Chapter Text
-Boston Bears locker room circa 2015
The locker room is silent apart from the occasional giggle. From their usually stoic "Russians do not blush" captain, this is certainly cause for concern.
"What the fuck is up with Roz", says Ryan Carmichael.
"Don't even bother" Cliff says helplessly, "that's his Montreal girl, Jane, he's real sensitive about her."
From accross the room, still enraptured by his phone, Ilya shouts, "I CAN HEAR YOUR STUPID FACE MOVING MARLY."
Cliff lowers his voice to a half whisper, "See, man, exactly what I told you, the guy's absolutely pussy whipped; never seen him like that before."
Just as everyone's seemingly about to move on and disregard their captains slightly uncharacteristic behavior (but no weirder than some of the other shit he does), Connors, the little shit, decides he can't contain his curiosity. He snatches the phone straight out of Rozy's hand. Roz bounds after him, tackling him to the floor. But it's too late. Everyone can see the steamy (admittedly incredibly hot) messages? Sextages? On Rozy's obnoxiously bright screen.
Ilya
-When will I see you next?
Jane
-In two weeks, when you're in Montreal again.
Ilya
-Is too long, my cock hurts 🍆🍆🍆 I need you come and make it better
Jane
-oh fuck all the way off
Ilya
-Don't pretend ik u need it too
-Need me to feed you my cock inch by inch
-hold you down as you choke around it
-are you turned on?
Jane
-fuck, yes, I'm so horny rn
Ilya
-good girl
-you would take it so well wouldn't you
Cliff sputters, "fuck Roz, you're texting like that in broad daylight man!!! In the fucking locker room of all places? I don't know how you can be turned on at all around a bunch of sweaty, disgusting men."
Ilya schools his nervous expression back into his usual cocky smirk. "Being man has nothing to do with it Marly, is just you who is stinky and gross, now give me phone back Connors, my Jane is very shy."
Ilya reaches accross the floor where he and Connors are still spread out in a poor excuse of a brawl for his phone. Cliff snorts, "Man, you can have your phone, I think we've all heard enough."
Victor St-Simon, usually silent, mutters indignantly, "Putain, if this is shy I do not want to imagine what his idea of wild is."
Ilya just takes his phone back and saunters off. "Not my fault none of you losers have any game."