Chapter Text
[January 2015]
[Shane]
“I made it to a dinner date
My teardrops seasoned every plate
I tried to dance but lost my nerve
I cramped up in the learning curve”
– Fiona Apple, Valentine
***
There were a lot of things about moving to Boston, USA, that Shane found anxiety-inducing.
One, he liked Canada, and he liked the Voyageurs. He liked playing for the team where he started his career. Two, he didn’t particularly like Boston as a city. It wasn’t as appealing to him as other United States cities like Seattle or Denver, which boasted an abundance of nature. Three, Boston always reminded him of his ex. If ex was even the right for it.
The truth of it was, he hooked up with Ilya Rozanov throughout the hockey season from 2010 to early 2014, while he was playing in Montreal and Ilya was playing in Boston. They started infrequently, but by 2012 they were seeing each other every time they played each other. Sometimes even when they weren’t playing against each other and just had a rare off day.
But during the 2014 Sochi Olympics that February, Ilya had acted like the years-long relationship they shared didn’t mean anything to him at all. He barely even looked at Shane. He wouldn’t answer his texts. Whatever was between them, because there was something between them and Shane knew it, fizzled out.
And then Ilya got hit.
Just after the Olympic break, during a game between the Toronto Guardians and the Boston Bears, Dallas Kent skated like he had something out for Ilya specifically. He illegally checked him when Ilya was nowhere near the puck, and he kept hitting even when Ilya had stopped fighting back.
Despite his own conflicted feelings about Ilya at the time, Shane watched the game from a hole-in-the-wall bar in Montreal with Hayden and J.J. with a practiced and hard-to-maintain fake indifference. Inside of him, anger boiled so hot that he thought he might burst into flames. He wanted to scream: eject Dallas Kent from this game. Eject him now.
Instead, Kent continued to play. And midway through the third period, he checked Ilya into the boards too hard and at an awkward angle. Even from the television broadcast, you could hear Ilya’s pained scream as he went down.
Hayden and J.J., always quick to chirp Ilya, were silent as the three of them gaped at the television. More and more medical personnel flooded the ice. Shane gripped his ginger ale so tight that he thought it might be the only thing keeping him upright. Ilya remained unmoving on the ice, his large frame crumpled in a heap.
“Get up Ilya, please get up,” Shane thought to himself. The words were so hot on his tongue he had to take a large gulp of his soda to wash them back down.
But Ilya didn't get up.
There was a high-pitched ringing in Shane’s ears so loud that he couldn’t hear the television broadcast anymore. All of his energy was going toward remaining composed, not falling off of his stool and onto the disgusting tile bar floor.
“That’s a career ender,” J.J. said quietly. “I don’t like the guy, but–fuck.”
“A broken back? Dallas Kent should be suspended,” Hayden said. “Ilya should sue him. That was a dirty fucking hit.”
Shane looked up at his friends with his head swimming. Surely he hadn’t heard them right.
But he had. Shane kept up with new stories about Ilya’s surgeries and his recovery, but after it was all over he was released from the Boston Bears. His social media went dead, and he disappeared from the public eye. When Boston won the Stanley Cup that year and dedicated it to Ilya, Ilya didn’t even show up to the game.
There was no way Ilya Rozanov remained in Boston after the hit, but the entire city would always remind Shane of him. He used to joke that Ilya Rozanov was the only thing he liked about Boston at all.
And now he was moving there.
Despite winning the cup, Boston had an abysmal start to the 2015 season. They were no longer playing with the fire of losing their captain; now, their captain was just gone. They couldn’t recover.
So, in a surprising and organization-shaking trade announced just after Christmas, Shane Hollander (C) was traded from the Montreal Voyageurs to the Boston Bears in exchange for two draft picks, one promising rookie, and a veteran forward.
It wasn't an insulting trade. Shane understood that it wasn’t feasible long-term for him to continue trying to lead the Voyageurs to the playoffs basically alone. They needed depth throughout their roster. And Shane was expensive. For the price of his contract they could afford multiple promising rookies.
When the manager told him this in a stuffy room lit by fluorescent lights, he understood. What took him longer to understand was that the team that had tried to get him the hardest, that had come up with the best offer, was Boston.
Then Coach Theriault said, “They’re eager to replace the gap that Ilya Rozanov left on their roster.”
So for the rest of the 2015 season and onwards, Shane Hollander was going to captain the Boston Bears in place of the man that he once thought he was in love with. Or maybe was still. He’d never really been able to figure it out.
***
It’s customary for a team’s manager and coach to take a new star player out to dinner when they arrive in the city.
Shane looked at himself in the mirror. Behind him, the lamps in his AirBnb’s minimalist living room coated him in a soft yellow light. He was staying here temporarily while he shopped for an apartment. There was a unit available in Ilya’s old building, a fact he was disappointed he even knew. He couldn’t help himself but look it up.
Taking Ilya’s job and his apartment seemed a little too far, even if he had ghosted him for almost a year.
He sighed as he took in his reflection. He was wearing a cream-colored sweater tucked into tailored brown trousers, leading down to leather loafers. The sweater had a mock neckline, which itched him a little. But he didn’t feel like changing, so he stuffed his wallet and phone into the pockets of his long coat and headed down to meet his car.
The restaurant was decadent. It was located on a busy street near a park and near the water. The dining room was dark and decorated with golden clocks and lights that looked like books. Overhead, chandeliers lined the ceiling. In Shane’s opinion, it was all a little bit gaudy. He felt a little annoyed as he slid into his seat.
“Whatever you want,” Coach LeClaire said with a big smile, pointing at Shane and then at the menu. “Obviously. Order whatever you want. Order it all! I don’t care. We’re so happy to have you in Boston.”
Shane nodded.
The other three men at the table– coaches LeClaire and Desjourneys, plus Boston’s general manager– began scheming to order a giant cocktail that comes in a giant glass with cups for sharing. Shane didn’t drink very often, so he was indifferent, but he smiled and nodded along as a gesture of goodwill. His sweater’s neckline started itching so bad he wanted to rip his shirt off.
When they placed the order for the drink, the server smiled. “Great choice. I can barely hold that thing, it's so big,” she laughed. “I’ll have our bartender deliver it to you.”
Shane felt overwhelmed looking at the menu. It seemed like a lot of plates were shareable, and he didn’t know what to ask for that would both meet his dietary needs while satisfying the table. He also hated the fact that he was in Boston. And he hated the neckline of his sweater. He started to squirm uncomfortably in his seat.
“Any thoughts, Shane?” Coach LeClaire asked.
Shane shook his head. “I’m fine with anything, if you want to order for the table.” He hoped his voice was calm and relaxed, not showing the anxiety he felt.
“Okay, I’m thinking the–”
Coach Desjourneys cut LeClaire off– “Rozanov?”
Shane froze. A figure was looming hot beside him, moving in swiftly. A ridiculously large drink was placed on the table, and when he followed the muscular arm that set it down he found a pair of hazel eyes staring down at him. Suddenly, his heart was beating so fast that he thought he might pass out.
So Ilya stayed in Boston. Shane wasn’t very online, and most accounts he followed were solely based around hockey news. None of them had kept up with Ilya after he exited the NHL. Shane found himself wishing he had done some digging before his move.
Ilya was dressed in a white dress shirt tucked into fitted black trousers. The same as all of the other restaurant employees. He had a black plaid apron tied around his hips. He was smiling as he said, “Coach.”
“I…didn’t know you were working here,” Coach Desjourneys said. He was smiling in a way that Shane couldn’t decode, but made him feel angry.
Ilya just nodded. He seemed indifferent, though Shane knew him well enough to know that wasn’t the case. His body was tense, rigid lines. “Yes. For a few months now. I like to keep busy.”
“Do we not pay you enough on Boston?” The general manager laughed. “You sucked up most of our salary cap if I remember correctly.”
Shane tensed at the joke, while Ilya stayed cool. He exhaled a harsh chuckle, twisted his lips into a sarcastic grin. “No complaints, sir. Like I said, just keeping busy.”
“Being a bartender is a great way to meet ladies. They love a working man,” LeClaire winked.
Shane wanted to drown himself in the ridiculous cocktail. He swallowed hard and stared at it, the ice cubes floating in the pink liquid. His own blood ran just as cold.
“Something like that,” Ilya said. “Congratulations, Hollander. I hear you are a Bear now.” Ilya patted him on the shoulder, friendly. It sent a shockwave through Shane’s body and into his heart. He nearly jumped out of his seat.
Shane nodded, still not looking at Ilya. He didn’t want to see the expression in his eyes. It took him a while to learn how to read Ilya’s expression, but he could do it now just as easily as he could read a text on his phone.
“Yeah, thanks,” he mumbled.
Ilya didn’t remove his hand. Shane wanted to melt into the table, down to the floor. “How about a shot on me, gentlemen?,” he teased.
The three men surrounding Shane all clapped, and Ilya disappeared back toward the bar with a promise to return shortly. When he did, he was carrying four shot glasses of clear liquid on a small tray.
“You know,” he said as he put them in front of each man. “This restaurant didn’t even carry Russian vodka before I started here. Ridiculous.”
“Good man, Rozanov,” Desjourneys said. He threw his shot back easily and Ilya smirked at him.
When Ilya put Shane’s shot down in front of him, Shane noticed a small sparkle on his left hand. He focused his eyes on something gold sitting on Ilya’s left ring finger. The urge to vomit hit him hard and suddenly.
He felt Ilya’s eyes on him as he picked up his shot of vodka and downed it, making a face.
Ilya collected the shot glasses with a smile. “I’ll leave you to your meeting, then. Go Bears.”
The dinner continued on. The restaurant felt more stuffy, more hot, more gaudy, with every minute that passed. The tag of Shane’s sweater was digging into his neck. Everyone was talking too loud. And Shane, frankly, didn’t care about the Boston roster at the moment. The coaches were trying to tell him about the other players. He already knew about them. He had heard about them from Ilya. The golden ring on Ilya's finger flashed in his mind again.
He felt a need to splash cool water on his face, so he slid his chair out from the table with force and made a swift exit toward the bathroom.
As he approached the bar, he saw Ilya’s broad shoulders turned toward the back of the room. He was working on something, moving swiftly and diligently. Shane almost bumped into a table as he made his way through the restaurant, his eyes focused only on Ilya’s movement.
His breath caught when Ilya turned. Ilya’s hazel eyes met his immediately, like he knew exactly where Shane was going to be. He didn’t move toward him, just watched him weave through the restaurant.
When Shane passed Ilya, he went back to his work.
In the bathroom, he splashed cold water on his face. Once, then twice. He let the water sit on his cheeks, trying to cool himself down. “Fucccccccck,” he whispered to himself under his breath. “Fuck, fuck.”
Ilya was here. He was maybe 200 feet from him, through the wall. And Ilya was married. He didn’t know to who. Hockey media hadn’t covered it and Ilya had gone quiet on his social media. He must have had a small, private ceremony. Shane imagined it was intimate and sweet. He spit bile into the sink.
[Ilya]
“I'm a tulip in a cup
I stand no chance of growing up
I've made my peace, I'm dead, I'm done
I watch you live to have my fun”
- Fiona Apple, “Valentine”
***
Of course Ilya knew Shane Hollander was coming to Boston. It was all anyone had been talking about for the last few months. It was why Svetlana had forced him to get out of the house and get a job, so he wouldn’t stay on his phone refreshing hockey news websites and hockey Twitter anymore.
So by the time Shane Hollander appeared at the restaurant he was bartending in with his old coaching staff, Ilya had kind of started to find the situation amusing.
After he had delivered a giant cocktail and four shots to Shane Hollander’s table, he craned his neck to get another look at him from afar. He was dressed better than he had been the last time Ilya saw him, about 11 months ago now. His clothes were high-quality and fitted to his body, which was still in pristine shape.
Ilya exhaled loud and deep.
Darnell looked at him from the other end of the bar, “You good, Cap?”
Ilya didn’t love the nickname on a good day, but today it felt especially annoying. He scowled at Darnell. “My rival is here. Or should I say my replacement.”
Darnell approached quickly and followed Ilya’s line of sight to Shane’s table. Shane was still crouched awkwardly over it, nervously picking at a plate of octopus. “Shane Hollander is here? Damn. Wish I could get an autograph.”
Ilya rolled his eyes. “You didn’t want my autograph three months ago.”
“Had to keep it cool,” Darnell said with a smile. “I stole something you wrote on, though.”
“Good save,” Ilya said with a wink.
He tried not to be too obvious about looking over at Shane’s table, repeatedly checking to see what he was doing. He was mainly sitting quietly, looking confused. Ilya smiled a little to himself because he knew that expression well. Then he frowned even bigger because the last time he had seen it up close was when he sent Shane away during the Sochi Olympics.
When Shane got up from the table and walked quickly into the bathroom, Ilya fought an urge to follow him. His fingers twitched on the tie of his apron. He considered that he didn’t need this job, not really. Svetlana was helping manage his finances, and he had made a good salary for his six years in the NHL. He could follow Shane into the bathroom, corner him in there, maybe Shane would let him run his tongue along the sharp line of his jaw.
He swallowed hard and went back to making the long list of cocktail orders in front of him.
When his shift ended, he needed a cigarette more than anything else in the whole world. He stuffed his apron into his backpack and unbuttoned a few buttons on his shirt as he walked out the restaurant’s back door. He already had a cigarette between his lips, was already raising a lighter to it, when the crisp, chilly air hit him. It felt relieving, compared to the stuffiness of the restaurant.
He struggled for a second with the lighter, then finally it took. He took a greedy inhale of his cigarette, so long it made his head spin. He stopped walking for a second to adjust.
Then he looked up, and there was Shane Hollander again. This time, leaning against his car.
“Stalking me, Hollander?” He said as he approached, cautiously, like he was approaching a wild animal.
Shane looked like he had no idea what he was doing there. Like he had teleported to that spot without meaning to. “I assumed the most dangerous car was yours,” he mumbled, signaling to the sports car he was leaning against.
“Good guess.”
Ilya closed the distance. He instinctively stood too close to Shane, so close that he could smell the earthly floral of his cologne. He could see the freckles on his cheeks. His breath hitched and he took a small step back.
Shane sighed, “I didn’t know you stayed in Boston.”
Ilya nodded. “I do not like Russia. Not really. Better to stay.”
“You didn’t–” Shane started, then stopped.
Ilya could fill in the blanks. He hadn’t told him he stayed in the United States. Hadn’t reached out since his injury. Since the Olympics. Ilya could see the shine of tears forming in Shane’s eyes. He closed his own. He didn’t know where to begin.
The truth was that Ilya had lost everything in the span of a month. Shane, then his career. His purpose a little, too. He tried to skate after he was released from the hospital, and it went so poorly that he hadn’t tried again.
So, Ilya took a deep breath and simply said, “No. I didn’t.”
Shane only offered him a harsh nod, and pushed himself off the car. Ilya wanted to grab him. He shoved his hands in his pockets.
There was a lot that Ilya wanted to explain. For some reason, though, he said, “My coach’s son tried to fuck me in Sochi and I rejected him.”
Shane gave him a quizzical expression. Confused, then angry. He said, “Why the fuck would you tell me that?”
Ilya sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know. I want you to know that….it wasn’t you in Sochi that was problem. It was me. It was Russia. It wasn’t you. I mean it kind of was, but it wasn’t anything you did.”
Shane’s expression softened. “What does that mean?”
Ilya closed his eyes and kept them shut. He took another long drag of his cigarette. He thought for a moment that Shane was probably annoyed by the smoke, but he didn’t care. The words were coming at him too fast, he couldn’t put them in the right order. He couldn’t make what he wanted to say make sense. He just shook his head. “Nothing.”
When he opened his eyes, Shane was a little closer to him, his expression serious but soft. He nodded his head back toward the restaurant, “And why the fuck are you working here?”
For a second, Ilya thought Shane was going to reach into his pocket and give him cash. He laughed. “I was not leaving the house for a little bit, was being very grumpy,” he admitted with a smile. “So Svetlana told me I better occupy my time with–”
“Svetlana,” Shane interrupted, his tone pure ice.
It took Ilya aback for a moment. Yes, obviously, Svetlana. It took him a moment to identify that Shane was angry at Ilya for mentioning her. He said, “Yes?”
And Shane said, “Your wife.”
Now Ilya grinned, wide and toothy. Shane was jealous. After everything. After Sochi, and Ilya’s injury, and not talking for months, Shane was still jealous at the thought of Ilya with someone else. That was something, at least.
“Kind of,” Ilya said. “Are you jealous of Svetlana?”
“No.”
“Ah.”
“What do you mean by kind of?”
Ilya sighed. “I could not stay in U.S. without NHL contract. So, I married Svetlana for citizenship. Her idea.”
Shane took a moment to process the information. Ilya watched as Shane’s eyes worked. They were moving all around Ilya’s face, stopping only briefly at his lips. When they met his gaze, unflinching and direct, Ilya fought a sudden urge to look away.
“Do you have sex with her?” Shane asked quietly. Ilya could tell from his tone that it wasn’t a question that he wanted to ask, but that he needed to know the answer to.
He sucked in a breath. “Sometimes, yes.”
Shane ran a hand through his hair as he started walking back down the alleyway Ilya had parked in toward the main street. He let out a sharp, "Jesus Christ."
Ilya followed him, trying to explain. He said, “My situation with her is the same as it has always been. We are friends, sometimes we fuck. It’s not serious. We can both do what we want with….others.”
Shane spun on his heel. When Ilya got another look at his face, he was wearing an expression of cool confidence. He looked almost resigned. Ilya realized he didn’t want Shane to walk away again. He had watched him disappear down the hallway and turn a corner in Sochi, disappearing from his life for almost a full year. Now he was back. How could Ilya keep it that way?
“You seem to have a lot of friends who you sometimes fuck,” Shane said.
Ilya shook his head, “Uh, not really.”
Shane bit his bottom lip, again examining Ilya. Ilya just wanted to kiss him. That made sense for them, it always had. He could show much better than he could tell. And he had so much he wanted to tell.
“I watched the game where it happened,” Shane said. “The hit. I felt like I was going to scream, or cry, or maybe both–”
Ilya cut him off with, “How do you think I felt, Hollander?”
Shane continued, raising his hand to stop Ilya from talking. “Not now, Rozanov. Listen. I was watching it with Hayden and J.J. For a minute we didn’t know if you were even alive. They were talking about it like it was just…hockey drama. I couldn’t say anything to them. I couldn’t tell them the depths of my worry, or why.”
Shane paused, and Ilya realized how close they were to each other. His body felt hot. He was staring deep into Shane’s eyes, leaning forward just slightly.
Shane continued to speak, “There were so many medics on the ice and I thought you were dead. And then you weren’t, and I was so relieved. And then they said you had broken your spine and your career was likely over, and I felt angry all over again. And I realized that I felt that way, so fucking scared and so fucking sad for you, about a guy who had just told me that we were nothing. That nothing we had done together meant anything to him.”
Ilya felt dizzy. And maybe a little bit defensive. Shane was looking at him so earnestly, and with so much hurt. But Ilya was the one who had lost everything. Shane was the one who was about to start skating on his ice, as the captain of his team. He didn’t have the energy to battle old ghosts. He dropped his cigarette on the street and stamped it out with his foot.
Then he pursed his lips and said, “You can’t be fucking gay in Russia, Hollander.” He ran a hand through his hair and added, “Blyat!”
Shane stepped back. His voice was a sharp ache as he said, "What the fuck are you talking about?"
Ilya sighed. This conversation wasn’t going to end in a way that felt right. He resigned himself to it. “You were talking to me in public, in Russia, my dad was somewhere nearby, I was playing like shit. It wasn’t about you. Other than it being dangerous for you if someone found out about us. Do you fucking realize that?”
Shane nodded slowly. “You didn’t have to humiliate me,” he finally whispered.
Ilya nodded. “I know. For that I am sorry.”
"And you didn't have to ignore my fucking texts," he said. "Asshole."
Ilya sucked in a breath and blinked at him, defenseless. He could only say, "I didn't know what to say, after a time."
"That's not good enough," he said lowly.
Ilya closed his eyes so tight he saw lights dancing behind his eyelids. He said, "I know."
Shane stuck his hands in his pockets. Ilya realized how cold he was, that he wasn’t wearing a coat and he was trembling in the wind. “I’m sorry you got injured,” Shane said finally. “And I’m sorry Boston traded for me. That can’t be easy for you.”
Ilya only nodded, shrugged his shoulders. He said, “That’s hockey.”
Shane lingered for only a second more, then he blinked at Ilya and said, “I’ll….see you later, Rozanov.”
Ilya was already lighting a second cigarette. He sucked the smoke deep into his lungs as he watched Shane disappear from the alleyway and back onto the street. He could hear sounds of laughter, of crowds walking through the snowy streets.
He leaned against his car as he smoked, looking up at the moon, bright and full. He considered whether this was all a dream. But then the scar on his back began to ache, dull and sharp. He closed his eyes.
It had never been a dream at all.