Chapter Text
Shane was vaguely aware that reality tv existed. His exposure to it was mainly limited to his billet family being obsessed with Amazing Race, Jackie occasionally kicking Hayden out of the house so she could host Drag Show watch parties, and that time Fredrick Skaarup, retired center for the Red Tails, was on Dancing With the Stars, and they’d gotten together to watch it because Mitty had been on a team with him once. He’d danced terribly and no one was surprised when he was the first one kicked out.
“Well,” Mitty had said cheerfully, “he never had any rhythm.”
So when Shane got the call from his mom, he’d said: “You mean like a competition?”
His mom had been silent for a moment. “It doesn’t seem like it,” she said. “This is just a proposal, but the idea seems to be the two of you doing things together.”
“Me and Rozanov?” Shane said doubtfully.
“Yes!”
“What kind of things?” Shane asked.
“So it looks like they’re thinking a mix of casual activities— mini golf, arcades, that kind of thing— and cultural visits, like going to historic places, art museums, so on. Highlighting the cultures and histories of both cities, it says. I’ll send you the proposal.”
“I don’t have time to film an entire TV series.”
“No,” his mother said. “It’s not a whole series. It will just be short segments. Fifteen minutes each, maybe, they’re thinking ten episodes shot during the season, whenever they can fit it into both of your schedules. They want to make it as convenient for you as possible. So when you’re in Boston, or he’s in Montreal…”
“We only play four games against the Bears in the regular season,” Shane reminded her.
“For sure,” she said. “But there’s also breaks and the All-Star Game and other times when we can fit it in.”
“It sounds like it’s going to be a big time sink,” Shane said. “And my schedule is already so crowded.”
“Shane, this is a great deal for you. They’re willing to offer a lot; there’s a new sponsorship included, and it’s huge publicity. Airing segments dedicated to you on a regular basis? Hockey doesn’t get that much airtime compared to football, baseball, and basketball, remember.”
“It’s not just dedicated to me, it’s dedicated to me and Rozanov.”
“And that’s even better because people love your rivalry and they loved that bit you did at the NHL Awards was very funny— I saw clips of it all over Twitter. If this does nearly as well… I really think you should go for it.”
Great, Shane thought. Rozanov probably came off amazing in those clips, funny and assholish in that charming way only he could pull off. Shane probably looked like an awkward idiot.
“I’ll send over the proposal,” Shane’s mom said, “and you can think about it, okay?”
Shane agreed, feeling like somehow this had already been decided for him.
“When you think about it,” Jackie said, when Shane had dinner with her and Hayden a few days later, “hockey’s already basically reality tv.”
“Oh, here we go again,” Hayden sighed, looking up at the ceiling.
Jackie gestured with her fork. A chunk of salmon was speared on the end of it. “No, hear me out. It’s not scripted, right? But you’re also, you know, you’ve got a media face. Every time you give an interview, that’s not really you; that’s your media training. And then there’s all the drama that the media’s trying to create, the storylines, everything.” She ate the salmon she’d been waving around. “It’s really… I mean, that’s all reality tv is. So why not do a little more of it?”
“I’m a hockey player,” Shane said. “I’m supposed to play hockey. Not.” He waved his hands. “All of this other stuff.”
Jackie shrugged. “You can say no, right? This isn’t part of your contractual obligations.”
“Yeah,” Shane sighed.
“But you’re going to anyway because your mom wants you to do it because all exposure is good exposure and it’s good for you to have worked closely with ESPN and because you want to seem like a team player,” Hayden added, sounding a little bored. He put a hand on Shane’s shoulder. “Sucks, buddy. Having to spend time with Rozanov.”
Rozanov was annoying during games, it was true. It was part of his strategy, throwing his opponents off balance, riling them up. But Shane had spent a little time with him off ice. There was that weird conversation they’d had at World Juniors, that weird fitness room encounter after the draft, the CCM shoot, a few joint press conferences, running into each other here and there. At the ASG, at the awards.
They’d spent about fifteen minutes talking at the last NHL Awards, actually, after that stupid presentation. Rozanov had sat down beside Shane and started making jokes, and, when they’d been interrupted, Rozanov had seemed a little disappointed. He’d been annoying, yes, but not that bad. Funny, too. Hot as fuck, not that Shane would admit it.
And in the fitness room and the CCM shoot, there’d been something there Shane hadn’t been able to wrap his mind around at the time. A feeling of… He didn’t know. Like maybe Rozanov understood him in a way no one else did, somehow. Or— well, sexual tension. But Shane wasn’t going to think about that.
“Shane?” Jackie asked, and Shane realized he’d drifted off a little.
“Yeah, I was just thinking,” Shane said. “Yeah, it would suck. But I guess my mom’s right that it’s free publicity. And maybe a new sponsorship deal. I don’t know— I have some questions about the proposal.”
“I think it would be great,” Jackie told him. “Rozanov may be an asshole, but he is really funny.”
“Hey,” Hayden said, pointing his fork at her. “He’s not. He’s terrible. We hate him.”
Jackie rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say, dear.”
“You don’t think I’d be too awkward?” Shane asked.
Jackie pursed her lips and patted his arm. “You would be awkward,” she agreed. “But too awkward? No. You’d be like a sweet, awkward puppy dog.”
“I’m not sure I want to be a puppy dog,” Shane said.
“Everyone will love you.”
“I don’t want to be loved,” Shane told her. “I’m a big, manly hockey player. Grrrrr.”
“One of those big puppy dogs. You know when they’re still growing, and their feet are too big?”
“I am not still growing!” Shane protested. “I’m 24! I’m fully grown!”
“Don’t bother,” Hayden said, with a sigh. “You’ll never win.”
“Awkward but cute,” Jackie decided. “All the ladies will want to gobble you up.”
Shane was increasingly sure he didn’t want ladies to gobble him up. He’d had a lot of time to reflect, and a vacation spent on a beach in Venezuela with a surprisingly muscular insurance adjuster, and come to the conclusion that he may not be straight.
But that was an insight he wasn’t quite prepared to share, even though he was sure Hayden and Jackie would be supportive.
“You should definitely go for it,” Jackie continued. Shane had the sinking feeling he was going to end up having to.
“We’re going to start off slow,” the peppy director said, her voice tinny through Shane’s computer speakers. She was a white woman with spiky pink hair, wearing a pastel green Hawaiian shirt with pink popsicles printed on it. “But we’re thinking we want to showcase hot spots around Boston and Montreal. Get the city tourism boards into it, even. Adrienne, look into that, would you?”
The director’s assistant looked up from where she was typing something into her phone. “On it,” she said.
“Of course, we’ll work around your schedules,” the director continued cheerily. “When you’re both in the same city would be ideal. Since we’re thinking short segments, it should only take a few hours. Now I understand you’re both pretty competitive, so that can be our ice breaker. Maybe an eating contest or something…?”
“I do not think that will work,” Rozanov cut in, leaning closer to his computer screen. Rozanov somehow managed to look hot even in a Skype meeting. “Hollander only eats rabbit food.”
Shane blinked at the computer. “How do you know what I eat?” he demanded.
“You did an interview,” Rozanov reminded him, rolling his eyes. “You told them all about your strange diet.”
“My diet is not strange!” Shane protested. “It’s scientifically based! You only eat cigarettes and vodka, so what would you know?”
“Such stereotyping," Rozanov sighed. “Tsk, tsk.”
“This is exactly the kind of energy we want!” The producer exclaimed. “Save it for the show, though, boys, please. Maybe we could have you go to that food hall in Boston, what is it, Adrienne?”
“Feneuil Hall,” the assistant supplied, not looking up from her phone.
“And you can argue where to eat!”
“Sounds fun,” Shane said, dryly. A moment later, his phone chimed.
Stop being so pessimistic, his mother had texted. He glanced at her little box on the screen where she seemed to be diligently typing something, looking up now and then.
“In the proposal, mini golf was mentioned?” Shane asked, surprising himself. “That’s competitive but not serious. And it wouldn’t have crowds, like that food hall probably has.”
The producer clapped her hands together. “That’s a great idea! I love it.”
“I like the idea of non-competitive things,” Rozanov cut in. “You know, make it competitive. Bets or contests. Go to art museum and see who can guess something, I don’t know. What famous person sat on this chair.”
“Do they have chairs famous people have sat on at art museums?” Shane asked.
“At Boston art museum,” Rozanov told him. “Old French ones, from kings and queens.”
“That’s kind of weird.”
The producer cleared her throat. “I’ll have Adrienne look over your schedules and work with your managers to find some times that work for everyone!” the producer said, interrupting them. “And a good mini golf place. Does that sound good?”
Everyone agreed, but instead of the meeting ending there and then, it dragged on for another half an hour, with people Shane didn’t know asking questions they could have gotten answered through email and bringing up more and more unlikely scenarios. Finally, Shane cut in.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’ve got training. Uh, can we wrap this up?”
That took another ten minutes, of course, and Shane was on the verge of running late when the call finally cut out.
“What,” he said to the empty room.
I think that went well! his mom texted.
“So why are we playing mini golf again?” Hayden asked as J.J. tried again to get his ball past the windmill.
“Because I’m going to be playing Rozanov in a mini golf competition on reality tv and I don’t want to lose,” Shane repeated patiently.
“I think this thing is cursed!” J.J. declared, scowling at the windmill as his ball came rolling back to him.
“Nah, it’s all physics,” Hayden said, stepping up to his own ball. “See, you’ve got to hit it at the exact right time.” He hit the ball and they all watched as it rolled up the slope, hit the windmill blade, and rolled back down again.
“Huh.”
Shane dropped his ball to the astroturf— was it astroturf if it was so short?— and waited for a moment, trying to time his swing to the windmill’s movements. He waited, waited, waited, then swung. The ball rolled up the slope and under the windmill, just avoiding the blade.
“How did you do that?” JJ demanded.
“You’re going to crush Rozanov!” Hayden cheered.
It was a lovely September day, and Shane was at a mini golf course in Boston instead of training in Montreal. He sighed and looked around at the mini golf course. This one had a zoo theme, with all sorts of fiberglass animal statues towering over and, at points, impeding the holes of the course.
“Hollander,” a voice said, and Shane turned. Of course, it was Rozanov, looking as hot as ever, the sunlight turning his brown curls red-gold, his biceps bulging where his sleeves had been cut off to accommodate them, black jeans so tight it looked like they’d been painted on.
Rozanov smirked. “Thank you for coming to Boston,” he said. Shane suspected he also winked, but it was hidden behind his big sunglasses.
“I lobbied for Montreal, but they want to alternate cities,” Shane said.
Rozanov shrugged. “I am surprised you agreed to this show.”
“Why?” Shane asked. “I have a lot of sponsorship deals.”
“Yes, yes,” Rozanov said. “I see everywhere. Shane Hollander with duck face, Shane Hollander almost naked, Shane Hollander all wet…”
Shane felt himself growing red. He’d protest the ‘almost naked’ description, but it was true. Speedo hadn’t been receptive to the idea of doing a fully clothed ad, to Shane’s disappointment.
“I’m very popular,” Shane agreed, trying to sound nonchalant. “Everyone wants a piece of this.”
“Yes,” Rozanov said, leering. Or Shane thought he was leering, behind the sunglasses.
“It’s good publicity,” Shane defended. “Why are you doing it?”
“I need the money,” Rozanov lied easily. Then he grinned, all of his perfect fake teeth shining bright white. “I thought it would be fun to beat you even more often.”
Shane rolled his eyes. “It’s not a competition.”
“Show is called ‘Captain vs. Captain’,” Rozanov reminded him. “It is a competition. But it is a good name. Funny. And I think you and me both very competitive people, yes?”
Shane looked down, feeling a little embarrassed. Rozanov wasn’t wrong. Shane had gotten into far too many stupid bets and contests over the years.
“It is fun,” Rozanov added, and this time his smile was more genuine and less shark-like. “But I will win.”
“Shane! Ilya!” the producer called. Today, she was wearing her pink hair in pigtails, with pink heart-shaped sunglasses perched on her forehead and salmon and white striped overalls. “Great, you’ve met.”
“We’ve known each other for years,” Shane reminded her. “We first met in… 2008?”
“Yes,” Rozanov said. “World Juniors. I won gold.”
Shane scowled.
“Right, right,” the producer said. “That’s great— you’ll already be comfortable together. I was thinking maybe of doing some icebreakers before filming just to build up some familiarity, but you clearly already have a great dynamic happening.
“Okay, so this is how it’s going to go; you’re going to do an intro— I think you can switch off on that. Then the person from their home city can introduce what we’re doing, and then you play the game. Maybe Shane can introduce mini golf to Ilya? Then at the end, we have an outro— we’ve got cue cards, and you include the message from the sponsor. Got all that?”
“Yeah,” Shane said.
“Great. So let’s have Rozanov start the intro. Rozanov, you can follow the general structure of the cue cards.” She gestured to a member of the production staff holding giant cards.
“Got it,” Rozanov said, and the producer took a minute to position them in front of the mini golf course and then began the countdown. “3, 2, 1, and we’re rolling. Ilya?”
“Hello,” Rozanov said, beaming at the camera. “Welcome to Captain vs. Captain. I am Ilya Rozanov, Captain of the Boston Bears, winner of Stanley Cup, and this is Shane Hollander, who did not win Cup.”
“I won silver medal in the Olympics, though,” Shane pointed out. “I don’t think your team placed, did it?”
“Oh, the Olympics,” Rozanov said breezily, as if the Olympics meant nothing.
“I won the Art Ross last year, too,” Shane reminded him.
“Yes, yes, very good job,” Rozanov said. “But not the Cup.”
“This is great, guys,” the producer said, “but let’s move on.”
Rozanov beamed at her.
“Here we are in beautiful city of Boston, best city in America, and today we are playing all American past time of mini golf.”
“I think the all American past time is baseball,” Shane said doubtfully, as a production assistant handed them balls and clubs.
“Is this mini golf?” Rozanov asked, looking down at the ball he’d been given. “This is regular golf ball, yes?”
“It’s mini golf because the golf course is smaller,” Shane explained, gesturing.
“Oh,” Rozanov said. “Also it is more interesting than… mega golf? Look at the funny animal statues!”
“Hey, I like golf,” Shane protested.
“Of course you do,” Rozanov told him. “You are boring person, it is most boring sport. I put it on tv for sleep.”
“I’m not boring,” Shane argued, despite himself.
“Boring clothing, boring food. Bet you drive a boring car.”
“Road safety is not boring,” Shane muttered. What was wrong with his clothes? He was wearing a Voyageurs hoodie and jeans. Perfectly normal. Way more normal than Rozanov’s leopard print shirt with the sleeves cut off and painted-on jeans. Why didn’t he ever wear sleeves? Didn’t he get cold? Was it because there weren’t any shirts that could accommodate the bulging muscles of Rozanov’s biceps?
Shane chided himself from thinking about Rozanov’s biceps— it wouldn’t do any of them any good.
“Why don’t you start playing?” the producer suggested. “Shane, you explain to Ilya what to do?”
“For sure,” Shane said. “So the objective is to get the ball in the hole in as few turns as possible. You’ve got to start here.” He gestured to the divots that had been helpfully put at the start of the first hole. “And then you hit your ball towards the hole. But there are often obstacles or shortcuts, so you have to keep an eye out and think strategically.”
“Oh, strategically?” Rozanov asked. “You have good hockey smarts. You also have good mini golf smarts?”
Shane didn’t know how to reply to that, so he didn’t. Instead, he put his ball down and said, “you have to be careful not to hit it too hard, or it will fly out of the course.”
“And then what?” Rozanov asked.
“Then you have to play it from the spot closest to where it landed,” Shane explained.
“Maybe that is a strategy? If you make it fly over and then land there,” he gestured, “then you are very close to the hole?”
Shane frowned. “I guess?”
Rozanov nodded, seemingly satisfied. “What is the prize?” he asked.
“Prize?” Shane repeated.
“When I win?” Rozanov looked at the producer. “There is no prize?”
“You can brag about it?” Shane hazarded.
“We make bet,” Rozanov suggested. “If I win you wear my number next time we shoot show. I bring you t-shirt or something.”
Shane scoffed. “I’d never wear Bears gear,” he said.
Rozanov shrugged. “You think I win then?”
“In your dreams,” Shane said. “Fine. When I win, you have to wear my number.”
“Deal,” Rozanov said with a smirk.
Rozanov was a fucking ringer.
“You’re a fucking ringer!” Shane exclaimed the first time Rozanov hit the ball just right on the fifth hole, so it rolled down the right hidden tunnel, across the little bridge, avoided the sand patches, the snapping alligator jaw, and falling off the elevated track, curving down just right so it dropped straight into the hole.
“Shane!” the producer said for the hundredth time. “Language! Say it again.”
“You’re a ringer!” Shane exclaimed again, trying for the same level of outrage.
“I don’t understand,” Rozanov said, clearly suppressing a smirk. “Ringer is like… bell?”
“Oh my god,” Shane muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You made me tell you the rules!”
“It was very good explanation. Very helpful.” Rozanov plucked his ball from the hole and watched, amused, as Shane got the wrong tunnel and his ball was spit out of the alligator’s mouth right into one of the sand patches.
“How many times have you done this course before?”
“I don’t know what you say. What is course? English very hard.”
“Oh my god, you’re such an asshole.”
“Shane! Language!”
“Oh my god,” Shane repeated. “You’re so horrible.”
Rozanov smirked as Shane finally sank the ball in the hole. “That is 3? Still below par.”
Shane glared at him and grabbed his ball, trying not to look at the way Rozanov’s painted-on jeans stretched around his ass as he leaned over to put the ball on the divot. He looked back at Shane, grinning. “Ready for the next one?”
By the eighteenth hole, the one with a stomping elephant, Shane was behind Rozanov by ten. He was above par, but considering the usual patrons of the mini golf course were probably children, that didn’t really seem like an achievement.
Rozanov watched his ball go into the hole that was marked for a free round of mini golf with a cheer, and Shane batted his into the normal non-winning hole with a sigh.
“That’s great, guys!” the producer exclaimed. “Can you tell me how you feel about what just happened?”
“I can’t believe Rozanov came here like ‘oh, I don’t know anything about mini golf, I’ve never played, and now it’s obvious that he hasn’t just played mini golf before, but he’s played this specific course.”
Rozanov shrugged. “I never say I never played.”
“You asked why the balls aren’t mini!” Shane exclaimed.
Rozanov shrugged and smirked.
“How do you feel, Ilya?” the producer asked.
“Hollander played well,” Rozanov said. “But I played better.”
“Oh my fucking god,” Shane muttered.
“Did you have fun?” the producer asked.
“Fun?” Shane asked and looked at Rozanov, who seemed equally confused.
“Yes,” she said. “People usually do this for fun.”
“Huh,” Shane said. He looked out over the mini golf course, the stomping elephant, the biting alligator, and all the other animals. “I guess? Maybe if I was less determined to win, I’d have had more fun,” he admitted.
“I had fun!” Rozanov chimed in.
“Because you knew you were going to win.”
Rozanov tilted his head. “Maybe,” he said. “But also it is a nice day.”
“Yeah,” Shane said, “I guess it is.”
“Thanks, guys,” the producer said. “I think we’ve got almost everything we need! Let’s just wrap it up!”
One of the production crew was standing beside her with cue cards.
“Ilya, you’re up first,” the producer called.
“He went first last time,” Shane argued.
“Yes, but I won,” Rozanov reminded him.
“Shane, you do it then,” the producer said.
“Okay,” Shane said. “Uh. Thank you for watching Captain vs. Captain! Tune in next time when I destroy Rozanov at… what are we doing next time?”
“Apple picking,” Adrienne said.
“Tune in next time when I destroy Rozanov at apple picking.”
“Apple picking is not comptitive sport,” Rozanov commented.
“Not until we do it,” Shane said.
“Rozanov, your cue cards!” the producer reminded him.
“Ah, yes, sorry.” He paused. “Brought to you by Bud Light, the Hollander of beers. Boring beer for boring captain.”
“That’s not what it says on the card,” the cardholder said, sounding confused.
“Hey,” Hollander complained. “I don’t even drink beer.”
“Bud Light is not beer, so is safe for you.”
“Guys, can we not insult our sponsor?” the producer suggested tiredly, her peppiness worn away.
“Sorry,” Rozanov said, not sounding sorry at all. “Brought to you by Bud Light, the perfect beer for a perfect game. That means you should drink it while watching Bears play,” he added, smirking at Hollander. “And you will see us win cup again.”
“You wish,” Hollander said, lamely.
“Cut!” the producer called.
The production crew began to break down the equipment they’d used.
Rozanov looked at Shane a little awkwardly, like he wanted to say something.
“Yes?” Shane finally asked.
“You are upset?” Rozanov asked. “I did not think you would be upset. When you suggested mini golf, I asked Connors to help me learn how to play. We came to this course. It was a coincidence.”
Shane took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “No,” he said. “It would be pretty unfair to be upset, wouldn’t it? After the Skype meeting, I went mini golfing with Hayden and J.J. If we’d have filmed there, I wouldn’t have been mad about it.
Rozanov seemed to relax a little. “Good,” he said and held out his hand. “You will look pretty in Bears gear.”
Shane shook it. “Fuck you,” he said, but he was smiling and Rozanov smiled back.
“How did it go?” Hayden asked while they were changing into their gear.
“He was all like, 'I’ve never even heard of mini golf before and then he slaughtered me,” Shane admitted, sourly.
Hayden laughed and slapped him on the back. “And you thought you had it in the bag.”
“We’re going to destroy his team tonight, though,” Shane said, more viciously than he meant to.
Hayden laughed again. “Hear that?” He shouted to the team .”Holls needs us to recover his honor!”