Chapter Text
October 2016 – Montreal – The Hotel Bar
Cliff loved to win. He loved the ecstatic rush of electricity that pulsed through his veins when fate was sealed and the game was theirs. He loved the roughhouse celebrations as the team piled together on the ice and the ruckus that followed them back to the locker room. He loved the joy and the energy of his teammates, all bouncing off of one another as they celebrated each victory with the same monumental strength as the last.
That competitive streak had run through his veins ever since he was a child, and there was nothing better, in his eyes, than winning alongside his team of brothers and friends; in sharing the rush of victory like a joint passed around a college party.
The only thing better than winning with his team, was winning with his team on enemy territory.
Home games were great, and of course Cliff loved the roar of the Boston fans, but coming to a city like Montreal and snatching a victory here, surrounded by the devastated, desolate crowd of Metro’s fans, stunned into silence by the unthinkable audacity of the Boston Raiders, was a feeling like no other.
Cliff Marlow fucking loved it.
And the afterparty wasn’t bad either.
They were in the hotel bar because nobody could be bothered to find a better place to go out and the team were impatient to start the celebrations. This was their last stop on the road before heading back to Boston tomorrow for a few nights off and so the team were free to cut lose a little more than they usually would… not that there was much that could ever hold the Raiders back from celebrating a resounding win over Montreal.
Ryan Carmichael was already ordering a second round of shots, and the night was still very young.
Cliff’s eyes scanned the crowd that had gathered. The whole team was here, plus a few dozen ‘puck bunnies’ looking to extend their own winning streaks with the available (and some of the unavailable) Raiders, most of whom required very little charming to get them to bed. The rookies were just excited that there were girls talking to them and the more experienced players had done this dance hundreds of times before in cities all across North America. They knew it didn’t take much.
It would be easy enough for Cliff to flash a wide smile at a pretty girl and be done for the evening, but he was the assistant captain and so he tried to be responsible for at least the first hour of team celebrations like this. Long enough to make sure the rookies were being properly taken care of, and for Carmichael to inevitably crash out.
Then Cliff could have some proper fun.
His eyes dragged through the crowd to where the team captain, and Cliff’s closest friend on the team, Ilya Rozanov, was still nursing his first drink and staring blankly at his phone.
If they were in any other city tonight, then Rozanov would be the social director of the group. He would be calling the shots on the hottest bars and clubs in town, piling his teammates into cars and somehow still managing to wrangle them back to the hotel before curfew.
When Cliff first came to Boston, it was Rozanov who had taken the young Ontarian under his wing. He had been quick to introduce himself, cornering Cliff by his locker and flashing him a lopsided grin as he managed to both insult Cliff being Canadian and compliment his hockey playing skills within the same breath. Now they played on the same line, wearing the ‘C’ and the ‘A’ with pride, sharing both the joy and the burden of the raucous group of idiots that they were proud to call their team.
Side by side they led Boston to a Stanley Cup win two seasons ago and Cliff was determined that this season they could do it again. They had proven tonight that Shane Hollander was not better than them at all. That they could beat him. That they could… or at least Rozanov could… skate circles around the golden boy of hockey.
It was reason enough for most of the team to be celebrating as if they had already won the cup. Heck, it was reason enough for Cliff to feel like they had already won the cup.
But for some reason, whenever they came to Montreal, something changed in Ilya Rozanov. Gone was the team’s social director, and in his place was a quieter version of the team captain who would come out for exactly one drink and then disappear for hours on end.
Well… Cliff knew it wasn’t just ‘some reason’. There was a girl… Jillian? Jackie?
For as long as Cliff could remember, Rozanov had been seeing this one particular girl in Montreal who seemed to get him more worked up than anyone else. Who made him blush with her texts and go quiet with anticipation and dip out on team parties far earlier than he would in any other city.
Rozanov, like so many of the unattached guys on the team, had girls that he would link up with in various cities on the road, and if he didn’t then he would have no trouble finding someone in the bars and clubs, but no one else seemed to hold a magnetic power over him like Montreal girl… Jodie? Jessica? Jade?
Cliff watched for a few minutes as Rozanov swilled the glass in his hand lazily and checked his phone, furrowing his brow as he stared blankly at the screen and then pocketed it, his eyes returning to stare off into the distance.
“Rozanov!” Cliff slung an arm around his captain’s shoulder, jolting him back to reality. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking about bailing already?”
Rozanov winced but did not say anything, choosing instead to take a small sip of his drink. Cliff knew his captain too well because he was bang on the money.
“Dude c’mon! We fucking crushed Montreal tonight! Cut loose a little!” Cliff was shaking the captain now, emboldened by the two pints that he had already drunk tonight. Enough that he was tipsy, but a long way off drunk. “I’m sure Julie can wait a couple hours.”
“Jane.” Rozanov corrected him, pressing his lips together as he tensed under Cliff’s hands.
“Riiight. Jane.” Cliff nodded. “I knew it started with a J.”
Cliff wasn’t sure why Rozanov got so nervous talking about Jane. He wasn’t the type of guy who got nervous very often. In fact, Cliff was pretty sure that the only time he ever saw Ilya Rozanov get nervous was when Jane was somehow involved.
Certainly never before a game. There were times when Cliff had half expected to see Rozanov crack, like after the Olympics when all eyes were on him and the pressure was through the roof, or later that season when they had played for the Stanley Cup. But Rozanov was always composed and calm and a little cocky going out onto the ice.
Even when he had to face off against someone like Shane Hollander, who was insufferably talented, Rozanov never let the pressure get to him.
But this one girl…
“What’s the deal with you two anyway?” Cliff didn’t usually pry, but he had a few drinks in him and was feeling brave.
“What deal?” Rozanov scowled and took another sip of his own drink. As usual Rozanov was drinking straight vodka.
“Well you’ve been hooking up for years now, right? And look man, it’s so obvious that you actually fucking like this girl.” Cliff grinned because he knew he was right. “Just make it official already.”
“I do not like her.”
Rozanov’s defences were way up. He snapped at Cliff, his eyes narrowing and nostrils flaring with a frustration that only confirmed exactly what Cliff had suspected; Ilya Rozanov was blatantly in love with… shit he already forgot her name… Jenny?
“Oh brother you got it bad.” Cliff couldn’t help but laugh. It was actually kind of cute that Ilya Rozanov was in love. Notorious womaniser with his bad boy image to protect, completely on his knees for some random girl. Cliff could only guess because Rozanov would never tell him anything or even show him a picture but knowing his type she was probably drop-dead gorgeous with dark hair and freckles. Rozanov always went for the pretty girls with freckles.
The scowl on Rozanov’s face now didn’t lie. There was no way that he would be this angry if it wasn’t at least a little true.
A couple of hours and a lot more drinks later, Cliff Marlow’s inebriated eyes scanned the room once again. The crowd had thinned as gradually the party dissipated. Some of the more sensible guys had gone upstairs to get some sleep before tomorrow’s flight. Some had vanished with giggling girls on their arms, gone to get laid. Some (read: Ryan Carmichael) had gotten so sloshed in the first hour of partying that Cliff and Rozanov had been forced to carry him back up to his room whilst the party was still very much in full swing.
After their conversation, Rozanov had made a point of not slinking off early, downing his first drink and a second in quick succession, before very obviously flirting with a pair of blondes directly in Cliff’s eyeline.
If he was trying to prove a point, it wasn’t working.
Cliff’s eyes found Rozanov in the remaining crowd, once again staring at his phone. Whatever plans he had with… Jasmine? Jean?... he was evidently late for. Rozanov quickly glanced around the room and caught Cliff, leaning against the bar, watching.
“Go on.” Cliff mouthed, nodding towards the door, barely concealing the smug expression on his face.
Rozanov scowled and tucked his phone back in his pocket, rooted to the spot for a moment in sheer defiance. Cliff just held his gaze with a smirk and tapped his watch. You already know that you’re late.
It wasn’t much but it was enough for the captain to crumble and give in. He nodded at Cliff, trusting the assistant captain to make sure that the rest of these idiots made it back to their rooms without any major disaster, and made a beeline for the exit.
Cliff turned back to the bar, waving down the bartender for another drink to celebrate this second, personal, victory. No matter how much Rozanov tried to deny it, he knew that Cliff was right about… Janine? And Cliff really did love to win.