Work Text:
Boston is wicked fucking cold in February.
And slushy.
And windy.
Robbie cursed and tucked his chin down into the collar of his jacket.
He’d left his scarf at home, and every gust of wind found his weak point, celebrating as it chilled his neck down to the bone. His ears, which after a haircut now stuck out of his curly black hair, were red and icy. Robbie was sure that, once he got to work, he wouldn’t be able to feel them. He’d have to stand there and hold them between fingers barely warmer than they were until he was sure he wouldn’t be losing them to frostbite - at least this time.
He’d had to park his car in the public garage a block away from the hotel.
He cursed management one more time for choosing late fall to start renovations on the parking situation. Now there were only barely enough spaces for the guests, and staff had to hoof it.
Luckily, as Robbie was Boston-born and raised, he was able to dodge the puddles that would suck in your boots and ice your foot for you.
He held the door open for a couple of giggling maids at the staff entrance. They were cute. Tiny buns and cheeks as ruddy as he was sure his were. Batting their eyes as they looked up and biting their lips as though that would be the deciding factor for a date.
Robbie didn’t shit where he ate, as he’d explained to them. Repeatedly.
It didn’t help when he overheard them in crowds in the hall on his way past, commenting on his shoulders, curls, or the shape of his nose.
He’d dated before on the job and wasn’t going to make that mistake again.
He shifted his crumpled paper bag of food to his left hand so he could move his timecard across.
“Cutting it a little close for a shift you begged to take, aren’t you?” asked Matty, once he got into the booth.
“It’s going to be worse for you. There must’ve been at least six idiots who decided that the I-93 was a good place to crash out in the wind and the slush and the cops haven’t gotten it all cleared out yet.”
“Fuck.”
“Fuck is right. Have a nice drive home.”
“Fuck you,” said Matty affectionately as he shoved his arms through the sleeves of his jacket. “See if I switch shifts for you again.”
“You’ll always switch shifts for me.”
“Why do you say that?” Matty asked, raising one eyebrow and scowling.
“Because you want to watch the game at home, rather than listening to it at work. Sit in your chair and put your feet up. Make Mary get you a beer.”
Matty slugged Robbie on the arm, and Robbie forced his face not to flinch or show the bruising he was sure would be there in the morning. Matty, fuck him, had pitched for minor baseball just a few years ago and knew exactly how hard he could punch.
“You and your hockey obsession.”
“Fuckin’ right.”
“You know it’ll be basketball for me,” snarked Matty, adjusting the scarf that he had remembered to bring around his neck. “I have no idea what you find exciting about a bunch of dudes that have to wear padding to play.”
“Maybe someday I’ll take you to a game, and you’ll find out,” replied Robbie with a shrug of his shoulders.
“When could we when you try and trade to be here every game? I know the hotel has a deal with the hockey people…” Robbie snorted at Matty’s description. The hockey people. Fuck. “But you need to get out there. Get laid. Maybe watch the game at a bar.”
“I’ll take that under consideration.”
Matty shrugged. “Your loss. See ya later.”
“Bye.”
Robbie folded his long legs onto the chair as the door clicked closed behind Matty.
He’d been doing this for the last two years.
It had only taken twice to notice a pattern.
And they were careful, Robbie had to give them that.
But if Robbie had noticed, others fucking could too, and so Robbie was there, watching the monitors, writing in his little book, and protecting them.
The only way this worked was if Robbie traded for every shift he could when the hockey teams were in town. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, tuned in to the one sports channel that both covered the game and was powerful enough to reach him here in the bowels of the hotel, and waited.
His pen scratched the surface of the paper as he logged entrants into the hotel and where they were going. As he made sure that the people in the elevators made it to their floors, and watched as people who were, perhaps, not with their wives, giggled in the hallways on their way to fuck.
It was boring work.
Repetitive.
But Robbie was an observant guy.
It’s how he knew when Huff had bruised ribs and was favouring his left side. Or when Andersson needed to get his fucking mind in the game and get replaced in net.
Or when a certain person always got a hotel room when the Montreal Metros were in town.
Technically, guest names weren’t displayed inside the security room at the hotel.
Technically, those were only available to management.
Technically, when Robbie had borrowed a computer at the front desk to “check his email”, he might’ve noticed that it was always under a different name (smart) - but Ilya Rozanov couldn’t change his fucking face, could he?
Robbie was a hockey fan.
He’d been following Rozanov’s career since the Juniors and had almost cried with happiness when he’d been drafted to Boston as the first-round draft pick.
He was an asshole.
But he was Boston’s asshole in a way that transcended place of birth.
In a sneaky elbow to another player’s gut, to a hissed word under a visor - he fucking embodied Boston hockey, and Robbie fucking loved him as a player. That first year - he’d spent at home, watching the games, drinking beer, and yelling at the TV when the ref caught his boy fucking with the other team.
But that was then.
This was now.
Robbie waited.
And waited.
The game ended with a whimper. Boston had fucking pulled up their fucking laces and smashed the Metros. Four to one at the buzzer, and Robbie punched the air, refilled his coffee, and leaned back, tossing his ankles over the desk.
Any minute, now.
But it didn’t happen.
What happened was new.
Robbie watched as the Metros slugged their way into the hotel, sweaty and pissed off.
He watched as their defensemen went down to the hotel bar to drink away their shame.
He watched as players went back to their rooms, silent halls showing their shame.
Any other night, he’d be thrilled, but tonight Ilya hadn’t fucking shown up.
The walls of the coffee cup tensed and trembled as Robbie gripped it.
Was it over?
Maybe not.
Robbie’s eyes rounded as he watched Hollander slip out into the hallway as usual, bypassing the elevator (smart), he went to the stairwells. Instead of going up to their usual room on the sixteenth floor, he went down.
Down?
Robbie frowned, leaning forward as he watched Hollander take the stairs lightly, then push open the outside door into the cold and slush. A flick of a button, and he watched an Uber glide to a stop on the curb.
Damn.
Robbie tipped his head back, drinking in the last of the stale and tasteless coffee and smiled at the ceiling.
They were taking the next step.
It was obvious when Hollander returned, three hours later, coming in the back entrance with that same small smile stretched over his features.
And Robbie didn’t log either his exit or return.
Fucking hell.
He blew out a breath.
It’d probably take a year before he could reliably watch every game from his couch again.
His coworkers were a little too comfortable knowing that Robbie would switch shifts to be in the hotel on hockey days (because he loved hockey), and not that he made sure to get every shift so he could help Rozanov and Hollander cover their tracks. If Hollander was just leaving now instead of meeting up with Rozanov, there wouldn't be anything that Robbie needed to hide for them.
The rest of his shift passed quietly, and he nodded at Miguel, who came to relieve him at seven in the morning.
“Anything I should know about, Robbie?” asked Miguel, tipping his head to the side and dropping a lunchbag that smelled amazing onto the security desk.
“Nothing at all. Fucking quiet.”
Getting home was always hard when the slush had frozen around footprints and spiked up in the wind. Robbie nearly slipped and fell twice along the way. The car had, thank fuck, started at the first turn of the key, and someone had come out and salted the walkway so he didn’t have to worry on his way into the house.
“How was work?”
Robbie grinned. It was fucking nice to hear that. He’d spent years waiting, denying himself, and refusing to look. But then along came Michael.
They had separate bedrooms, so that Michael’s family wouldn’t know he was in a relationship with a man - but to all their friends, and to all of Robbie’s family? Well.
“I think those boys might’ve just started to figure it out.”
“Really?” Michael sounded surprised. “Does this mean that I have to start watching hockey again? I'd nearly gotten used to the quiet.” His eyes twinkled as he shoved another scoop of cereal into his mouth, and Robbie started making plans on what he'd do to Michael once his breakfast was finished and Robbie wouldn't have to listen to any whining about soggy bits in the bottom of his bowl.
“It just fucking might.”