Chapter Text
It figures that even half-way across the world Ilya’s dick manages to ruin his day. The real surprise is that it isn’t the only dick involved in this mess.
Fuck.
Cliff tilts his head back further and further. Until the back of his head is digging into the headrest of the huge couch Ilya insisted was a must-have purchase because "How do you have orgies if you have no place to put the bodies, Marly, do Americans not know basic sex education? Or math?" Not that Cliff has ever had what he would call an orgy—that one time in San Francisco might count, depending on your definition, but that is not the point right now—but he has to give it to Ilya: the guy knows how to pick out furniture. Cliff hasn't regretted the purchase.
He still doesn't. The cushions are really fucking comfortable.
He's even had dates compliment this couch, for fuck's sake. And while he has never told his captain that—the last thing Ilya Rozanov needs is to have his ego fed—he is sure the fucker knows anyway. Smuggest asshole he has ever met, that one, and Cliff says that with all the affection he can spare.
Usually that would be a fair amount, given that Ilya is pretty much his best friend on the team. And also his captain. Whom Cliff genuinely admires—which is unsurprising because come on—and likes—which is somewhat surprising given that Roz has made arrogant shit-talking his entire personality—because somehow chirps that should make Cliff itch with the urge to knock out a couple of teeth just make him laugh when it's Roz. Because it's Roz.
Usually Ilya doesn't ruin Cliff's perfectly good first day off in what feels like half a year—an exaggeration, yes, but not by much—because he has to get his dick wet.
Actually that's not true. Is, in fact, a bold lie.
Cliff can remember five separate times when Roz' sex life has ruined his hard-earned peace and quiet in the last year alone. There are probably more examples that he can't be bothered to recall right now.
Fuck.
Cliff groans into the meaty flesh of his forearm. At least the last time he was forced to get involved in Ilya's private escapades, it was because Coach would have murdered his asshole captain if he had found out that Rozanov had skipped curfew. Again. Montréal always brings out the worst in him.
That particular debacle had involved some very fast talking and even faster thinking on Cliff's part, especially with the hangover pounding against the inside of his skull. But he had pulled it off. With a little help from Kane.
Rookies are useful for that kind of shit. As much ribbing as they get for being the babies of the team, no one expects them to pull the same shit the vets have already proven themselves capable of. Mattias Kane, in particular, has a reputation for being a rule-abiding goody two shoes.
He'd been honest to god scandalized when he realized that their captain had broken a rule. Which had been objectively hilarious. Cliff can't think of a single member on his team that would have reacted to his demand with surprise. Maybe exasperation but not surprise. Ilya may not act as outrageous as his reputation makes him out to be, respects their coach too much to pull shit like that all the time, but he's also Ilya motherfucking Rozanov. And—though only the more senior team members are aware of this and all of them know better than to comment on it—he always breaks curfew when they play in Montréal.
Connors has some very elaborate theories about that. The kind that Cliff regrets having ever heard of. He has vowed to make sure that Ilya never learns of them. The asshole would probably think that shit is funny and start playing into it, and that's really the last thing he needs.
Cliff blinks. Stares at the ceiling above his head.
The ceiling is the same shade of white it has been since he moved into this apartment three years ago. There might be the remains of a spider web clinging to his ceiling lamp. When Cliff squints he can make out the faint strands in the sunlight.
His phone is sitting on the couch next to him. Cliff doesn't have to turn his head to know that his screen is lit up as message after message after message pours in. It hasn't been quite since Cliff—and the rest of fucking America—has woken up and opened a news portal. Or literally any social media app.
Fucking fuck.
Somehow Cliff doesn't think Matti's I'm-a-clueless-rookie routine will be enough to cover for Ilya this time.
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🏒 Legends 🏒 |
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You, Carmichael, Connors, Hammersmith, Price, Rozanov, St. Simon |
Connors was right. Cliff didn't have to go looking for it. Just typed "Rozanov" into Google. The very first search result was a new TMZ article, posted three hours and forty-six minutes ago.
Cliff stared.
The headline 'NHL'S FIRST GAY HOCKEY PLAYER? BOSTON'S ROZANOV CAUGHT IN BED WITH MARRIED MAN' stared back at him.
"What the-"
Cliff clicked on the link. At the top of the article, right underneath the headline, was a grainy picture of Roz kissing another guy. It was not the only picture.
The ceiling is still the same pale white it has always been. Cliff blinks, hoping its boring mediocrity will somehow disperse the images that have burned themselves into his retinas.
He is, of course, not that lucky.
Alright, enough.
He reaches for his phone.
This isn't his first scandal. It sure as hell isn't Ilya's first scandal. But Ilya isn't here right now. Not in Boston, not even in the same timezone. He can't make jokes or tell the rest of the guys to back the fuck off or come out- do whatever he wants to do and feels comfortable with.
So it falls to Cliff to handle the situation. Or at least to keep it under control for the time being and do damage control until Ilya has decided how to handle this. Like make sure that none of this drama affects the team, now or on the ice.
Which it shouldn't. Obviously. It's no one's business what any of them do in their free time. That includes whether they have a pet and if they prefer a house over an apartment and it most definitely includes whom they kiss or fuck.
Just because the blood-hungry scavengers that pass themselves off as voices of an independent media don't understand basic privacy rights doesn't mean Cliff is going to fall into that same trap. And he is going to drag his entire team with him, whether they like it or not.
Though they better fucking like it.
That's his duty as Ilya's alternate. Not to mention his friend.
First things first. Cliff scrolls down farther than he usually has to until he finds his private chat with Roz. Their last conversation from two days ago stares back at him.
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Ilya |
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Ilya hasn't answered since, which is not unusual for him. And that was before that damn video got leaked.
Cliff grimaces. If the state of his own phone is any indication, Ilya must be buried in messages by now. Even if he is awake by some miracle, he’ll be busy.
This is gonna be a shitshow. Cliff has no illusions about that. It would be anyway, but the timing really couldn't have been worse. Ilya is playing in the Olympic Games, is the captain of the Russian team, and that means that more than just regular hockey fans and sport enthusiasts are watching him right now. Hell, that might well be the reason TMZ has published this video now because it sure isn't recent. Ilya hasn't worn his hair that short in a while.
Fuck those assholes. Especially if this was a calculated move. And even if it is just shitty luck, fuck them anyway.
Cliff pauses, thumb hovering over the touchscreen.
He has no idea what to type. There is no play book for this. No script to follow.
It's not even about the fact that Ilya apparently likes to kiss men. Or. Well. Maybe it is. A little. But it’s not like Ilya has come out or anything. Then at least Cliff would know what he is supposed to say. Or maybe he wouldn't—because now that he's thinking about it, actually, what the hell would he say if Ilya had come out as gay?—but at least he would know what kind of conversation they are having.
That's not what this is. Ilya hasn't come out as anything. Might or might not be anything.
Cliff doesn't want to assume, shit, anything. He doesn't want to close any doors he might not be able to open back up either.
He could take the easy way out. Send something generic like 'Is it really you in that video?'. Probably the same question five or fifteen other people have already sent in the various group chats he watches going off in real time. But that's a stupid fucking question. No, worse. It's a cop-out. The pictures may be blurry, are probably screen-shots from the video, but the quality isn’t that bad.
Cliff can almost see the unimpressed look on Ilya’s face should he take the coward’s way out. Hear the drawled 'You have eyes, yes? You forget how to use them?'
He could go the other way. Tell Ilya he is sorry for the invasion of his privacy. Because this sucks. It has to suck. Even if it had been sex with just a woman, it would have been shitty. Ilya may not be shy—doesn’t even exist in the same realm as shyness when it comes to sex, which Cliff as his long-time roommate is unfortunately very aware of—but that doesn’t mean he wants his private encounters live on the internet for everyone to see, judge and comment on.
So Cliff could say that he is sorry and mean it, no problem, but it would still be an empty message. Non-committal.
Cliff knows his captain. Ilya would take the neutral statement, note the way it doesn't give anything away about how Cliff feels about the content of those photos and take it as an accusation. An attack.
Because in the world of Ilya Rozanov everything is an attack until proven otherwise.
Fuck.
Cliff feels like he is back in high school, struggling to text his crush for the first time. Trying to sound normal and not like an idiot. Or worse a homophobe.
Why is this so fucking hard? He just needs to write something real. This is Ilya. His buddy. His captain. His best fucking friend. Even if his message gets buried under whatever fresh hell is probably being unleashed on Ilya's phone right now, eventually Ilya will go through the notifications. Will check them, even if he never responds, because that way he knows where he stands. And when he does Cliff wants Ilya to see that he has reached out.
That they are okay. Because of course they fucking are.
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Ilya |
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Next up: checking in on the rest of the team. Cliff is not looking forward to that one but the chances of anyone vaguely hockey-interested missing these news are somewhere between zero and nil. So he needs to assess the damage. Make sure no one does anything stupid like talk to a reporter—or goes off on Twitter. He should probably also check in with Coach and Management, see where they stand. They can figure out how to do damage control from there.
Somehow there are already 146 unread notifications in his group chat with the other veterans. Cliff ignores them and opens the official team chat instead.
There are no new messages, which is almost worse than if the chat had exploded too. It means the rookies—and, let's be real, everyone else—is freaking out in the private chats. Maybe they are waiting for an official statement, either from Cliff or Ilya himself. Or maybe they don't want to discuss this where Ilya can see it.
If it's the latter, Cliff wants to believe it is out of respect and concern for their captain. He really does.
He is going to do that until and unless anyone gives him a reason to think otherwise. That said, if he finds even a hint of anything indicating there are other reasons at work, Cliff is going to harass impressionable rookies into giving him access to whatever groups he isn't already included in so he can figure out whom he has to beat back into line.
For now he is going to focus on doing the responsible shit the league pays him to do. Which is a damn shame. Cliff would really, really like to hit something.
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Boston Bears |
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You, Carmichael, Colbert, Connors, Delacroix, Eriksson, Hammersmith, Kane, Price, Rozanov, St. Simon, Volkov, Wellington |
Coach LeClaire isn’t a man of many words but this has got to be one of the shortest phone calls he has ever had with the man. Just a clipped “You heard anything from Rozanov?” followed by a sharp order to make sure that no one shows up to practice this afternoon.
It makes sense. It’s an open practice and the last thing they need is to put anyone from the team in the same building as a bunch of overeager journalists. That’s a lose-lose scenario if Cliff has ever heard one.
Of course Management won’t officially cancel it—that would open up a whole other can of worms—but since it’s a free one, no one is obligated to show up. Plausible deniability is their best friend here.
“I’ll let the team know,” Cliff says because there isn’t much else for him to say.
“Good. And Marlow?” Coach pauses long enough that Cliff feels cold sweat gathering on the back of his neck, long enough to hear questions he has no answers to and even less of a desire to discuss with his coach of all people ringing in it. “If Rozanov contacts you, you tell him to call me. And let me know. Immediately.”
“Yes, Coach.”
It’s a relief when LeClaire hangs up without another word. Cliff does not want to discuss Ilya’s sex life with their coach. Like really, really doesn’t. Cliff has his friend’s back and everything but Roz can bite that bullet on his own, thank you very much.
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🏒 Legends 🏒 |
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You, Carmichael, Connors, Hammersmith, Price, Rozanov, St. Simon |
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Connors |
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Kane (Rookie #2) |
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Cliff stares at his phone for a long time, thumb frozen on the screen.
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🏒 Legends 🏒 |
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You, Carmichael, Connors, Hammersmith, Price, Rozanov, St. Simon |
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Boston Bears |
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You, Carmichael, Colbert, Connors, Delacroix, Eriksson, Hammersmith, Kane, Price, Rozanov, St. Simon, Volkov, Wellington |
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🏒 Legends 🏒 |
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You, Carmichael, Connors, Hammersmith, Price, Rozanov, St. Simon |
Cliff stares at the little notification icon next to the team group chat and watches the number climb with devastating speed without feeling a thing.
Well. No.
He does feel something. There is a noose that wraps itself around his chest, too tight to be confused with a hug, too unrelenting to be anything but a threat. A coldness that feels sharp to the touch—feels like something close to horror—unfurls slowly underneath his skin. Pushes and prods against his ribs like a second heart that threatens to swallow the messy, pumping muscle that is already there.
He needs to calm down. He needs to breathe.
Cliff is overreacting. Obviously. He is panicking over nothing. So Russia isn’t the most LGBTQ-friendly country. If he was thinking somewhat rationally, he would probably already know this. There was plenty of noise around the placement of the Olympic Winter Games in Sochi. Cliff is sure he has heard talk about discrimination concerns before. He just can’t remember any of it right now.
All Cliff can do is read the same three paragraphs over and over. His eyes keep getting stuck on phrases like 'vague wording' and 'rise in hate crimes' and 'no tolerance for non-traditional relationships'.
It’s fucking stupid. Probably. No one is going to—to arrest or detain Ilya over a stupid sex tape that wasn’t even just with a man. Of course they won’t. It’s not like Ilya is alone there. He is at the Olympic Games, for fuck’s sake. The whole world is watching Sochi right now.
That’s not gonna matter if the wrong official decides to be stupid about this.
The thought is quiet, a whisper amidst the chaos of his racing mind, but it echoes. Because the rest of the world can sign petitions and start protests and file paperwork. And none of that is going to get them Ilya back if some self-important Russian official wants to statute an example. On the captain of the Russian team.
It doesn’t even matter what Ilya is. If he is queer or just picked a phenomenally bad moment to try something different. The truth is meaningless. A public persona is about the shine, the drama, the reputation—not the reality. Those damn headlines that are utter bullshit are the facts by which Ilya is going to be judged.
Calm down.
Cliff tries. He regulates his breathing. Falls back on the same exercises he uses when he gets checked in the middle of a game, when a hit lands just this side of wrong, punches all the air out of his lungs and for a single moment suspended in time your body is convinced that it is going to die. And there is nothing you can do except ride it out and wait for the pain to hit.
It’s gonna be fine. It's just a reminder to take this serious. That this is not a fucking joke. But Ilya is fine. He is fine and he is gonna give us hell once he finally checks his messages.
Even if he is though, I am going to murder whoever leaked that video.
Gritting his teeth Cliff pulls up his contacts and does the only thing he can think of: he calls Ilya.
The call doesn’t connect.