get ur freak on

“Bless you. Again. Now go get high on Sudafed.”

“I won’t get high—“

“Dude, relax, I know. Breathing through your nose doesn’t count as performance enhancing, I checked.”

“Fuck off.”

Shane’s response was half-hearted, but he still wasn’t looking at Hayden. His eyes were watering, and his upper lip was already glistening with more moisture. It kind of looked like he was crying, but Hayden knew that any time he caught a bug, Shane’s whole face turned into a leaky faucet. He also knew that Shane absolutely hated both the sensation and the loss of control.

Despite all of it, pissy, overstimulated Shane was replaced by Captain Hollander the moment he got his shoes on. Hayden had seen the transformation hundreds of times over the years, but it still gave him the heebie-jeebies sometimes. 

“Right, I’m gonna go,” Shane said flatly. He still sounded undeniably sick. 

“Feel better, snot monster. I hope you manage to turn back into a human by the time we meet up.”

Hayden rolled in to the stadium an hour later, but Shane wasn’t in the dressing room. He was immediately cornered by a concerned J.J.

“Pikey! Où est notre capitaine?”

“Probably in medical still. Surprise, he’s sick,” Hayden shrugged. 

“Crisse, sa pa ka fèt,” J.J. swore, but he looked more worried than angry. 

“Shit, really?” Andropov looked up from taping his shin guards. “He seemed fine this morning.”

“Of course it had to happen in Boston,” Comeau grumbled, seeming more concerned about the game than his teammate. 

“I didn’t know cap could get sick,” Schneider, their rookie, marveled. “He’s never missed a game in his whole career. I thought he just ordered his immune system to wait for the off season.”

“Guys, chill. He’s not that sick,” Hayden reassured them. “He just has to get cleared for the game and take some meds.”

That seemed to do the trick, and the anxious tension in the room dissipated. Hayden awarded himself a point on his internal ‘nailing the alternate captain thing’ scoreboard.

“At least is not just us with a sick capitaine, eh? You hear about Rozanov?” J.J. commented. Hayden had no idea where J.J. picked up his real-time gossip, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. 

“Is that confirmed? I was pretty sure we heard him sneezing in the background on ESPN,” Hayden speculated. 

“Might not mean anything. That asshole is always sneezing all over the place, I remember from Russian junior team,” Andropov snickered. 

“Whatever. I hope he’s too sick to skate straight,” Hayden said. “I’m gonna go find Hollzy and see what’s taking so long.”

With that, Hayden made an about-face and left the rest of them to gossip in the dressing room. As expected, he found Shane in the medical clinic. Unfortunately, he looked just as bad as he had an hour ago. At least someone had found him a tissue box; he was holding on to it like a life raft.  

“Dude, I thought I told you to do drugs,” Hayden teased with an undercurrent of concern. 

“Hi, Hayd. I didn’t take anything yet, doc wants to time the meds so they last through the game,” Shane said tiredly, his voice raspier than before.

“So, what, you’ll sit in all the pre-scout sessions with your brain leaking out of your nose?” Hayden asked skeptically. “You hate when anything messes up your routine.”

“I’ll be fine. S’just a cold, my…hihhh! my brain isn’t going aehhhhnywhere except—hhh!—my s-skull— Ihhhh’DJSSHhhuuhh!”

As usual for Shane, the sneeze was a fucking mess, soaking the tissue he’d covered with. Hayden watched with morbid fascination as Shane pulled at least four tissues from the box and swapped them with the ruined one, then gave a sopping wet nose blow. He didn’t even bother folding them before dropping them in the trash can. 

“Bless you. Should I tell the trainers to have tissues on standby?” Hayden was only half joking.

“Fuck you,” Shane replied automatically. “I’ll be fine when we get on the ice.”

“Okay, okay. I guess we don’t want to jinx it,” Hayden conceded. 

“Right,” Shane said curtly, then coughed lightly into his elbow. 

There was a knock on the open door of the clinic. Matt McCann, one of the assistant coaches, poked his head in. 

“Oh, good, you’re both here. Hollzy, doc says you’re a bit under the weather?”

Shane looked like he’d rather be anywhere else, but he squared his shoulders. “Yeah, just a bit. I’m fine, really—heehh-kZSCH’ssshh! ehhh’khTJSshoou!”

Hayden winced. Two in a row, forceful and crackling with loose congestion, they sounded undeniably sick. Shane’s body was perfectly still as he mechanically wiped under his nose with a tissue, then folded it neatly into quarters and dropped it in the trash. 

“Excuse me,” Shane said, voice devoid of emotion. 

“Gesundheit,” McCann said jovially. “That looks like a hell of a cold. Theriault is not gonna be happy.”

“Is he ever happy?” Hayden wondered. “We won the fucking cup last year, he barely cracked a smile.”

McCann’s lips twitched upward, but he didn’t comment. Shane coughed again, then sat up straighter. 

“It’s not that bad. Doc will give me something before the game. He said I’m good to play as long as I stay hydrated,” Shane’s voice was hoarse but steady, and audibly congested.  

“Good, good. I’ll talk to Theriault about managing your minutes—don’t argue, Hollander,” McCann gave him a look born of years of experience with hockey players’ stubbornness. “It’s Boston, LeClaire’s gonna hard match you, there’s no point in wearing you out against their second line when you’re not at 100%. We’ll save you for Rozanov.”

Shane looked like he was about to correct what McCann was saying, but he bit his tongue at the last second. Something wasn’t adding up. As far as Hayden could tell, McCann was probably right about the line matching. Was this about the Rozanov illness rumors? What did Shane know that McCann didn’t, and why was he keeping it to himself?

* * *

On a hunch, Cliff decided to show up early at the arena and stop by medical. Not that Roz didn’t know his own body, but he had a wicked stubborn streak. Case in point. 

“Rozanov, how many times are we gonna have this argument? Take the goddamn decongestant,” Doug’s exasperated voice echoed down the hallway. The team doctor was a veteran of years’ worth of arguments on the topic. 

“Dod’t d’eed it. Is od’ly id’ by d’oze, I play like this all the tibe id sprid’g,” Rozanov said stonily, so congested that Cliff had a hard time making out the words from outside the room. 

“And every time you do it’s a bad idea,” Doug said matter-of-factly. “Seriously, Rozanov, why do you hate your own sinuses this much?”

“Is other way aroudd. By siduses are traitors that hate mb’e,” Roz grumbled, half a register lower than normal, just as Cliff reached the door of the clinic. 

“I had a feeling we’d be doing this again,” Cliff said, standing in the doorway. 

“And I was hoping you’d show up.” Doug looked genuinely happy to see him. “You’re better at convincing him.”

Roz glared at both of them. Cliff was unimpressed. Getting into a staring contest with Roz was usually a bad idea, but in this case his cold was on Cliff’s side. It didn’t take long before Roz’s scowl cracked, replaced by pure, irritated need. 

“Huh’GHXXDT’chh! yhH’KDTJ’zzhhh! huhhh… hYEH’KGXZz’hdtt!!”

He crunched forward over his lap, face obscured behind yet another t-shirt-turned-snot-rag. The sneezes sounded so painfully clogged up that Cliff felt phantom pressure behind his own eyes. Roz followed it up with an attempt at blowing his nose, but the pathetically choked-off sound made it clear that the gunk in his head wasn’t budging. God, his sinuses must feel like a lead brick. Cliff couldn’t for the life of him think of a reason to willingly spend any more time in that condition, let alone go out and play three periods of hockey. 

“Those were wicked gnarly, even for you,” Cliff commented. “Why do you put yourself through the ringer like this, Roz? That can’t be comfortable.”

“Do I look fuckigg cob’fortable?” Roz snapped. 

“No. But you will be if you take the goddamn pills,” Doug prodded. 

“I do nd’ot—“ Roz started, but was interrupted by Cliff and Doug completing him in unison: “take pills.”

The stony expression was back on Roz’s face. Whatever issue he had with pills made him obstinate to the point of stupidity, but Cliff could never get him to talk about it. 

“I would give you a nasal spray, but we all know it’ll just make you sneeze your head off,” Doug continued. “So unless your nose has magically gotten cooperative, you’re stuck with the pills.”

“Or I cad suffer ad’d suck it up,” Roz shrugged entirely too casually. 

Doug groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “And get another sinus infection in the process.”

“B’aybe,” Roz conceded, but he didn’t look too concerned. Cliff wanted to slap him. 

“What about the actual game we’re playing tonight? You really want to drop two points to Montreal because you can’t breathe through your nose?” 

Roz had the nerve to smirk. “Ah, but is d’ot just mb’e. Hollad’der is also sick, reb’ember?”

“We don’t actually know that—“ 

Cliff was interrupted by someone knocking on the door of the clinic. 

“Doug, you there? I have a request for a medication from the Metros’ doc.” The unfamiliar woman’s voice was muffled by the door, but it sounded strained. Doug opened the door a crack, not letting her see inside.

“Sure thing, what do you need?” Doug was equally short. The league mandated that medical staff share resources when needed, but it could get awkward. Doug was probably eager to send her on her way before she got any intel on Roz. 

“Just Sudafed,” the woman said, impatient. 

Cliff exchanged a glance with a smug Roz as Doug busied himself fulfilling her request. The medication in question was already right in front of him, so it didn’t take long. 

The silence stretched after she left, broken only by Roz’s sniffling. The three of them looked at each other. Cliff spoke first. 

“Okay, so Hollander is sick, but he’s a big boy who takes his medicine,” Cliff taunted. 

Roz bristled, but didn’t manage a retort before his cold spoke for him. 

“yKGGHZXD’ttttch! hhh-GDJJCH’zhhh! Huhh- uh’GXXHJ’TCHeuh!!”

The sneezes sounded like they’d gotten trapped in his swollen sinuses before they could fully escape. They were followed by another honking nose blow, which ended in a defeated sigh. 

“Fide. Give mb’e the fuckigg pills.”

* * *

Look, Hayden got that Shane was self-conscious about being sick in front of the guys, but this was getting ridiculous. 

“Buddy, you planning on hiding in here until the team meeting?” Hayden pestered, trying to keep his voice light. “You’re not gonna have time to do your weird yoga stretches.”

That seemed to get through. Apparently, the thought of playing with tight ligaments was more horrifying than being seen with a runny nose. Shane sat up straighter, rolling his shoulders like he was trying to shrug off his anxiety. 

“You’re right, Hayd, m’sorry. I just really hate…this,” Shane said weakly, gesturing vaguely at his face. “Especially in front of the guys.”

“It’ll be fine,” Hayden said dismissively. “I keep telling you, we’re all hockey players. Dealing with gross teammates is part of the job description, why else would I put up with Comeau’s B.O.?”

Shane wrinkled his nose in agreement, which seemed to set him off. He managed to grab a handful of tissues from the nearly-empty box, in time to bury his face in them.

“Hehh’dZZS’sshhhhh! Ihhh-djCH’sshoouh!! Fug’ck!” 

They were still uncharacteristically harsh, instantly soaking through the tissues. Shane dropped the soggy bundle in the trash, swapping it out for another handful. 

“Ugh, I feel like a leaky faucet,” Shane griped as he mopped up the remaining mess on his upper lip, wincing as the tissues brushed his chapped nostrils. 

“Yeah, I’m gonna go ask for another one of those,” Hayden gestured at the tissue box, which was now empty. 

With the critical supplies acquired, Hayden and Shane made their way back to the dressing room. 

“Capitaine! You live!” J.J. called out from across the room. 

“I wasn’t dying. It’s just a cold,” Shane said flatly, his illness as audible as ever. 

“Well, your cold has shitty timing,” Comeau complained. “Did you have to get sick right before a game?”

“Shut up, Comey. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it’s the middle of the season. We’re always right before a game,” Hayden retorted, earning a few snickers. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Shane said firmly. “I’m cleared, and it won’t affect how I play. If coach makes any adjustments, we’ll discuss it in the meetings.”

Shane turned sharply to face his stall, putting his back to the room like the matter was closed. But Hayden was right next to him and yeah, no, he could see the real story. Shane was just trying to hide his face as his nose overflowed again. 

No one on the team seemed eager to question Shane further. Messing with another guy’s rituals was taboo anyway, but doubly so when it came to their captain, who had his routine timed to the exact second. Shane seemed relieved to be left alone, keeping his back to the room as he wiped the mess off his upper lip yet again. Hayden had a feeling that the new tissue box was not long for this world. 

It was probably best to let Shane do his thing for now. Hayden grabbed a protein bar from his bag, then joined Andropov and J.J.’s recounting of the previous night’s exploits. Apparently Schneider had managed to leave the club with a girl, but refused to share any details. 

Hayden glanced over to check on Shane, who had completely zoned out the room as he stood on one foot, his other leg bent into an improbable position. Hayden was just in time to watch him almost lose his balance in his haste to grab a tissue.

“Hehh- yhH’DTSSSHhhooo! IHH’DZZSsshuhhh!”

Glances were exchanged around the room as the team collectively decided to look the other way. Definitely the right call. Shane hated to be interrupted when he was trying to lock in, and he’d basically told them to drop it. 

Theriault, who chose that moment to walk in early, apparently hadn’t gotten the memo. 

“À tes souhaits. Again,” the head coach said, looking Shane over with a critical eye. He huffed in displeasure. “That’s unfortunate.”

Shane’s face was impassive, his posture perfectly straight. 

“It’s not ideal, but I can play,” Shane still sounded like his vocal cords were in a battle with a river of snot, but his tone didn’t betray even a hint of discomfort. Still, he had to be pretty miserable. Whatever timing the doc was attempting, Hayden hoped he wouldn’t hold off on the meds for much longer.

“Of course you can. You’re not the type to be a little bitch about a head cold,” Theriault said gruffly. From him, that was almost a compliment. The head coach sighed again. “It had to be Boston.”

* * *

Cliff was seriously contemplating strangling Roz. Which would be a shame, considering all the work he’d put in to ensure that bastard could breathe during the game. 

“Fuck off! It’s my turn, we listen to Skrillex. End of the story,” St-Simon said angrily. 

“If I wad’t to liste’d to dial-up ind’terdet, I go back to 2005,” Roz drawled, his blasé tone at odds with the painfully distorted consonants. 

“You have listened to this song every day last week,” St-Simon argued.

“That was before mb’y head feels like is full of wet cod’crete,” Roz retorted, a bit more snappish this time. 

“Fine,” St-Simon threw up his hands in exasperation. “I’ll give the aux to Sebb, but next time we listen to the whole of Bangarang.”

Roz leaned his head back against his stall and closed his eyes without bothering to acknowledge the compromise. Cliff glanced at his watch to check how long ago Roz had taken the pills – just ten minutes. He was pretty sure Doug had said they had half an hour to wait. This was going to be a long twenty minutes. 

Sebbin, now in possession of the aux cable, put on a flat out boring pop song. Cliff had definitely heard it multiple times, but he didn’t remember a single lyric. 

“…Better.” Roz still had his eyes squeezed shut. 

The peace lasted exactly ten seconds. 

“Still terrible.”

“You just said it was better!” Sebbin protested. 

“Yes, I said better. Did d’ot say good,” Roz clarified without opening his eyes. 

Sebbin shot him a fearful glance, then wordlessly passed the cable to Feller. Cliff wished that he’d picked literally anyone else, but he kept his face-palm internal. Sure enough, a country song started playing. Half the room immediately groaned. 

“Seryozno?” Varkov ribbed his defensive partner. 

“It’s one song!” Feller said petulantly. 

“It’s the same one as this morning,” Cliff had to open his mouth, but he immediately regretted feeding the fire.

“It’s not—“

“Huhh’KGHDZZ’txhh! yyG’DJXX’Tdch!! Hhhh-! UH’hGDDHJJZ’dttt!!”

Their captain’s triple sneezes were background noise at this point, and the team usually ignored it. This time, he sounded so obviously sick that the whole room stopped to look at him. He was doubled over his lap, face buried in another spare t-shirt. Eyes closed, he made an attempt at blowing his nose, but only managed a grating squeak. He peeled open his eyes and scowled. 

“What are you all lookigg at?”

“Nothing,” Sebbin blurted out, at the same time as Cliff quipped: “Just want to see if any concrete comes out.”

Roz rolled his eyes. “You have nd’ever heard of mb’etafora? They do d’ot teach id’ Ab’ericad’ school?”

“I’m Canadian,” Cliff retorted. 

Roz waved a hand dismissively as he pinched the bridge of his nose. Cliff glanced at his watch again – seventeen more minutes. Nobody spoke for a few seconds, leaving the country song to play in the background. 

The silence was broken by Varkov. “Marly’s right, it is same song from this morning. Always singing about trucks.”

“This one’s about tractors,” Feller protested. 

“Is sab’e thid’g—ahh’KGHXX’Dtxhh!-hGDTJJ’ZHh!! HUH-YGKHX’Ttjj!! Blyad!”

The sneezes were, impossibly, even more pathetically congested. Roz stayed hunched over for a few seconds and let out a low groan, before straightening and tilting his head back. It hit the side of his stall with a soft thunk. 

“Jesus Christ, bless you,” Connors said uneasily, exchanging a glance with Cliff. Cliff shook his head slightly, hoping it came off as reassuring. 

“I dod’t thig’k he approves of b’y lifestyle,” Roz said tiredly, then pointed at Feller. “You do d’ot deserve mb’usic choice. Give to sobeod’e else.”

Without waiting for acknowledgement, Roz closed his eyes again and raised both hands to his face, massaging his cheekbones. Feller looked at Cliff, arms raised in a ‘what should I do?’ gesture. Cliff shrugged, which Feller apparently interpreted as a request for the aux cord. Well, it would probably be better if Roz directed his ire at the A, rather than the kids. He scrolled through his playlists, deciding on a hard rock mix that he knew Roz worked out to sometimes. 

As soon as he heard the opening riff of Seven Nation Army, Roz opened his eyes and looked around the room accusingly. “Who has aux nd’ow?” 

“Me,” Cliff said, crossing his arms.

“…Really?” Roz scoffed, the rolled R coming out stronger than usual. 

“What?” Cliff asked neutrally, inviting the challenge. 

“I expeg’cted better,” Roz narrowed his eyes. It was probably supposed to be threatening, but his flaring nostrils made it clear that he was actually holding off more sneezes. 

“I’ve known you for five years,” Cliff narrowed his eyes right back, biting his tongue to stop himself from laying into Roz. 

“Ad’d you’ve disappoid’ted—hhh!—m’be for f-faaahive—haA’KGHDJ’ttsch!- yGHXDT’Chh!-kGXDTT’xhjj!! huhh- ekh’GXDZZ’xheu!! HYEH’DGJXXZ’TChh!!”

The sneezes must have scraped something on the way out, because they immediately transitioned to a fit of hacking coughs. Fuck, that sounded wicked rough. Cliff was still annoyed, but he straight-up winced looking at the guy. The fit left Roz panting, t-shirt held over his lower face. He spat something into it, then pressed the palm of one hand into his eye socket. Finally, he looked up and met Cliff’s eyes. 

Cliff raised one eyebrow, trying his best not to look concerned. Roz responded better to being chirped than to being babied. 

“Roz. That soundtrack is flat out worse than anything we could put on the speaker. Go hang out in the showers, get some steam, come back when you can breathe.”

They stared each other down for a few seconds. Roz was usually a stone wall in a stare-down, but he lost it when he had to duck his head and cough into his shoulder. For a split second, he looked dead on his feet. But then his face remembered that he was supposed to be an asshole, and went right back to pouting. 

“So cruel, sed’digg ill captaid’n to exile. N’dow who will save aux cord frob’ your terrible b’usic?” Roz tried to make it seem like Cliff was twisting his arm, but when he stood up his feet were already pointed toward the showers. 

* * *

To the surprise of literally no-one, the Metros’ coaching staff had thrown a wrench in the line matching strategy. Shane had done his best to maintain that he was just ‘a little under the weather’. Hayden didn’t know who he thought he was kidding. Everyone already assumed the forwards would be called in for a last-minute extra meeting.

As a veteran, Hayden knew what to expect. It was too late to make any in-depth tactical changes, but the coaches could decide who to send out on the ice at any given time. Shane would be playing fewer minutes, which meant other lines would be getting more ice time than usual. The question was which of the Raiders’ lines they would be facing, and most importantly – who would have the pleasure of taking face-offs against Rozanov. 

The twelve forwards settled on the benches in the dressing room. The atmosphere was mostly boisterous and competitive, but Hayden noted an undercurrent of anxiety. He could only hope that Theriault’s buzzkill attitude wouldn’t drag the whole room down. Shane usually left the hype work to his alternates, so the damage control would be Hayden’s problem. He was already mentally prepping a speech for after the meeting. He was relieved to see McCann walk in. 

“Alright, boys, here’s the deal,” the assistant coach clapped his hands and rubbed them together, as chipper as ever. “LeClaire loves to hard match, and he’s been trying to contain our top line for years. Thing is, Hollzy is a beast.”

Hayden glanced at Shane, who had a tear leaking from one eye and a wad of tissues pressed under his nose. He looked about as far from a beast as a human could get. Well, maybe some kind of creature that got dragged out of a swamp. McCann was either completely blind, or, more likely, just playing dumb to give Shane some privacy. 

“Normally, we let LeClaire have his fun,” McCann said with some satisfaction. “He rolls the Carmichael line against our first line more than we’d like, but you three still find ways to score on them.”

Hayden made a face at the reminder. Rozanov would always be his number-one headache in Boston games, but the Raiders’ second line was a close second. Carmichael was one of the best shutdown centers in the league; trying for a zone exit with that guy on the ice was just a massive pain in the ass. 

He glanced at Shane again to catch his reaction, and found him completely distracted. His eyes were squeezed shut, tears leaking from the outer corners, and his nose was pinched in a vise-like grip through the tissues. 

“Either way, Hollzy has enough minutes in him that there’s enough left to deal with Rozanov when we really need it—“

“Hihhh- ehh’DTJj’SSSsshhh! EH’DHJSSSsshhhhue! hnngh…”

McCann was interrupted when Shane lost his battle with his nose. He pitched forward into the tissues with two miserably wet sneezes. Hayden was pretty sure only he heard the soft groan that followed. 

“Bud’ zdorov,” Andropov said, sounding both sympathetic and grossed-out. 

Shane, who was in the process of swapping out his soaked tissues with a fresh handful, froze. Hayden was close enough to see the flush creeping up his neck. 

“What he said,” McCann added, still either ignoring or happily oblivious to his star center’s embarrassment. “Hollzy, I know you don’t want to hear this, but there’s no way you’re logging twenty-five minutes tonight.”

Shane scowled, but he didn’t argue. Or maybe he just wanted McCann’s attention off of him so he could tend to his nose in peace. Now that he’d lowered the tissues, Hayden could see that the rosy, chafed hue had spread from his nostrils to his philtrum and upper lip. That had to be painful, and it was the exact sort of discomfort that drove Shane up the wall. Hayden was pretty sure he would rather skate on a broken ankle than irritate his skin. 

Hayden felt a sudden flash of irritation at Boston Lily for making Shane so miserable, but he immediately felt like a jerk. It wasn’t her fault, and she was probably suffering just as much as Shane right now. He needed to save the hate for the real enemy – the Boston Raiders in general and Ilya Rozanov in particular. 

His train of thought was interrupted by McCann. “We have to manage your ice time, so when you’re out there, it needs to count. Here’s how the rest of you guys are gonna pick up the slack. ”

The changes were straightforward. No double shifts on the power play, fewer defensive zone starts, replacement on the penalty kill as needed. It all seemed pretty reasonable, so Hayden had no idea why Shane was chewing his lip like that. His musings were interrupted by a woman’s voice outside the dressing room. 

“Are you all decent? I have good news and bad news.” Hayden recognized the voice as one of the newer trainers. 

“Lovely,” McCann called back. “We’re good, come on in.”

The trainer entered and unceremoniously shoved two pills and a water bottle at Shane. “Enjoy breathing through your nose.”

“That does sound nice,” Shane said hoarsely. “Thanks.”

She nodded in acknowledgment, then turned to McCann. “So, the bad news: the Raiders definitely know about Hollander.”

“Goddamnit,” McCann swore. “I was hoping to keep LeClaire in the dark at least until puck drop.”

Shane’s eyes narrowed; he looked pissed. Which seemed a little ridiculous, honestly, because there was zero chance they were keeping his cold a secret. His nose was so red that any Raiders player who came within ten feet of him would immediately figure it out. 

“You haven’t heard the good news yet,” the trainer grinned. “Rozanov is also sick. Actually, he sounded worse than Hollander.” 

McCann actually laughed. Shane looked…nervous? Hayden wasn’t sure why. As far as he was concerned, anything that slowed Rozanov down was the opposite of nerve-wracking. 

“Oh, excellent,” McCann said, still laughing. “I swear, it’s like nature wants to keep the rivalry even.”

“I think is just karma,” Andropov shrugged. “Rozanov sleeps with a different girl each night, while half the city is sick. Is not surprising.”

“Then what happened to Hollzy? He never leaves his fucking house.” Comeau sounded like he was joking, but his tone rubbed Hayden the wrong way. Shane would probably shrug it off, but Hayden wasn’t gonna let it go. He knew exactly what had happened to Shane, so he could tell everyone Comeau was talking straight out of his ass. 

“Maybe not his house, but he definitely leaves the hotel sometimes,” Hayden smirked, elbowing Shane in the ribs. Big mistake. Hayden winced as the contact triggered a fit of wet coughing. 

“Shut up,” Shane croaked, red-faced and glaring at Hayden. It would have been intimidating if Shane’s nose hadn’t chosen that moment to start running again, forcing him to look away as he buried his lower face in yet another tissue.

“Alright, you can discuss Hollzy’s love life later,” McCann cut in, now a bit exasperated. “Piker, do us a favor and try not to kill your linemate.”

“Sorry,” Hayden said, meaning it. “So, Rozanov is sick. I’m guessing that changes things?”

“Yes, and no,” Shane piped up, hoarse but suddenly energized. Were the meds already working? Hayden was pretty sure that should take longer than two minutes. 

“I don’t like it, coach, but you’re right. The way you’re deploying me makes sense regardless of Rozanov. But since he’s also sick, the math changes. They have more defensive depth, so I’m guessing they pulled him off the PK completely. That means that even if you only give me one look on the PP, our conversion rate goes up. Plus, if they’re protecting him with heavy O-zone starts it actually works in our favor. It means I won’t be taking as many draws against him in our end, and he won’t be leaning on me all night.” 

Shane’s words spilled out in a flood of precise analysis. His voice was steady but sounded like sandpaper, his gaze fixed on the air to the left of McCann’s head. Hayden glanced around the room and saw that everyone was staring at him, their assistant coach included. Shane, completely in his own world, just kept right on rolling. 

“Of course, if they know I’m sick, they have ways to fuck with us. Their forecheck is nasty even without Rozanov, so they’ll dump and chase heavy to force board battles below the dots. They might try to get me to take more face-offs, but that would gas Rozanov just as fast. If it looks like he’s slowing down we could try driving down the middle lane on zone entries, but I wouldn’t bet on it. Our best bet is east-west plays. He’ll bite and chase the puck every time because it usually works, but tonight it’ll wear him out. Oh, and pressure Varkov on the breakout, he usually ices the puck if you force him onto his backhand.”

By the time he’d finished, Shane’s voice was basically hanging on by a thread. He gave a tiny shake of his head, eyes snapping back into focus and darting around the room. Everyone was still dead silent, staring at him. 

“Respectfully, cap, what the fuck?” Schneider, their rookie right winger, said incredulously. 

“I, uh—hihhh-!”

Hayden saw the disaster unfolding before it happened. Shane had been completely checked-out, distracted by the scouting report he’d apparently managed to do in his head in real time. He hadn’t noticed the tickle in his nose until it was too late. 

“Hehh-dJZZ’SSSSHhhhuh! Ehhd’TSCH’ZSSssshhh!!”

At the last second, Shane managed to get his hands up in front of his face. The pair of sneezes barreled out of him, forceful and audibly pretty messy. His hands did nothing to absorb it, but at the dozen or so people staring at him were spared the sight of snot spewing from his nose. Hayden winced. Even by hockey hygiene standards, that was kind of gross. Shane’s face was as red as it had been after Lily had called earlier. 

The silence stretched, so Hayden decided to break the tension. “Bless you, man. Maybe, uh, go take a break?”

Shane nodded behind his cupped hands, then fled in the direction of the bathroom. McCann cleared his throat. 

“Right. Good to know Hollzy’s IQ is still the best in the league, even if the rest of him isn’t at 100%,” McCann’s cheerfulness sounded a bit forced, but Hayden appreciated the effort.

“Is that what’s going on in his brain? All the time?” Schneider said, sounding slightly awed. 

“Yup. He’s just like that,” Hayden grinned. “That’s why we’re going back to back this year.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” McCann rebuked them. “We still have a game to win.”

* * *

Roz returned just as the boys were filing into the meeting room, and Cliff craned to get a look at him. The sounds that had echoed out of the showers after he’d left were kind of nasty. For his own sanity, Cliff had done everything in his power to tune them out. Hopefully all that sneezing, hacking and nose-blowing was a sign of the meds working to break up the congestion and not a preview for the rest of the night.

Cliff caught only a brief glimpse of Rozy’s face before LeClaire pulled him aside, clearly trying to see if he could actually go tonight. It seemed to be a mixed bag. His nose still looked like it had been to war, but the glassy, dead-eyed stare was gone. Cliff could only hope his attitude had cleared up in tandem with his sinuses. 

Apparently satisfied, LeClaire clapped Roz on the back and headed to the front of the room. Roz took his customary seat between Cliff and Connors in the first row. 

“So, how are you liking the benefits of modern medicine?” Cliff needled him. 

“Go fuck yourself,” Roz replied, but his earlier spitefulness was gone. He lowered his voice as he continued. “You were maybe kind of right. Is nice not to feel like my face will explode.”

Yeah, he sounded much less stuffed up, and he was actually, if grudgingly, conceding an argument. They might make it through tonight after all. 

“Glad to hear it, man. Really,” Cliff said earnestly. Sincerity wasn’t their usual style, but neither was Roz folding on an issue like this. 

Roz looked at him for a long moment, then smirked. “Of course you are. Is first and only time you will ehhh-ver w-win ahhh!-argumehhnt—Huhh’DJZSH’EUuh! yHH’DTZCH’SHUue! Haahh-PJZSCHhihh!”

Roz twisted away from Cliff at the last second, bending over double in his seat to sneeze openly at the ground. Well, it would be too much to hope that the meds would completely eliminate any sign of Roz’s cold. Especially his sneezes; Cliff kind of doubted that any drug in existence could do that. At least they didn’t sound like they had to punch through a brick wall on the way out. 

“Well, that sounds like a sign that we should get started,” LeClaire said dryly, but his voice carried enough to get the attention of the twenty unruly hockey players filling the room. “There have been some developments.”

The room stilled completely. “Rozy, please tell us you’re still cleared,” Connors begged. St-Simon nodded vigorously beside him. 

“Yes, yes, Doug is smart man, he says I can handle tiny cold,” Roz said airily. Cliff kept his mouth shut about the half-dozen other warnings the doc had tacked on to that sentence. The important part was true. 

“He did say that. He also said you’re getting less ice time, but you knew that already.” LeClaire said amiably, holding up one hand to forestall Roz’s objections. “Enough, Roz. We need you rested for the road trip next week more than we need you to pull double shifts tonight. Besides, you already got us a consolation prize.” 

Cliff grinned in anticipation. Roz’s mutinous expression melted into a small, private smile. 

“Are you talking about Hollander?” Connors asked excitedly. “Cap, what did you do? I thought you were joking about the biological warfare thing.”

“Yes, Connie. I invite captain of Metros to my house so I can sneeze on him and infect him with illness I did not know I have,” Roz said, dead-pan. 

Connors laughed delightedly. Cliff snorted, marveling at Roz’s ability to say the most ridiculous things with a completely straight face. Although, come to think of it, if Roz had actually hooked up with his Montreal girl last night, that was exactly what had happened to her. Wherever she was now, Cliff hoped she wasn’t too pissed off at Roz. 

LeClaire pinched the bridge of his nose. “What I meant to say is that Roz and Marly got us accidental intel. But yes, Hollander is also sick.”

“Great,” Carmichael said, for once not even slightly sarcastic. “I was not looking forward to taking extra face-offs against him.” 

“Too bad, you’re still taking them,” LeClaire declared with a resigned determination. Sure enough, Carmichael and Roz objected simultaneously. 

“But shouldn’t we save Roz for—“

“There is no need, I can take Hollander—”

“I said enough!” LeClaire barked, banging on the table to shut them up. He shot an annoyed look at Roz. “You’re getting less ice time, and so is Hollander. Theriault will avoid starting him in their defensive zone so he can focus on scoring. Which is exactly what I’m going to do with you. Mikey is perfectly capable of shutting down the Hollander line, that’s what we pay him for.”

It was mostly true. LeClaire’s current game plan against Montreal’s top line was to let Hollander and Roz have at it in the first period. In the second, he’d use the combined power of Carmichael and the long change to trap them in their zone and cycle them to death. That usually left them gassed and less dangerous by the third. It would be less effective without Roz out there to stir up shit, but not a total disaster. 

Carmichael looked a bit more compliant now that he’d had his tires pumped. Roz was still mutinous as he scrubbed his knuckles roughly under his nose. He closed his eyes for a beat, swallowing whatever complaint he had left, then shoved his game face back on.

“Is not bad idea, but there is one problem,” Roz said thoughtfully, his voice still a gravelly baritone. “If they know about me, then Hollander will expect this. Mikey slows down the game, is how he makes life hard for players who use speed for attack. Hollander will not do this tonight. If you give him space to think, he will play chess with Mikey. Is low-event game, but he is good at chess.”

LeClaire was still a bit ticked off, but he was listening. “Do you have a different idea?”

“Yes. We do not give him space to think. Hollander hates being sick, will be easy to annoy him. When he gets comfortable, send us out to rile him up, then let him waste energy on Mikey.” 

Roz’s face settled back into his trademark heavy-lidded stare. Combined with his accent in that low, guttural voice, he sounded like a movie villain laying out his master plan. The whole tough-guy image was immediately ruined when he scrunched up his nose and scrubbed it against the back of his hand like a toddler.

LeClaire gave Roz another long look. He seemed impressed that the guy’s brain was still firing on all cylinders, but Cliff could see the edge of concern in the coach’s eyes. “I’ll consider it. Moving on, we can’t know exactly how this will affect the Metros’ game plan. We put our heads together with the analytics guys to come up with a baseline. Let’s start with—“

“haA’kGXTJ’SHeuhh!”

Roz pitched forward with another sneeze. Thankfully, it was the normal loud kind and not the wicked blocked-up ones that sounded like they rattled his teeth. He drew a few nervous glances from the kids, but was mostly ignored. LeClaire, who was used to that particular disruption, just kept talking. 

“—their forwards. We expect them—“

“Huhh’PTXZSCHhh-eu!”

“—to shelter the Hollander line, which means Comeau—“

“Ihh’kGHX’SCHuhh!”

“—is going to swallow up more hard minutes and d-zone draws. That’s good news for you three,” LeClaire, still ignoring the interruption, nodded toward Cliff, Roz and Connors. 

Cliff exchanged a satisfied look with Connors over a  bent-double Roz, who had yet to look up after his latest sneeze. Cliff was definitely looking forward to running over Montreal’s fourth line. The Raiders had no qualms about playing a heavy, greasy game. But those three idiots took it too far, and it was galling to watch the Metros escape with their choirboy reputation intact every time. Cliff blamed Hollander and his picture-perfect media-trained captaincy. 

Of course, LeClaire wouldn’t let him have too much fun. “Marly, keep your nose clean tonight. No stupid penalties. I can’t have you in the box when we’re already down one of our best penalty killers.”

Several guys jeered, and Roz briefly stopped bullying his nose to blow a loud raspberry. LeClaire was obviously fighting a smile as he kept going. 

“Speaking of the PK, we’re not entirely sure what we’re up against. Their PP1 has Hollander running the point, so he can try to win with his brain instead of his legs. He won’t cycle down low, but he can still pick us apart from the blue line if—“

“yhH’KGDHx’schueh!”

“—we give him time. Pressure him up top, make him skate. He—“

“Huhh-PdTX’SSHhh!”

“—wants to log the full two minutes, but if we make him work he’s going to—“

“Aah’GDHXxt’SHIIIh!!”

“—gas out early, bless you. Bottom line, they’re still dangerous. We’ll get more detailed in the PK meeting.”

The sneezes drew more attention this time after LeClaire’s offhanded blessing, but everyone looked away before Roz could catch them. As Roz righted himself, Cliff nudged him and raised his eyebrows in a silent ‘you good?’

Roz rolled his eyes and flicked his wrist carelessly, then scrubbed his knuckles roughly under his nose. That was probably Roz-speak for ‘leave me alone, you should be used to this by now.’ Fair enough, as long as he stayed that way for the next four hours. 

* * *

Author’s notes:

Shane wants the ground to swallow him whole, and that was before his teammate blessed him in Russian. Ilya plans to do more than just annoy him. 

Ilya would rather piss everyone off than experience a single moment of emotional vulnerability. This is an airtight plan and Shane will definitely not disrupt it by existing in his general vicinity. 

Hockey analysis - I wrote my best attempt at analyzing how each team’s tactics would adjust to this situation. I’m just a hockey fan without personal experience so my knowledge is limited, hopefully some of it makes sense. There’s maybe too much jargon, but I erred on the side of keeping the discussion in character. Both coaches are doing fairly standard stuff, but with slightly different emphasis. McCann is focused on load management, LeClaire is playing chess with match-ups. Shane is being autistic detail-oriented about his special interest, Ilya is engaging in psychological warfare. 

ESL speakers - Ilya isn’t the only one. Varkov and Andropov are Russian, so they’re gonna drop articles and use weird prepositions. Victor St-Simon is the most Quebecois name ever. He definitely grew up speaking French, he’s been speaking English for a while but he messes up verb tenses and idioms sometimes. J.J. is Haitian-Canadian, so he’s also a francophone. Plus he can swear in a combination of Haitian creole and Quebecois sacres, which is fun. I made a whole meta of where I think players are from based on their names, if anyone’s interested I can post it. 

Nicknames - around their team, hockey players almost never refer to each other by their full surnames. The lack of nicknames in canon bugs me almost as much as the lack of Russian diminutives. Hockey nicknames usually have 1 or 2 syllables, based on the player’s last name with an ‘s’, ‘y’ or ‘er’ suffix. Sometimes it’s an inside joke or a reference to a distinctive attribute (a redhead could be Red or Rusty, a tall player could be Tiny, etc.) For the sake of clarity I went with the boring options here, but I love the silly ones. My irl favorite is A/rber X/hekaj, nicknamed WiFi because his surname looks like a default password you would find on the back of a router. 

“Why is he like this?” Carmichael asked in a tone that could only be described as ‘bitchy’. “It’s not like we can’t kill penalties without him. Especially against Montreal, he’s the one in the box half the time.”

“I’m still surprised he admitted he’s sick right away,” Varkov observed. “Maybe he’s growing up?”

The conversation was interrupted by the sound of Roz sneezing echoing around the rink. 

“Huhh- EKH’GHXXt’sheuh! yhH’GHDTJ’xchhh! HAA’KGTtt’XCHj!!”

“Or maybe this time it’s just too obvious,” Cliff drawled. “Come on, boys, we have work to do.” 

One of the assistant coaches skated over to them, and they got to work adjusting to the new line. Carmichael was a competent center and a defensive specialist, but he couldn’t disrupt plays like Roz. That responsibility fell to Cliff, which was a bit of a challenge. Cliff knew he was a good power forward, maybe even a great one, but he didn’t have Rozanov’s hockey sense. Against an elite dangler like Hollander, that would be sorely missing. 

Still, after fifteen minutes of tactical drills they’d managed to hit their rhythm, and moved to set up for a 5-on-4. The opposing power play had Connors on the left wing and St Simon on the right. Cliff groaned when he saw Rozanov skating up to center. Apparently, if he couldn’t be on the PK unit he would take revenge by destroying them in drills. 

Roz looked a little worse for wear. His nose had obviously suffered more abuse, and his cheeks were tinged pink. The cold air of the rink clearly wasn’t doing him any favors. 

“Roz. Why?” Cliff said, exasperated. 

“There is this thing called morning skate, where hockey teams practice before game. You have heard of this, yes?” Roz said in the infuriatingly condescending tone he usually reserved for drawing penalties. 

“Fuck off, you know what I mean. Why are you and your shitty sinuses hanging out in a freezing cold rink for no reason?”

“Is not no reason. LeClaire wanted a good simulation of Hollander, for once.”

Cliff was reasonably certain that what LeClaire wanted was for Roz to go home, and that he’d agreed to this compromise under duress. Still, Roz wasn’t wrong about simulating Hollander. He was probably the only guy in the league who could quarterback a reasonable imitation of the Metros’ five-forward power play. Cliff sighed. 

“If you end up scratched for the road trip because of this I swear to god—“

“Hh- eh’KGHXJ’tchuh! Ekh’GKHXXJ’TCH! EHH’KKGH’Tttt!! Hehhh… Ihh? yG’DJZX’Ttshuuh! iieH’DTJJZ’SSHhhh!! Ihh-! Hh-!! …hehhhh… Yehh-? Eh-! Eh-! EH-!! …Hh-uhhhh…”

The last sneeze appeared to be stuck – a rarity, for Roz. He had straightened back up to his full height, head tilted back, chest rising and falling with uneven gasps. His whole face was contorted into an expression of pure need; brow furrowed, lips parted, nose crinkled like he was trying to scratch the itch from the inside. Cliff had caught fleeting glimpses of it countless times, but there was something odd about seeing his best friend so unguarded. 

After what looked like an eternity of fruitless hitching, Roz’s breathing calmed and his eyes fluttered open. His frustration was evident in every part of his body language. 

“Bud’ zdorov, Ilyukha,” Varkov called mockingly from the other end of the blue line. 

“Poshyol na khuy,” Roz glared at him, then sniffled hard and rubbed his nose roughly on the sleeve of his jersey. “Fuuukh, I hate when it does that.”

“That’s not helping your case,” Cliff informed him, and was rewarded with a glare of his own. He raised his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine, simulate Hollander. I’m sure it’ll be very accurate, he’s always sneezing his head off between plays.”

For some reason, that one actually got a laugh out of Roz. Tension resolved, they set up for a face off in the defensive zone. Carmichael was at the dot across from Roz, with Cliff slightly behind him. Anticipation coursed through Cliff’s veins.

The assistant coach dropped the puck, and they were off. Apparently Roz’s reflexes were holding up despite his cold; he won the draw cleanly and sent it back toward St Simon at the blue line. Cliff’s body knew his job before his brain did, pushing out towards the left circle to cover Connors. Roz would usually drive down to the net, but this time he took Hollander’s position and cycled up to take the point. St Simon passed the puck to Roz as he drifted down to the right circle. 

Now in possession, Roz danced along the blue line, probing for an opening. He really was skating like Hollander – head up, hands loose, patiently tugging at their formation. Carmichael’s level head prevailed at first, but Roz’s constant zigzagging and head fakes were grinding him down. Cliff glanced inward at Carmichael and caught the moment where he hesitated. He didn’t commit to the middle, but he wasn’t fully turning to mirror Roz, either. 

At that moment, Roz attacked down the middle, angling for a pass to St Simon on his right. Carmichael bit, leaning left just enough to open a seam. Roz glanced toward the net, sizing up the shot opportunity. Cliff bolted in to close it, which turned out to be a mistake. Roz kept his whole body pointed at St Simon, selling it so well that Cliff almost missed him shooting a no-look pass to the left circle. It zipped through, right where Cliff had been a second ago. Puck met tape, and Connors fired a one timer. 

Oregan managed to block the shot, but the rebound dropped right into the slot. Cliff crashed the net, but he was too late. Roz was already there, because of course he was. It was like he knew where the puck would bounce, appearing in the right place at the right time all while somehow evading Carmichael. Lightning-quick, Roz pulled the puck in and fired a snapshot into the upper left corner of the net.

“Man, fuck you!” Carmichael complained. Cliff felt similarly frustrated that they’d lost control of the play within twenty seconds, but kept it to himself. In fairness to them, controlling a penalty kill against Ilya fucking Rozanov quarterbacking the power play was kind of a tall order.  

Instead of the usual gloating, Roz made a sharp cut to the side of the net and grabbed the post. 

“haAHH’GDTTXJ’ssheuh!!”

The sneeze was big even by Roz’s standards, flinging him forward so violently that his grip on the post barely kept him standing. His torso immediately rose with another huge inhale, then snapped downward again. 

“Haehh-KHGDT’SHUe!”

And again. 

“AAKHGJZS’sshuhhh! …Huhh…Uh-! Hhh-UH’gDJHZX’sshdtt! yGK’DTJXX’tchh!! Huh’GDTJZ’XHDtt!! Suka-blyat— HYEH’DGJXXZ’SSHue!”

The rink had gone quiet, every drill stalled as the Raiders watched their captain with varying degrees of concern and amusement. Most of the veteran players fell into the second category. 

“…hhhh-! ih! ihdt’JZH’SSshh! yyG’KHDXJ’CHhuh! Nghhh… Huh- EH’KGXXHJSHheu! eHH’GKHDJ’zsshhh! EH’KGHTJ’chhh! Huhhh… IHH’GDTJZX’xhDTtt!! Zayebalo! HAa’KHDJZ’SSHUuh!”

One of the rookies approached Marleau hesitantly.

“Is he, like, okay?” 

“He’s fine. If he’s swearing, he can still breathe,” Marleau assured him, then winced as a particularly messy sneeze sent snot cascading onto the ice. “Ugh, that’s gross.”

Roz just kept sneezing, entirely oblivious to the attention on him. He seemed to be winding down, the sneezes were bigger but less rapid. 

“…ehhhh-? Ehh-KGHDTJJZHHhuueh!! Nnghh… Yob tvoyu mat, ostanovis— yHH’GKXXDT’SCHhdtttt!! Blyat!”

The last one was so harsh it sounded painful, but at least he was finished. Roz was doubled over in the aftermath, one hand braced on his thigh while the other was still gripping the post. Aside from Roz’s labored, congested breathing as he muttered to himself, the rink was dead silent. 

“Slysh, nos, ty—krysa yebanaya, eto chistyy sabotazh. Chtob tebya, suka, v Buffalo splavili…”

Varkov snickered; apparently the Russian profanities were more creative than usual. Roz glared at him, but the effect was entirely ruined by the mess he’d made of his lower face. Connors, who was standing by the bench, skated closer and threw a towel at him. Roz caught it with one hand and blew his nose, while flipping Connors off with the other.

“Alright, that’s enough,” LeClaire intervened. “Rozanov, hit the showers. The rest of you, set up for 5 on 5.”

Roz left without argument. Marleau wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or a bad one.

* * *

The Metros’ team meeting ran long. Either Theriault was regretting the free rein he’d allowed last night, or the hockey gods hated them. Hayden was leaning towards the second option, because Shane was distracted the entire time. A random sneeze was one thing, but any interruption of Shane’s laser-focus on hockey was a really bad sign. 

At long last, Theriault dismissed them for lunch. Before Hayden could get a word in, Shane high-tailed it to the bathroom. J.J. shot Hayden a significant look.

“What is going on with him?” 

“Not sure. He slept in this morning, maybe he’s getting sick?”

“Crisse, I hope not. He hates being ill,” J.J. made a face, clearly remembering previous instances of a sick Shane. 

“He was fine during practice, so it can’t be too bad,” Hayden reasoned. 

“Or he is being Shane and playing until he drops. Do you think he has a fever? He was so red.”

“Nah, he was just embarrassed. He gets like that about—“

Hayden abruptly shut up when Shane reentered the dressing room. His nostrils had turned pink, hinting at more nose-blowing while he was in the bathroom. He seemed kind of wrung out, but at least his face wasn’t red anymore. 

“Sorry about earlier, Hayd. That was gross,” Shane said, his posture obviously forced calm. 

“Dude, we’re both hockey players and I have three kids. I’ve seen worse.”

“I guess,” Shane said weakly, then turned to his locker to grab his phone. He bit his lip as he shot off a quick text. 

Marcel, one of the PR reps, poked his head into the room. “Hollander, they’re waiting on you for interviews.”

“Sure, I’ll be right out.” Shane looked resigned, his usually impassive demeanor cracking a bit. He was already sniffling softly again. 

“I can go with you,” Hayden offered. He wasn’t much of a fan of interviews either, but Shane needed the backup today. 

Shane seemed to consider it for a moment, then nodded. Hayden surreptitiously grabbed the tissue pack from his bag and followed Shane out into the hallway. Thankfully, there weren’t that many reporters, and only two camera crews. 

The ESPN guy started them off with the generic stuff. “What’s the mindset coming out of today’s morning skate?” 

“We’re ready to play at our best. We always bring our A-game against Boston, and tonight is no exception.” 

Hayden heard his breath catch at the end of the sentence, followed by a damp sniffle. 

“Any particular concerns heading into tonight?” 

At the moment, Hayden’s main concern was making sure Shane didn’t spontaneously combust when he inevitably sneezed on national television.

“We know what we’re getting when we play Boston. They pressure hard and don’t give you much time with the puck. For us, it’s about—sorry, one sec… eh’dtSHHhuhhh! Excuse me. Anyway, we have to keep making clean decisions under pressure, stay disciplined, stick to our structure.”

Okay, that one seemed to pass without incident. Well, except for how Shane was now sniffling repeatedly, each one wetter than the last. Or how he could feel Shane radiating tension beside him without even looking. 

Sportnet’s reporter took the next question. “Boston’s top line has been on fire lately. What does Montreal need to do to neutralize them?” 

“They have some elite skill, for sure. We have to get pucks deep, establish our forecheck, not let them set the pace—hang on… Heh- ihhdt’SSSHhiuuhh!!”

Shane buried his face in his elbow again, and this time he didn’t resurface. He was completely still, betraying no overt reaction, but Hayden could tell he was two seconds from losing it. Time to stage a rescue, hopefully without making a big deal of things. 

“Bless you, man,” Hayden said casually, passing Shane a tissue as unobtrusively as he could manage. He nudged Shane to signal that he was taking over. 

“As our captain was saying, we mostly just have to stay on our toes. And we’re always on our toes when we play Boston, so it should be an exciting game.”

The reporters politely ignored Shane’s situation, and continued to direct questions at Hayden while Shane took a step back to clean himself up. Shane would probably rather die than blow his nose in public, so Hayden wasn’t surprised that he didn’t hear much from behind him.

“With the history between your two teams, how do you keep it from getting emotional out there?”

Hayden fought to keep from rolling his eyes. She might as well have asked him how to avoid punching Rozanov when he was being a fucking dick. 

“Look, we know exactly who these guys are and how they try to get under our skin. At the end of the day, it’s about execution. If they want to take dumb penalties, that’s their problem.”

Okay, so maybe that wasn’t the perfect, media trained answer Shane would have wanted. But Hayden was doing his best, and it didn’t hurt to show some teeth once in a while. 

“No further questions,” Marcel said from the back, cutting the interview short. Either he wanted to avoid Hayden answering any more questions, or he was rescuing Shane, or both.

“Thanks, both of you,” Shane said once the reporters were out of earshot. “That wasn’t my finest moment.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” Marcel assured him. “We don’t need sports twitter speculating that you’re dying of the plague or something. Are you?”

Shane sighed, shoulders slumped. “I think I’m getting a cold. But it’s not that bad, I’m still good to play tonight.”

In Hayden’s personal opinion, Shane would say the same thing even if he was dying of plague. Thankfully, it did seem to be just a cold, Shane’s constantly flushed face notwithstanding. 

“Come on, let’s get out of here. We can go back to the hotel and order soup on DoorDash.”

* * *

Cliff found Roz in the players’ lounge, sprawled across one of the couches in front of the TV with a crumpled Raiders t-shirt in one hand. Cliff knew from experience that he had definitely been using it to blow his nose. The habit was kind of gross and a bit disrespectful to the team’s logo, but Cliff had to admit that it was practical. 

“You’re looking a bit better,” Cliff observed. It was only half true. Roz wasn’t a complete mess like he’d been on the ice, but his efforts to clean himself up had visibly chafed his nostrils.

“Yes, I am no longer sneezing every two seconds,” Roz snarked back. He sounded awful, his voice hoarse and laden with congestion.

“For you, that’s impressive,” Cliff informed him, then shoved his legs off the couch to make room. Roz scrambled into a sitting position and let out a dramatic groan. 

“Marly, how could you? Your captain is dying of plague and you don’t even let him lie down.”

“Fuck off, Rozy. You can’t have a couch to yourself every time you sneeze your head off.”

Connors grabbed the remote and turned on ESPN, then sat down next to Cliff. “I mean, he could. We’d just have to buy him a personal couch.”

Roz reached over Cliff to flick Connors’ ear in retaliation.

“Ow, fuck you! I’m just telling the truth,” Connors complained.

“Seriously, though, you good?” Cliff asked in a low voice. 

“Yes, fine. Is only— Huhh- EKH’DTCHuhh! Ehh’PDTXJ’schiehh! yehH’KGHDJ’xhhh! Ekh, nu vot.” Roz blinked blearily in the aftermath of the sneezes, then muttered something in Russian. He blew his nose harshly into the shirt, then groaned dramatically again. “Stupid nose, as usual trying to kill me.”

For all the histrionics, Cliff was actually reassured. Roz might be a drama queen about minor inconveniences, but not if he was actually feeling like shit. 

“Shut up, they’re interviewing Hollander,” Connors cut in.  

“Who cares? He will just say ‘Raiders are good team, we must bring A-game,’” Roz drawled, his attempt at a Canadian accent thwarted by the congestion weighing on his vowels. Cliff snorted, then laughed out loud when Hollander immediately fulfilled Rozy’s prediction.

“I’ll never understand how you do that,” Connors marveled.

“Is easy, he is most boring man alive.”

The conversation lapsed as they watched Hollander take the next question, pausing to sneeze politely into his elbow. The guy really was a hockey robot, even his sneezes were perfectly media trained.

“See? Even his sneeze is boring,” Roz echoed Cliff’s thoughts, his tone strangely smug. 

On screen, Hollander had paused again, clearly anticipating another sneeze. At the same time, Roz inhaled sharply. 

“Heh- ihhdt’SSSHhiuuhh!!”

“HAA’GXXDJ’TCHhuuh! Hhh-! HH! yYG’KHXXZ’Ssshhh! Hihh-DJZXXT’CHUuh!!”

The difference was almost comical. Hollander had a perfectly normal sneeze, his face tucked demurely into his elbow like a model of good hygiene. Roz, as usual, had made no attempt to cover his three monster sneezes, doubling over to direct them at the floor.

“Wow, you really don’t pass up any opportunity to one-up him,” Connors sounded mildly impressed.

“That one seemed…messy,” Cliff observed as he watched Hollander frozen in place onscreen, his face still buried in his elbow. “Do you think he’s also sick?”

“I hope so, that would even the odds tonight,” Connors nodded at Roz, who was still blowing his nose. Hollander was mirroring him on the screen, his face buried in a tissue as Pike took over the interview. 

“Weird coincidence. Roz, what did you do?” Cliff teased. “Biological warfare is probably against the MLH rulebook.”

Roz resurfaced from his t-shirt and snorted. Cliff couldn’t help but cringe at the blocked up sound of it. “Does that sound like something I would do?”

“Honestly? Yeah.”

Roz just winked, then levered himself off the couch and left the room. Typical. 

* * *

As soon as they entered the hotel room, Shane kicked off his shoes and face-planted on his bed. Hayden was only 20% concerned, and 30% sympathetic and 50% amused. Shane didn’t get sick that often, but Hayden had witnessed it a few times over the years. In public, he kept up a strong front until he physically couldn’t. In private, he was quiet but expressively miserable. 

“Shane, buddy, if you want our soup to fit with your diet I’m gonna need you conscious.”

Shane’s wordless protest was muffled by the pillow. Hayden waited a few seconds. Sure enough, Shane rolled onto his side and looked up at him. 

“Sorry. S’just…I hate being sick,” Shane mumbled, shoulders slumped. His cheeks were pink again, and his eyes were watery. 

“No kidding,” Hayden said, only slightly teasing. He handed Shane his phone, DoorDash app already open. “Are any of these okay?”

“Oh, uh, someone recommended a Japanese place that has good soup.” Shane sat up in bed, dug his phone out of his pocket and pulled up a text thread. 

“‘Someone’, huh?”

“Shut up,” Shane retorted as he swapped his phone for Hayden’s and selected the restaurant. He added ginger tea and miso ramen to the order, then handed Hayden’s phone back. With that minor task completed, he flopped back onto the bed, eyes squeezed shut in obvious discomfort. 

Shane’s phone, which he’d left at the foot of the bed, immediately started to buzz. Hayden glanced at the screen and was surprised to see it was Lily. 

“Looks like ‘someone’ is calling you,” Hayden teased, but couldn’t keep the curiosity out of his voice. It had been years, and he’d only ever seen them text. What changed?

Shane snatched up his phone and immediately answered the call. 

“Hey,” he said breathlessly, already standing up and moving towards the door. “Yeah, no, it’s not great. Uh, just a sec…”

Shane muted himself so he could put on his shoes, then left the room. Hayden was a bit annoyed, and even more curious. Why was Shane so cagey about this girl? Hayden told him everything, but Shane didn’t even trust his best friend with one side of a phone call. He had to know that Hayden wouldn’t judge him no matter what, right? Unless he was sleeping with a hardcore Boston fan, or something. 

Hayden stewed for a few minutes until he heard Shane outside the door, finishing up the phone call. 

“Jesus… bless you.” Shane’s voice was muffled by the door, but he was obviously flustered. There were a few seconds of silence before Shane spoke again. 

“I’ll be okay, no thanks to you.” Shane was closer to the door now. He sounded annoyed, but Hayden could tell it wasn’t genuine. “Fuck off. See you tonight.”

Apparently someone hung up, because Shane entered the hotel room a few moments later. He was flushed so red that Hayden almost worried he had a fever after all, but he figured it had more to do with whatever Lily had said to him. The brief snippets Hayden had caught hinted that Shane’s girl was also sick, and that Shane was quite affected by it. Maybe he shouldn’t be fishing for information when Shane was already vulnerable, but he was too curious to resist.

“So… sounds like your Boston girl isn’t feeling too hot,” Hayden ventured. 

“I don’t have a Boston girl!” Shane snapped, entirely too defensively. 

“Sure. Your Boston ‘friend’, then,” Hayden said, rolling his eyes. 

Shane glared at him for a few seconds, then turned away to blow his nose into yet another tissue. Hayden didn’t know why he bothered, because it seemed like his nose was just as runny afterward. 

“See, this is the problem with sleeping with the enemy,” Hayden said half-seriously. 

Shane coughed, panic flashing across his face for a moment before returning to his usual reserved expression. “What do you mean?”

“You know, you caught a cold from a Bostonian. It's biological warfare, man,” Hayden joked. 

“Shut up. It wasn’t…she wouldn’t do that on purpose.” Was Hayden imagining things, or did Shane sound a little uncertain about that? “Anyway, she sounded worse than me,” Shane continued, slightly breathless. He was staring at the ground again, biting his lip and fiddling with his belt loops. Aww, he was probably worried about her. 

“That sucks, man. At least she gets to rest tonight instead of playing a full hockey game.”

“Right.”

Shane was still tense, his brow furrowed. Hayden thought it was kind of cute for him to be so worried about a cold. Whatever Lily was to him, it was clearly beyond the realm of ‘casual’. 

“I’m sure she’s fine, it’s just a cold. You need to rest, go change into something comfy and I’ll put on hockey coverage.”

“Good idea. I’m just, uh, gonna shower again. For the steam.”

Shane practically sprinted into the shower. He didn’t even take his clothes off first before going into the bathroom, which was odd; he usually left then folded neatly on the bed. Hayden lounged on his own bed to wait. 

The shower lasted a good fifteen minutes, which was a lot for Shane. He emerged with the tissue box clutched in one hand. His nose was still running, but he was much more relaxed. It seemed to have helped Shane’s mood more than his cold, but Hayden would take what he could get.

“Soup will be here soon. TV while we wait?” Hayden suggested. 

Shane nodded. They settled in front of the TV just in time for Cliff Marleau’s mug to appear onscreen. As usual, the first questions were pretty fucking boring. 

“How are you approaching the matchup against the Metros tonight?”

“Our size and physical play are always an advantage against Montreal. With them, we mostly have to be disciplined with our positioning, take away their time and space.”

Marleau’s face was impassive, and his answer was boilerplate. It was a stark contrast to Rozanov’s cocky smirk. 

“Kinda happy it’s not Rozanov this time. He’s always insufferable,” Hayden said. 

“Yeah, definitely,” Shane responded in the particular flat tone he reserved for any mention of his rival. 

“I wonder where he is. Hopefully he’ll stay gone until after the game,” Hayden said fervently. 

Onscreen, Marleau was answering another question. 

“…part of the plan. You want every puck battle, every hit, every shift to add up—“

“Hihh’KGHXXT’SCHhhh! yHH’GKXDT’CHeuh! Hyeh’DJZXT’CHhhih! !”

Marleau’s answer was interrupted by a trio of loud sneezes from off-camera. He paused for a moment, but it seemed he decided not to acknowledge it and just keep going. “So yeah, those things add up. Even if it doesn’t show right away, those things start to make a difference in the third period.”

“Do you think that was Rozanov? It sounded like him,” Hayden speculated.

“I, uh, don’t know what his sneezes sound like,” Shane said awkwardly, fiddling with the drawstring of his sweatpants. He was always kind of weird about any aspect of Rozanov outside of hockey. 

“Sure, buddy,” Hayden hoped his face conveyed just how much he was not buying it. “The guy has the most obnoxious sneeze in the league, you watch every interview he’s ever done, but you don’t know what he sounds like.”

“I guess I just don’t pay attention to that stuff,” Shane mumbled. He coughed lightly, then pulled out another tissue to wipe his nose. The skin around his nostrils was starting to look painfully chafed, which had to be driving him crazy. 

Hayden decided to take pity on him for now and turned his attention back to the TV, where Marleau was getting grilled about special teams. 

“Montreal’s power play is known for being unpredictable and moving pucks quickly, and the new lineup is really elevating their creativity. What does your penalty kill need to do to contain them?”

Wow, an actually interesting hockey question from the SportsNet reporter. They should just give her all the questions instead of letting the ESPN guy put everyone to sleep. 

Something flickered across Marleau’s expression before he answered. “It starts with movement, applying pressure at the right time and place. You want to take away the middle, but you can’t just sit back or they’ll pick you apart—“

“Huhh’KGHXTt’chuh! Huh-GDTXJ’zhhh! Haa’KXXDTCHhh!”

Three more sneezes, further away this time but still distinctive. Hayden rolled his eyes. What was the point of keeping him off camera if he was just gonna interrupt anyway?

“That’s definitely him. Probably why they have Marleau doing press,” Hayden theorized. 

“If you say so— Heh- ihh’DJJZsshhhh! ihD’TCHHUuhh!!”

Shane managed to yank a handful of tissues from the box in time to sneeze into them. Hayden was startled by the harsh sound, and by the repeat performance; Shane was usually a one-and-done guy. 

“Damn, bless you. You’re starting to sound like him—ha, maybe Boston’s bio weapon backfired!” Hayden crowed. 

Shane looked oddly stricken, but he quickly brushed it off.

“Oh my god, Hayd, it’s a stupid cold, not a bio weapon.”

* * *

The Raiders’ PR rep had taken one look at Roz and relieved him of media duty. Minor illnesses were always kept under wraps as long as possible, and apparently ‘snotty’ wasn’t a good look on camera. Cliff had readily agreed to go in his stead. 

For reasons known only to himself, Roz had tagged along and hung out behind the camera crews, which seemed counterproductive. Sure enough, a couple minutes in Roz sneezed, as loud as always. The reporters startled, and the mics definitely picked it up. The PR rep made a shoo-ing motion at Roz, and he started to back away very slowly. Was he just being a pain, or was he up to something? Cliff suppressed the urge to roll his eyes and turned his attention back to the reporters. 

SportsNet’s reporter asked an unfortunately insightful question about their penalty kill. Halfway through Cliff’s answer, Roz sneezed again, drawing more attention from the reporters. SportsNet lady’s eyes narrowed, and Cliff had a feeling she was about to be nosy. Thankfully, the PR rep reached the same conclusion and signaled to wrap things up. Roz disappeared down the hall while Cliff answered the last few questions. 

Finally, Cliff managed to extricate himself from the media scrum and attempt to track down Roz. He found him in the dressing room, in the middle of texting someone. 

“Just so you know, I’m pretty sure the SportsNet chick thinks you’re dying,” Cliff informed him. 

“Good, then Montreal will underestimate," Roz responded blithely. He sounded even more stuffed up than earlier, congestion muddying his consonants. 

“You didn’t have to hang around for the media bullshit. I thought the whole point of sending me was to keep this situation a secret?”

“Eh, is what PR people want. I don’t think it matters.” 

Roz had the particular mischievous glint in his eye that meant he was fucking with someone. Cliff didn’t think it was him, and couldn’t for the life of him figure out who else it might be. 

“You’re up to something.”

“Maybe.”

Cliff raised an eyebrow. Roz scratched his nose, but didn’t say anything else. 

“Fine, keep your secrets. You look like shit, by the way.”

“Go fuck yourself. You try looking good while your brain is t-trying to le-ihhhh!—leak out of…hhh-!! your nose—huh- ehH’GHXJJ’SCHhhiihh! Hehh’KXXDT’CHhhh! Heh- KGHXDT’SHHeuhhh!”

The sneezes were harsh and desperate, indicative of what should be a truly miserable cold. He directed them into the same shirt he’d been using as a snot rag earlier. He immediately blew his nose into it, making a sound like a clogged drain. Cliff winced, but when Roz resurfaced he seemed unperturbed. If anything, he looked…satisfied?

“You’re weirdly pleased with yourself, for a guy who’s about to drown in his own snot.”

“No one is drowning, Marly.”

“But I thought you were dying of plague,” Cliff said dryly. 

“Liar told you that. I only have plague when I need divan to myself,” Roz informed him. “Other times, is just snihhh-! sniffles… Huhhhh… Ihh’KGXXT’tchhh! Ihh’GXHDJ’schuhh! IH’KGHXXJ’zhhh! Ihhh-! Hiehhh…! yehH’GDXJZ’SCHUue!! Snrrfffl! Pizdets.”

Roz caught the first three sneezes in the t-shirt, which was a sure sign that they were getting messy. The fourth sneeze seemed to catch him off guard. He sniffled, swore in Russian, then blew his nose with a loud honking sound. Cliff shook his head. 

“Gesundheit, those were big even for you. Anyway, the steam room is calling your name. Then maybe go home and take a nap? No one wants your ‘sniffles’ to become a sinus infection.” Cliff left the ‘again’ unspoken. 

“Yes, yes, I am going,” Roz grumbled. “You people, always putting me in steam room, like you want to boil me.”

“Poor Rozy, forced to hang out in a sauna,” Cliff said mockingly, then wrinkled his nose. “I have more sympathy for the cleaners who have to disinfect in there after you’re done.” 

* * *

Russian translations (oops all swearing):

Poshyol na khuy = go fuck yourself

Suka-blyat = fucking bitch (general filler swear words)

Zayebalo = I’m fucking tired of this

Yob tvoyu mat, ostanovis = motherfucker, stop it

Slysh, nos, ty—krysa yebanaya, eto chistyy sabotazh. Chtob tebya, suka, v Buffalo splavili. = Listen, nose—you are a fucking rat, this is pure sabotage. I hope you get traded to Buffalo, bitch. (I’m kind of proud of this one.)

Ekh, nu vot = ugh, here we go again

Pizdets = clusterfuck

Author’s notes:

Is that snzkink!Shane? Yes, yes it is. 

What’s Ilya up to? In his words, “I think you know”. 

My headcanon about Ilya and Raiders t-shirts: during allergy season in his rookie year he ended up in a situation where he really needed a handkerchief, so someone grabbed him a spare shirt from the equipment room. After that he just kept doing it because it’s a convenient source of snot rags, and he goes through a lot of those. 

The drill where Ilya simulates Shane on the power play is based on a Habs vs Sens game from earlier this year. I made Shane/Ilya be L/ane H/utson because he’s my fav and he does cool shit. H/utson is a defenseman, so subbing him with Shane means the Metros are running a five-forward power play unit. It’s a risky lineup that relies on a really smart defensive center, but Shane is canonically a genius so he can handle it. 

“What do you say, capitaine?” said J.J, poking his head in between their seats. He was trying to lure Shane into some team bonding. Hayden could've told him not to bother when they're in Boston because–

Shane's phone buzzed with an incoming text, right on cue. Shane glanced down and his lips stretched into a small yet bright smile even before he unlocked the screen. Hayden affectionately called it Shane's Boston Lily face.

“Sorry man,” Shane responded to J.J., “I’m beat. Gonna turn in early.” He was saved from J.J.’s cross-examination when the flight crew indicated they could deplane. Still, Hayden wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to rib Shane. They stood up, stretched, and went to grab their bags. Hayden shifted his weight closer to Shane as he hauled his bag out of the overhead bin.

“Turn in early, my ass,” Hayden said, lowering his voice slightly. He might be ribbing Shane, but he knew that Shane was sensitive about Boston Lily. “You don’t have plans with Lily?” He waggled his eyebrows at Shane.

“Get fucked,” Shane said, and scowled at Hayden, but there wasn’t any heat in his response. 

“I hope you do,” Hayden said, grinning broadly. “Need you in top form tomorrow!”

This wasn’t the first time they’d gone through this song and dance, but Shane still sighed and denied his thing with Lily. “It’s not like that, Hayd.” Hayden flashed Shane a cheerfully exaggerated wink as they crossed over to the jet bridge.

“Whatever you say, buddy.” 

* * *

Cliff Marleau laughed as he pulled off his helmet and pushed his sweaty hair off his forehead. He went all-out at every practice, but the days leading up to a game against the Metros were sometimes too much even for him.

Rozanov, on the other hand, was in rare form. Playing against the Metros always energized him, like he was gearing himself up to match skills with Hollander. He was dialed in to the details of each drill, hunted the puck relentlessly in every 1-on-1, and played in the scrimmage with an intensity that normal people reserved for the postseason. He was also sniffling.

“Damn, Roz, you’re gonna kill me,” Cliff grinned as he skated up to his captain and playfully shoved him. “Maybe save some of that energy for Hollander?”

“I always have enough energy for Hollander,” Roz smirked, then sniffled again. He sounded slightly congested. 

From this closer vantage, Cliff could see that Rozy’s nose was definitely bugging him. A sniffly Roz wasn’t exactly a rare occurrence, but today seemed…excessive. His nose had been visibly running for most of practice. His nostrils were shaded an irritated pink, probably rubbed raw by the rough fabric of his jersey. As Cliff watched, Roz shucked off one glove and raised his hand to bully his nose, squishing his nostrils upward with his knuckles and scrubbing at them roughly. His hand was glistening as he lowered it, then wiped it off on his jersey. He was already sniffling again, but he seemed to be in a good mood.

“Come on, I need shower. I have places to be,” Roz said cryptically, then skated away. 

Cliff furrowed his brow and followed Rozanov across the rink to the tunnel, then ducked into the dressing room. As usual, Roz paused on the threshold. 

“Huh’KGTX’SCHhhh! yHH’DJJXS’chuuh! Hhhd’TJZSSC’xttt! Hh-ehhh? Ihhh-! Ih’KGHXXZ’TCHHeuh! HAa’DTGXZCH’zh!!”

The sneezes were huge and spraying, his face a mask of desperation before each one. Roz never made an effort to cover, he just doubled over and directed them at the floor. 

“Bless you, cap! Are the two more for extra luck?” Connors called across the room. Rozanov flipped him off.

It didn’t necessarily mean anything. Something about the change in temperature made Roz sneeze every time they got off the ice. But it was usually three sneezes, except in allergy season. And was he imagining it, or were they harsher than usual?

“You good?” Cliff asked as they began the familiar ritual of stripping off their gear. “It looks like your nose is bothering you. More than usual, I mean.”

Roz shrugged as he pulled off one shoulder pad. “Yes, is annoying. Allergies, probably.” His nose was dripping again. He tugged the other shoulder pad off, sniffling wetly in a futile attempt to contain the mess. 

“It’s January, Roz,” Cliff argued. 

“Maybe they changed laundry soap again, or something,” Rozanov shrugged again, then swiped at his nose with one hand. 

“Oh yeah, don’t remind me,” Cliff grimaced. Before seeing it with his own eyes, he’d never have believed it was possible to maintain consciousness while sneezing that many times in a row. To this day it’s official policy for the equipment staff to stick to non-scented cleaning products. At least the current situation didn’t seem anywhere near that bad. 

Roz was still sniffling as he tugged off his hockey pants and leaned forward to tackle his shin guards. Cliff watched with a mix of disgust and concern as the snot breached containment and flooded onto his upper lip. With a dissatisfied grunt, Roz abandoned his efforts and grabbed a clean towel off the bench. He blew his nose thoroughly, then switched to a dry section and blew again. He was definitely stuffed up, but at least it sounded like his sinuses were draining properly. For now, the ominous thought flashed through Cliff’s mind. He cursed himself for jinxing it. 

Apparently satisfied, Roz returned to tearing the tape off his socks with more force than was strictly necessary. Did he feel worse than he was letting on, or was he just impatient to get out of here?

Cliff’s question was answered immediately when Roz reached for his phone and typed out a quick text, smirking to himself the whole time. He’d seen that expression enough times to know what it meant. 

“Looks like you’re not planning on getting much sleep tonight,” Cliff teased. “Making bedroom eyes at your phone like we’re in the visitors’ locker room in Montreal. Is your girl flying in to watch the game or something?”

Rozanov just winked enigmatically. “Something like that, yes.” Before Cliff could say anything else, Roz had stripped down to his briefs and headed for the showers. 

* * *

Hayden woke up to his phone buzzing… and nothing else. Weird. Normally there’d be the sounds of someone getting ready, like the shower running or clothes rustling. He sat up, looking over to his left, and was surprised to see Shane still fast asleep under the covers. Shane was always up on time, which meant earlier than Hayden. Did Boston Lily tire him out that much last night? He didn’t remember Shane coming in, so maybe. 

Whatever, Shane would probably be up soon. Hayden rolled out of bed and headed for the bathroom. Once he was sufficiently groomed, he walked back into the bedroom and… what the hell, Shane was still out. If it was someone else, he’d probably let them sleep, but he’d been Shane’s best friend long enough to know that even that much deviation from his routine would be upsetting.

“Shaaaaane. Shane, buddy, time to wake up,” Hayden called, walking over to the bed. Shane barely stirred. Hayden rested a hand on Shane’s shoulder over the blanket, shaking him gently. “Wakey wakey!”

“Wha’? Stoppit,” Shane slurred, his voice a little rough with sleep, not even opening his eyes. Jesus, waking up his children was easier than this.

“Shane,” Hayden repeated louder and shook Shane’s shoulder with more emphasis. “Dude, wake up!” 

“Huh?” Shane said blearily, blinking up at Hayden. “Hayd?”

“Yeah man, it’s me,” Hayden said. “What, were you expecting Lily?” He grinned at Shane.

Shane took a second to process that, then shoved Hayden away. “Shut up,” he groaned and reached for his own phone. His eyes widened when he saw the time and he swore under his breath. “Give me a sec to get ready and we can head down for breakfast.”

Hotel breakfasts were all the same to Hayden by now. The only thing different about this one was the cup of tea on their table next to Shane.

“Tea?” Hayden asked.

“It’s that kind of morning,” Shane said, his tone faintly defensive.

“Yeah, you could probably use the caffeine,” Hayden nodded sagely. Good thing Shane had gotten it in a to-go cup, since they needed to leave for morning skate soon.

They had just entered the rink when Hayden startled at a loud, echoing noise. He started to glance furtively at Shane to see if he was the only one who’d freaked out when the noise happened again. This time, his brain was able to interpret it as a sneeze and so he wasn’t startled – well, not much, anyway – when the third sneeze rang through the air.

“Wasn’t expecting that, eh?” Hayden said, companionably nudging Shane with his shoulder. “Someone sounds rough.”

“Um, yeah,” Shane agreed, his voice cracking slightly on the ‘yeah.’ He cleared his throat, then nudged Hayden back. “We’d better get going, don’t want to be late.”  

* * *

Cliff was both disappointed and unsurprised by the unmistakable sound of Rozanov sneezing in the hallway. 

“Hahh- Eh’DJJSZZ’SCHue! Hhh’GXXDdT’ZHHH! Ehh’kKGHXDTCHHHiehh!!”

Moments later, his suspicions were confirmed by the sight of Roz walking through the door. There were dark circles under his eyes and his nostrils were a tell-tale shade of pink. Mentally preparing himself for what was sure to be an interesting day, he reached over to grab the tissue box from the center of the table. 

“Bless you, Roz!” St-Simon called from across the room, then frowned as he took in their captain’s appearance. “Oh, shit.”

“What?” Rozanov retorted, congestion making his accent more pronounced than usual. 

“I think you know, man,” Cliff said dryly, then threw the tissue box at him. He barely caught it in time, reflexes notably slow. 

“I do not know anythihh—yH’DGJZH’SCHeuh! Huhh- DJJZCH’ttt! EHH’KGXXDTCHIhhh!” 

Roz twisted sharply to the side, his torso curling forward as he directed the sneeze towards the floor. It was evidently messy, and he quickly threw up his free hand in front of his face. As expected, he immediately sneezed twice more, his hand hiding the view but not actually covering them. 

The chatter in the room immediately died. Roz stayed still for a few seconds, making sure there were no more incoming before his hand darted down to grab a handful of tissues from the box. Cliff only caught a quick glimpse of his face, but it did not look pretty. Roz expertly ignored their teammates’ stares as he blew his nose productively. Cliff grimaced at the gurgling sound of it, but he was actually relieved on behalf of Roz’s sinuses. He lowered the tissues, nostrils now a shade darker, and met Cliff’s eyes before glancing around the room. 

“So you were right, I have a cold. Is fine, I don’t feel too much like shit. Can still outplay Montreal.” Rozy’s assurance was somewhat undercut by his inability to pronounce ‘Bodtreal’. Cliff raised his eyebrows.

“Let’s hope you’re right, Rozanov,” Coach LeClaire cut in before Cliff could respond. “But either way, you’re heading down to medical. I want to know if you’re cleared for tonight before we get on the ice, so we know what we have to work with.”

Rozanov scowled, but didn't argue as he headed back out the door. Cliff could hear him sneezing again from down the hallway. The energy of the room had gone from amped to uncertain, everyone aware that tonight’s chances had just gotten much more precarious. 

“Come on boys, it’ll be fine,” Cliff said in his best alternate captain voice. “It’s Rozy, he can handle a few extra sneezes.”

That got a chuckle out of everyone. Cliff let out a relieved breath as LeClaire started going over the Metros’ expected lines for tonight. Now they just had to hope that Roz managed to break his unfortunate habit of turning ‘a few extra sneezes’ into a sinus infection. 

* * *

Hayden clapped Shane on the back as they headed off the ice. “Forget what I said about your energy this morning, you were a fucking beast just now. Clearly whatever plans you had last night were good for you.”

He expected Shane’s usual flustered denial, but he didn’t react at all. He stopped in place instead, clearly zoned out as his face slackened into a weird expression. 

“Dude, you okay?”

Shane blinked, then wrinkled his nose and flushed bright red. “Yeah, sorry. Had to sneeze, but it went away.”

“Ugh, I hate it when that happens,” Hayden commiserated. “Let’s hope it stays gone.”

In the dressing room, Shane methodically removed his gear, setting each piece neatly in his stall. Unusually, he stopped in the middle, leaving him in just his hockey pants and compression shirt. He sat down on the bench, leaned back against his stall and closed his eyes. 

Hayden nudged him, concerned. “Buddy, you gotta hit the showers before the team meeting. You stink.”

Shane’s eyes blinked open, and he sniffled lightly. “You also stink. Go shower, I’ll be there in a minute. Just, uh, gassed from the scrimmage.”

Hayden eyed Shane skeptically, but he went along for now and hit the showers. His concern abated when Shane joined him two minutes later. After a quick shower, the Metros filed into the visitors’ dressing room for a team meeting. 

Theriault got right down to business, calling out mistakes they’d repeated during practice and predicting how Boston would take advantage of each one. It was an efficient, brutally honest approach. Laying out a player’s weaknesses in front of the team allowed for contingency planning, but it also lit a fire under their ass. Hayden wasn’t sure he was a fan, but he couldn’t deny that it was effective.

Hayden was distracted by a soft, sharp inhale beside him. He was momentarily alarmed before his gaze darted to Shane’s face and found it slackened into that same expression. The sneeze didn’t stay gone, apparently. 

Theriault was in the middle of picking apart the third line. “Passing was adequate, Comeau. You’re leaning too much on brute force, but we’re in Boston. We expect Varkov and Feller to eat most of your minutes today. If you try to muscle past those two you’ll run into a brick wall at the blue line…”

Another gasp, choked off this time. Hayden glanced at Shane again and found him desperately trying to suppress another sneeze. His eyes were screwed shut, and he had two fingers pressed hard against his septum. Hayden knew Shane had a thing about losing control in situations like this, but holding it in like that looked painful. His attention snapped back to Theriault when he heard his own name. 

“…and Pike, you have the opposite problem. You rely on Hollander to draw defensemen because most teams cover him 2-v-1. Boston aren’t that desperate, and Marleau likes to pick on you. I don’t want you taking hits, these guys will have you pinned every time and that lets them set the pace. Hollander, same goes for you—are you even listening?”

“Yeah, sorry, I just—hehd’TSHHhuhhh!!”

Shane managed to get his elbow up in time to cover the sneeze, but it sounded wet. And, Hayden guessed, messy, since Shane had yet to look up and was blushing furiously. Luckily, having young children meant that Hayden had a habit of carrying tissues in his bag, even when he was on the road.

He fished one out, wrinkled but clean, and passed it over. Shane took it gratefully without meeting Hayden’s eyes, trading his elbow for the tissue, and pinch-wiped his nose a few times. Hayden winced at the increasing sogginess of the tissue each time Shane folded it in half. He couldn’t figure out how to pass Shane another one without further embarrassing his friend. 

“Excuse me.”

Shane was still staring at the floor, looking like he hoped it would swallow him whole. 

Theriault sighed. “A tes souhaits. Now, let’s discuss the power play…”

The forceful, spraying sneezes were loud enough to be heard above the noisy room. Rozanov made no attempt to cover or contain the spray. Typical locker room behavior, but the cocky rookie somehow made the action particularly self-indulgent. He let out a satisfied exhale, then straightened up and rubbed his nose roughly with the back of his hand.

“Bless you, Rozy,” Connors commented. Rozanov made a nonverbal sound in acknowledgment before immediately picking up their argument, and the incident was quickly forgotten.

***

The second time it happened was much the same - Rozanov paused by the door of the locker room and let out three loud, unrestrained sneezes. He barely paused to acknowledge the act before continuing about his business.

The third time it happened, Marleau sensed a pattern.

“Are you gonna do that every time, Roz?” Marleau’s tone was somewhere between curious and teasing.

“Probably, yes,” Rozanov replied noncommittally, then sniffled hard.

“Why? Are you allergic to the locker room or something?” St-Simon chimed in.

“Not allergic. Just…sensitive?” Rozanov paused for a moment, unsure of the word. “After I broke my nose, it does not like when air changes from cold to warm.”

Huh. Marleau wasn’t exactly surprised, nasal issues were an occupational hazard in their line of work. Still, for a pro athlete who played almost exclusively in indoor ice rinks, that particular trigger was kind of funny.

“Whatever you say, sneezy,” Marleau jabbed at him and was rewarded with a shit-eating grin.

“Next time you call me that, I will sneeze on you,” Rozanov threatened cheerfully as he crossed the room towards his stall.

“Gross, man,” Marleau’s mock offense was undermined by his laughter. What a piece of work. At least he’s charming enough to pull it off.

2 - Buffalo, November 2011

The Raiders’ second season with Rozanov on the roster was off to a smooth start. At this time last year they were working through initial frictions as the team integrated their new star center into their system. This year they had put the pieces together, and the first line was a fucking machine.

Carmichael was grateful for the turnaround. Really, he was. But he couldn’t pretend that his demotion to 2C didn’t sting a little.

The visitors’ locker room was rowdy in the aftermath of a 4-3 victory against the Swords. The first goal had been Carmichael’s, and he’d been quietly satisfied. So of course Rozanov had to score his first hat trick.

Carmichael turned his back to the room, facing his locker as he methodically stripped off his gear. The familiar ritual was interrupted by a sudden tickle in his nose. He quickly set down his armful of shoulder pads and raised his elbow to cover his face.

“Huh- Eh’tshoo!”

“Bless y–” Hammersmith’s acknowledgment was interrupted by the now-familiar sound of Rozanov entering the locker room.

“Hehh-! Ehh’PTSCHUUEh!! hyiH’DZSSHHhiihh! Huh- IH’DTSSHHihhh!!”

“Yeah, yeah, you too Rozy,” Hammersmith sounded exasperated. “You don’t have to remind us that you’re the sneezy one.”

“He always has to one-up me,” Carmichael complained lightheartedly, mostly managing to keep his underlying bitterness from showing. Rozanov’s eyes narrowed, though he didn’t seem offended. Great, he’s onto me. One more thing to add to this stupid ego conflict.

“We’ll call it a Rozanov hat trick! Three goals, three sneezes. The crowd should throw tissues on the ice or something,” Marleau joked, oblivious to Carmichael’s bad mood.

Rozanov preened. “Yes, is good idea. Everyone must know I am better than them at sneezing and at hockey.”

“Fuck off, Rozy,” Carmichael groaned, now visibly annoyed.

“You are not so bad, Carmy. You open first period with shot in five hole, was embarrassing for Nilsson. I chirp him for this all night, he gets sloppy, I score.” Rozanov’s tone was so condescending that it took Carmichael a few seconds to notice that the insult was directed at the Swords’ goalie and not him.

The kicker was, Rozanov was right. His uncanny skill at mind games had tipped the score in their favor, but it was Carmichael who had given him the opening. And now Rozanov had turned that perceptiveness on him, subtly offering an olive branch while maintaining the asshole demeanor. Fuck, he’s good at this. If he keeps it up he’ll be captain within the next three years.

Carmichael smiled reluctantly. “Sometimes it’s about quality and not quantity, right?” The comeback was weak, but it was enough to let the conversation move on.

“I don’t know about goals, but Rozy is definitely going for quantity with the sneezing,” Connors piped up from behind Marleau’s massive frame.

“True. In your entire life, have you ever sneezed just once?” Marleau sounded genuinely curious.

“You can all go fuck yourselves,” Rozanov said with no heat in his tone. He started to walk away, then looked back with a crooked smile to add: “And answer is no.”

3 - Sochi, February 2014

It was Team Russia’s first practice, and Vasilev could already tell this was going to be a shit show. KHL stars liked to gossip about the massive egos of anyone who “defected” to North America, but in reality they were just as bad if not worse. It turned downright vicious when Ilya Rozanov was selected as team captain. His notoriety in the west had the older crowd whispering about convenient optics, while the younger players either loved or hated him based on personal experience.

Vasilev had actually been looking forward to reuniting with Rozanov and their other teammates from juniors. Playing on a team with old friends alongside their childhood idols was a dream come true. Instead, he got an hour of blown assignments and incoherent systems, followed by bag skates.

“That circus act was an absolute embarrassment to the sport of hockey and to Russia,” Coach Borisovsky snarled. “I’ve seen more cohesion in my son’s U8 team. You think because you have a German car and a fat American contract you are too big for the system?”

The expressions in the locker room ranged from furious to dejected. The exception was Rozanov, the obvious target of the last dig. The captain was standing behind Borisovsky and staring at nothing, his face completely blank. His silence felt wrong somehow. Vasilev was filled with an odd sense of expectation, like he was waiting for Rozanov to complete a pattern. He’s supposed to do…something. When we go into the locker room.

Borisovsky directed his continued tirade at the forwards, somehow deriding them for being puck hogs and lazy skaters at the same time. The uncertain energy of the room turned definitively sour. Behind him, life returned to Rozanov’s face. His eyelids fluttered shut, brow furrowed and nose wrinkling as his head tilted backwards. Vasilev instantly recognized the expression. Oh, right. He didn’t sneeze yet.

Vasilev expected his captain to break the tension with his usual loud sneezes. He was surprised to see Rozanov’s head jerk towards his chest three times in quick succession, the action somehow forceful but completely silent. Apparently no part of this practice would live up to his expectations. At least he still sneezes in threes.

The coach’s cascade of insults continued. Vasilev privately thought that some of them were deserved, but the effect on morale was counterproductive. He tried to focus, but was distracted by a sudden movement as Rozanov whipped one hand up to pinch his nose. His eyes slammed shut as he gasped sharply, then crunched forward into another trio of sneezes.

“Ngk! Hh-ngkt! NnGKx’tshuh!”

The painful, choked sounds made Vasilev wince. It seemed like Rozanov was having more difficulty holding them in. They were obviously unsatisfying, because his nose was still twitching.

Borisovsky scowled at the interruption and whipped around to face Rozanov. “You have something to say, Captain?”

“No. My apologies for the interruption,” Rozanov said dully, then sniffled.

“Since when do you sneeze like that? So polite and boring, you’ve been spending too much time with Canadians,” someone sneered. Rozanov looked oddly stricken by the comment.

“I’m sure my reactive broken nose is the most important thing to discuss right now,” Rozanov’s tone was acerbic, but somewhat undercut by said nose twitching sharply again. “Maybe we should be talking about that shitshow on the forecheck– hihh-!!”

A thunderous Borisovsky looked ready to interrupt, but Rozanov’s sneezes beat him to the punch. Apparently abandoning his attempt at restraint, he turned his back to the room. His whole body folded forward as he sneezed openly at the floor.

“Hihhh- KGHXXSZCHUe! yHH’DZJJXSShhdttt! Huh-! EHH’DGKXXTSCHihhh! Nngh…”

There he is. Vasilev let his lips quirk up in a tiny smile at the familiar sound of three loud, unrestrained and audibly congested sneezes.

“Disgusting,” Borisovsky sneered. “But he unfortunately has a point about the forecheck. If I see one more showy no-look pass…”

The rain of criticism was directed back at the other forwards. Rozanov’s face slowly stilled back into that deadened expression. Vasilev quietly moved to stand next to him.

“Bud’te zdorovy, Ilyukha,” he said quietly. Rozanov snapped out of his stupor, seemingly startled by the diminutive. Then one corner of his mouth twitched upward.

4 - New York, December 2014

The game wasn’t going well, and Sebbin was pretty sure he knew why. With only three minutes left in the second period, the Raiders had yet to score a single goal. Nothing in particular had gone wrong, but it hadn’t gone right, either. Touch passes they’d pulled off without a hitch last night were just a fraction of a second off. Every rebound went in the exact wrong direction. The Raiders’ growing frustration had them overthinking plays and racking up minutes in the penalty box, and the Admirals were taking full advantage.

Sebbin wasn’t superstitious, really. Or at least not that much more superstitious than the average hockey player. Everyone had their rituals. Consistency, repeating the same actions before each game, was just science. And if there was one thing that was consistent about the Raiders’ locker room, it was this: Ilya Rozanov had to sneeze after warm-ups. The veterans said he’d been doing it since his rookie season, and the Raiders had never missed the playoffs since. Connors even told him about the time Rozy broke his nose two years ago, and they’d gone on a nine game losing streak.

But Rozanov hadn’t sneezed. Not after warmups, and not in the first intermission. Really, they were doomed from the start.

Sebbin’s thought spiral was interrupted when the buzzer went off. He shuffled off the bench with the rest of the team and headed for the tunnel. The usual rowdiness was replaced by dejected squabbling.

“Alright you motherfuckers, shut up!”

Sebbin’s head whipped around. He was surprised to find Rozanov standing in the middle of the locker room. Their captain usually reserved speeches for the important, do-or-die moments, but he was apparently frustrated enough to make an exception. He waited for the dissatisfied chatter to die down, sniffling and swiping a hand under his nose.

“I should not have to tell you this is the MLH, not beer league. This team is too good to hand the fucking Admirals a shutout.”

Sebbin watched his captain like a hawk. He was still sniffling between sentences, but that wasn’t unusual. Did his nostrils always flare that much when he got fired up?

“I’m serious. Bennett is so old he is falling asleep while we play hot potato in front of the crease. All these pretty passes are worth shit if—hihh! if no one will ahhh-actually… Hh-!! shoot the p-puck—Hehhhh…”

Rozanov made a valiant effort to continue, but it seemed to be a lost cause. For once, rooting against the captain actually seemed like a good bet.

“Hahh’KGXTSShhh! hh’DJJZSH’sheu!! Ehh-GDTJZSSSHHiehhh!”

Rozanov was doubled over in the aftermath, sniffling as his nose dripped onto the floor. He cursed in Russian, then wiped it roughly with his sleeve. He stood up abruptly and noticed Sebbin staring at him.

“Fucking finally! The rooks were getting nervous,” Marleau said, mercifully distracting the captain.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Rozanov sounded annoyed, but there was a hint of genuine confusion. Sebbin cringed as his captain looked at him again.

“You, um… You didn’t sneeze. After warmups.” Sebbin said hesitantly.

Rozanov turned his trademark unsmiling stare on him. “So I didn’t sneeze. So what?”

Marleau clapped him on the shoulder. “You always sneeze before games, man. Connie convinced the rookies that it’s good luck.”

“This night has been shit so far, maybe I was right,” Connors said, only half joking.

Rozanov was quiet for a few seconds, his expression unchanged and unreadable.

“Okay. You’re all idiots, but if you will get your shit together then I don’t care.”

“But it’s fine now, right?” Sebbin asked cautiously, looking from Rozanov to Connors. “Roz sneezed, so we’re back to normal.”

“I mean, it can’t hurt,” St-Simon said from behind him. Sebbin startled, then looked around the locker room. Weirdly, morale had actually improved.

Coach LeClaire chose that moment to walk through the door. “After that period, I expected to find you all moping. Love the energy, but where did it come from?”

“Cap made a very convincing speech. Right, Rozy?” Connors was obviously trying not to laugh.

“Yes. Is very easy to convince you people, you have too many concussions,” Rozanov rolled his eyes but didn’t entirely manage to suppress his smirk.

LeClaire sighed. “What did you—never mind, I don’t need to know right now. We have twenty more minutes left out there, let’s focus on our plan to turn this around.”

***

One hour later, the tunnel echoed with victorious whooping, glove slaps and sticks banging on the walls. Sebbin was grinning as the team poured into the locker room. They had gone to overtime after scoring twice in the third period. Then Marleau scored off a beautiful pass from Rozy, and the game was theirs.

“I fucking told you!” Connors shouted. “Marly, you fucking legend, don’t ever doubt me again!”

“Fuck off, you didn’t believe it until Sebby brought it up,” Marleau shot back.

“Sebb is a man of faith, you should learn from him,” Connors flung his arm around Sebbin. He flushed, still grinning.

It took several minutes for the chaos to die down enough that LeClaire could be heard.

“I know I said I didn’t need to, but I have to ask. What the hell did you say, Rozanov?”

Rozanov smiled lopsidedly. “Ask Sebb.”

Sebbin probably should have been embarrassed when all the eyes in the room turned to him, but he was too amped to care.

“It wasn’t what he said, exactly. He just…sneezed.”

LeClaire was usually pretty unflappable, but that seemed to throw him. Sebbin tried not to laugh or shift uncomfortably at his perplexed expression.

Thankfully, Marleau took mercy on him. “You know, Roz always sneezes when we get off the ice. The kids are convinced it’s good luck.”

“And…what, you didn’t sneeze this time?” LeClaire said dubiously.

“No, he did,” Connors replied, then turned to smirk at Rozanov. “You just took your sweet time about it.”

“Yes, I have failed in my duty as captain,” Rozanov said sarcastically. “From now on I will always make sure my nose is misfiring properly before every game.”

LeClaire sighed, but he was obviously holding back laughter. “Well, if it works it works. I know better than to mess with anyone’s rituals.”

“Whatever you gotta do, Roz,” Marleau drawled. “As long as there’s no repeat of the detergent thing.”

Rozanov snorted. “I hope we do not ever need that much good luck.”

Most of the team chuckled or groaned at the shared memory. Sebbin leaned towards Connors to whisper.

“What’s the detergent thing?”

“S-tier Roz story. I’ll tell you later.”

5 - Boston, February 2016

Ashley was kind of nervous about this, even though it was her plan. Being hired as the Boston Raiders’ first social media manager was basically her dream job as a lifelong fan and recent recipient of a degree in communications. She’d spent the first few months posting typical announcements and highlight reels. Last week she’d screwed up her courage and suggested some ideas for more authentic behind-the-scenes content, and gotten the go-ahead.

And so she found herself psyching herself up in the hallway outside the Raiders’ locker room.

A few minutes later, she forgot why she had worried. The team was mostly enthusiastic, and immediately caught on to her ‘locker-room bingo’ idea. They were all too happy to inform her (and the internet at large) about their teammates’ quirks.

“Carmy can never find his gloves.” “If you leave Hammer alone for too long he starts singing oldies.” “Marly and Connie argue like an old married couple. Bonus points if the fight is about Marly’s latest ex.” “Vicky drinks so much blue gatorade that his mouth turns blue by the end of practice.” As expected of a goalie, Oregan had a long list of odd and occasionally hilarious habits. Surprisingly, Rozanov’s list of meme-able behaviors was even longer.

“‘Russians do not do this.’ But, like, right after he just did whatever it was.” “Roz says ‘okay’ like he’s judging you while also ignoring you.” “If a guy’s chirps get too gross, Rozy will start flirting to fuck with him. It never fails.” “His reactions when someone brings up Hollander are so funny. Roz always calls him boring, but then the shit-talking is weirdly specific so you know he pays attention.” “I’ll give you a guaranteed win for Rozy - just write down ‘triple sneeze’. He does it every time we get off the ice.”

Ashley found most of their ideas entertaining and very in line with Rozanov’s public persona, but the last one was…odd. Sneezing just seemed so innocuous, she wasn’t sure why it was a big deal. And did he actually do it every time?

It didn’t take long for Ashley to find out. While the team was out on the ice, she set up her camera in the corner of the locker room. Now she just had to wait for the real fun to begin - filming the team’s post-practice antics, and hopefully catching them in the act.

Hammersmith walked in first, humming the melody of “Stand by Me”. He wasn’t actually singing it, so Ashley gave him partial credit. Carmichael came next, but sadly he appeared to have both gloves. The rest of the team trickled through, and Ashley mentally checked them off. St-Simon’s mouth was, in fact, blue. Marleau was bickering with Connors about the ranking of Fast and Furious movies - full points, but no bonus. Bringing up the rear, Rozanov paused just inside the doorway with an unmistakable expression on his face. Bingo.

“Hh- y’DZZSTXHihhh! HUH’EGKHT’shuuh! Ehh’PXXTZSCHHHi’eu!!”

Rozanov aimed the three sneezes at the floor, each one knocking his body forward like someone had shoulder-checked him. He didn’t make any attempt to contain the sound or the spray. Ugh, hockey boys are so gross. But I can’t blame him, if my sneezes were that gnarly I wouldn’t hold them in either. Ashley realized she was staring and mentally shook herself.

“Oh my god, you said he would sneeze but I wasn’t expecting that!” she exclaimed. A wave of laughter swept through the room, but it was more affectionate than malicious.

Marleau turned to her with a smug grin. “I told you. Every damn time.”

“If you think that was bad, just wait a month and come back to do a sequel,” Connors crowed, prompting more laughter.

“Shut your idiot face, Connie,” Rozanov snapped, but the rest of the room was still laughing.

“Oh yeah? What’s gonna happen next month?” Ashley ventured, her curiosity overpowering her fear of pissing off Rozanov.

Marleau grinned even wider, his tongue poking out between his teeth. “Allergy season.”

+1 - Nashville, January 2021, NSFW

Shane should have expected this. Ilya had told him about the locker room thing years ago. It had even come up in a social media post back when Ilya played for the Raiders that he definitely hadn’t jerked off to multiple times between hookups. But they were finally going to play together again, and he had just beaten Ilya at the fastest skating competition, and he tried his best to never even think about them sharing a locker room, and—

All that to say, Shane was completely unprepared for the sight of Ilya in the eastern conference team’s locker room, naked from the waist up and sneezing uncovered like he was putting on a performance.

“Ah’PdTXSSHiehh! Hhh’PTJSCHhh-eu! Hahh-! Ih’KGXT’SCHuhh!!”

The sneezes were acknowledged by a few scattered “bless you”s and one “fuck off, Rozy”. No one seemed to be paying much attention. Shane immediately felt his cheeks grow warm and stayed silent. Ilya’s eyes blinked open and found his own, locking gazes. He kept up the bedroom eyes as he sniffled deliberately and slowly rubbed one finger under his nostrils. That fucker. He knew exactly what he was doing.

Shane knew by now that Ilya could only pull off that particular trick when his nose was already irritated. Maybe I’ll get lucky and it won’t work? Or maybe he knows it will because his nose was already bothering him? Or he could have bothered his nose earlier on purpose… Fuck. He ruthlessly suppressed that train of thought before it could send any more heat rushing southward.

His efforts went to waste when Ilya managed to surreptitiously tease out another triple.

“HAa’kGXdZ’schiiih! Huh’PdTTCHeuh! AHH’PJZSSHhhih!! Nghh…”

Shane’s breath caught at the sight of Ilya’s abs clenching and relaxing as each sneeze flung him forward. His flush deepened when Ilya followed it up with a congested little groan that was practically obscene.

“Jesus, bless you!” Scott Hunter looked over in concern. “You’d better not be getting sick.”

Shane stared at the floor, hoping his flushed face would be attributed to lingering exertion from skating. He was thankful that the layers of hockey gear were enough to conceal the evidence of his growing arousal. For now, anyway.

“Oh, he always does that. Something about getting out of the cold air,” Wyatt Hayes explained enthusiastically.

Ilya nodded in affirmation, then pinched his nose between his thumb and forefinger. His thumb shifted ever so slightly to scratch the side of his nostril. He glanced at Shane under hooded eyelids, smirking at whatever he saw. Shane bit his lip in an effort to suppress a moan. I should really look away before I embarrass myself. He was too mesmerized by the sight of Ilya tracing the rim of his nostril with his thumbnail.

Marleau chimed in, entirely oblivious to the scene unfolding right in front of him. “Happens every time, since his rookie year. We used to think—”

“Heh- yHH’GDHtxx’SHIII! AHH’PJZSCHhhh!! Haa’kGXTCHheuhh!!!”

“—Now you’re just showing off. Anyway, it was a good luck thing. I kinda missed it after you abandoned us for Ottawa.”

Shane felt like an electric current was tingling through every nerve in his body. His pulse was rushing in his ears, his mouth so dry he could taste it. His erection strained painfully against the cup in his jock strap, but at least that made it less visible. Fuck you. I’ve never wanted you so badly. Please do that on my cock next time. Go fuck yourself. I need your dick in my mouth while you sneeze on me. Please fuck me. I’m going to murder you in your sleep.

Ilya sniffled hard and stood back up, interrupting Shane’s filthy reverie. His eyes met Shane’s for a moment, pupils blown wide. At least I’m not the only one. The thought just made it worse. Ilya broke eye contact and turned to Marleau and Hayes. Shane let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

“Yebat kopat, that was a lot. Look how much luck I gave us,” Ilya said airily. He looked back at Shane, then switched to the familiar infuriating tone that made most of the league want to punch him. “And our captain won’t even say ‘bless you’. Aren’t you supposed to be polite? Good Canadian boy?”

Shane’s glare was fueled by all the heat currently simmering in his veins.

“Go fuck yourself, Rozanov.”

Ilya smirked. “And people say I’m the asshole.”

***

(probably too many) author’s notes:

Stifled vs. uncovered - Ilya’s behavior changes in different contexts. His locker room persona is obnoxious hockey bro, so he would be at peak gross. Except for Sochi because angst.

Sneeze spellings - in my headcanon Ilya breaks his nose at the end of 2012. After that his sneezes get a bit more congested and consonant-y. In +1 he’s being performative, so they sound a bit closer to ‘Aptchi!’ because that’s the “classic” sneeze sound in Russian. (Can confirm this is a real phenomenon, my native language uses the same sound.)

Allergy season - I headcanon Ilya as allergic to tree pollen, so it would be March through May.

The Detergent Incident - currently a very unfinished WIP. The Raiders’ equipment staff switched detergent over the summer of 2012. It sets Ilya off on an insane sneezing fit on the first day of training camp.

Kink!Shane timeline - in my headcanon Ilya had a sneezy day during one of their hookups in 2015 and clocked Shane immediately. Maybe I’ll write it someday if I figure out how to write more explicit smut.