née featherdustersarecool

“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. 

“Budte zdorovy, 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. 

“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.