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Cliff Marlow is not a mentor. Or a role model, or in any way responsible for other people. He would like to make that very clear. He himself is only just 25, has had three concussions to date, and recently made a Very Adult purchase of an iron, because his mom kept calling to threaten his life if he kept appearing in media with a wrinkled shirt.
So yes. Not someone to look up to.
“So why,” he asks to the locker room at large, “would the kid fucking what–imprint on me?”
“That’s a big word, Marly,” Carmichael says. “You finally read a book?”
“Go fuck yourself,” Cliff responds.
The kid is, of course, none other than Ilya Rozanov. Boston’s Golden Boy and current problem child.
Not that Rozanov is outwardly cruel, or gross, or lazy, or any of the other things that make people really hard to work with. He’s just deeply, deeply annoying. And he knows it, which means he’s doing it on purpose. Mostly, for some reason, to fuck with Cliff.
“Marlow!” is the usual sign that Cliff is going to spend the next fifteen minutes regretting ever touching a hockey stick. “Marlow! I was afraid you die in your sleep, maybe. Old age. So sad.”
Cliff is only six years older than Rozanov.
“It’s not my fault you’re a fucking fetus,” he shoots back. And then, because Cliff may be an asshole, but he’s not, like, an asshole– “Manage to feed yourself this week?”
And then Rozanov will grin, and they’ll spend the entirety of warm-ups chirping back and forth at each other before the hockey demon that possesses Rozanov comes out for drills, and he shuts the fuck up.
“I want someone to check up on him,” LeClaire continues, as if Marlow hadn’t said anything. “He lives alone and apparently has got one hell of a concussion.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Marlow says, even as something uncomfortable twists in his gut at the reminder.
It had been a bad hit. Dirty, from the back and after the whistle. Rozanov had hit the boards hard, headfirst, his helmet rebounding back into the ice with a smack that rang through the stadium.
Boston had dogpiled the piece of shit that hit him. Rozanov was an annoying, cocky rookie, but he was their annoying, cocky rookie, damn it.
The fight had died down pretty quickly once the refs had started calling for medics. Both teams had cleared the ice. Rozanov hadn’t moved. When the medics had strapped him onto a spinal board, the arena had fallen dead silent, the tapping of sticks on the ice following Rozanov out. The team doctors had confirmed a couple of hours later via group chat that Rozanov’s arm was fractured, that he had a moderate concussion, but that he’d be fine. Out for two months, back mid-season. We’ll see.
It’s a rough start to his first pro season. Cliff knows he’d be mad as hell–he can’t imagine how upset Rozanov is.
He can’t forget the image of Rozanov’s still form being carried off the ice. Rozanov isn’t small, by any means, but he had looked fragile on the ice, on the board, even in his pads.
“So you’ll go?”
“Fine,” Marlow sighs, acting more put-out than he feels. “I’ll go after practice, make sure the kid hasn’t died.”
“Thanks, Marly.”
He’s distracted the rest of practice, his feet and arms moving robotically through drills. He doesn’t know what to do with Rozanov–he can barely take care of himself, let alone another person. And even though Rozanov never stops talking, he doesn’t actually say much. Cliff knows he’s from Russia, he was the first draft pick (over Shane Hollander), and he’s a bit of a player.
“Marly, you gonna join us?”
He apologizes to Coach and tries not to worry about it for the rest of practice.
—
Rozanov’s apartment is a nice-ish two-bedroom in Bulfinch Triangle. Cliff follows the signs in the building to the fourth floor and then to Rozanov’s door.
He isn’t sure what he was expecting, but he finds himself slightly disappointed that it looks normal. He knocks, and then waits.
After a couple of minutes of dead silence, he knocks again. Harder.
“Rozanov, open up! I gotta get proof of life!”
This time he can hear movement from the other side of the door, so he steps back.
He knows what Rozanov looks like. Everyone in the locker room knows what Rozanov looks like because he’s crazy and walks around after showers in just a towel, or sometimes, nothing.
He is not prepared for the Ilya Rozanov that opens the door.
Cliff’s first reaction is, embarrassingly, to coo.
Rozanov’s in a hoodie and sweats. His face is flushed, and there are pillow imprints along one cheek. A few frizzy curls peek out from underneath his hood, tumbling into his eyes.
“Fuck are you doing here?” Rozanov rasps. He squints up at Cliff. The bags under his eyes are a deep, bruised-looking purple.
“Coach wanted someone to check on you,” Cliff says through the sudden hammering of his heart. Rozanov is always larger than life. Cliff knows how to deal with that version of him, the version that spits playful insults and races Cliff backwards just because he can.
This Rozanov just looks…tired.
“Am alive. Okey. Bye.”
Cliff sticks his foot in the door before he can think about it. Rozanov glowers at him.
“You sure, man? A moderate concussion is no joke. A couple of seasons ago, McGregor went down and said he couldn’t stand up straight for a week.”
“Fine, yes.”
Cliff opens his mouth to say something else–something along the lines, maybe, of “you’re a terrible liar” or “you look like shit”-but he doesn’t get a chance to before Rozanov pales, all the color washing out of his face, and stumbles away, leaving Cliff standing in the doorway like an idiot. After a second, Cliff steps in, closing the door gently behind him.
Rozanov’s apartment is shockingly clean. The only evidence of life is a blue blanket crumpled on the couch and a bottle of Gatorade on the coffee table. There aren’t any pictures on the walls. In the kitchen, there’s a single Boston Raiders magnet on the stainless steel fridge door. It holds up a picture of a woman and a young boy. Ilya, presumably, as a kid. And maybe his mom.
Cliff roots around in the cabinets until he finds the cups. Rozanov has a fancy fridge with a built-in ice machine and water dispenser, so he fills a cup and, as an afterthought, grabs the roll of paper towels sitting on the counter.
Rozanov is in the ensuite bathroom, and Cliff only feels a little weird about walking through the guy’s bedroom.
“So you’re fine, right?”
Rozanov turns his head at Cliff’s voice, his sweaty temple resting against the toilet seat. Cliff considerately doesn’t point out how gross that is.
“Why you follow me.” Rozanov groans.
“‘Cause,” Cliff says. He hands Rozanov the glass, and the kid takes a sip to rinse out his mouth, spitting into the toilet. “Drink that, dumbass. You need to stay hydrated.”
Rozanov makes a face and does not drink.
“Are you gonna get up?”
Rozanov leans back, carefully, against the glass shower door. “No.”
“...why not?”
Rozanov huffs. “Why you break in my home?”
“I didn’t, you asshole. You left the door open and I didn’t want you to get robbed.”
Rozanov makes a flippant gesture with his good hand.
“Come on, man,” and Cliff may let some of the fear he felt when Rozanov went down slip into his voice. “We’re worried about you. I’m worried about you.”
“Should not.”
“Should too, idiot. Now are you gonna stand up, or do I have to carry you?”
Rozanov is quiet for a long moment. His next words are soft, almost shy.
“The room is all–spin. Spinny. Spinning. I don’t know.”
“Okay,” Cliff says. “See, I can work with that. You’re dizzy?”
Rozanov frowns, mouth the word to himself. “Yes. Dizzy.”
“Have you drank anything? Eaten anything?”
Rozanov gestures vaguely towards the living room. “Some Gatorade. This is great American drink, you know? Tastes like shit in forty flavors.”
Cliff scoffs. Then he thinks back to the barely-drank bottle of Gatorade and sighs.
“You’re dizzy because you’re dehydrated as shit, idiot. And because you still have a concussion.”
“Wow, I didn’t know.”
Cliff ignores him and glares pointedly at the glass of water. Rozanov rolls his eyes, but drinks.
“Okay, game plan,” Cliff says after an awkward few seconds. “We get you off the floor, at least. You drink some stuff, show me whatever packet they sent you home with, and I stay the night in your guest room to make sure you live through the night. Sound good?”
“No,” Rozanov grumbles. “Is not big deal.”
“A concussion is a big deal,” Cliff counters. “Come on, kid.”
Somehow, through the grace of God and Boston’s finest personal trainers, Cliff manages to get Ilya to the couch, where he crumples ungracefully. Cliff leaves him with strict instructions not to fall off, and then goes hunting.
There’s a packet on the entry table–medical instructions and follow-up from the team doctor. Cliff is familiar. He skims it, flipping through quickly. According to this, Rozanov is supposed to have painkillers somewhere.
“Hey, kid. They give you painkillers? Something for the headache?”
Rozanov doesn’t even open his eyes. “No.”
Cliff frowns. “Um, team doc says they did. Fluoxetine?”
Rozanov grunts. “No.”
“Okay,” Cliff says slowly. “You take anything else?”
“No. No pills.”
Cliff has the feeling he has stumbled into something larger and more dangerous than he anticipated. “Dude, your head’s gotta be killing you. Can I get you like, an Advil?”
Rozanov groans. When Cliff peeks over the back of the couch, he’s got his head buried in the couch cushions.
“That cannot be good for your arm,” Cliff points out, at a loss.
“I don’t take pills,” Rozanov says into the pillows. “Please, Marlow.”
It’s the please, Marlow, so uncharacteristically soft, that does him in.
“Okay,” Cliff says, swallowing. “Okay. No pills. Just–just tell me one thing I can do for you. One thing to make this easier.”
Rozanov slumps somewhat upright, eyeing him suspiciously. “One thing only?”
Cliff rolls his eyes, sitting on the end of the couch. “Yes, kid. One thing.”
“...Why?”
It’s the same question Rozanov has asked before, but Cliff understands, somehow, that this time is different. Rozanov–Ilya–looks so completely drained, gray-faced, and shaking. Cliff owes him honesty, so he takes a second to dive into the knot of feelings that got tangled from the moment he saw Rozanov go down, and he answers as truthfully as he can.
“‘Cause you’re only nineteen, kid, and you went down hard. You live alone, you just moved countries, and you’ve been doing really well so far. It’s okay if you need a little help right now. If I can help, I want to.”
Rozanov stares at the tight tangle of his hands in his lap. “If I had been better, I would not be hurt.”
“That’s bullshit,” Cliff says immediately. “There’s no way you could’ve avoided that hit–it was dirty, Ilya.”
Ilya’s shoulders slump, some vestige of tension visibly leaving him. “One thing.”
“As many as you need,” Cliff corrects softly. “But one to start.”
Ilya gestures at the papers Cliff is still holding, crumpled in his sweaty hands. “With the papers. I don’t understand what they say. Is so many words.” Quieter, ashamed, he adds: “I am not good with English letters.”
“For sure,” Cliff says, trying not to sound too eager. Fuck, he hadn’t even thought of that. Of course, Ilya’s still learning the language–but the letters. Russia has an entirely different alphabet, right? He thinks that’s true. “Yeah, I got you, man.”
Cliff scoots closer, holding the papers between them. “This first page is basically your medical information, right? Name, age, height, weight–for a kid, you are seriously jacked.”
Ilya snorts, and Cliff is so relieved at the familiar sound he almost does something embarrassing, like cry. “I beat you up.”
“Yeah, yeah. Now this second page is mostly about the arm, I think…”
Cliff keeps reading slowly, making sure to explain every concept he can. It’s only when a sturdy weight lands on his leg that he stops, blinking.
Ilya has…fallen asleep on him. Completely, utterly, asleep, eyes shut and mouth slightly open.
“Kid,” Cliff says softly. Ilya doesn’t even stir. “Hey, kid.”
No movement. After a moment, Cliff puts a gentle hand on Ilya’s hair. The curls are soft and finer than he thought. Unconsciously, he smooths a hand over them, watching them spring back up.
Ilya hums, a small, satisfied sound, and Cliff stills. But the second his hand stops moving, Ilya’s face scrunches, brows knitting together in distress.
“Okay, okay,” Cliff says. He smooths the curls once, then again. With a full-bodied sigh, Ilya relaxes into the couch cushions, his head heavier on Cliff’s lap.
“Picky little shit,” Cliff says. God help him, he feels fond of Ilya Rozanov. “Guess I’m stuck here, then.”
With a little maneuvering and only one grumbled complaint from Ilya, he’s able to drag the soft blue blanket over Ilya’s waist and grab his phone. One-handed, he opens the camera app.
Raiders Official Channel:
Marly: the prodigal son ain’t dead, but he is sleepy
[photo attached]
Coach:
Marly: what can we do abt getting rozy duplicate forms and shit in russian
Marly: just for a little bit
Coach: Knew you cared.
Coach: I’ll pass it on.
Marly: 👎