Chapter Text
The bar was loud, even for a Friday night after a game. It was more on par with a club except instead of music it was the cacophony of voices vibrating against the walls, laughter, yelling, whispers, the occasional fight. Cliff was already bored, he fucking hated Montreal, such a boring city. The only reason he enjoyed coming here was to play the Metros.
He swished the bottle of beer in his hand, less than a third left, he tipped it back, drowning out the conversation being had across the table with St. Simon and Connors and two women they were probably hoping to score with.
Both had glanced across the bar from their booth no less than six times each to look at Rozanov.
Every Boston player, despite their objections, loved playing the Metros. The famous rivalry between the two teams was what made hockey worth playing. The rivalry got everyone’s blood pumping, the fans, the players, the coaches. Everyone wanted their team to win, the cheers and boos were always deafening. The pressure was on in Montreal. It was fun. Every other team just didn’t feel the same.
Especially the whole Hollander/Rozanov thing. Their whole schtick sold the tickets. Hollander was the reason that Boston played so hard against the Metros. He might be the poster golden boy of the NHL, but he could back it up on the ice. He was fast, he would be there and gone before you even realized the puck was no longer in your possession. He would swoop around people like it was nothing and sink the puck into the net with such gorgeous shots Cliff could hardly even be mad. Shane Hollander was the Metros.
Rozanov was still leaning against the bar, chatting up a gaggle of women. Being his usual charismatic self, but somehow Cliff suspected that he wouldn’t be taking home anyone tonight with how often he was looking at his phone. Despite how much Rozanov called Hollander boring, Cliff knew that he showed up to Montreal like no other place. Knew that he fed off of the rivalry like everyone else. After all, Hollander was one of the only players in the NHL that could match Rozanov. He knew that they pushed each other to be better and despite Rozanov’s fast and loose life, his dedication to the sport was the same as Hollander’s, just in a different way.
Cliff refrained from rolling his eyes as Rozanov checked his phone again, downright ignoring the beautiful blond almost grinding against him. After receiving no attention, she pouted and walked away. Rozanov didn’t even notice, just softly smiled at his phone and quickly typed a reply, then bit his lip, eyes trained on the screen, fingers finished moving.
It was probably Jane.
It was always Jane these days.
He needed another drink. He slid out of the booth and strode up to the bar. The opposite of where Rozanov was, he knew that if he got too close he would be too tempted to bring up Jane again and ask questions like: hey, maybe you should bring that girl that you’re definitely not in love with around? We could add her to the WAG groupchat! Because that did not go well last time. It earned him a cold shoulder from everyone since Rozanov had them run bag skates all morning because of the Incident.
This bartender was taking a really long time was to pour him a fucking pilzner on tap. Cliff tapped his hands on the bar, rolling his eyes as the bartender laughed with Rozanov’s lady friends, clearly trying to ride the Rozanov Wave.
“What the fuck are you doing here Marlow?” Cliff nearly jumped a foot in the air at the voice coming from directly behind him. He whipped around, coming almost nose to nose with a red-faced Comeau and slightly paler but still angry looking Drapeau. They were posturing, standing tall with crossed arms.
Cliff had never seen them side by side like this. If it weren’t for the situation he probably would’ve laughed at the fact that their noses were an equal amount of crooked in the same direction.
“Can I help you?” Cliff picked up the beer the bartender finally handed him and took a sip. It was slightly disgusting but pulling a face didn’t seem like the right thing to do in this circumstance. Plus he already paid for it.
It was then that he noticed Hayden Pike standing behind the two. Looking vaguely mortified and irritated? Maybe? Cliff was unclear as to why.
“You are in our bar. Get you and your Boston fairies out of here.” Comeau spat in his face.
Cliff slid around, escaping from his place in front of the bar. He wanted an escape route if this went sideways. Because, at this point, other teammates from Boston were noticing that the entire Montreal team just walked in.
“It’s not like you own the bar.”
“Do you normally celebrate when you lose?”
Cliff grinned at that. Because the answer was kinda yes, actually. But only against Montreal. Tonight was a tough game. They’d score, Hollander would make it even, and so on. Montreal won in OT with a final score of 5-4. So yes, they were celebrating a game well played. It was barely even a loss, frankly, they just couldn’t beat Hollander tonight.
At his lack of an answer, Comeau advanced again. Until a hand laid on his arm. It wasn’t firm, it wasn’t pulling him back, but the threat was there.
It was Shane fucking Hollander de-escalating a fight. Scratch that, it was Shane fucking Hollander at a fucking bar. He wondered how much his teammates, or, more likely, Hayden Pike, had to bribe him with to get him here. Because Hollander was boring, and a bit dry, probably in bed by nine, never got in fights, but he was damn fucking good at hockey.
“Comeau. Back off, man.” The man briefly looked down at the hand holding his arm, he scrunched his nose and sneered. The fuck? He shook it off and stalked towards the tables in the back corner, as far away from the Boston Raiders as possible, apparently. Drapeau and the rest of the team followed, shooting dirty looks at Boston… and Hollander?
Hollander didn’t look insulted at the dismissal, or the weird, disgusted look he had. Just relieved that there didn’t appear to be any fist fights occurring that night.
Hayden Pike stayed too. Loyalty was a good quality.
Hollander waved a hand, “Sorry. About them. I told them that we shouldn’t come here because I knew you were here. That just made them more convinced. Good game tonight.”
For all the media bullshit in the world, Shane Hollander really was a perfect golden boy.
“It’s all good, man, we’re just here to have a good time”, Hollander grimaced slightly at that, “Not here to piss anyone off… deliberately anyways.” He cracked a small smile at that.
He nodded at Cliff, then Rozanov, who Cliff didn’t even notice was standing next to him, “Nice shot in the second period.”
Rozy pondered the statement for a moment. The genuine, really innocent, incredible show of sportsmanship comment. And decided to be a little shit, “Yes, I did it with my backhand. Something you don’t understand how to do. Is ok I can teach you.”
Hollander raised an eyebrow, distantly it occurred to Cliff that this might be the first time in seven years that he’s actually interacted with the guy off the ice. He exchanged a glance with Pike, who looked just as nervous as he was beginning to feel. In the moment, he almost forgot that these two actually hated each other, despite the non-reputability of the media.
“My backhand’s fine. Maybe if you actually practiced your accuracy shots you wouldn’t have missed the net in the first period.”
“Are you even allowed to be here? Is past your bedtime!”
“How’s the Zamboni driver who’s been teaching you how to skate? Have you finally gotten faster than him yet?” Cliff almost choked. What the fuck?
“Ahhh, sorry. I was slow tonight. I was distracted by your goalie playing dodgeball.” Pike hid his face in his hands. Cliff knew that fucker was laughing even though it was a dig against his own team.
“You made so many failed shots at the net like you were a teenager learning how to parallel park and just couldn’t get it straight.” Cliff was definitely in an alternate universe.
Rozy’s lips twitched at that. Like he found something unbearably funny in that sentence but was absolutely not supposed to laugh at. Cliff glanced at Hollander, who looked confused for a split second while taking in Rozy’s face. What? He mouthed unconsciously. Poor Hollander, not able to keep up with Rozy’s level of chirping.
“You are sooo boring Hollander. I bet you only park in diagonal spaces.” Rozy winked. Shane flushed, then glared. Cliff wondered if that was some sort of innuendo and if he needed to get out more if Shane Hollander, the Virgin (rumored), could understand it, but he couldn’t.
“You’re such an asshole.” Rozanov just winked, and Hollander walked away, towards his team, noticeably the only one who did not carry a drink. He was met with boos at his table, probably because he was talking to Rozanov, who was no longer at his side.
Cliff shrugged at the abrupt end to the conversation, and actually sat at the bar. Pike siddled up next to him, flagging down the bartender and ordering a tequila, double.
“Something on your mind?” Cliff started a conversation again, for some reason, with the Metros player.
“Nope, just in the mood for tequila.” Pike glanced at him, “Don’t be mad at Hollander, for how the others acted. They’re just… protective. Over the city, y’know?”
Protective over a city was not a thing. “Hollander? God no, we’re good. I was more worried that he and Rozy would kill each other.”
Pike snorted, “Yeah they fucking hate each other. I’m surprised Rozanov was as cordial as he was. Actually I’m surprised Shane chirped that much.”
Cliff shrugged, “They’ve been playing each other a long time. Maybe they just respect each other at this point.” They both cracked up at that. It was nice, talking to someone like this, even if it was Hayden Pike.
They fell into silence for several moments, Pike glancing back at their table a few times, pulling a face. Cliff followed his gaze, landing on Hollander buried in his phone.
“Is Hollander texting a girl, or something?”
Pike shook his head, then amended, “No, well… yes. But, it’s not like that. I think they’re just hanging out, y’know? He doesn’t really… date much.” Cliff nodded in understanding. He never heard about Hollander with women. Good for him for finding friendship, it was important to have relationships with people even if you were asexual. Good for him for finding himself.
Cliff and Pike sat there for another several minutes, until Pike had to leave to go back to his table. Cliff found that he didn’t really mind their conversation. The Raiders didn’t stay long after that, either leaving with hookups or to go to the hotel to call their wives. Cliff noticed that Hollander left. Not when. Just that he was suddenly gone. None of his teammates really seemed to notice.
Cliff supposed that made sense. Hollander wasn’t exactly a party animal, not like Rozanov anyways.
To each their own. At least Hollander’s team supported him, and seemed protective of him and the rivalry. Despite technically being mortal enemies, Cliff was glad that Hollander’s team seemed to respect his sexuality and didn’t really judge him for it. They seemed to have the attitude of as long as he was happy and as long as he scored goals, everything was good. The Metros seemed to be a real family, just like the Raiders.
Cliff never noticed when Rozanov disappeared.
—
Comeau and Drapeau
It was really too easy to convince Coach Theriault. Not that he needed that much convincing, he essentially agreed without even hearing the reasoning.
The thing was Hollander. He was a problem.
The kid was too boring, frankly, to be the captain. They had already used him as the diversity hire to get two cups. Comeau was confident this year that they would be able to secure a third without him. After all, the team was what really made the playoff run happen, not Hollander, he just happened to be there.
Hollander was getting too confident as Captain. He was making plays, suggestions, basically telling everyone how to play hockey like they were in the fucking peewees. He was a good player. Could connect passes and was an okay center. He just wasn’t cutting it anymore. And Theriaut agreed. After this many seasons it was time to cut Hollander loose, let him go to another team, watch him crash and burn without the Metros treating him like glass, and wash their hands.
The thing was, Comeau and Drapeau, and pretty much everyone else just didn’t like Hollander. He never came out to bars. Only socialized when it was lowkey and at someone’s house. Who does that? Only drank fucking gingerale, Comeau would bet money that he’s never even been drunk. He was calm and cool and always had media ready answers. He never went out. And never picked up girls. Like ever. Which was just pathetic. He was ok looking and was a hockey player, and some women were into that. Hollander’s game was just so bad that he couldn’t pick up a single woman even if they were interested in him. Comeau wasn’t sure at first, because there was no way, but Hollander was most definitely a virgin, no doubt. Comeau would feel bad if he didn’t feel total and complete annoyance at his leadership. As if it was actually helping them.
In essence, Comeau and the rest of the team were ready to play hockey without the Hollander of it all looming over their heads. And Theriault was more than ready to accept that once given solid reasoning and a petition from the rest of the team (except for Hayden, who didn’t and wouldn’t know shit). And thus, the trading process began. Hollander would be gone and off the team for good before Christmas.