Chapter Text
June 2009. Cambridge, Massachusetts.
No matter how many times Rachel Hollander repeated it in her head, the thrill had yet to go away. I’m about to start my first semester at Harvard.
She knew it was lame to admit she cared so much, but no one knew the hard work she had put in to get here. The countless hours studying furiously for her advanced classes to make valedictorian, attending cello lessons twice a week, running the school paper every evening, and volunteering at the women’s shelter on the weekends had all paid off.
And Rachel was no genius; she hadn’t been born predestined to achieve greatness, she hadn’t come into this world programmed to succeed. Her path had been forged in fire, or carved in stone - whichever was more arduous and painful.
And what’s more is that she had done it by herself.
Of course, her family had helped her; they had gotten a very loving shoutout in her graduation speech. But between travelling to Kingston every weekend for Shane’s games, and planning with his agent to get CCM and Gatorade, and, apparently, potentially, Reebok endorsements, and working the jobs that allowed them to afford fourteen years of hockey and Harvard tuition, Rachel found herself frequently taking care of her own affairs.
It wasn’t something that went unnoticed by her, but it wasn’t something she particularly held against anyone, least of all Shane. He was her other half, the most important thing in the world to her, and she, more than anyone else, understood what Shane had was special.
She didn’t believe in God, but the closest she came to feeling religious was when she saw Shane skate. If she didn’t already know him, she would be drawn to his focus, skill, and pure determination. But she knew him better than anyone, so only she could see how his breathing relaxed when he was on the ice despite the pumping of his legs, or how his wandering, flitty eyes would focus in on his opponents, and his timid hesitancy was replaced by pure confidence and glee when he made an unreal play.
Shane was hockey; it was impossible to separate the two.
Rachel wasn’t anything in particular, maybe restless and driven, but it was those traits that made her parents trust she could handle things on her own. And she could.
For the most part.
She glanced down at her phone and began to type.
You: dad, you’re landing tomorrow night at 8, right?
It had sucked to have to move in alone, especially ahead of freshman orientation, but Rachel had been granted permission to audit an upper-year neuroscience seminar, which was practically unheard of for eighteen-year-old students.
Everyone at home had gushed about it and insisted she go, until she had nervously revealed. “The first day is during the draft week.”
Her mom and dad’s faces tensed up in unison. Awkwardly, they looked at each other, daring the other to speak before Shane had cleared his throat, “That sucks, Rach, I wish you could be there, but still you have to go. Dad, you should go too.”
Before their father could respond, Rachel scoffed, “Please. I’m not going to be the reason mom or dad doesn’t get to see their son go first overall. I can figure out how to move in by myself. Or stay in a hotel for a night. And then I will happily let either of them help me out.”
“You’ll let us, huh?” Mom had laughed before a guilty look came across her face. “Sweetie, I think we might need to stay in Los Angeles for a few days after the draft.”
“And be we, she means me and her,” Shane cut in, “Dad, you’ll go right?”
“Of course.” He had shrugged good-naturedly, “Watch my son get drafted to the MLH on Saturday, drop my daughter off at Harvard on Sunday. It’s every parent’s dream.”
Shane and Rachel both blushed in tandem.
“Well, now I’m jealous.”
Mom’s voice had wavered, Rachel remembered, which made her eyes suspiciously wet, all of a sudden. It wasn’t often that their mother was reduced to tears, and it had moved her as much as her physical presence might have.
Pocketing her phone, she consulted the off-campus map she had been instructed to and tried to locate the nearest sports bar. It would likely be packed, with Boston having the first pick, but she was only one girl, and bouncers barely even looked at her fake once she shot them a coy smile.
There was no way she was going to miss Shane getting drafted.
For a brief moment, after Boston had won the lottery, she and Shane had been electrified by the idea of moving to Boston together. Both of their dreams were coming true at the same time, and for them to experience it together seemed almost too good to be true.
Actually, it was definitely too good to be true.
Listening to the panel, or any sports radio station, or even the Harvard group chat she had been invited to join on Facebook, it was abundantly clear that Boston fans didn’t want a player who could stickhandle in a phone booth, or see the ice with 360-degree vision. They didn’t want a future Selke winner. They didn’t want someone who wouldn’t be caught dead in a bar after a win.
They wanted someone who would get under the other team’s skin and keep chirping even after the game was over. They wanted raw speed and strength, and the kind of greasiness that was an art form in itself. They wanted a rock star who would let his hair down with the ordinaries.
They wanted Ilya Rozanov, basically.
And, honestly, Rachel couldn’t fully blame them.
Both players were so clearly above everyone else that she could see why scouts might be torn between them. Where Rozanov was all power, Shane was all finesse. Rozanov had instincts; Shane had intelligence. Rozanov would punish you, and Shane would humiliate you.
Of course, having keenly observed Shane Hollander for his entire existence, Rachel was quite convinced he wouldn’t be satisfied even with a cup ring for each finger. And she had learned never to bet against Shane.
That being said, she was convinced her brother would be headed to Montreal. Which was for the best, really; it was a far sexier city, with a far sexier brand of hockey. It was also no secret that Shane would benefit from staying near his parents.
Plus, she had always been convinced he wanted to play in a Canadian market. He was old-fashioned like that.
It would be funny to see Shane’s face when they called him second. As much as they had discussed the likelihood of it and tried to come to peace with it, Rachel knew there was a tiny part of him that still believed his name might be called first. The same part of him that had been dreaming of this day for years.
She only hoped his dissatisfaction wouldn’t be too obvious to the Metros fans who would probably take out a second mortgage for season tickets once he was on the roster.
The nearest bar was not as packed as she had expected, but there was certainly no place to sit. She found a corner by the kitchen with a bit of standing room and ended up next to a blonde guy about her age wearing a Raiders cap.
He was pretty cute. Rachel figured it was never too early to start making friends.
“Hey,” She grinned sweetly, “Am I allowed to be here if I’m not a Raiders fan?”
If he was surprised at a random girl striking up a conversation with him, he didn’t show it. Instead, he grinned charmingly, “As long as you're not a Metros fan, I’ll allow it. Not that it’s my bar or anything.”
“Phew,” She made a show of wiping her forehead, “Centaurs.” She admitted with the appropriate amount of embarrassment.
He seemed to think she was joking, letting out a loud bark of laughter before it became evident she was serious. “Oh, no way. You’re way too cute to be a Cens fan.”
Score.
“You’re way too cute to be a Raiders fan,” She wrinkled her nose. “Besides, I’m afraid I was born into it. Blame my dad.”
“Fine,” He grumbled with a smirk, “I’ll allow it, I guess. No one can be perfect.”
They were playing a montage of Shane’s highlights from the Memorial Cup onscreen. Rachel gestured lightly in that direction. “Some people are.”
“Oh,” Suddenly his voice broke from charming guy to indignant sports fan, which she far preferred, “Hollander groupie, eh?”
The idea of being a groupie for her twin filled her with the kind of disgust that could only be read about in Gothic Horror stories.
“Nah,” She shook her head, “I just know puck. Unlike Raiders fans.”
“Ouch,” He laughed though, so she remained hopeful that the next words out of his mouth wouldn’t be to call her brother soft, or perimeter, or cutesy, “Hollander’s unreal. But Rozanov was made for Boston. Just sucks that they’re stuck in the same draft class, maybe we could have had both.”
Rachel tried to imagine a world where a team was able to draft both Rozanov and Shane; it seemed like a dangerous advantage. “Probably for the best,” She allowed, “Everyone loves a good rivalry.”
They continued to chit-chat until Boston was called to make the first selection. As expected, Ilya Rozanov went first, leading to shouts of celebration and joy around her. From the corner of her eye, Rachel could spot a few fans who looked slightly crestfallen (probably Hollander groupies, like her), but still, the overall mood of the bar was infectious.
She glanced at the screen and saw Rozanov give a polite hug to someone she assumed was his agent, before shaking his father’s hand. It wasn’t hard to notice the coldness if one was paying attention, but she supposed she might have been the only one who was. Still, Rozanov’s grin was brilliant - proud and unashamed.
She felt a pang in her heart at the thought of Shane, what his smile might have looked like if they called him first, but she stuffed it down immediately.
Montreal was where he belonged, and they were on the clock.
“The Montreal Metros are very pleased to select, from the Ontario Hockey League, Kingston Frontenacs, Shane Hollander.”
The camera panned in the direction of their family. Expectedly, Shane looked like someone had pissed in his soup, but he was too polite to bring it up, flashing a hostile smile that melted slightly when he reached out to hug their parents. Maybe naively, she was surprised to see that her parents were both tearing up. Before Shane could shake hands with his agent, he tapped his chest twice, and Rachel felt tears come to her own eyes.
It was always something silly they had done, patting their head or heart or even stomach, when they were hungry, twice. It was a way of saying they felt everything the same as one another.
One person, two halves.
As discretely as she could, she patted her own chest twice before making her way to the bar. Ordinarily, she would get a beer, but she felt a little sentimental today.
“Do you guys have ginger ale?”