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He'll never love you like me
Most days, being in the passenger seat of one of Roz’s too many luxury sports cars, going probably 20 above the speed limit on I-95 north towards somewhere in New England in the middle of the night was a highlight for Cliff. A great place to be. The mark of a good night.
--
Unfortunately, a week ago, Connors had flopped down at the breakfast buffet across from Cliff and next to St. Simon and mumbled around a truly lethal hangover. “I'm tapping out, man. I can do club Roz. I can't do whatever version of it is that was.”
Cliff hadn't gone to the club, so he just raised one eyebrow. Roz had been on a tear for a couple weeks, and he had some suspicions as to why, but he was a smart enough man to keep his mouth shut. Or, rather, smart enough to listen to his favorite cousin, to whom he had laid out his concerns in quiet phone call between her classes. She had asked for 12 hours to get back to him. 11 and a half later, she texted him back.
>>For an idiot, you might be on something.
<<He's my best friend, Drea.
>>I know. So here's what you're going to do: say fucking nothing about it. Sit with him, be his friend. Keep him from doing anything stupid.
<<Yes doctor.
>>Don't jinx me, Clifford. I will make Nonna curse you. You will never win again.
<<Love you, too.
>>Play hard. Be a good friend.
With all that in mind, he patted Connors on the top of his fluffy head. “I'll take over for now.”
“Good.” St. Simon replied for Connors in his melodic accent. “Neither of us know how to deal a Roz this fucking….”
“Depressed.” Connors finished.
Cliff sighed. And brought Roz food, coffee, and water, and sat in the uncomfortable hotel chair in Roz’s room until the kid had consumed all of it.
--
That, however, was last week.
This was now. An indeterminate amount of time ago, Roz had sat straight up on his couch and decided he would drive. Cliff had kept his sigh internal.
“Where are we going?”
“We?”
“It's 11pm. You're not driving alone. Do we have a destination?”
Roz’s face did something complicated that Cliff didn't have the emotional intelligence to figure out. Drea would have known. A part of Cliff wanted to check the NHL schedule and see if a certain player was within driving distance. Drea would not approve, so he just ran his fingers over the jet beads of his Nonno’s old rosary that Nonna had pressed into his shaking 18 year old hands at his draft.
--
He didn't think he believed in god, but he missed Nonno keenly, the steady cadence of his faintly accented voice, his calm presence next to Cliff’s mama behind the glass at the ice rinks of his childhood. The old man had died 2 months before Cliff got drafted, and there wasn't an NHL game Cliff had played where he hadn't run his fingers over the worn jet beads on the smooth, strong silk thread. He looped it on the hook in his locker after, safe and treasured.
The first time he shared a pre-game locker room with 18 year old Ilya Rozanov, he'd been 21. Mumbled a Hail Mary under his breath while running his too-big fingers over the beads because it was the only prayer he remembered. A prayer for the sinner Cliff was sure he was.
pray for us sinners,
now and at the hour of our death.
He looked up to make eye contact with the shockingly wide eyed teenager next to him. Roz had zero trace of the cocky teenage prodigy they'd seen at practice. Instead, the kid had a grip on the chain around his neck like it was the only thing tethering him to reality. While Cliff watched, the boy pulled a strange-looking cross to his mouth, kissed it, looked to the sky with something that might have been tears in his eyes, and dropped the chain. Cliff decided then that this cocky, abrasive shithead with wide, sad eyes was going to be his problem, and had texted Drea to tell her.
>>Good. Kid probably needs somebody.
<<You watched his draft, didn't you?
>>You know how I feel about a lost cause
>>You're insufferable
<<You're my favorite lost cause, kid
>>Not a kid
<<Baby boy
>>Bye, Drea
--
“We will go to Ogunquit Beach. I will buy you breakfast.”
“Great.” Cliff tried to look nonchalant. The last time they had gone to Ogunquit Beach in the middle of the night, Roz had been 22 years old, the drive had been filled with old-sounding Russian music, and when they had gotten to the beach at 2am, Roz had sat in silence for a full 13 minutes before croaking out that his mother had been dead for 10 years. That ten years ago that very day, 12 year old Ilya Rozanov had walked in to find his whole world upended. Then, Cliff had driven a Ferrari Spyder back to Roz’s place while the kid in question had fallen into a coma-like sleep in the passenger seat. He'd slept for 13 hours when they got back to Boston, then gone back to pretending he was nothing more than a menace with a pretty face the very next night.
He swallowed down the memory of the conversation neither of them had discussed again. “Which car?”
Roz looked at his row of keys, and grabbed the set for a cherry red McLaren. Cliff texted Drea.
>>Kid wants to go for a drive. McLaren. Ogunquit Beach.
<<Shit, Cliff.
>>Yeah
<<You're going with, right?
>>I'm not letting him out of my sight.
<<Good. Shit.
<<Montreal is playing like crap.
>>These kids are idiots. Were we ever this stupid?
<<I don't think that's possible.
<<Be safe
>>Will do
Then he sent a text to a group chat that got more way use lately than he'd like.
CM: Taking a drive w Cap to ME
VS: He's driving?
CM: Yeah
CC: Shit
CM: Yeah. Will text when we're back. My location is on
VS: Good luck.
And so, Cliff folded himself into the impossibly buttery leather of the passenger seat of a McLaren 570S and waited for Roz to start the car. No point but to go along with the journey.
--
Somewhere around Newburyport and the fifth time he'd heard Issues by Julia Michaels and perhaps the tenth he'd heard He'll Never Love You by Hayley Kiyoko, he was starting to wonder if he should've tried to convince Roz to stay home. He didn't try to speak. He just watched the scenery racing past and prayed for no speed traps. Talking to Roz when he was like this…it wasn't something Cliff felt capable of. Bodying drunk Roz out of the bar, he could do. Being a steady, strong presence who refused to miss a beat with the kid's messy English, easy. Working his way through the entire Fast & Furious chronology, plus Terminator and Transformers and whatever classic Disney movies Drea stole from her sister's house when the kids were done with them, that was something Cliff could do. Convincing the wound-tight and fraying Russian menace with a gaping, bloody tear where his heart was hiding to actually talk to anybody was, perhaps, above the pay grade of a man who had probably 3 too many concussions and had barely finished high school.
The state welcome sign for Maine passed by in an icy blur, and Cliff looked over at the driver's seat. That same damn song was blaring again, rattling along with the salty road.
You say that no one will understand
You wish you could but you just can't so
How many days, how many nights
'Til you realize he'll never love you like me?
In the dim light of the dash and the highway lights, Cliff was pretty sure Roz was crying. Or there were tears drying on his face. Pooling in his eyes. His face was trained on the mostly empty road ahead. Few people were driving up 95 at 2 am in the middle of January. Despite their breakneck speed and his emotional upheaval, Roz was a good driver.
Before long, the god-king-kid-legend pulled into a parking spot right on the public beach.
I know every day you're thinking of me
I make it better when you're feeling lonely
The car cut off before the song ended, and Roz tumbled out of the door without looking at Cliff. He lumbered after his captain, thinking of that movie Drea had made him watch at least 16 times when they were teenagers. O Captain, my captain. She told him she was a lesbian after the 8th time. He helped her tell her parents after the tenth time. After she told Nonna and Nonno while he held her hand like a vice and they told her they loved her and that their God loved her and she better bring home a doctorate and a nice Italian girl, they watched it one more time and she cried openly and Cliff cried a little less openly. He had hugged her, larger by far despite the fact that she was finishing college and he had just turned 18. They watched happier movies now, mostly, and she wrote doctoral papers about queer tragedy in media and used words that bent his brain in half and sent him papers he suffered through reading about homo-platonic ideals and toxic masculinity in professional sports.
>>Hey Google. What do you do if your best friend takes a 2 hour drive in an hour and 15 while blasting sad lesbian music the entire way?
<<What song?
>> https://youtu.be/l8KtNBdVcv0?si=38m2pQx9Q5UmPhdW
<<Jesus Christ
>>It's bad, right?
<<Invite him for brunch before the all-star
>>Usual spot?
<<Thursday
>>I owe you
<<You're paying
A line from that movie they wept through came back to him, now, as he watched the child prodigy turned hockey legend collapse in a pile of too-long limbs and beaten heart, onto the frozen beach.
“This is a battle, a war, and the casualties could be your hearts and souls.”
Slightly more graciously, Cliff lowered himself down next to his best friend, grateful for their warm coats and the crocheted Bears hat Nonna had made him when he was drafted. She made Roz a dark green one for Christmas, and it was pulled over his ears. Cliff stretched his legs out in front of him.
“My cousin Drea and I watched this movie like 16 times together as teenagers. Dead Poets Society.”
“I don't know this one.”
“It's weird, but good. Sad. Robin Williams is in it.”
“I like him.”
“Yeah, he's great.”
“Why did you watch sad movie 16 times?”
“Because…I don't know. Sometimes, you need to be sad. That's what Drea says. She finally told her parents she was gay after the 10th time. Told our grandparents after 15. We watched it one more time and she said she was done being sad.”
Next to him, Roz was unnaturally still. “Is a sad…gay? Movie?”
Cliff shrugged his giant shoulders. “Not officially, but yeah. No one says it explicitly in the movie, but everyone knows.”
“Ah. Subtext, yes?”
Cliff snorted. “Yeah, subtext.”
“Maybe I will watch sad gay subtext movie with Robin Williams.” Roz told the frosty ocean.
“Do you…do you have a reason to be sad?” Cliff tried to ask carefully. He was pretty sure he was as careful as a brick to the teeth.
Roz pulled his knees up to his chest on the rocks, bracing his chin on his knees and wrapping his arms around his shins. After several minutes, he spoke.
“I think…I want so much, but I do not deserve what I want, and I cannot ask for it, so I do the wrong thing and then I hurt someone who did not deserve it and now I am…” With one long arm, Roz gestured vaguely at himself, at the rocky New England beach, at the bitter, freezing ocean, at the empty night sky and the haphazardly parked luxury car behind them.
Cliff sat there, icy wind on his face, and chewed over his words. What would Drea say? What would Nonno say?
“I think…” thinking was hard. Not his forte. “You deserve to have the things you want, man. If there's something stopping you from getting what you want, well…I've watched you bulldoze through grown men from sea to shining mother fucking sea since you were 18, man. What's a different kind of obstacle?”
Roz finally looked at him. He didn't turn his head, he just stared out over the churning ocean.
“I do not know if it is that easy, Marley.”
Nonno’s words, spoken a hundred thousand times, came to him. Through him. “Nothing worth doing can ever be done easily. Nothing worth having is ever gotten easily.”
“Fortune cookie?”
Cliff traced his fingers over the rosary in his pocket. “My Nonno.”
Roz hummed. Cliff turned to look at him, then, his face in sharp relief under the moon.
“I'm here for you, man. No matter what. They could trade me to fuckin Utah and you'd still be my best friend. You're stuck with me.”
Roz snorted.
“And whoever…or whatever it is, whoever's got you up at 3am thinking the world will never be the same…” Cliff paused. Thought about the many conversations he'd had with Drea about their theory. The NHL of it all. The Russia of it all. “Pretty sure they'll figure it out soon. Just make sure you're ready when it happens. Don't cut yourself off before you get a chance. You're not too Russian to be loved, Rozy.”
Ilya said nothing. Just buried his face in his knees. That was fine. Cliff was pretty sure he'd hit the upper limit of his emotional communication capabilities at nearly 3am anyway. He'd let them sit here for a while longer, then bully Roz back into the car. In the meantime, he stared out at the ocean and let his mind empty with the movement of the waves.
--
Thursday morning, the day before Roz flew to Tampa for All-Stars, he slammed his fist into the door of his guest room, behind which his teammate was sleeping. Hayley Kiyoko’s voice was stuck in his head still, and he wanted pancakes about it. A Russian voice groaned at him.
“Get up, Rozy. We're going to SoundBites with Drea.”
The door opened. Roz’s hair was a nest of messy curls, and he was running his fingers through them, making it worse. “Is this mandatory?”
“Yes. If you make us late, you're buying.”
Roz rolled his eyes like a teenager but stumbled past Cliff to the bathroom.
>>He's awake. Progress.
<<Pretty sure Landry and Hollander broke up.
>>!!!!!!!???????
<<I know
>>Fuck me, I have never wanted to go to All-Stars more
<<Think they'll sort themselves out?
>>Men are, as you often point out, idiots
<<God that's so true
They made it to brunch. The restaurant in Somerville was out of the way enough that nobody seemed to give a shit that two giant and relatively famous NHL players were eating pancakes and omelettes with a lesbian gender & women's studies PhD candidate in hipster glasses and doc martens.
“You excited for All-Stars, Ilya?” Drea asked, because she could ask these things.
Roz nodded non-committally around a mouthful of omelette.
“God, it's going to be so warm. Did Cliff give you that shirt I found?” Drea’s third greatest joy was finding horrible shirts that Roz loved wearing and making her cousin give them to his best friend.
Roz swallowed his eggs and smirked. “He did. I am packing it. Is good to, how do you say? Commit? To the theme.”
Cliff snorted. Nobody committed like Rozanov.
Roz patted his back distractedly. “Is okay, Marley. You cannot wear fun shirts, would look like someone tried to dress up a bull. I will look pretty enough for both of us.”
Laughing out loud, Cliff shoved his best friend's hand off his shoulder. “Man, fuck you, Roz.”
“No thank you, Cliff. Is very nice of you to offer, but you are not my type.”
Drea snickered into her coffee mug. “Not pretty enough for you, Ilya?”
She said it the way it was supposed to be said. Two syllables, not three. Roz always said that's why he let her use his first name.
“Hmm,” the man hummed, head tilting a little. “I do like pretty.”
Cliff hid his smirk by taking a bite of pancakes. He was very sure he was straight, thank you for asking, but blind, he was not. Just because he wasn't ordering from that menu didn't mean he couldn't see what they were offering. Pretty was a fair description.
“Not a lot of pretty boys in the NHL,” Drea commented, like she was commenting on the upcoming snow storm they were expecting. “You, of course, Ilya. Hmm. Troy Barrett, but he sucks. Some people think Scott Hunter is pretty, but he's a little…Captain America, for me.” Ilya snorted. “Shane Hollander is pretty, though. That is a pretty, pretty fuckin’ man.”
Roz had chosen a bad time to try to drink water, because now he was coughing. His ears were red. Drea looked across the table at Cliff and smirked. He kicked her foot.
“Speaking of pretty people…what's the deal with the biomed postdoc you claim not to be flirting with?” Cliff changed the subject to give his best friend a fighting chance. “You good, Roz?” He slapped the man on the back a couple times.
Roz waved him off. “Wrong pipe. Stupid. Drea has girlfriend now?”
“She is not my girlfriend!”
One perfectly manicured Russian eyebrow arched in the direction of Cliff’s favorite cousin.
Drea put her coffee down and rolled her eyes. “Yet. We went on one date. I'd like to go on another.”
“Oh excellent! She will treat you well, yes?”
Cliff snorted. “She better, or apparently she's going to have the fuckin bratva after her.”
“Shut up, Marley. Drea deserves a nice lady.”
Cliff put his hands up in surrender. “Nonna’s gonna ask if she's Italian.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Don't even think he can save you from Nonna, Drea.”
“All grandmothers are same, I think.” Roz pondered, sipping coffee.
Drea pierced him with a look. “Your grandparents wanted you to bring home somebody Russian?”
Roz nodded. “My father's parents tried to convince my father and Svetlana's father to arrange marriage. Ridiculous. Svetlana's father would never force his Принцесса to marry anyone.”
Cliff had met Svetlana and believed that with his full chest. She was a powerful, determined woman raised to believe she was the princess her father called her. Cliff was half in love with her.
“My mama…her parents were kinder. They died when I was very young. But I think my Бабушка wanted me to marry someone for love. Not for Russia. But she probably hoped love would be Russian.”
Cliff swallowed. Drea pressed her booted foot against his under the table.
“Well,” Drea’s voice sounded half strangled and she cleared her throat. “Nonna is in luck. She's Italian. Though, her family doesn't really speak to her, except for her brother. Might bring her to Easter.”
“This is why you're the favorite.” Cliff grumped.
“I know.” Drea preened. “All your fame and riches can't touch me bringing home a pretty Italian doctor with no family for Nonna to dote on.”
Cliff threw a napkin at her.
“Finally, I have usurped the baby boy.”
He scowled. Roz made a confused sound. Drea turned to him.
“When Cliff’s mom finally sent his shithole dad packing and moved back in with our grandparents with the family's little baby boy, we all figured we'd never find our way back to the role of favorite.” Her foot pressed his harder. Cliff and his mom had moved back in with their grandparents only after Cliff had 3 broken fingers and his mom had stitches on the back of her head and a black eye. He'd been 8 and wondering if an ice skate could slash a man's throat. The therapy had sucked. “I have finally found a way to compete.”
“Ah, yes. I understand.” Roz nodded seriously. “Is in good fun, yes?”
“Oh, absolutely.” Drea assured. “I just have to tease Cliff. No one else will, they're afraid of him.”
Roz breathed out a laugh. “Marley is giant teddy bear.”
Cliff rolled his eyes. “I'm the youngest and physically largest member of a giant Italian Catholic family. I have 23 first cousins. You know this. None of us are actually the favorite, I'm just the baby. Nobody but Drea just gives me shit because no one else wants to get hit with a hockey stick. Not that I'd actually hit them with a hockey stick.”
“Your family is chaos. Is nice.”
Roz had been to more than one Marleau Family Gathering. Nonna loved him. Cliff’s mom loved him. The assorted kids adored him. He was polite to everyone, helpful in a way that was immediately endearing, and clearly loved being a jungle gym for the kids. But somehow, Cliff managed to mostly avoid talking about his family with the same clumsy grace that Ilya avoided talking about his own. Part of him wondered if he should have talked more. Said more than a few words about Nonno. Explained, fully, what he meant when he said that his father was better off dead, for all Cliff knew where he was. He just didn't know how.
Drea's phone buzzed. Her face turned pink.
“Uh oh.” Roz nudged Cliff. “I think we should get the check, Marley. I believe that Drea has received a message from her new lady love.”
Drea threw Cliff’s napkin at Roz.
He grinned brightly. “Go, go!! Plan next date. Have much fun, tell me how it goes, I will pay for the next one.”
“I'll let you,” Drea said, as she stood. “As I am a poor grad student and you are a millionaire.”
She pressed a kiss to the top of Roz’s curls, and Cliff stood to hug her.
“Lo faremo superare.” She whispered in his ear. We will get him through this.
“Staranno bene.” They'll be fine.
“Ti amo.”
“Ti amo. Tell your girlfriend I said hi!”
She shoved him and strolled out of the restaurant. Roz paid the bill despite Cliff’s arguments.
--
The next day, he dropped Roz at Logan International with a sense of trepidation. Drea texted him.
<<Keep me posted
>>I'll do my best
Cliff hummed the chorus to HNLY as he pulled out of the airport drop-off lanes. The moment he was cleared off the chaos around Logan, he turned the volume up on the latest Future album and resolved to listen to zero sad lesbian music the entire weekend. When he got home, he turned to his group chat.
CM: Roz safely delivered to the airport for Tampa
VS: Should we be worried about him down there?
CC: Maybe kicking Hollander’s ass at events will cheer him up.
CC: Or maybe he'll find new tail to chase.
VS: I do not think he will get over Montreal Jane so quickly, Conny
Cliff rolled his eyes.
CM: He will either be fine, or I will be flying down to Tampa on Monday to release him from the hospital.
CC: Jesus, Marley
VS: No, he is right. Merde, it is like we have a Bengal tiger as a pet. Very powerful, very impressive, very hard to manage.
Cliff said a silent prayer that after this week, somebody else would be managing Rozy with him. Then he texted Drea.
>>I am surrounded by idiots. “Maybe kicking Hollander’s ass at events will cheer him up.” “Or maybe he'll find new tail to chase.”
>>These fucking guys
<<Do not make me laugh, Clifford Marleau. I have to go teach Gender Studies 101. I have to be serious.
>>I have had a fucking Hayley Kiyoko song stuck in my head for a week. This is as dramatic as it gets, Andrea.
<<One day, you will play that song at Ilya's wedding and I will laugh.
>>I cannot emotionally handle being around hockey players this weekend. Wanna come work on your dissertation from my couch while I watch the All-Stars with the feverish enthusiasm of a pent-up puck bunny?
>>And before you call me sexist, pick bunny is a gender neutral term, and I cannot control the reality that every type of fame also has hangers on.
<<Reluctantly, I accept. Only because you have better food than me. I look forward to watching you be a puck bunny.
<<I'll come over after my date Saturday morning.
>>Date! Yes, excellent, very good, I'm telling my mom everything. And she will tell your dad, who will tell your mom, and by the end of the All Star weekend, the entire family will know you have a girlfriend.
<<I will put nair in your shampoo, Clifford.
>>No need to get testy
<<You spill the beans on me, I tell Ilya you're half in love with Svetlana.
>>Truce?
<<Truce
The sound of Drea typing, pausing, clicking, and typing overlapped with the sound of the announcers for the skills tests. Roz’s face looked like the first day of sun that hit Boston in mid-March after months of grey and ice. Hollander was no longer playing like a man in a fog. They were neck in neck for nearly every skill competition, jostling each other teasingly and smiling like a secret.
Watching the game was a masterclass in hockey. Even Drea put her laptop down and leaned forward on Cliff’s giant couch. Rozanov and Hollander on the same line was the stuff of hockey dreams. It was like they were one mind in two bodies. One player with two sticks. Cliff was pretty sure there was a goalie group chat shaking in fear at the idea of playing against the two of them in a regular season game.
The goal was beautiful. Even more beautiful was the way Drea gripped his forearm while they watched a brightly smiling Rozanov crash into a shyly grinning Hollander and smack a brash kiss to the side of the Metros’ Captain’s head. Cliff felt his heart jump at the sight of his best friend's truest, ear to ear, eyes crinkled smile, and the way Hollander's nose and cheeks and ears turned a shade of pink Cliff had never seen before.
“Oh. My god.” Drea whispered.
“I know.”
“We were right.”
“I know.”
“Holy shit.”
“I know.”
She let go of his arm. “He still probably needs a therapist.”
Cliff threw his head back against the couch. “Ugh. I. Know.”
--
The first practice after the All Star game was electric. Roz was on fire. He drove Cliff, St. Simon, and Connors to dinner in his horrible orange Porsche, the song One Call Away played so loudly, and Roz was grinning so broadly that Cliff had to laugh.
--
The first game against Montreal after the All Stars was perhaps the most fun Cliff had playing hockey in months. Roz’s joy, despite the tension somewhere behind his eyebrows every time his phone buzzed, was infectious.
So when he took an angry Russian phone call after the game and then dropped to the ground with his head in his hands, it felt like whiplash. But they got him on a plane and headed to Nashville and part of Cliff wondered if he should find a way to message Hollander. Drea told him not to. Instead, when they got home and he got confirmation that Roz would be back in 12 hours, he used his spare key to fill Roz’s fridge with food he knew the kid would eat, and picked him up at the airport.
The kid looked like a ghost the whole way home and Cliff basically lived with Roz for a week and a half. Angry Russian music was an oddly comforting soundtrack.
--
In April, they fly to Montreal for a game. Roz buzzes in his seat the whole flight. The game is beyond intense.
And then suddenly it's Cliff’s least favorite hockey game of his entire career. He has to haul a pale-faced Rozanov back to their bench, while he's shaking himself. Everyone got their bell rung in hockey, but nobody…well, mostly nobody…wanted to ring somebody's bell that hard. And Cliff, in particular, did not ever want to ring Shane Hollander's bell that hard. Fucking Christ.
They won, but winning felt like bile.
After the game, Cliff slowly helped Roz out of his uniform until his brain got caught up and he took over. When Roz was dressed in his game day suit next to Cliff, clutching his silent phone, then and only then did Cliff check his own phone. Drea had texted.
<<Fuck. I know that was a clean hit, but fuck
<<Are you okay? Is he? Is Jane?
>>Shit, Drea.
>>Jane was talking when they took him off the ice, but Rozy looks unhinged. Vinny told everybody they became friends at all stars and the idiots bought it. Probably bc that's what Vinny thinks happened
<<Fuck
>>Yeah
Then there were a series of texts from an unknown number.
<<Cliff Marleau
<<This is Svetlana Vetrova. I know you know why I am texting you. I trust you will understand.
<<I was watching game. That was clean hit. You did nothing wrong.
<<Apologize, and tell Ilyusha to send your apologies to his Jane
<<When you return to Boston, bring Ilyusha to my house. I will watch him until Jane is recovered.
Jesus fucking Christ.
>>You terrify me. I will deliver one unhinged Russian hockey player to your home tomorrow evening.
<<Good. I like when men are afraid of me.
Make that more than half in love.
>>Gonna get him back to the hotel for now.
<<Do not leave him alone.
>>Respectfully, I'm not new to this, Miss Vetrova.
<<Please, call me Svetlana
>>Cliff
<<I will see you tomorrow evening, Cliff. I will manage our boy.
>>If he starts playing Hayley Kiyoko, call me.
<<Oh, Христос
Somehow, Cliff got Ilya Rozanov to the hotel, and to a fitful sort of sleep. Then got him to the hospital during visiting hours under the cover of a Captain's visit that Cliff pretended to believe. Roz came out looking shell shocked and Cliff said nothing.
--
Roz’s ribs get bruised and they get knocked out of the playoffs. He holes up in his apartment with Svetlana and Cliff doesn't argue about it. She texts him that Roz is trying to be stoic and go back to Russia and she's trying to convince him not to. Cliff meets his cousin's girlfriend and they watch the cup game together. Roz is with Svetlana and presumably, packing for Russia, and Cliff is too tired to deal with hockey players.
So he orders far too much shawarma and sits next to Drea on the couch with a young woman with dark hair and suspicious eyes on Drea’s other side. The girlfriend. Her name is Amelia, not Amy, she's from New Jersey, she's absolutely the second smartest person Cliff currently knows, and she looks at Drea like she hung the stars. She talks with a monotone voice that actually kind of reminds him of Hollander's voice, she's wickedly funny, and she curls up on Cliff's couch with falafel and hummus like she has nowhere else to be. Cliff likes her.
He's starting to feel heavy from the amount of lamb he's consumed when the buzzer goes off and the Admirals win the cup. His fingertips are buzzing when Scott Hunter starts frantically waving someone down from the stands. He's clinging to Drea's hand so tight they're both losing sensation when Scott Hunter kisses a curly haired man at center ice surrounded by confetti.
“Holy. Fuck.” Drea whispers.
“Holy. Fuck.” Cliff whispers.
“Holy. Fuck.” Amelia whispers.
Cliff's phone is buzzing like a drunken bee. He sees Svetlana's name flash across the screen in between a dozen blowing up group chats and presumably every person he's ever met. He opens the thread.
<<He is going to Jane this summer
>>Oh thank Christ
<<Thank Scott Hunter
>>Pretty sure he was around for the birth of Christ, same thing
<<You are funny, Cliff Marleau.
<<Thank you for helping our boy
His face burnt with the compliment. Drea was staring at him. He chose to respond only to the second part.
>>He's my best friend.
<<You are also a good friend. When I return from Russia in three weeks, I will let you buy me a drink so we can drink to these idiots.
He swallowed.
>>Let me know when to pick you up. It will be my honor.
He put his phone down.
“He's going to Jane's for a while.”
“Good. And…?”
Cliff grinned in spite of himself. “And I have been given permission to take the most terrifying woman on the planet out for drinks when she returns to the city.”
Drea shoved his shoulder. “Atta boy!!!”
“Why do you want to take a terrifying woman out for drinks?” Amelia's monotone voice asked.
Drea burst out laughing.
--
Marleau didn't cry when Roz told him he was going to Ottawa. He knew, without being told, why Roz was going.
“If you think this means you'll be rid of me, you're insane.”
“I know.”
“Lucky’s after the first game in Boston?”
Roz smiled. The big, real one, that crinkled his eyes. “I'll find a bar in Ottawa.”
“Good.”
--
Marleau did nearly vomit onto his new couch when Pike's video went viral. He'd bought a bigger condo when Drea graduated and got a postdoc in the city and Amelia’s postdoc turned into a professor position. He had moved them in with the team's help and several baffled academics. So they were there when the hockey world exploded. Amelia brought him tea. Drea squeezed his hand. He texted Svetlana.
>>I don't know what to do.
<<I am researching legal protection in Canada so he does not get deported by Russia.
>>Fucking hell
>>Come over. We'll get food. Don't be alone in that
<<Okay.
She arrived 2 minutes after the Chinese food.
“I think they will get married.” She said when he opened the door.
“Oh good, I have a song I need to play.” He ushered her and her laptop into the living room.
She kissed his cheek. He fed her lo mein in between her conferencing somehow with Shane and Roz’s agent, and even more inexplicably, Yuna Hollander. She had copies of all of Ilya's documents in a folder in her bag and Cliff wondered if maybe she should be commissioner one day. The current one was shitting the fucking bed, that was for sure. Fucking fuck Roger Crowell.
“You should post a message of support.” Drea said, once the sesame chicken was gone. Svetlana nodded.
He handed Drea his phone. “You know how I feel. You write it. I'll just fuck it up.”
15 minutes later, his Instagram had a photo of him and Roz, laughing in a bar, with a caption that was an astoundingly good mimic of his own voice, celebrating over a decade of friendship and supporting his best friend (and the LGBTQ+ community broadly), and criticizing the fake fans who were suddenly critiquing every game Roz and Hollander had ever played.
Three days later, he finally talked to Roz.
“I love you, man. Tell Hollywood I love him, too. And he better treat you right.”
“Hollywood! I love this. I love you, Marley. You are a good friend.”
“Lucky's. As soon as you can.”
“Yes.” There's a pause. “And do not think I do not know about my Sveta. You will take care of her, yes?”
Cliff swallowed, and looked down the hallway at where Svetlana was sitting on the couch in her pajamas. “If she'll let me.”
“She will let you.”
“Then I will.” He chuckled. “I don't know who to be more afraid of. Her dad, you, or her.”
“Her.” Roz decided without thinking. “Definitely her.”
Cliff laughed out loud. “Yeah, probably.”
--
It was hot, even in Ottawa, in July. The air smelled like citronella, he was in a button down and a tie with the sleeves rolled up, and there were no chairs.
“Svetka…there are no chairs.”
She sighed, heavily. “I told them to let me and Yuna plan. They did not listen. Now they have no chairs.”
“Insane.”
“Hockey players.” She pointed a finger at him, almost accusatorily.
He put his hands up in defense. He'd do whatever she told him to for however long she told him to do it. “Go find our boy. He's probably freaking out. I will wrangle hockey players. Call me if you need help.”
She smiled brightly with her eyes. Her hair was up, a stunning pile of curls atop her head, and her dress had no back. She patted his bare arm with her small hand, and turned to berate her best friend for not having chairs at his wedding. Cliff went to go find Ryan Price. He liked Ryan Price. Weird guy, but cool.
“Did you come to Rozy’s wedding with Svetlana Vetrova?” Carter Vaughn asked, appearing out of thin air.
Cliff laughed out loud. “Carter, have you ever pulled a punch in your life?”
The Admiral’s right wing threw his arm around Cliff’s shoulder. “Nope.”
“Fantastic.”
Three hours later, everyone was dancing. Cliff had definitely not cried watching his best friend exchange vows and had definitely not sent Drea 62 photos so far, all with sobbing emojis in the texts. He had, however, loosened his tie, untucked his shirt, and consumed some surprisingly good cider. He had definitely also enjoyed the unmitigated honor of having his bare hand on Svetlana Vetrova’s bare back in front of God, Ilya Rozanov, and everyone.
“Don't you have a song to play for Ilyusha?” She had to stand on tip toe, even in her man killer heels, to reach his ear, and something about that delighted him.
He smirked in return and squeezed her hand. Then he turned to find the bubbly looking man in a floral button down manning the speakers next to Troy Barrett. Perhaps the strangest thing in all of this is that they liked Troy Barrett now.
“Hey Barrett, how's it going?”
Barrett raised an eyebrow. Drea was right, he was pretty for a hockey player. “Chaotically, Marley.”
Cliff shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “That's friendship with Roz, man.”
“So I am learning.” Barrett stood up. “Have you met my boyfriend, Harris?”
Cliff put out his hand to shake. “I have not. Cliff Marleau. Everyone calls me Marley.”
The temporary DJ shook his hand with a wide smile. “Harris Drover, but everyone calls me Harris. Nice to meet you, Marley. You play for Boston, right?”
“Yeah!”
“I like your social media manager.”
“Oh! Becky is great, I'll tell her you said hey. If you ever travel with the team, the two of you should come to Lucky's with Roz. I'll bring Becky, we try to drag her out of her cave for non-work stuff from time to time. Best to do after dark so she doesn't hiss like a vampire.”
Harris laughed with his whole body. “I like you, Marley. You're funny.”
“Thank you! I'm glad to hear it, because I'm hoping to bribe you.”
“Oh?”
“I need to play a song. For payback.”
“Payback?” Troy asked, obviously trying to hide how curious he was.
“I listened to He'll Never Love You by Hayley Kiyoko 14 times in a row in 2017. He can listen to it once at his wedding.”
“Oh my god that's hilarious.” Harris picked up his phone and started scrolling.
“Why was Rozy listening to Sad Lesbian Music in 2017?” Troy’s brow furrowed.
“Who was Shane dating in early 2017, babe?” Harris asked, tapping on his phone.
Troy's eyes widened. “Oh my god he is such a drama queen.”
Cliff laughed out loud.
“Your song is up next, Marley!” Harris said with a smile.
“Harris, you are my hero. First round at Lucky's is on me!”
“You got it, bud!”
Cliff wandered around the perimeter of the dance floor while the current song, a sort of flowy, upbeat number, finished playing.
I left a mark on your neck…
Rozanov whipped around when the opening beat started to play. Cliff caught his eye and smirked. Poor Hollywood looked confused.
“Marley!” Roz shouted from the center of the dance floor. “I'm gonna kick your ass!”
I know that you won't forget…
“Payback’s a bitch, Rozanov!” He wound through the confused but energetic dance floor.
“Payback?” Hollander was asking, eyes wide and shirt buttons undone.
Cliff clapped his best friend's husband on the shoulder. “Yeah, Hollywood. You dated an actress for like a couple months and I listened to this song 14 times. In. A. Row. I had to listen to Rozy's sad lesbian music for weeks, Hollywood.”
Shane's eyes were shining. “Oh my god, Ilya.”
“No.”
“Ilya.”
“No.”
“He was jealous.” Cliff offered. “He'll tell you Russians don't get jealous, but they do. He did. He does.”
“Marley,” Shane spoke conversationally without breaking eye contact with his husband. “I will buy you anything you want. I will give you and Svetlana an all expenses paid vacation to anywhere you want to go. Say the word.”
Like she had been summoned, Svetlana popped up next to him. “Are we making fun of Ilyusha?”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Yep.”
“Fantastic.” She grinned sort of manically. Then she took Shane's arm, and put his hand on Ilya's hip. “Cliff and I would like to go to Tahiti, Mr. Millionaire.”
She grabbed Cliff by his arm, spinning him into her. He went willingly. Shane flexed his hand and dragged Ilya into him. They were pressed, chest to chest, and he laughed into Svetlana’s hair. She slipped her fingers under his shirt to touch the bare skin above his waist and his hand caressed her back. They were both a little sweaty, and in the corner of his eye Cliff could see his best friend doing what could only be described as sensually grinding on his new husband, but Svetlana’s perfume was sweet, Cliff was a little drunk, and overall, he couldn't be bothered to care about anything else.
'Cause baby, you know that you got it
Girl, yeah, you know that you want it
Girl, why can't you just be honest?
With yourself