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Cliff wasn't stupid. The front office was freaking out. ESPN kept putting out new analyses of where Rozy could fill out a roster, San Francisco or Minnesota or Edmonton. They had the cap space, and the draft picks to capitalize on a star center. Whichever team it ended up being could be monstrous in a couple of years.
So it was about money, which Cliff could respect, even though thinking of Rozy leaving felt a little like a kick in the teeth. He'd watched the kid grow up, for Christ's sake, a twitchy baby rook to wearing the C. He'd taken them to the Cup. It was shitty, but that was hockey. Cliff had gotten used to it.
Then Lieb at the Globe broke the list of teams Rozy's agent had been talking with for a sign-and-trade. The list was short, actually. It was just Ottawa.
Guys moved for money, or for family. And if it was money, it wouldn't be to fucking Ottawa.
Practice that day was rough. All the news was demoralizing the team a little, but Rozy looked kind of rough, too, like he was trying not to vibrate out of his skin. When Cliff came out of the locker room he found Rozy hiding out in the stairwell, pacing on the phone. He hung up when he saw Cliff, deer-in-headlights. God, he still was a fucking baby. That was probably why he said it.
"So it's that serious with your Montreal girl?"
"What?" Rozy said, very fast. "Who said anything about Montreal?"
Cliff raised an eyebrow. "Ottawa?" he said. "C'mon, Roz."
Rozy looked left. Right. He rubbed at his nose. "Maybe I just love Canada," he said. "So polite. Not like Boston. It's good, you know, to have change of scenery." His phone buzzed. Cliff watched him flinch and dismiss the call.
"You fucking love Boston, though." The same way Cliff did, he'd thought. The traffic fucking sucked and his balls froze off in the winter and the fans were loud and mean, and when TD Garden was sold out the roar went all the way through his bones. Rozy chucked pucks into the crowd during warmups at all the kids, pointed at every #81 jersey with a toothy grin. He was perfect for this city.
"It's a stupid city," Rozy said. "Bars close so early. Boring clubs." His phone buzzed again. This time he dismissed it without even looking.
"So you're going to Ottawa for what, the nightlife?" Cliff said. "Fuck, man, just— you can't bring your girl down here? I can give her number to Marcie, get her hooked up with the WAGs. Hell, Caydz did it two years ago, and now they're getting married. It can work, Roz. You know we love you here." He had gotten kind of loud. Rozy looked, weirdly, terrified. Right. "You don't have to get married, obviously." Kid was still a kid.
"Thank you," Rozy said, very formally. "I—" He looked up, then away. He was blinking a lot. Oh, fuck. Was Rozy crying?
Cliff cleared his throat. "Hey, man—"
"I can't," Rozy said, "I cannot do this, even though you are being so nice—" Fuck, he was making little hiccuping sounds.
"Listen, you know what, it's your business, I didn't—"
"There's no Montreal girl," Rozy said wetly. "There's no—" Another buzz on his phone. A text this time. Rozy put his thumb on the message, kept it there. "There is— In Montreal. He is hurt, and I cannot go see him. Canada. Another country. He is there, and I am—" He stumbled back, until he was leaning on the wall, and then slid slowly down to the floor. "You can't tell."
What the fuck, said Cliff's brain. The Hunter thing had been what, a year ago? So brave, so strong, blah blah blah. Was the entire league full of homos?
Then he looked at Rozy. Rozy was making little gasping noises into his forearm. His phone was clenched so tight in his hand his knuckles were bloodless.
Marcie had gone into labor early with their second kid. Babies weren't supposed to come at 28 weeks. The team had been in Anaheim, halfway through second period. Coach had pulled him aside at the TV timeout, and Cliff had gone out into the locker room to sixty missed calls, spent a thousand dollars on the first flight back to Boston.
"Sorry," Cliff said. "That sounds rough." That was stupid. He cleared his throat. "I can't imagine what you're going through." Because he had come back to Marcie, and sat with her sister and his dad in the waiting room, and when she was stable they'd let him hold her hand all through the night. His entire arm had been numb in the morning, but when Marcie woke up she'd smiled, like sunshine, and two months later they'd taken their little girl home, pink and perfect.
"He will be so mad at me," Rozy said. He sounded like a wounded animal. "Marley. You can't tell."
Cliff sat down next to Rozy and gingerly patted his arm. The floor was fucking cold. "It's fine," he said. "You're still a great captain." Good with the rooks, and a monster on the ice. Rozy probably had another Cup in him. So his Montreal girl wasn't a girl. Rozy's boyfriend. Jesus Christ.
Rozy put his head up. He looked fucking awful. "You have to promise," he said, raspy. "Please."
What? Right. "I can keep a secret," Cliff said. Probably it'd be a fucking shitshow. At least Hunter was Cliff's age, or something. "I promise, Roz."
Buzzing, again. Rozy jolted, looked at his phone. His face was desperate with hope.
"You should get that," Cliff said, and got up. Winced and rubbed at his lower back. His body had been reminding him lately that he made a living getting hit. In a few years Rozy's would tally up the bill, too. "I'll leave you to it."
Behind him Rozy sniffled, and cleared his throat, and said, "Hi," very soft. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I wish I was there. I love you."
Jesus.