Chapter Text
Looking back at it, there were subtle clues around the whole thing. In the way there always were. The first time Cliff noticed it was after the first game of the season, the first win of the season. Rozy was a party animal, always had been, and that was one of many things Cliff loved about him. One of the many reasons they had become friends so quickly.
But Cliff had never been a stranger to change, and he'd never hesitated to adapt to a situation. It was part of what made him such a great hockey player. And he surely wasn't a stranger to the new cracking noise his knees made sometimes when he stood up, the subtle ache he felt days after Rozy pushed the team too hard during bag skates, and the way that he couldn't drink quite as much as he used to without paying the price.
And he had noticed Roz's new phone habits. The fucker had always been glued to it, constantly texting "the masses" as he liked to say. But where before, that had come with a furrow to his brow and his tongue slightly poking out of the corner of his mouth, his texting face had transformed completely to an almost fond, soft smile.
And if Cliff didn’t know any better, which most people on the team would claim he didn't, he would almost think that the light pink dusted on Roz's cheeks when responding to texts nowadays was from a blush rather than "overexertion" at practice.
So, when after the first game of the season, the rookies practically drooling to go out with the famed Ilya Rozanov, Connor Connors, Victor St. Simon, and Cliff Marlow, and Rozy shrugged carelessly to Cliff's suggestion to start the night at a karaoke bar, Cliff knew something was up.
Because Rozanov was great at karaoke, but he fucking hated it.
And Cliff could only ever convince him to go after at least seven drinks, and as far as he was concerned, Rozanov was sober, of competent, clear mind, and not protesting at all.
Cliff nudged him with his shoulder while everyone around them changed, the prospect of going out and getting fucked up to celebrate looming brightly in their future, and asked, "Rozy, you feeling alright?"
Cliff analyzed the way Rozanov's shoulders froze slightly before relaxing into his usual careless 'Russian charm'.
"As good as ever, Marly." He responded, clapping his hand onto Cliff's shoulder with a broad smile. "Hey, maybe when we duet tonight, you will not sound like dying cat, yes?"
Cliff nodded slowly, watching as Rozanov picked his phone up, thumbs flying furiously across the screen and soft smile settled on his face.
And later, when Rozanov left the bar early, after an obligatory duet with Cliff, and a respectable four shots with the rookies, Cliff was nearly already too fucked up to notice.
And when he woke up the next morning with the worst hangover of his life, that he was sure would be topped in no time, he had a text from Rozy sent at 6:53 am. Which- what the fuck?
'run and bagels after at 9?'
It was 8:47 am. But Roz hardly ever texted him first to hang out, and Cliff would be damned if he turned him down.
'9:30 and you're on.'
He managed to make it through a shower, because he smelled like the floor of a bar, and two whole glasses of water without throwing up before Roz was knocking at his front door.
"Marly, you are so old, you cannot also be slow. Pick struggle!" Rozanov called from outside.
Cliff rolled his eyes fondly as he pulled the door open, "Fuck off, Rozy." He replied good naturedly.
Rozanov's eyes widened slightly as he took in Cliff's appearance, the corners of his mouth pulling upward in an all too familiar smirk, "And today you are ugly too. Hard life for you."
Nearly 7 years of playing together, and being best friends, had taught him that continuing to argue would only cause Rozanov to come up with new, inspired retorts, and it was way too early in the morning for Cliff to keep up with him.
So he inclined his head to the door and asked, "Left or right?" and then they were off running down the sleepy suburb streets.