Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“I don’t want to talk about Ilya Rozanov,” Shane Hollander said as he paced around his doctor’s office.

Dr Hunter reclined in his plush leather chair and stared at him intently from behind his desk, wordlessly telling him to expand on his sudden outburst. Shane’s session had only just begun, and he was already charging out of the gates with this topic before Dr Hunter even had a chance to offer him any pleasantries.

Shane was usually polite and liked to follow the order Dr Hunter set for their meetings, but today was different. Because today, he would be facing Ilya Rozanov for the first time in six months.

Dr Hunter hummed like he was contemplating what to say before he laced his fingers together and leaned his bodyweight against the mahogany desk. Mercifully for Shane, Dr Hunter wasn’t a psychologist, so he didn’t press him further about his mental state. Instead, he gestured to the seat across from him and used his stern expression to guilt Shane into finally sitting down. He had known Shane for all of six months, but he could likely tell he was not one to argue with authority.

Shane reluctantly sat down and resisted the urge to chew nervously on his hoodie string. It was a bad habit that his mom had tried to wean him off since he was a child, or so she told him.

Shane looked up at Dr Hunter, caught a glimpse of his intense gaze, then looked away again. He distracted himself by thinking about how it was unfair that attractive people got to be smart too, because (objectively, of course) Dr Hunter was a very attractive neurologist with a medical degree from Yale.

It was probably why Shane had insisted he be his doctor (because of Yale, not because of his looks). Shane was a Yale alumnus too, thanks to their diving programme, and it gave them something to talk about, aside from his faulty brain.

“So, it’s your first competition back today,” The doctor stated as he flipped through Shane’s chart.

“Yes, well, it’s just a friendly,” Shane replied, then continued. “Sorry for freaking out, but it’s a big day for me, and I don’t want to waste our time here.”

It was true, today was his first friendly. His mom wanted him to wait until the 2018 season kicked off in late January to start competing again, but Shane couldn’t resist attending the last event of the year—especially because it was being held in his city, Montreal.

Dr Hunter nodded and pulled the glasses off the top of his head and placed them delicately on his perfectly straight nose. Of course, he looked good in glasses, too.

“That’s perfectly okay, Shane.” He nodded empathetically and looked across the desk to Shane, then back to the chart. “I’ve had a lot of clients who were in your shoes—athletes who’ve returned to their sports—and they’ve all said the first competition or game is the hardest.”

Shane sighed. It was nice to know he wasn’t alone, but he also couldn’t help but feel the rise of anger in his chest that left him wondering why he had to be lumped in with them in the first place.

“Did they all do well? Your clients?” Shane found himself asking, because of course, he needed to know what his chances were here.

Dr Hunter paused for an unbearably long moment and clicked his tongue. Which nearly knocked the wind out of Shane’s sails.

“I am going to be honest with you, Shane,” Dr Hunter told him, which made Shane want to throw up his breakfast.

This was bad, and a part of him knew it was inevitable, but he wasn’t quite ready to accept that fact yet.

The doctor continued, “I’ve never had a client like you.”

“Because my brain is so messed up?” Shane couldn’t help himself; he had to finish Dr Hunter’s thought.

“No. Shane, I’ve never had a client of your calibre.”

Oh.

“Oh,” Shane said redundantly.

“You’re a three-time Olympian, a Yale graduate, the most decorated diver in all of Canada, and you’ve been smashing records since you were seventeen.” The doctor paused, looking up at Shane with raised eyebrows as if asking if he needed to continue listing his achievements.

None of it was untrue. Shane had a very fruitful career in diving, both solo and alongside his best friend and synchro-partner Hayden Pike. Sometimes Shane couldn’t quite believe it was really his life.

When Shane said nothing, Hunter finished his speech. “All that to say, if anyone is going to come back from this, it will be you. I have no doubt.”

Shane looked down at his own hands, not wanting to look at the doctor in case his voice broke.

“But there’s still a chance that I won’t, right? You said there’s a chance—” Like it always happened when discussing this topic, Shane’s eyes filled with tears.

Without needing a prompt, Dr Hunter slid a box of tissues across the wood that separated them. Shane looked up only briefly to locate the tissues and caught a glimpse of his chart that Dr Hunter had left open.

He knew he shouldn’t read it in his state, but he did it anyway.

Reason for Admission: Motor vehicle collision (MVC)

Patient found conscious but confused at scene. On examination, alert and cooperative, oriented to person only. Speech fluent; no focal neurological deficits noted. Cognitive testing reveals significant retrograde amnesia, with inability to recall autobiographical events from approximately age 16 onward. Short-term memory intact. Exam notable for pain over the left clavicle and chest wall tenderness.

CT head and MRI brain show no abnormalities. X-ray confirms fracture of the left clavicle and fractures of two ribs.

Neurology and neuropsychology consultations requested. Orthopaedic consult for fracture management. Monitor neurological status.
Prognosis for memory recovery remains guarded.

Shane tore his eyes from the chart when he heard Dr Hunter’s voice again. “The probability of regaining memory is hard to predict, Shane. You know that.”

Shane hated the way Dr Hunter frowned when he said that. He hated that Dr Hunter was right, but all he wanted was a black and white answer from him.

“I know, it’s just that my body feels like it’s back to normal. So why isn’t my brain?” He whined, pushing his face into his palms.

He felt the doctor’s hand on his shoulder. “It’s going to take time, and right now being stressed about your return to work isn’t going to help.”

Shane knew he was trying to be helpful, but his anger still flared anyway. “So you’re saying I should just give up?”

“No, that’s not—”

Shane cut him off.

“Because diving is the only thing I have. If I quit now, I have nothing.” He stood up and stared at the stupid chart on the desk that was taunting him.

“Shane, I—”

“Do you know what the worst part is?” He asked, suddenly too calm.

The doctor coaxed Shane to sit back down, and he did reluctantly. “Tell me,” he encouraged, as he pushed Shane’s chart back into his filing cabinet.

“I have to face Ilya Rozanov today.”

“Remind me why’s that a bad thing?” Dr Hunter shrugged awkwardly. “Sorry, I’m more of an ice hockey man myself.”

“Because you said getting back into routine could help my memory come back,” Shane started, then paused when he pictured himself emerging from the water to look at the judges’ scores. “And part of my routine used to be beating Rozanov.”

In the six months since Shane lost his memory, he had spent nearly every waking moment with his coach training for his body to return to sport. During his downtime, when he was supposed to be resting, he found himself researching the ten years of life that were now a big blank space in his mind. In turn, he learned everything possible about his archrival, Russia’s Ilya Rozanov. Because it was obvious over those ten years, wherever Shane went, Rozanov followed right on his tail. If he had any shot of returning to his former glory, he knew he needed to get the upper hand.

In his studies, Shane learned that Rozanov was an obnoxious womaniser with an ego the size of an Olympic swimming pool. From the YouTube rabbit holes Shane found himself falling into, he recalled that Rozanov was also extremely perceptive and scarily so with Shane. In every press conference, Shane watched Rozanov get under his skin, and he knew today would be no different.

He was still trying to convince himself he was ready for the showdown when he entered Dr Hunter’s office that morning.

“Have you thought more about your decision not publicly discuss your condition?” Dr Hunter asked gently. “A lot of my patients describe feeling afraid of being judged; you wouldn’t be alone in that feeling.”

Patients. Shane hated that word. He wasn’t sick; he was just someone with a problem that needed fixing. His brain was the car, and Dr Hunter was the mechanic who was supposed to make it run like a Ferrari. Right now, it was more like a college kid’s beater. Functioning, barely.

Shane swallowed thickly. It had been his mother’s idea initially to release only the details of his physical injuries from the accident. At first, Shane was hesitant about releasing even those sordid details; he was always a very private person. Now, he couldn’t imagine anyone finding out about his deepest secret.

Because he had the perfect life, he had a room full of trophies and medals, fans, friends and family that all adored him—and yet, he couldn’t remember any of it. It was most shameful because it wasn’t the accident that directly caused the amnesia—it was post-traumatic stress— and from what Shane had learned from studying himself, he had nothing to be stressed over.

“I can’t. My career will never be the same.”

The words felt bitter on his tongue. He hated saying them, but it was true. His competitors would pity him—or worse—they could let him win.

He didn’t want to be the charity case of the diving circuit.

“Okay, I understand.” Hunter nodded solemnly. “I know you said you didn’t want to talk about him—”

Shane held up his hand. “Sorry, doc. Not going there again.”

Because Shane couldn’t face it. Besides, Dr Hunter didn’t need to know about his fear that Rozanov’s bloodhound tendencies would sniff out his weakness when they met. And he would absolutely not discuss what he should say to convince Rozanov he was totally not crazy when he didn’t even know his name six months ago.

“Okay.” Dr Hunter held his hands up in surrender and changed the topic. “How have you been sleeping since we changed the dosage?”

He asked about the sleeping pills Shane had been taking to combat the nightmares about the accident that woke him up almost nightly. Truthfully, they had been working like a charm…but he didn’t have the mental strength to tell Hunter it wasn’t just the nightmares that kept him awake at night, but the calls he had started to receive from an unknown number.

“My sleep has been okay,” he answered somewhat truthfully.

Dr Hunter smiled genuinely. “That’s good to hear. Let’s wrap up our session on a positive note.”

Shane stood up from his seat. He was ready to get the hell out of there and get this day behind him. Then Hunter slid a pamphlet for EMDR therapy across the desk.

“One of my colleagues has a clinic that I think could help you.”

Shane’s eye scanned the page; he and the doctor had discussed alternative therapies before, but Shane was perfectly content with the conventional route of physical therapy, managing his diet, and the occasional brain scan. Shane was sure this colleague was nice enough, but he was a man who believed in mainstream science, and EMDR therapy was well outside of his comfort zone.

“Thanks.” Shane stuck his hand out to shake the doctor’s.

Dr Hunter took it and then slipped the business card of Dr Elena Rygg, a neuropsychologist, into Shane’s open palm.

Hunter pressed his lips together in a reserved smile. “Take care of yourself, Shane. Listen to your body and get plenty of rest.”

Shane didn’t miss the sentiment in his words and ne nodded obediently, although he didn’t really have any intentions of heeding the doctor’s advice. “Of course. Christmas is coming up, I’ll get plenty of rest then,” he told him.

“Good to hear. Good luck today!” Dr Hunter yelled after him as Shane slipped on his coat and hastily turned to exit down the corridor.

The smell of chlorine filled Shane’s lungs, and the warmth of the arena heated his still-dripping, bare skin. He had just completed the final solo dive of his series, which was thankfully much smoother than the first. It wasn’t perfect by any means, but it was enough to earn him a score that would secure him second place—right behind Rozanov.

Shane didn’t need to see him to know that Rozanov was watching him from his spot amongst the Russian competitors. When Shane looked up, he caught those all-knowing hazel eyes as they followed the path that Shane’s maple leaf shammy was taking to soak up rivulets of pool water. He only stopped his assessment of Shane’s body when his synchro partner, Sasha Savitsky, elbowed him in the ribs so Rozanov would pay attention to whatever he was whispering in his ear.

“The golden boy has returned, congratulations,” Sasha called out to him. A playful smile spread across his lips.

“Thanks,” he replied plainly.

Because just as much as he had researched Rozanov, Savitsky had also made an appearance on Shane’s radar. Although he had to admit, as cocky as it sounded, Savitsky was of no concern to Shane. He knew he could beat him, and he had proven it today, along with Hayden, who had ensured he fell into fourth place in the singles event.

Sasha’s taunting was cut short by their coach yelling. “Savitsky, Rozanov!” He gestured at the platform where they would open the synchronised diving event.

Shane tossed his shammy over his shoulder, ready to return to his bench, when Rozanov finally met his eye. He looked like he wanted to say something, Shane could practically see the words forming on his tongue, then he turned on his heel and followed Sasha up the stairs.

“God, they’re both assholes.” Hayden groaned from behind him, which caused Shane to jump.

Hayden, oblivious to Shane’s absentmindedness, pressed on. “Congratulations, buddy. I’m so proud of you.”

He wrapped him in a hug; it was a moment that would likely be photographed by the local press and shared on social media later. ‘Hollander’s Homecoming!’ Shane could practically read the headline as Hayden slapped his shoulder affectionately.

“Thanks, Hayd. It feels good to be back.” Shane felt himself sigh in relief.

This is what he needed, a chance to prove to everyone (and mostly himself) that he could still dive and, better yet, make it to the podium.

“Fuck yes it does!” Hayden exclaimed, and Shane gave him a look that said ‘there are kids here, idiot’.

He and Shane started their walk over to the small heated pool below the diving platform to give their muscles some time to warm up before it was their turn to stand on the edge. The warm water was a welcome treat, and surprisingly, something Shane found he had missed. He knew from his time under Dr Hunter’s care that muscle memory was a real concept, so being back in this environment didn’t come as a shock to his system. All the sensations felt affable: the cold air as he scaled the stairs to the top of the platform, the feeling of his toes at the very edge of the platform, the maneuver of the dives he had completed countless times before, and the breaking of surface tension as he slipped into the water like he belonged there. It felt like embracing an old friend.

“Do you remember your weird superstitions?” Hayden asked as Rozanov and Savitsky prepared their first dive.

Shane thought about it for a moment. He didn’t remember them to a tee, but he had watched a documentary about himself where he explained his pre-dive rituals, which caught him up to speed.

“Sasha Savitsky and Ilya Rozanov—” Shane heard the announcer start, then he covered his face with his shammy so he couldn’t watch their dive.

It was a ridiculous superstition, but as a kid, he felt like it was bad luck to watch the other divers. Somewhere along the line, his lucky maple leaf shammy found itself thrown into the mix.

“You are something else, Hollander.” Shane heard Hayden laugh from beside him, followed by the sound of the water of the pool adjacent to them splashing as the Russians completed their first dive.

It must have been good, judging by the enthusiastic cheers of the crowd. Shane would find himself watching the replay on YouTube later, no doubt.

“Hey, it won us medals!”

Hayden flicked some water in his direction. “You did that all on your own, idiot. No shammy needed.”

Shane smiled; he wanted to believe it too.

After Shane and Hayden took turns with Rozanov and Savitsky to complete their six dives, it was clear that the pragmatic approach Team Canada had taken did not pay off. Shane was irritated. He knew from watching previous competition’s footage that the Russians tended to play up the degree of difficulty towards the end of their pieces. It was a risky choice, but when you had two solid divers who could execute them with precision, the odds were in your favour. Unlike shaky Shane and Hayden, who played it safe because of Shane’s handicap. It was disappointing, mostly because Shane knew he could do it. He felt it in his bones that he was ready to take the pressure of competing difficult dives.

The only solace was that they landed in second place, albeit there was a great divide between their score and Rozanov and Savitsky’s, but it would be enough for Shane to put on a happy face. He reminded himself that this was just a friendly, an end-of-year wrap-up to tide them over until the next season. But then, after he and Hayden had finished their photo-ops, he saw Rozanov’s smirking face, and he wanted to crawl up into a ball and never set foot in an aquatics centre ever again.

“Shane, can we get a photo with you and Rozanov for the website?” A press photographer asked and flashed his badge at him.

Shane wanted to say no, but he knew he had to do it. He wasn’t a diva by any means, and he wanted to show the kids who looked up to him that they could bounce back from anything.

“Sure,” Shane agreed, then followed the photographer’s gesture to where Rozanov was standing, already waiting for him.

Rozanov, of course, was still in his tiny red Speedo. Clearly not shy about walking around an arena full of people with practically nothing on. His hair was still slightly damp, and his curls, which were longer than Shane had ever seen in any pictures, tumbled over his forehead and down the nape of his neck to kiss the suntouched skin of his broad shoulders.

“Shane!” His mother’s voice called out across the stands.

He excused himself and promised to be back in a minute. The photographer just sighed and continued taking snaps of the scantily-clad man in front of the platform.

“Don’t forget to wear this.” His mom handed him a red and white Reebok t-shirt, and Shane slipped it on without complaint.

She smoothed it down over him, covering the small scars and blemishes that still decorated his torso from the crash.

“You should be smiling, you’ve done very well today,” she told him critically, then followed it up with a gentle rub of his shoulder.

Not well enough, he wanted to say. Instead, he just nodded in agreement. “Thanks, Mom. I shouldn’t keep them waiting.”

He jogged over to where Rozanov and the photographer were standing.

“Great. Now I’ll get you to stand a little closer.” The photographer gestured, pushing his hands together.

Shane was comfortable where he was, at least a foot away from Rozanov. But clearly, that wouldn’t be the image of a good sportsman, so he reluctantly moved closer. That earned him an exaggerated smile from the cameraman, and he started to take photos of the pair of them. The seconds stretched on for what felt like minutes, and Shane could feel his cheeks twitching from holding his face.

Then, just as he thought they were done, Shane felt Rozanov’s hand slip down his back. His touch at first was soft, explorative, in stark contrast to the calluses on his hand. Shane felt goosebumps ripple in his wake.

What the hell was he doing?

“Okay, that’s great! Shane, where’d that smile go?” The photographer asked, and he tried to gain control of his face again.

He willed his mouth to smile, but his brain did not want to respond. He was too distracted by Rozanov’s hand as it moved lower and lower down his spine, until he reached the base where Shane’s hips rounded out. It was too much, the combination of his rival’s touch, the flashing camera and the fever that was flushing his body red-hot.

“Let’s try one more with your team jackets!” The photographer suggested, but Shane was already pulling away.

“I’m sorry, I just, I need—” He stammered out some kind of garbled excuse before he took off towards the locker rooms.

Despite spending the last six months in intensive training sessions to get him back in competing form, Shane felt winded when he finally reached the solace of the—thankfully empty—locker room. He stopped at the sinks and drank straight from the tap, ignoring his conscience’s protests about it being filled with brain-eating amoebas, then splashed some of the water onto his face for good measure.

There’s not much brain left for them to eat anyway, he thought miserably.

He wanted to shower in scalding hot water to remove any trace of Rozanov from his skin. Why would he touch him like that? Shane knew Rozanov wanted to get under his skin, but he didn’t think that meant he would take it literally.

Of course, the universe wasn’t finished punishing Shane for whatever horrible thing he did in the past ten years, because at that moment, Rozanov walked in.

“Hollander,” He said Shane’s name quietly, his accent clinging to every vowel.

Shane wanted to tell him to never say it again. When he looked up, there was far too much concern in Rozanov’s eyes, and Shane felt bitter. This was exactly the thing he feared—the one person whom he could trust to treat him like he was normal, was pitying him. When Shane looked away, Rozanov took it as an invitation to come closer, and Shane flinched. Naturally, Hayden then jogged into the room to see Rozanov crowding his cowering teammate.

Shane felt pathetic.

“Back off, Rozanov,” Hayden hissed. Then added, “Why don’t you go back to your fifteen girlfriends?”

Shane cringed in the mirror above the sink as Rozanov’s face morphed into a jubilous grin. “Don’t you have ten kids to look after?”

“Shut up, you’re trying to give me shit about being a good father?” he growled. “I bet you just pay off all your baby mamas.”

Rozanov looked like he had just taken a clean sweep of gold. Which he had. “Ah, you are jealous because I am rich and women call me daddy!”

Now Hayden was crowding Rozanov, which made Shane feel slightly claustrophobic in the corner.

“I don’t know what women see in you! You’re such a—”

It was Shane’s voice that broke through the sparring and reduced the locker room to silence, once more.

“That’s enough!”

Shane’s ears were ringing; the noise from the other divers’ yelling caused the dull ache at the base of his skull to turn into a full-blown, splitting headache.

“Let’s get back out there so we can all go home.” He told them both, referring to the post-meet interviews they were obligated to. All while still gripping the sink with a white-knuckled hold.

Shane thought he might need to seek out a priest to denounce all his sins because, right as he said that, Sasha sauntered in.

“I thought I heard yelling.” His smirk was as wide. “Trouble in paradise?” he asked, and looked pointedly at Hayden and Shane.

Shane was about to offer a quip of his own when he was surprised to hear Rozanov speak instead. He couldn’t understand what was said because he had slipped into his mother tongue, but judging by the admonished look on Sasha’s face, it was not kind.

“Our interview is in five minutes. Do not be late.” Rozanov warned Shane, then exited the locker room with a mopey-looking teammate in tow.

The Russians were barely out the door when Hayden scoffed. “What the hell was that? He can’t order you around like that!”

When Shane didn’t reply, Hayden hit him with a punch to the shoulder. “Lighten up, man! Isn’t this what you wanted? For everything to be back to normal?”

Shane’s brows knitted together in thought. Hayden was right, he supposed.

They both quickly dressed, Shane in his red and white Reebok-sponsored ensemble and Hayden in his plain black athleisure wear.

“The sky is blue, water is wet, and Ilya Rozanov is still a raging douchebag,” Hayden teased as they walked out of the locker rooms together.

Shane knew that his friend was trying to cheer him up, so he plastered a weak grin on his lips and tried not to look like he wanted to obliterate the whole room once they sat down for their interview. Fate again decided to twist the knife when Shane realised he would be sandwiched between Rozanov and Hayden. Which, ultimately, wasn’t quite as bad a placement as it would be if Shane were on the end and had to pull Hayden off Rozanov once he inevitably said something inflammatory.

Because their interview was only a minute in when the chirping began.

“Hayden, how does it feel to have your teammate back?” the interviewer asked, her brown eyes sparkled with genuine interest.

“It feels amazing. There’s nothing like competing beside Shane. He’s my best friend, and I’ve missed him while he was recovering.”

There were a few ‘aws’ from the crowd who were still waiting in the stands for autographs and selfies with the winners.

“I’ve missed him, too,” Rozanov announced cheerfully, which surprised the other three divers and most of the onlookers.

“Really?” The interviewer asked, trying and failing to mask her genuine shock.

“Yes, I’ve missed competing against someone actually good,” he added.

Shane rolled his eyes while Hayden looked down the small table to glare daggers at Rozanov’s smirking face.

“I beat you in Tokyo,” Hayden stated as he crossed his arms.

“Yes. I had flu.” Rozanov sniffed.

The interviewer awkwardly chuckled, then barrelled on as if the table wasn’t about to be flipped by Shane’s aggrieved teammate.

“Uh, Sasha, we have a fan question for you—what has been your favourite city to compete in this year?”

Shane zoned out, not caring about Savitsky’s love of Paris and the innuendo-laced answer he gave the interviewer. He just wanted to go home, to the comfort of his living room and forget this day had ever happened.

Next year would be better, he promised himself.

“Shane.” He felt the bone of Hayden’s elbow make contact with his ribcage, and he cried out.

“Ow!”

“Sorry, are we disturbing you?” Rozanov taunted, his mouth curved into a lazy grin. “Does little Hollander need to nap after long day?”

Shane wanted to wipe the pandering pout off of Rozanov’s lips; instead, he turned his attention to the interviewer.

“Sorry, could you please repeat the question?”

“Of course,” She nodded eagerly. “Last year at the Olympics, when you won gold—I was one of your interviewers—and you made a promise to me. Have you been able to make good on it?”

Shane’s mouth went dry. He had no idea he had even spoken to this woman before now. He tried to remember anything about the last Olympics from his study sessions, but everything was blank. Shane felt his hands begin to tremble, and his heartbeat was roaring in his ears.

Hayden, clearly noticing his discomfort, tried to encourage him. He was one of the few people who knew about Shane’s condition, but that fact alone could not free him from this fate. Shane had no idea what to say, and clearly neither did Hayden. He realised in that moment that maybe it was a foolish idea to return to his sport so early. But he had made his bed now, he had to lie in it.

Strangely, it wasn’t Hayden who bailed him out. Instead, from his left side, he felt Rozanov’s Nike-clad foot bounce against his own. Almost asking permission to speak. Shane hesitated for a second, then kicked him back as a go-ahead.

“No, Hollander has not fulfilled the promise to do 4 somersaults with 3½ twists,” Rozanov told the interviewer.

She looked surprised to hear Rozanov speak on his behalf, but continued, “Oh?”

Shane watched as Rozanov’s chin lifted in pride. “Yes, I would know because I am the only one to do it, you see.”

Of course, what Shane thought might be an unlikely show of sportsmanship was the Russian’s segue into gloating about himself. He should have known better.

Shane turned to him, forgetting entirely about interview etiquette. “Thanks, a car accident put a spanner in the works for me,” he added dryly.

Rozanov shrugged nonchalantly and puckered his lips. “Car accident doesn’t change the fact I did it first.”

Before Shane could tell Rozanov to go fuck himself, the interviewer stepped in.

“It has truly been an honour to have you all! I’ll let you go, I’m sure you’re all ready for your winter break!” Her polite smile faltered slightly as the cameras started to be packed away.

Shane didn’t need Hayden to tell him to get out of there, and soon they were heaving their bags onto their backs and retreating to their respective families.

But not before Rozanov got the last word. “See you next year,” he chimed.

Shane wanted to tell him to go to hell, but he felt like that was too kind a place for a man like Rozanov to end up.