Paraprincess

The game was in its third period with just minutes left to go and New York were ahead by two. The result was as good as certain now. Scott Hunter was about to lift the Stanley Cup for the first time in his career.

Cliff reached for another beer, his eyes flickering over to where Rozanov had paused packing his bags to smile softly at something, or someone, on his phone. He had been doing that a lot lately. After every playoff game, the first thing Rozanov had done when they got back to the locker room was check his phone. When the team went out for drinks last night before going their separate ways for the summer, Rozanov had ignored every girl in the club and instead given all of his attention to his phone. And now, as Scott Hunter was making history, there was that same strange smile.

There were many words that Cliff could use to describe Ilya Rozanov, but sweet had never been one of them until now. It was the only word that could be ascribed to the look that Rozanov had on his face when he looked at his phone like that and smiled.

On the screen the other Marlow had taken control of the puck, darting across the ice and delivering a neat pass to one of his teammates.

“Fucking Scott Hunter man.” Hammersmith let out a low whistle as they watched the clock count down the last thirty seconds.

Thirty seconds wouldn’t change anything. New York had won and the season was over.

It all felt terribly anticlimactic.

Ow!

Cliff slammed into Hollander with more force than he had anticipated. There was a deafening crash, and Cliff quickly shifted his weight to hold his balance and swivelled to assess the damage that he had left in his wake.

Hollander was laid out on the ice, unmoving. A crumpled heap of limbs that had fallen limp under layers of padding. Though he was a few inches shorter than Cliff, Hollander was not short by any means, but he now looked horribly, painfully small, smashed against the clean sheet of ice just minutes into the first period.

Shit. Marlow’s heart was pounding. He hadn’t meant to hit him hard. Not that hard at least.

Cliff looked up to where Rozanov was glaring at him over the body of the Montreal captain with wide, terrified eyes.  

Silence filled the arena. The air grew thick with tension, and Rozanov dragged his gaze away from Cliff. His eyes glistened as they grew wider, taking in the sight of Shane Hollander’s unconscious… almost lifeless… frame.

Rozanov still hadn’t responded to any of his texts since his flight landed, but Cliff had to assume that the lack of response was just because Rozanov would be back at training today, giving them an opportunity to actually talk it out and hopefully resume their usually scheduled friendship that consisted mostly of harmless chirping and locker room gossip.

The last week had been an uncomfortable one for Cliff because he had never fought with Rozanov before. He had never fought with any friend before. Cliff Marlow was completely allergic to drama.

Of course, he knew that however miserable he had been, Rozanov was absolutely going through so much worse.

Luckily, as the Boston captain’s eyes found Cliff’s, he nodded, weaving his way across the room to set himself up on the next treadmill. He was smiling and seemed relieved by the normalcy as conversations resumed and he matched Cliff’s pace without saying a word. He looked surprisingly okay for someone whose father had just died.

Ilya was in heaven.

He had been woken up that morning with coffee in bed, brought to him by the world’s greatest boyfriend, and then he had been treated to the most incredible cinnamon rolls that he had ever tasted in his entire life. He had demolished his own hungrily and then eaten half of Shane’s because Shane was still thinking about dieticians and eating healthy even on Christmas Day.

“David, all I want for Christmas is for you to teach me how to make these.” Ilya’s mouth was half full as he spoke.

“Sorry.” David gave him a small smirk. “It’s a family recipe.”

“Shaaaaane.” Ilya turned to his boyfriend with pleading eyes.

“Oh I absolutely cannot bake.” Shane protested.

“Maybe when you two get married…” Yuna chuckled.

When. Ilya caught the subtle but not at all insignificant distinction. Not If.

“Shane…” Ilya swivelled around in his seat with sparkling eyes and a playful threat on the tip of his tongue.

“Oh my god Ilya, you can’t just marry me for the cinnamon roll recipe.” Shane rolled his eyes.

Cliff’s mother always told him he could skate before he could walk. He was pretty sure she was exaggerating, but he certainly couldn't remember a time when he hadn’t loved being on the ice. When he was little his Dad would take him to the local rink every day after school and he would skate for hours and cry when he finally had to go home.

The truth was that for Cliff Marlow, the ice was his home.

He was five the first time he picked up a hockey stick and from that moment on it felt like his entire life was laid out in front of him. From that moment there was nothing else he wanted to do but play hockey.

Luckily, Cliff’s parents were both endlessly supportive and pretty huge hockey fans themselves, and so they happily taxied Cliff to practices and paid for hockey camps and cried happy tears when he made it to juniors and had to finish high school in Quebec living with a billet family.

His goals were simple.

First was to get drafted to the NHL, which he had achieved at the ripe old age of nineteen when Boston drafted him.

Second was to win the Stanley Cup, which he had done in 2014 as part of the dream team with Ilya Rozanov.

Third was to become an All Star…

“Is Roz here?” Cliff asked, his question immediately answered as his eyes landed on the grumpy Russian sprawled out on the nearest twin bed, his eyes fixed on ESPN blaring on the TV.

“He’s in a mood.” Connors didn’t lower his voice enough and Cliff was sure that Rozanov had heard that despite the fact that the captain gave no indication that he was even aware that they had company.

Cliff took a deep breath and stepped forward into the room. Connors shut the door behind him and settled back down onto his own bed on the far side of the room, scooting over so that there was room for Cliff to perch on the end of the bed.

He sat, accepting Connors’ offer of a protein bar, and glanced up at whatever it was Rozanov was staring at on the hotel room TV screen. ESPN was showing some boring fluff piece about Shane Hollander’s fancy lake house and Rozanov was watching it as though it was the most fascinating thing he had ever seen.

“Roz, man…” Cliff wasn’t sure how to start, and Rozanov seemed determined not to let his attention shift from Shane Hollander’s dumb yoga routine. “Look, I know something’s off and… well, fuck man, I’m worried about you okay… The team’s worried….” He trailed off.

In honor of Chapter Two of Happy Holidays, I made the Die Hard cover with Connor...

SNEAK PEEK

David had broken out the good Russian vodka, and was relishing in his recent Yahtzee victory, as he lounged comfortably on the sofa. They had planned to put a Christmas movie on for the evening, but such plans had been put on pause because Shane and Ilya were now deep into a heated argument about whether or not Die Hard counted as a Christmas movie.

“It is literally set at Christmas, Hollander!”

“That doesn’t make it a Christmas movie! Iron Man 3 is set at Christmas but that’s not a Christmas movie!” Shane countered and David decided not to mention that he had actually watched Iron Man 3 yesterday because it was being shown on TV for Christmas.

“So being set at Christmas is not important for Christmas movies?” Ilya stared down his angular nose at Shane, eyes narrowed.

“I mean yeah but to be a Christmas movie it also has to… I don’t know… be about Christmas.”

“Then Home Alone is not Christmas movie.” A triumphant grin settled across Ilya’s face as he folded his arms over his chest. David thought about it for a moment. Ilya was right; Home Alone was set at Christmas, but it wasn’t really about Christmas.

“What the fuck!” Marlow scowled at the candid pictures, scrolling through six or seven all clearly taken in quick succession, showing Hollander smiling at Rose, their hands clasped together, Rose laughing with the wind in her hair, looking way too good.

He passed the phone back.

It wasn’t necessarily a huge surprise that someone who looked like Hollander could pull a babe like Rose Landry. For one thing, Hollander was easily the most recognisable face in the league these days. Between leading the Metro’s to back-to-back Stanley Cup’s and the million obnoxious ad campaigns he seemed to star in, Shane Hollander was hockey’s biggest star. And, as much as Cliff hated to admit it, he was popular with the ladies.

 But Cliff had seen and heard enough to know that Shane Hollander wasn’t exactly sociable. He didn’t go out, he didn’t party, and he definitely didn’t get photographed with girls. Sure Hollander had the looks, but Cliff had never seen any evidence to suggest that the man had game.

From the minute that he arrived at the rink and made his way through the familiar hallways to the Boston Raiders locker room he could feel the shift in the energy that felt like a bad omen going into today’s game against Montreal.

He sat down on the bench, resting his elbows on his knees, and let his eyes scan the room for the source of the problem.

Most of the guys didn’t even seem to have noticed the palpable tension that hung in the air. Carmichael and Connors were happily laughing and joking as they usually did before any game; Hammersmith was quiet, earbuds in, probably listening to some thrash metal mix as was his typical pre-game routine; Johansson was texting someone – probably his wife – with a wide smile across his face.

With a sinking feeling in his gut, Cliff’s eyes rested on Ilya Rozanov, the team captain, who sat next to him now, staring… no scowling at a spot on the far wall.

“I don’t like Christmas.” Was the unfeeling and not entirely true answer that slipped from Ilya’s lips. Shane tugged back from Ilya’s arms, his eyes studying the firm lines of Ilya’s face.

“Oh…” Shane bit his lip nervously.

“What?” Ilya asked.

“Well, it’s just, Mom’s kind of…” Shane trailed off but Ilya caught the jist of what he was saying. Ilya smiled at the thought of Yuna putting all of her endless energy into curating the most perfect Christmas possible. She was a rather unstoppable force once she set her mind to something and the thought of her meticulously planning out every festive detail made Ilya suddenly rather excited for fourty-eight sexless hours of Christmas magic.

“Good.” Ilya laid a reassuring kiss on the tip of Shane’s nose. “I want to enjoy this Christmas.”

Ilya could have told Shane that once upon a time he loved the holidays. He could have told him about how every New Years Eve his mother would take him and Alexei sledding, and how it was Father Frost who had brought Ilya his first hockey stick one fateful New Years Day. How his father would always eat too much food and how even Alexei hated him a little less during that wonderful first week of January. And then, on January 7th, how his mother would drag all three of her boys to church for the Orthodox Christmas service.

Of course, Ilya could also have told Shane how all of that stopped the very same year that his mother died. That, at twelve years old, there was no tree, no presents, no glorious feast. That Alexei had started a fight with him that New Years Eve, and his father had been too drunk to do anything about it. That they didn’t go to church.

Ilya hadn’t celebrated since.