Chapter Text
Ilya’s phone on the dark marble hotel bar didn’t ring; it just hummed a rhythmic, low vibration, lighting up with a string of calls and consecutive text messages from unknown numbers. He didn’t bother picking up or reading them. Someone probably signed him up for spam, and he never answered voicemails anyway. He had a playoff series to win.
Granted, that playoff series was against the love of his life.
In an unbelievable upset that shocked fans and commentators alike, the Montreal Metros had beaten the Detroit Tanagers, the number one seed, in round one. This was not supposed to happen. Ilya had been preparing to play a nasty, physical series in round two against Viktor Klassen, the asshole captain of Detroit who had been caught in a scandal involving leaked homophobic texts he had sent to a Tanagers staffer.
Ilya had expected that the Metros wouldn’t win the Cup, but it wasn’t supposed to be him who sent Shane home. They had played countless games against each other over their careers and knew how not to let personal feelings get involved in wins and losses, but this was different. It was the playoffs, and it was the first time the Metros and Raiders had met in the postseason since Ilya and Shane had admitted they loved each other.
The Metros had continued their surprising streak by winning the first two games of the series on Boston’s home ice. Now they were in Montreal, and Ilya was trying to keep his composure.
That always involved vodka.
Whenever in Montreal, he stayed at Shane’s apartment, and vice versa — but they always checked into their respective team hotels to keep up appearances before completely abandoning them for the rest of the trip. Today, Ilya had decided to make a quick pit stop at the hotel bar before heading to Shane’s.
He swirled the ice in his drink and turned his phone over, annoyed at the constant, aggressive lighting up of the screen.
A heavy, athletic frame dropped onto the barstool next to him. Cliff Marleau didn’t bother waiting for an invitation as he simply slid Ilya’s bowl of gourmet nuts towards himself and threw a handful in his mouth.
“That better not be Hollander you’re ignoring,” he said. “Otherwise, we’re gonna have a problem.” He smacked his hand in his fist, mocking a fighting move.
“You’d kill me over Hollander? Aren’t you supposed to be my friend?” Ilya asked.
“You made Hollzy my bro now, too. You hurt him, and the code applies. I kill you.”
“Good thing I’m not ignoring him.”
Then Cliff’s phone went off, too. He didn’t look.
“You heading over there to get your boyfriend points in before you utterly rip his heart out tomorrow?” Cliff asked, smiling.
“Shut up, Marly,” Ilya muttered through a sip of his drink.
Three barstools down, the phones of three businessmen in suits chimed loudly with an ESPN breaking news alert sound. They glanced over at Ilya and Cliff, whispering to themselves with confusion in their eyes.
Ilya and Cliff’s phones continued to buzz. Cliff finally checked his with a groan.
“What the hell is all this— uh, Roz…” his voice lost all of its teasing mockery, dropping into a rare, stunned gravity. He was staring at his screen, eyes scanning a headline. “Something’s happening, dude.”
Ilya flipped his phone over to see the screen completely buried under an avalanche of texts and missed calls. Multiple from Coach LeClaire. Before he could hit the notification to call him back, the elegant, insulated peace of the Ritz-Carlton was violently shattered.
The heavy glass doors of the lounge didn’t just swing open — they slammed against the wall. The quiet murmur of jazz over the speakers was instantly drowned out by a wave of shouting. Ilya turned his head quickly, surprised to hear his name amongst the yelling. His eyes narrowed as a dozen sports reporters and paparazzi broke through the hotel security, their cameras flashing like strobe lights.
Ilya nearly fell off his stool. In a split second, Cliff instinctually put himself between Ilya and the reporters, covering him as best as he could with his body.
“Mr. Rozanov!” A microphone thrust into their faces. “Is it true? Did Boston throw the April tenth game against Montreal?”
“Ilya!” Bodies were pushing forward. “Did the Raiders tank the first two games of the series as a payout?”
A flash exploded directly in Ilya and Cliff’s faces, blinding them. Cliff lost his footing, and reporters shoved their cameras into Ilya.
Cliff staggered to his feet and grabbed Ilya’s arm. “Get up!”
He used himself as a shield and physically dragged Ilya through the crowd, his fingers latching around him hard enough that it hurt. He was pushing every human and every camera away from him, as Ilya stumbled to hit ‘call’ on his phone.
“Rozanov! Where the fuck are you? Why haven’t you picked up your phone!” LeClaire boomed through the speaker.
“I— I—” Ilya could barely speak as the crowd’s yelling intensified and Cliff barked over them.
“Get to your room, Rozanov! And do NOT leave! Absolute communications blackout effective immediately. Lock your fucking door! Is Marleau with you?”
“Um, yes—”
“Keep him there, do not answer any questions, and hole up until I call you back. Understood?”
“Y—yes…”
The phone clicked as LeClaire hung up.
Ilya and Cliff stumbled out to the lobby and into an open elevator, pushing back the hordes until the doors closed. Ilya almost dropped to his knees, his chest heaving.
“What the fuck—”
“Roz, the headline, something about collusion…” Cliff spoke through panting breath.
As the elevator reached their floor, they tumbled out into the hallway and into Ilya’s room, locking the privacy latch and chain behind them.
Ilya glanced at his phone again to see a text from his agent.
Stephanie: ILYA. CALL ME RIGHT NOW. DO NOT TALK TO REPORTERS.
Before he could reply, Cliff shoved his phone in Ilya’s face, an article pulled up with a headline in all caps.
BREAKING NEWS: LEAKED IMAGES AND SOURCES ALLEGE MASSIVE COLLUSION SCANDAL BETWEEN METROS AND RAIDERS; NHL LAUNCHES INVESTIGATION
The National Hockey League’s postseason has been thrown into chaos this Tuesday evening following explosive allegations that one of this year’s Stanley Cup Playoffs’ biggest Cinderella runs may have been carefully orchestrated behind the scenes.
Sources familiar with the situation have provided ESPN with documents, photographs, and witness accounts suggesting that the final regular-season meeting between the Boston Raiders and Montreal Metros on April 10 — along with portions of Montreal’s playoff run — may have involved a coordinated effort to manipulate results.
Among the materials obtained by ESPN is a photograph of a note allegedly discovered inside the Metros’ locker room following Montreal’s playoff-clinching victory over Boston. The note, written on Raiders letterhead, contained one word: “TRUCE.” It was allegedly signed by Boston captain Ilya Rozanov and alternate captains Cliff Marleau and Victor St-Simon.
The note was found beside an envelope labeled simply: “CAPTAIN.”
While the main portion of the letter remains redacted, league sources describe the existence of any agreement between the longtime division rivals as “deeply alarming” and “potentially unprecedented.”
Additional evidence includes leaked photographs from The Volt, an upscale nightclub in downtown Boston, showing players from both organizations celebrating together at an exclusive bottle-service table just hours after the game that sent Montreal into the postseason.
Sources claim Boston intentionally eased off during the April 10 matchup, allowing Montreal to secure a playoff berth. In exchange, Montreal’s front office allegedly agreed to send Boston an elite former first-round prospect in an off-season trade allegedly structured to circumvent the NHL salary cap, provided the Raiders also agreed to tank the potential second-round playoff series, now currently underway.
Sources also allege luxury properties, summer homes, and other high-value personal assets were quietly transferred to Boston players as additional compensation during the private nightclub gathering following the game, led by Rozanov and Montreal captain Shane Hollander.
The revelations may also provide context for what many around the league considered the most shocking postseason upset in years. Montreal stunned in Round 1 by eliminating the top-seeded Detroit Tanagers, a result many analysts and sportsbooks viewed as nearly impossible upon entering the series. Sources now claim Detroit may have been targeted in a similar arrangement designed to clear a path for Montreal’s improbable run to the Cup.
The Metros and Raiders are currently facing off in Round 2, and Boston’s surprising losses in the opening two games on home ice are adding fuel to the allegations.
The NHL has not publicly commented on the reports. However, multiple sources told ESPN the league office has already ordered an immediate communications blackout and internal quarantine measures for both organizations as officials assess the validity of the claims.
Game 3 of the series is scheduled for Wednesday night in Montreal.
This remains a developing story.
Ilya collapsed with his hand to his chest, unable to speak.
“Roz?” Cliff asked suddenly. “Cap, talk to me.”
Ilya quickly glanced up with terror in his eyes. “I need to call Shane!” He reached for his phone.
“Hold on, Roz, someone could’ve tapped your fucking phone, dude!” Cliff exclaimed. “Coach ordered no external communication.”
“What, I’m supposed to sit here like a fucking clown? Shane is probably having panic attack!”
He scrambled as his fingers shook, trying to dial Shane’s contact. He waited for a few seconds before pulling the phone back from his face.
“Fuck, voicemail.”
He dialed again.
“Goddamnit, Shane, pick up!”
He pulled back again, dialing a third time.
“Shane Hollander, answer your fucking phone!”
“Dude,” Cliff sighed.
Ilya sat on the floor and put his hands behind his head as he exhaled loudly and deeply.
“God, if I didn’t get that fucking drink I’d be there!”
“Roz.” Cliff looked somber.
“Fuck, Marleau. This is my fault! Fuck! I wrote that note,” Ilya said as his eyes glazed over, staring at a wall.
“Don’t go there, Cap. We all signed it.”
“It was all because I wanted a stupid fucking dance,” he breathed out.
“Dude. It wasn’t stupid. I saw you guys, and you were, like… in love and shit.”
Ilya snapped his head to look at Cliff, with a bit of anger. “That was worth ruining Shane’s career? Jesus Christ, Marleau.”
“Hey, this will all work itself out, dude. Nobody’s career is getting ruined here,” Cliff tried to console.
“This is massive deal, Marleau.”
“I know, dude. We will figure out a plan. Let’s try to calm down first.”
Suddenly, Ilya’s phone rang. Shane.
“Oh god, Shane, are you okay?” Ilya pressed the phone close to his ear.
Cliff peered out the window curtains at the growing crowd of press on the street below.
“FaceTime me,” was all Shane said, through a shaky voice.
Ilya pressed the button, and nearly broke when he saw Shane’s wet, red eyes. Shane let out a sudden sob and buried his head in his free hand.
“Moy lyubimyy, look at me,” Ilya said in a determined, neutral voice. “Look at me, Shane.”
Shane raised his head, tears filling his eyes.
“I promise you we will find a way through this.”
“Where are you?” Shane cried.
“At the hotel. I was about to come to you. I stopped for a… fuck. The reporters are everywhere.” Ilya tried to stifle his voice breaking.
“They are outside my building, Ilya. I don’t know what to do.”
“Listen to me,” Ilya said, gripping the phone tighter. “I will get to you. I will find a way to get to you.”
He had a fierceness in his eyes, an intense determination fueled by overwhelming love for his boyfriend and a raging anger towards whoever fabricated such a lie.
“We can’t be seen together — that’s, like, collusion!” Shane exclaimed.
“I don’t care, Shane. I will get to you,” Ilya repeated.
“Fuck, I don’t know if I can come back from this, Ilya. It’s over. My career is over. Oh god, your career is over! Oh fuck!” Shane was starting to spiral.
“Hey. No, it is not. We are strong, yes? We will tell truth. They will listen.”
“Fuck. I need you, Ilya. But they’re locking both teams down.”
Ilya glanced at Cliff, his brave look for Shane turning into an honest, worried one at Cliff. His eyes went wide, as if pleading for help. He was desperate.
Cliff looked unsure, and took another weary look outside the window. "Dude..."
Ilya's face turned to a sharp, pointed glare. "I am going, Marleau. Help me or get out of my way."
Cliff’s brows furrowed. His thinking face was on. A softness grew across his eyes as he looked at Ilya. Suddenly, his expression transformed into his iconic game face that Ilya only saw before high-stakes matches where winning was the only thing on Cliff's mind.
“I got you, bro,” he said as he jumped to his feet, reaching his hand out to Ilya to help him up. “Let’s fucking move.”