a collection of hollanovs
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Pummel: Fuck Jane
St-Simon: nah…
St-Simon: i dont think shes done anything wrong…
Pummel: youre right
Pummel: Sorry Jane
Pummel: FUCK ROZANOV
Varkov: FUCK ROZANOV
Connors: Hey guys did you see this article about Rose Landry and Shane Hollander?
Carmichael: Bad timing, man.
Connors: Oh
Connors: Give me a second to read back.
Connors: Oh….
Connors: FUCK ROZANOV
[Or, how the Raiders---in particular the long suffering Cliff Marleau, dealt with the Great Jane Debacle of 2016, told in a series of texts, posts, and Cliff being the best Bostonian friend Ilya could ask for]
Series
- Part 1 of a collection of hollanovs
- Part 1 of The Entire History of Montreal Jane
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Summary
St-Simon: roz was so close to killing himself or killing us everytime they’d break up
St-Simon: the last one was so bad
St-Simon: put us through so much SHIT
St-Simon: he probably ended up proposing when they got back together
Connors: The fact that Roz transferred before we even met Jane.
Connors: She’ll never be in the WAG GC.
Sebbin: its still reasonable to think we just made her up
Sebbin: maybe we all fucking died in 2016 and this is just a hallucination
St-Simon: man you really got hit hard in the head
[Or--after the wedding, after everything--how the Raiders, especially Cliff, eventually figured Montreal Jane out]
Series
- Part 2 of The Entire History of Montreal Jane
- Part 2 of a collection of hollanovs
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Summary
And then there is Ilya Rozanov after all of them, the cocky eighteen year old smoking in front of a no-smoking sign outside an arena in Saskatchewan. Ilya Rozanov, hockey player, born in Moscow, Russia to Irina Rozanova and Grigori Rozanov (though Shane wouldn’t really know this until much later). June 15, 1991. Shane was born before him so, technically, Rozanov has never known a life without Shane Hollander, which he will definitely lord over him whenever he’d get the chance to. His jersey number is 81. He’s a center like Shane. He’s the captain of the Boston Raiders. He’s a Gemini, though Shane has no idea how that affects him, if it has any bearing on his personality at all. Shane thinks there’s none because Rozanov is an asshole regardless, but all the tabloids insist that there is. He’s six foot three; only an inch taller than Shane. He’s a boy. There’s this thing that he does where he rubs his nose whenever he’s lying. It’s a pretty easy tell, and Rozanov is not a very good liar. He’s a boy, a boy, a boy.
Sometimes, he wishes Rozanov was a girl instead.
Series
- Part 3 of a collection of hollanovs
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Summary
There are a great many things that Shane has no plans on telling his husband: that when he was twelve he broke a competitor’s hockey stick because he was mad his team didn’t win. That he sometimes thinks that his Mom would have liked to have another kid if Shane wasn’t much of a handful. That he had to pull over to cry in his car on the way back to his apartment that night in Montreal after seeing Ilya dance with another girl in the club.
And, that he can no longer sleep in their bed without Ilya.
Series
- Part 4 of a collection of hollanovs
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He’s just about ready to doze off—his ritualistic pre-dinner, thirty-minute nap—when, suddenly, Ilya says, “Huh. Interesting.”
Shane cracks one eye open. “Hmm?”
“Oh, nothing, малыш,” he replies, though his brows are furrowed when he says it. Shane’s even more curious now.
“No, really, what is it?”
Ilya must lose some internal debate; a deep sigh leaves his body before, wordlessly, he turns his phone to Shane.
The bright light makes him squint, still not used to Ilya and his affinity for both using the light-mode feature and turning the brightness in his phone to a maximum. He forgoes scolding him when, after his eyes have adjusted, he reads: Metros acquires Fil-Canadian Rivera; second Asian player in franchise history after Hollander.
At first he thinks, oh, that’s my name. Shane hasn’t seen his name mentioned remotely near the words ‘Montreal Metros’ ever since he transferred to Ottawa three years ago. Then, and this is when it finally dawns on him, Shane thinks: second?
Series
- Part 5 of a collection of hollanovs
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[a voice message sent May 10th, 1991, received by a Panasonic answering machine]
David: Hey, Mom. The baby has been ejected.
Yuna: David, no, that’s—no. Give me that. Hey, Mrs. Holl—
David: She’s your mom too, you know—
Yuna: —just letting you know that we have a baby! Seven pounds and seven ounces, ten fingers and ten toes. His name is Shane, and he’s excited to meet you… at some point. When we get out of the hospital. We love you, we hope to see you soon, and—
David: —and bring peach cobbler when you visit!
Yuna: … and bring peach cobbler when you visit. Bye.
[Or, Shane is the best Mother's Day gift that Yuna could ever ask for. Literally. Told through a thirty-five-year-long series of letters, postcards, voice messages, and Yuna feeling so much love for her son(s) she could just burst.]
Series
- Part 6 of a collection of hollanovs