Chapter Text
Ilya puts his phone back in his pocket. Marly is in the booth next to him, bracketed by Connors. He leans against Ilya, humming something under his breath that is definitely not the house song currently beating its way into Ilya’s ribcage from the club speakers.
“Did you see who he was with?” Cons asks. Ilya shakes his head. “I told the bar tender, in case they try it with anyone else.”
“Good thinking,” Ilya says. The bartender—a tattooed woman with bright pink hair and a thick Quebecois accent—had also been working the last time they came here after a Montreal game. Ilya can’t remember her name, but he knows she’s good people, takes her job seriously.
“Did you get a ride?” Cons asks.
“Yeah. He’ll be here…” Shane lives right nearby; he remembers the ride to his place last time had been under ten minutes. “Really soon.”
“Cool.” Cons nods.
Marley is swaying back and forth now, humming louder. He gropes around the table, like he can’t gage how far objects are from his hands. Cons had brought him a glass of water from the bar, and he slides it into his palm now.
Ilya is scanning the crowd in front of him, trying to think if Marly had been flirting with anyone in particular. It’s so fucking disgusting, to roofie someone. The thought that they will probably get away with it makes Ilya’s skin crawl.
“It’s my anniversary,” Marly murmurs, looking down at his water like he needs to remember how to use a straw.
“Drink, Marls,” Cons prompts. He leans around the taller man’s form to look at Ilya. He can read the question in his face: anniversary?
It’s true that Marly had said he was only staying for one drink, that he had pre-determined plans with someone. And Ilya knows that Marly had someone he sees regularly in Montreal—the team teases both of them about their Montreal girls—but Ilya had assumed she was just a regular hookup. No one celebrated anniversaries with hookups, did they?
Marly does drink some water, and Ilya encourages him to have a little more. He puts the glass down a little too hard on the tabletop. “I’m really excited,” he says. “I’ve never had an anniversary before.”
“Congrats, man,” Cons says. There’s a sadness in his voice that Ilya can empathize with: Marly had come out for one drink to celebrate their win, and now he wouldn’t be able to celebrate this anniversary with his sweetheart. Ilya tries hard not to blame himself, but he feels like he can sense the C on his jersey like a brand. It’s his responsibility to make sure his boys are safe when they travel, and he’d failed.
“Thank you.” Marly smiles. “I love—I’m in love.”
“Wow,” Cons says, again making eye contact with Ilya. This look says, Why haven’t we met this girl before, then? Ilya concurs. He knows a thing or two about secret relationships—not that what he and Shane have is a relationship. It’s just sex.
But this doesn’t sound like just sex to Ilya. This sounds serious, romantic. It’s not possible that Marly is hiding his person for the same reasons. Is it…? Sure, he’s only seen Marly flirting with girls when they go out, but the same is true for Ilya.
“That’s really cool,” Cons continues. Marly nods, his chin hitting his chest like his head is too heavy for his neck.
Shane texts that he’s outside. It’s a blue Jeep. Of course Shane Holander’s city car is a fucking Jeep. “Ride’s here, Marly,” Ilya says, grabbing his friend by the arm. Cons gets his other side, and several other Raiders run interference while they get him out the door.
Shane is right out front, and opens the back door for them when he sees them coming. Ilya slides into the back seat, pulling Marly along.
Cons pushes, helps Ilya get Marly upright and his seatbelt buckled. Marly’s humming again, the same song—it’s something slow, but maybe that’s because Marly is having trouble controlling the muscles in his face.
“There you go, buddy.” Cons pats Marly’s shoulder and closes the door. Ilya shouldn’t be surprised that he then opens the passenger door and gets in, but maybe he should’ve warned him that Shane is the one coming to get them.
He stares at Shane for a moment. “Hey, Hollander.”
“Hi,” Shane says. “Rozanov said you guys didn’t wanna risk getting a ride share.”
Cons nods. He puts his seatbelt on. “Cool of you to do this.”
“Yeah, no problem.” Shane looks at Ilya in the rearview mirror. “Seatbelt.” Ilya rolls his eyes as he buckles in. Shane puts his turn signal on and pulls into the slow traffic outside the club.
Marly is singing under his breath now. “… can’t help… falling in love with… you…” He looks at Ilya. “’s our song.” Ilya nods, though he doesn’t recognize the lyrics.
“Surprised he’s so out of it,” Shane says. “Just cause he’s so big—must’ve been a large dose, right?”
“It’s our regular Montreal place,” Cons explains. “If someone went there wanting to target one of us, then they would’ve been prepared to take down a 200-pound guy.” And Marly is more like 250, with his height and muscle mass. Shane makes a disgusted noise, which Ilya agrees with. Cons turns and peeks around the side of his seat to look at Marly. “Hey, Marly: should we text your girl and tell her you can’t make it? Where’s your phone?”
Ilya thinks for a moment that it’s possible they left it at the bar—not a disaster, if it’s locked, but Marly doesn’t need to get hacked on top of this other shit. He pats Marly’s jacket pocket, and finds his phone. It’s dead, but they could charge it when they get back.
Marly looks confused, shakes his head. “Are we not going back to the hotel?”
Cons looks at Ilya. He shrugs; he has no idea what Marly is talking about either. “We are, but she’s not there, is she?”
“Is so…” Marly murmurs. Lefvere’s at his sister’s house,” he explains. Marly liked to room with rookies, make sure they’re not getting up to too much mischief. He’d done the same with Ilya, and their newest recruit is his current charge. “Cause he’s Quebec-eese.”
“Quebecois,” Shane says. Ilya hates how endearing it is that the correction came so naturally to him.
“Yes,” Marly says. “Exactly. W—is that Shane fuckin’ Hollander?”
“Hi,” Shane says, lifting one hand off the steering wheel to wave. Ilya bites the inside of his cheek. Adorable.
Cons laughs. “He’s being very nice and giving us a ride to the hotel. But listen, Marly: your girl is at the hotel?”
He nods. “Left a key at the desk.” He leans forward to look at the side of Shane’s head. “It’s my anniversary.”
“Oh, congratulations,” Shane says, genuine. He winces. “Sucks that… this is happening during that.”
Marly winces. He looks down at his own hands. “I was only supposed to… how am I this drunk? How long were we out?”
“You got spiked, Marly,” Ilya says for the third or fourth time that night. “Roofied.”
Marly makes a sound like wounded animal. “Shit. He’s not gonna wanna fuck me like this.” Shane is stopped at a red light, and they stay stopped for a beat too long as the car goes quiet. The car behind them honks and Shane remembers he has to drive. Marly looks at Ilya, wall-eyed with lips parted. He’s afraid. “I mean—”
“That’s good,” Shane says. Ilya looks at the front seat; Cons is staring at Ilya like he doesn’t know up from down. Shane continues: “That you have a partner who wouldn’t take advantage of you like this. That’s really good, Marleau. I’m sure he’ll understand that you have to celebrate another time.”
“Yeah,” Marly croaks.
There’s another beat of silence.
Say something, Ilya thinks. He’s your friend. Fucking say something.
Instead, Cons speaks next: “How often do you get to see him, Marls?”
“Not that often,” Marly murmurs. Ilya must imagine the way Shane makes eye contact with him in the rearview.
“That’s too bad,” Cons says. “Maybe we can get him down to Boston when we have a day off—so you can make up for tonight.”
Marly looks up at the headrest in front of him. He blinks, and tears escape the corners of his eyes. Ilya takes a deep breath. “Is only 5-hour drive from Montreal to Boston,” he says, and hopes no one asks how he knows that off the top of his head. “If he can’t get down there, we can get you back up here. Fucked up that your anniversary is ruined by some asshole at the club. We fix.” He pats Marly’s leg.
His friend looks at him, still crying. “Thank you.”
They pull into the hotel parking lot and Shane takes one of the members’ space right near the door. Ilya wants to tease him about breaking the rules, but for all he knows Shane is a Double-Extra-Elite-Diamond-Bronze-Thingy. He gets out and opens Marly’s door for him, and Ilya expects him to get back in the driver’s seat while Ilya and Cons get Marly out of the Jeep, but instead he holds the door for them, despite the doorman being right there, and then hits the elevator button while Ilya and Cons prop up the taller man. He talks loudly about the Raiders really knowing how to party, yes-and’s Ilya’s bit about Marly not being able to handle a little tequila.
“We’re great at this,” Cons says when the elevator doors close.
“We’re great at everything,” Marly says, swaying so heavily that Ilya is forced to brace himself against the elevator wall, lest they all go tumbling to the floor.
Shane scouts the hallway ahead of them like maybe a gossip columnist got past hotel security, and he’s the one who takes Marly’s key from him, pressing it to the reader on the door. He knocks as he swings it open slowly. He’s probably imagining the same thing Ilya is: an unawares woman, waiting on the bed, maybe in nice lingerie or in a sexy pose, who isn’t anticipating anyone but her boyfriend coming through the door. “Hey—sorry about this, but Marleau needed—” He stops abruptly, halfway through the door. “Hayden?”
Hayden?
Hayden?
Marly’s left leg gives out, and Cons nearly buckles under his full weight. Shane moves quickly into the room, and he and Ilya move in after him. Their first priority is dumping Marly onto the nearest of the two queen beds, which is covered in fucking rose petals. The lights are dimmed, and there is a basket of chocolate-covered orange slices on the dresser—of course; Marly is allergic to strawberries—next to an ice bucket filled with what he recognizes as Marly’s favorite local beer—in fact this is some kind of limited edition flavor, one that his friend had complained about not being able to get his hands on—and Hayden fucking Pike is standing between the beds, hastily tying up his robe. This is not a hotel robe. This is a sexy, fancy robe made of partially-translucent material and trimmed in lace. It matches the stockings and garters Pike also has on.
“Shane?” Hayden blinks, his voice cracking. There is a moment where they are all staring at each other, Marly on his side on the bed trying to get his bearings.
Ilya speaks up, voicing what is likely on all of their minds: “Don’t you have a fucking wife?”
Pike’s jaw clenches. Shane takes a half-step toward him, fists clenched his side. This is Shane’s best friend. He’s godfather to at least some of the Pike children. He knows Pike’s wife, cares about her. Ilya has never seen Shane this furious.
Pike must see the anger too, because he only addresses Shane when he answers. “Jackie knows where I am and who I’m with.” Shane visibly relaxes.
Marly groans. He sits halfway up and reaches toward Pike, making little grabby hands. Pike moves toward him, puts an arm around his shoulder such that Marly can lean against his torso, face buried in his abdomen. “Missed Jackie. Missed you. I’m sorry.”
“How much did you have to drink?” Pike runs a hand through Marly’s hair.
“He got spiked,” Ilya says, feeling defensive. Obviously Marly hadn’t gotten shitfaced on his fucking anniversary, when he knew his partner was waiting at their hotel with limited edition beer and chocolate treats.
“Fuck,” Pike says.
“Sorry,” Marly repeats.
Pike kisses the top of his head, like it’s natural for him, like this is what they do. “Nothing to be sorry about, sweetheart. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Love you,” Marly tells the middle of Pike’s stomach.
Pike pets the back of his head. “I love you, too. You’re okay.” To the three of them, he says, “Thank you guys, for making sure he got here safe.”
Cons, who had been edging back toward the door since they put Marly on the bed, clears his throat. “Of course.”
“We all care about Marly,” he says, trying to make the words mean more than they say. “We wouldn’t want him to get hurt.”
“Yeah,” Cons adds, brilliantly.
Pike nods. “He’s in safe hands now.” He says it like a dismissal, and Ilya turns toward the door to leave the two of them alone.
Marly makes a sound in the back of his throat and Ilya turns back to him, thinking maybe he’s in pain, or about to throw up. Instead, he paws at Pike’s robe, movements clumsy. “You want a blowjob?” Cons snorts, trying desperately not to fucking guffaw at their friend.
Pike gently pushes his hand gently away. “Hey, let’s remember that we have company.”
Marly pauses, then whines again. “Mmm… that’s not an answer to my question.” Now it is Ilya’s turn to almost laugh. Shane isn’t doing any better, either, hiding his smile with a fist.
Marly reaches for the closure of Pike’s robe and Pike smacks his hand. “Stop it, Clifford. Lay down.”
“Yes, sir,” Marly says, broad smile on his face. He flops back on the mattress, arms reaching up toward the headboard. Ilya and Cons finally fucking lose it, both of them curling in on themselves and giggling.
Shane is doing better, but there’s laughter in his voice when he says, “We should probably…” he gestures to the door.
Pike’s whole face is turning pink. “Yeah. Yeah, thanks again.”
They make their way out into the hallway and back toward the elevator. Shane hits the button and then looks at Ilya like he wants very badly to say something.
Cons says, “Thanks again for your help, Hollander. You’re a real class act.”
Shane blinks. “Uh, yeah. No problem.” A beat passes. “I was gonna say anytime, but I really hope no one gets spiked during victory drinks again.”
“You admit there will be more victor drinks for us,” Ilya teases.
Shane rolls his eyes. “Don’t you guys play Buffalo next? Yes, I expect you not to lose to Buffalo.”
Cons laughs. “Everyone says you two hate each other, but Roz just talks to you the way he talks to all his friends.”
Shane blinks again. The elevator dings. He nods to them and climbs on. Ilya watches the doors close, thinking he might be able to sneak back out and see Shane at his condo if Cons goes to bed early.
The two of them make their way to their room. “Holy shit,” Cons sighs as soon as the door clicks shut. He flops onto his bed and throws an arm over his eyes.
Ilya toes out his shoes, pushes them into a corner with his foot. “Mm.” Lot to think about.
“We—” Cons laughs. “We have to give him shit for that yes sir thing, right?”
Dread creeps up the back of Ilya’s neck. He looks at Cons where he’s still laying on his back, looking up at the ceiling. “What?” Cons has never said anything outwardly homophobic, at least not in Ilya’s presence. The single time Carmichael had called the opposing team faggots, it had been Cons who told him to the knock it off, saving Ilya from putting him in a headlock in front of their whole team.
But is it different, because it’s Marly? Their friend? Not someone theoretical, abstract?
Not looking at Ilya, Con continues: “Come on—he calls Hayden Pike sir?”
Ilya lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He smiles. “Ah, maybe.”
“Like, obviously we won't tell anybody about tonight, fuck. But when it’s just the three of us, we gotta be contractually obligated to make fun of him for that.” He sits up on his elbows. “As his friends.”
“Maybe,” Ilya says again. He looks away, then back again. “I don't... you didn't see him in the car, after he said it. He was fucking terrified.”
Cons nods. “I mean, yeah. I think I would be too. I can't exactly imagine what it's like to be in the closet myself, but...” He looks at Ilya for a long time and Ilya thinks holy shit, how many of my teammates are queer?. “My older brother is trans.” Ah. “He told me once, he wants me to dog him for shit like I would any other guy, you know? He said it made him feel normal.”
Ilya nods. “And we want Marly to feel normal.” Normal. Unremarkable. Unworthy of headlines.
“Yeah. Of course.” He lays back down, spreading out across the duvet like a starfish. “God, I really can't imagine having to keep that part of you a secret, something so fundamental to yourself. It's so fucked up.”
“It is,” Ilya says. He’s vaguely aware that he hasn’t moved away from the door.
“You okay?” Cons asks. Ilya looks at him, a little startled. He’s on his elbows again. “You just seem... I don't know, effected? Was Marls that upset in the back seat?”
Is he really going to do this? It’s just Cons, right? It’s just his friend, his road trip roommate, the only other person on their team who now knows Marly’s secret. “I'm bisexual.”
He sits up properly, back straight. “Oh! Oh, shit! Here I am going on about—wow, holy shit. That’s… Thank you for... for trusting me with that, Roz. Really.”
“Thank you for saying those things,” Ilya says, because he is grateful. There’s a weight that’s been lifted off his shoulders, being in a room with someone who knows him, knows all of him, and isn’t going to hurt him for it. “About feeling normal.”
“For sure.” He nods. “I wouldn’t—I want you to feel normal around me, too, Roz.”
“Thank you, Con. That actually... that means a lot.”
“Of course.”
Ilya swallows, feels for his phone in his pocket. He wonders if Shane has texted. “I um... I had plans. To see a man, tonight.”
Cons smiles. “Boyfriend?”
“No,” he says automatically. “Maybe.” No, that isn’t true. “I kind of want to be, but... is complicated.”
Cons hums. “Maybe Marly can give you some pointers. About having a secret boyfriend.”
This makes Ilya smile. “Ha, maybe. I'm... I'm going to text him, see if he still wants to meet.” He looks down at his phone. Shane has texted: Too bad we didn’t get to spend tonight together.
“Hell yeah, man.” Cons cheers. “Go get ‘em tiger.” Ilya laughs, nods, texts Shane that he’s coming over.