
He never approached.
Never angled himself that direction.
Never let the glance linger long enough to be obvious.
In a dark room with bass rattling through his ribs, Cliff could have written it off.
Curiosity.
Competition.
That reflex hockey players had for clocking any other big guy in the room.
That explanation would have been easy.
Except the pattern didn’t stay in the dark.
It followed them into daylight.
Into the quieter parts of the day where nothing was supposed to feel complicated.
They’d be grabbing coffee after practice, still half in sweats.
Or leaving a restaurant with takeout containers warming their hands in the cold.
A couple of guys would pass them on the sidewalk. Shoulders brushing. Fingers hooked together without thinking about it.
Cliff would notice it the way he noticed traffic lights or someone wearing the wrong team’s hat.
Ilya always noticed.
Cliff could see it because by then he’d memorized the shifts in Ilya’s body language. The tension before a faceoff. The clipped irritation after a bad call. The way his shoulders dipped when he was exhausted but pretending he wasn’t. This was different.
Ilya would go still. Not tense, not angry, just… still. His expression softened, barely there, and his eyes lingered a moment longer than they should. Not staring. Just staying. Then it closed again: jaw setting, mouth flattening, his gaze snapping forward like he’d suddenly remembered he wasn’t supposed to be looking.
Cliff saw it most clearly one afternoon outside a diner near the rink.
They were waiting for a table when Cliff glanced through the window.
Two guys sat across from each other in a booth, laughing over something on a phone. Their knees kept bumping under the table.
Neither of them moved away.
It was ordinary enough that Cliff would’ve forgotten it immediately. Except Ilya slowed. Just half a step, but Cliff felt it. He followed the line of Ilya’s gaze and watched him watch them. There was nothing sharp in it, nothing like the edge he carried in clubs. This was quieter.
Ilya’s mouth pressed thin. For a second Cliff thought the word might be envy, but envy came with bitterness. This didn’t. It looked closer to grief. Not dramatic, just a quick flash of wanting paired with the understanding that wanting might cost too much. Then Ilya exhaled slowly through his nose, and the softness closed like a door. His shoulders squared again, the way they did when he caught himself relaxing too much.
He nudged Cliff with his elbow and made some offhand comment about the diner’s coffee being terrible.
The moment folded in on itself and disappeared.
He never overcorrected.
That was the other thing.
He didn’t crack jokes or throw out slurs the way some guys did when they wanted distance from something.
If anything he just got thoughtful, like he was putting something away carefully where no one else could reach it.
That was when Cliff stopped treating the pattern like idle curiosity.
The question wasn’t what it meant anymore.
The question was why he cared so damn much.
The answer showed up whether Cliff wanted it or not.
Because the league could be brutal in ways that never made headlines.
Because locker rooms were loud and careless and built on a narrow idea of what a man was supposed to be.
Because Cliff had heard the jokes.
He knew how quickly the room could turn.
And because this wasn’t really about who Ilya took home after a win.
It was about whether his best friend believed he could ever sit by a window in broad daylight, knees knocking against someone else’s under a table, and not feel like he was breaking a rule nobody had written down but everybody understood.
Cliff didn’t like the possibility that, right now, Ilya’s answer to that question might be no.
On the ice, the signs were harder to ignore.
Hockey was already charged. Ego and aggression and bodies colliding at full speed. Guys chirped, shoved, leaned a little too close after whistles just to see who’d push back.
If something lingered there, it usually wasn’t accidental.
Cliff had watched Ilya flirt before. Plenty of times. Usually with women in bars, or with reporters he wanted something from, or occasionally with someone’s annoyed older sister at a team event.
When Ilya flirted, he loosened.
His shoulders dropped. His hands moved more when he talked. His mouth tilted into that small, crooked smile he didn’t bother hiding.
He leaned closer than necessary. Touched casually: a hand on an elbow, fingers brushing a wrist like proximity was something he granted instead of asked for.
It was relaxed. Easy.
Which was why the first time Cliff saw it aimed at Scott Hunter, his brain stalled for a second.
Every time the Boston Raiders played the New York Admirals the same pattern repeated. Warm-ups, when players circled lazily and pretended not to look at each other. After whistles, when scrums broke out and sticks tangled. The handshake line at the end, gloves off, sweat cooling, cameras waiting for that tidy shot of sportsmanship.
And every single time, Ilya ended up next to the Admirals’ captain like gravity had made a decision.
It wasn’t obvious if you didn’t know what to look for.
He didn’t rush. He just drifted.
Close enough to talk without raising his voice. Close enough that the heat between their pads felt deliberate.
Loose-limbed.
Smirking.
“You stretch enough, old man?” Ilya murmured. “Be a shame if the hip gives out.”
Hunter was barely thirty-one.
The first time Ilya added, “Gray hair looks distinguished. Very… attractive for your age,” Cliff almost didn’t process it.
Attractive.
Cliff had heard Ilya chirp a lot of players.
He’d never heard him use that word before.
The guys within earshot laughed. Hunter rolled his eyes and nudged him away with a shoulder. It passed as theater, same as always.
But Cliff had watched Ilya chirp plenty of guys.
Usually there was an edge to it.
This didn’t have one.
The curl at the edge of Ilya’s mouth wasn’t sharp. He wasn’t digging for a reaction the way he did with other players.
He looked… entertained.
Curious.
Almost pleased.
If anyone else had said those words in that tone: low, deliberate, gaze steady, it would have sounded a lot like flirting.
No one called him on it. Chirping covered a multitude of sins. You could say almost anything if you wrapped it in mockery and kept your gloves on.
Cliff knew the difference between mockery and interest.
He started watching more carefully.
The way Ilya’s eyes found Hunter during warm-ups. The way he skated a little closer than necessary in scrums, shoulder brushing chest, lingering half a second too long before peeling away. The way his jaw tightened when Hunter laughed at something someone else said.
It didn’t feel competitive.
Competitiveness had edges.
This was warmer.
Quieter.
Focused.
The thought arrived fully formed and extremely unwelcome.
Cliff stared at the ice for a solid five seconds.
Rozy wanted to climb that not-actually-that-old man like a tree.
And the worst part was, he didn’t seem to notice he was doing it. He moved toward Hunter the way he moved toward anything he wanted, instinct first, consequences later.
Cliff tried to tell himself it was a one-off.
It wasn’t.
Because then there was Shane Hollander.
Ilya always played his best against Montreal.
Not just good.
Not just elevated.
His best.
He hunted pucks like the hockey terminator. His edges bit harder into the ice, his hits landed cleaner, his instincts ran hot and bright instead of reckless.
The kind of performance that made commentators lean forward and start using words like generational.
Cliff had assumed that was pride. Draft order. Media narrative. First overall versus second. Of course Ilya would rise to that.
But the shape of it started to feel different.
Because Hollander’s game was nothing like Ilya’s.
Hollander was clean lines and controlled entries. Technical. Precise. He played like a diagram come to life: head up, passes landing exactly where they were supposed to go, contact absorbed and redirected instead of escalated.
Where Hollander carved space neatly, Ilya tore it open.
Watching them share ice felt like watching friction test steel.
And Ilya glowed in the friction.
He knew too much about him.
Not just systems. Not just standard scouting notes.
Small things.
“Hollander drags his right skate when he’s setting up a cut,” Ilya muttered during film one day, leaning forward with the remote. “See? Half-second tell.”
“He hates shooting high glove if he’s already missed once.”
“He overcorrects after turnover. Push him and he forces play.”
Cliff had played long enough to recognize preparation.
This was something else.
Ilya remembered Hollander’s point totals without checking. Knew his shooting percentage. The exact stretch in November when he’d gone quiet and started padding assists instead.
Cliff tested it once.
“What’d Hollander finish with last year?”
Ilya answered instantly, he didn't even bother to make a show of checking his phone.
It wasn’t just professional awareness.
It was attention.
And then it spilled onto the ice.
They’d line up for a faceoff and Ilya would lean in until their visors almost brushed.
“You cut your hair Hollander,” Ilya said casually as they lined up.
Hollander didn’t look at him.
“So?”
“Looks good,” Ilya continued. “Very responsible.”
Hollander glanced sideways.
“Responsible?”
“Yes.”
Ilya nudged his stick.
“Like accountant, Canada's good boy.”
Hollander would roll his eyes so hard it bordered on theatrical.
Or—
“Careful,” Ilya said quietly.
Hollander shoved him off the puck.
“What?”
“You’re frowning again.”
“I’m not frowning.”
“You are.”
A beat.
“Makes your freckles stand out.”
Hollander flushed every time.
High across the cheekbones, color blooming under the arena lights.
Sometimes he shoved Ilya away with an irritated huff. Sometimes he snapped back with something dry and sharp. Once he just skated off shaking his head, clearly fighting a smile he didn’t want caught on camera.
And every single time, Ilya looked delighted.
Not smug. Not victorious. Delighted. Like the reaction itself was the point.
Cliff had seen Ilya flirt before.
What he did with Hunter had looked like flirting, but what he did with Hollander looked like a crush.
A big one.
The kind that made a twenty-something superstar look almost boyish under all that swagger. The kind that made him light up when the object of it snapped back or rolled his eyes or, God help him, blushed.
And that was the part that lodged under Cliff’s ribs.
Because Ilya looked unfiltered, unguarded and happy.
He looked brighter when Hollander was on the ice. Lighter. Like the friction wasn’t just competition but something that fed him.
Cliff knew this league.
Knew the cameras, the talk, the way narratives twisted. Knew how quickly admiration could get turned into something uglier if the wrong person decided to squint at it.
He worried about the headlines.
He worried about the locker room.
And, maybe more than that, he worried about what would happen if one day Hollander stopped rolling his eyes. Stopped flushing. Stopped answering at all.
Because Ilya Rozanov played like he could survive anything thrown at him.
But he had never learned how to want something carefully.
And if this went wrong, Cliff wasn’t sure hockey would be the thing that hurt him most.
By 2011, Cliff knew he couldn’t keep pretending he hadn’t noticed.
The problem was that he had absolutely no idea how to start the conversation without sounding like a complete idiot.
Which, historically speaking, was one of Cliff’s stronger talents.
It happened on a Tuesday afternoon that felt aggressively normal.
FIFA paused mid-match. The digital crowd frozen mid-roar. A half-eaten box of takeout sat open on the coffee table, sweet-and-sour sauce congealing at the edges. Two empty beer bottles leaned against each other like they’d given up.
Ilya was sprawled across the massive leather couch like gravity had stopped applying to him.
One long leg hooked over the armrest. The other stretched lazily across Cliff’s thigh like it belonged there.
Controller dangling from two fingers.
His other hand rested low on his stomach, thumb hooked inside the waistband of his sweatpants.
Loose.
Comfortable.
The version of Ilya that only existed when he forgot anyone might be watching.
His shoulders were slouched. Head tipped slightly toward Cliff while he stared at the frozen game screen. When he talked, his wrist flicked lazily through the air, controller swinging like punctuation.
Cliff stared at the paused screen.
Just say it.
He cleared his throat.
“You know,” he said carefully, “the women’s division is… uh… kinda full of lesbians.”
Silence.
Ilya didn’t react right away. Then his head turned slowly.
“What,” he said, “does this have to do with anything.”
Cliff scratched the back of his neck. “Nothing. I’m just saying. Statistically.”
Ilya blinked at him. “You bring statistics now.”
Cliff kept going because stopping now would somehow be worse.
“I’m just saying. Lotta gay people out there.”
“Wow,” Ilya said flatly. “Groundbreaking.”
Cliff groaned.
“Okay,” he admitted. “This is going badly.”
Ilya shifted slightly beside him.
“Marleau–”
“My buddy’s uncle is gay,” Cliff blurted.
Ilya stared at him. “Congratulations to your buddy’s uncle,” he said dryly.
Cliff dragged a hand down his face.
“I’m trying to say something and you’re being really unhelpful.”
“Then say it.”
Cliff hesitated.
For a second he considered backing out.
Unpausing the game. Pretending he’d never started this conversation in the first place.
Ilya was still sprawled beside him. Still loose-limbed and relaxed, thumb hooked into his waistband, controller dangling from his other hand.
Cliff looked at him.
Then he said it.
“I know.”
Ilya folded in on himself like someone had flipped a switch. His hand slipped out of his sweatpants and the slouch vanished as he pushed upright, elbows landing on his knees.
“You know?” Ilya said slowly, “ what exactly do you know?” His accent had thickened already.
Cliff swallowed. “I know you stare.”
“I stare at many things.” Ilya said after a beat.
“Yeah,” Cliff said quietly. “At men.”
Silence.
“I am not gay,” Ilya said.
The vowels were heavier now. Sharper. Russian pressing through the edges of the words.
Cliff snorted before he could stop himself.
“No shit, Rozy.”
Ilya frowned.
“You just said—”
“I know you’re not gay,” Cliff said. “You’re a slut. You’ve slept with half the women in this state.”
Ilya’s mouth twitched despite himself.
“That is exaggeration.”
“Is it?” Cliff said. “Boston alone is concerned.”
For half a second the tension cracked.
But Ilya stayed upright.
Elbows braced on his knees. Fingers interlocked now instead of loose. His shoulders pulled back, chest wider, like he was making himself harder to push around.
The posture Cliff had seen in interviews.
In scrums.
Anywhere Ilya felt cornered.
“I do not stare at men,” he said carefully.
Cliff gave him a look.
“Hunter.”
A pause.
“Old-man Hunter?” Cliff said. “You flirt with him every time we play the Admirals.”
“I do not—”
“You called him attractive.”
“It was trash talk.”
“You said his gray hair was ‘distinguished.’ That’s not a chirp, man. That’s flirting.”
“I was mocking him.”
“Sure.”
Ilya opened his mouth.
Closed it again. His eyes narrowed slightly.
Cliff softened a little.
“And Hollander.”
That name landed harder. Ilya’s jaw tightened immediately.
“He is rival.”
“You remember his stats better than your own.”
“That is strategy.”
“You’re a little obsessed with him.”
“That is—”
“What is that, Rozy?” Cliff asked.
Ilya didn’t answer. His shoulders had gone rigid now.
Cliff leaned back, trying to keep his voice light.
“It’s not just that,” he said. “Sometimes in clubs. Or on the street. You look at guys like…” He hesitated. “Like you want something.”
Ilya’s head snapped up.
“I do not—”
“Yeah,” Cliff said quietly. “You do.”
The room went quiet again.
Cliff rubbed his hands on his jeans.
“You ever notice couples?” he said. “Two guys walking somewhere. Holding hands.”
Ilya frowned.
Cliff shrugged.
“You get kinda quiet after.”
Ilya looked away first.
“You watch me too much.”
“You’re my best friend,” Cliff said. “That’s the job.”
That hung there.
Cliff bumped his shoulder.
“I don’t care what you’re into, man. You’re still you.”
A small huff escaped Ilya before he could stop it.
“I am not a—” he started, then muttered something sharp in Russian under his breath.
Cliff didn’t understand the whole thing.
But he recognized the word.
He smacked Ilya lightly with the controller.
“Hey. Knock that off.”
Ilya blinked at him.
“I don’t know what the hell you just called yourself,” Cliff said, “but don’t.”
Silence.
“You’re not that,” Cliff added more quietly. “You’re just… you.”
Ilya stared at the floor.
For a long moment he didn’t move.
His shoulders lowered a fraction. After that the tension drained slowly, like air leaking from a tire.
Cliff tried to lighten it again.
“Besides,” he said, “your thing with Hollander is almost as bad as that Montreal girl you’re always texting.”
Ilya’s head jerked up.
“What.”
“The Jane girl,” Cliff said. “You check your phone every five minutes like a teenager.”
Rozy stopped.
Color crept up his neck.
“You are idiot.”
Cliff grinned.
“Oh wow. You’ve got it bad.”
“I do not.”
Which made it worse.
Cliff laughed, then leaned forward again.
“Look. Nobody else has noticed. And I’m not saying anything. Ever. That’s your business.”
Ilya’s voice dropped.
“And if someone does notice.”
Cliff didn’t hesitate.
“Then I deal with it.”
“That is not how league works.”
“I don’t care how the league works,” Cliff said. “If somebody gives you shit, I’ll handle it.”
Ilya studied his face.
“You worry for me,” he said quietly.
“Obviously,” Cliff said.
The word hung there.
Ilya swallowed.
His shoulders loosened another inch.
“You are very dramatic.”
“Says the guy flirting with Scott Hunter on the ice.”
“I do not—”
“You absolutely do.”
Ilya huffed.
But he leaned back again this time.
Not the tight upright posture.
Back into the couch.
His shoulder bumped Cliff’s.
Cliff picked up the controller again.
“Your secret’s safe,” he said. “Not my business.”
Ilya watched him for a moment.
Then he reached over and grabbed the second controller.
The movement was looser now.
His wrist hung relaxed again, thumb tapping the joystick while he talked.
Cliff glanced over.
Then said casually,
“So… have you actually ever tried anything with a guy?”
Ilya turned his head slowly.
“With you?”
Cliff choked. “Jesus, Rozy.”
“You asked.”
“I meant in general.”
A crooked smile tugged at Ilya’s mouth.
“You are not my type, Marleau.”
“Good. I’m straight.” Cliff snorted.
“Debatable.”
Cliff bumped his shoulder.
They both laughed.
And just like that the room felt normal again.
Ilya’s body had settled back into the couch. His leg drifted sideways until it bumped Cliff’s knee again without either of them acknowledging it.
His hands moved when he talked now.
Loose wrists.
Fingers sketching shapes in the air.
Then he went quiet.
Cliff almost unpaused the game before he noticed.
Ilya was staring at the carpet again.
“There have been… some guys,” he said finally.
Cliff didn’t interrupt.
“In America. Here and there.”
Cliff nodded once.
“Okay.”
“When I was younger,” Ilya went on slowly, “in Russia… my coach had son. Sasha.”
Cliff listened.
“We used to sneak around,” Ilya said. His wrist flicked idly while he spoke. “Not because I liked him so much.”
“No?”
Ilya shook his head.
“It was… exciting. If we got caught, we'd be in big trouble. So of course we did it more.”
Cliff let out a small laugh.
“Sounds about right.”
Ilya shrugged.
“And now there is someone sometimes.”
Cliff tilted his head.
“Someone from here?”
Ilya’s mouth curved slightly.
“No,” he said.
Cliff watched him a second.
Then nodded.
“Alright.”
"so you are what? kinda gay" Cliff finally asked after a moment of silece.
"Bisexual." Ilya murmured as he leaned back deeper into the couch.
Cliff unpaused the game.
“Still not my type.” Ilya added.
Cliff rolled his eyes. “Shut up and play.”