Chapter Text
Shane Hollander took a whiff of a bouquet of white roses that were on the very edge of bloom. Only the faintest scent of sweetness greeted him—almost like the beautiful, fragile petals were hiding some precious secrets close to their hearts.
Then he leaned in and carefully placed the roses at the center of the window display.
At this hour, when the day grew dark and the moon began to rise, Shane’s flower shop was quiet.
He could close out for the night, although home was just another empty space. Or he could stay here a bit longer and let the calm of being surrounded by flowers comfort him.
It was an escape mechanism that had started nine years ago.
Ever since that fateful injury, where Cliff Marleau had knocked him out unconscious, Shane had found refuge with flowers.
More and more consoling bouquets from family, friends, and fans had filled every available surface of his hospital room as he’d lain on the rigid bed with ghostly white sheets, unable to come to terms with the earth-shattering diagnosis that he was never to be a professional hockey player again.
Some issues with his nerves and coordination, the doctors had said with sympathy. Regular physical activities were fine, but that extreme level of speed and precision required by NHL-level hockey had forever left him. His talent, an extraordinary gift, had departed for good.
For once in his life, he’d chosen not to seek out a clearer answer, focusing instead on the steady sounds of traffic out the window, his knuckles white as he’d clutched the covers.
A single drop of tear had rolled down his cheek only after the doctors and nurses had left. There had been only him in the room because he’d chosen to hear the news alone.
At those moments, only the flowers had been there with him, silent but devoted. He’d found immeasurable relief in their simple presence. He’d trusted them.
This was why, when Yuna had sat by his bedside the night before discharge and asked him about his future plans—not meaning to pressure him because his investments over the years would be more than enough for him to live comfortably for the rest of his life—her reaction to Shane’s idea had been one of surprise.
He’d asked her to help him escape the hockey world and open a flower shop.
Nine years later, here he still was, running a small shop in Ottawa.
Shane returned to sit behind the counter, and he breathed in the fragrance of lilies—the flowers that Shane had always chosen for the glass vase on his counter.
Many stores along the street had already been closed for the night. The lights had gone off, all except one: the tattoo parlor that opened across the street a few weeks ago still shone brightly.
It was common for new store owners to introduce themselves around; they were neighbors, after all. It wasn’t a bad idea to get to know everybody and learn about the area, the foot traffic, and the customers. That was what Shane had done.
To Shane, it’d seemed quite rude when he’d described this unusual thing at his parents’ dinner table, but he guessed that the person capable of running a tattoo parlor that opened late into the night and also did piercings would not be someone ordinary. This was the first ever tattoo parlor on the street.
Shane was going to continue reading the last book that Yuna had finished—she was an active part of a local book club, and she had gushed a lot about this horror debut. But then Shane could sense the weight of someone’s attention on him, an eerie feeling that he could trace all the way back to the time around the tattoo parlor’s grand opening.
During the day, the feeling would bubble up occasionally. But it had been getting stronger around this hour, when the day was done.
Outside, the harshness of winter lingered, and the rare passers-by wrapped their coats tightly around themselves and strutted away in a hurry.
Shane had reached the part in the novel when the protagonist was trying but failing to start her car when the small hairs on the back of his neck began to stand up—that unsettling feeling, it was becoming stronger.
No one on the street was watching him as Shane looked up, but a shadow flickered inside the tattoo parlor at the same time.
Suspicious, he thought.
Unlike his flower shop, where his counter at the end of the store faced the front door, the tattoo parlor’s reception area was off to the left. There was then a small flight of stairs leading up to the tattoo stations. He was familiar with the layout because he knew the last owner, who’d operated a beauty salon there.
This meant that Shane couldn’t directly see if someone was watching him, and he was irked.
Someone rude and creepy at the same time, such as the new store owner who apparently had no manners? Not that surprising.
Whatever, Shane shook his head. Maybe it would go away.
He was forgetting which paragraph he was on. Pushing up his black-framed reading glasses, Shane tried to regain his focus. What about the car engine and that rattling noise…?
But not even two lines down did that intrusive sense of dread, that uneasiness rose along his legs and spine again.
Stronger this time. More difficult to ignore.
“Maybe you need somebody else with you in the store—it looked a little empty,” was what David had told him when dropping off some homemade sandwiches for lunch a week ago.
Shane had shrugged it off then.
Right now, though, he wished that a second breathing soul was next to him.
It’s fine, he reminded himself. Nine years, and he had been fine running this store all by himself. Tonight would not be any different.
So he gathered his courage and looked up, already certain that the unwelcome attention came within the tattoo parlor.
Unmistakably, there was a shadow inside. Shane saw it before it flickered away again.
It was a man.
And there was something oddly, frighteningly familiar about him.
Shane tried to stop the tremors tangling in his fingers, but he couldn’t help it.
His injury had swept over the hockey world in 2017 like a storm before he’d even left the hospital: every corner of the internet, the news, the arenas all over Canada and the United States. Against his will, his face had been plastered everywhere. And there had been so many strangers who had reached out to him on social media that he’d had to ask Yuna to change the password to his Instagram account and keep it to herself.
Since then, people had recognized him from time to time, and his regular customers who were into hockey all knew who he was. But except for the rare insensitive type, most people had been polite.
This was probably the first time that someone openly stared at him, someone who likely worked right across from Shane, someone that he could not easily avoid.
What… should he do?
Deep breaths. Inhale, exhale.
He closed his eyes, trying to recall some meditation techniques. Intuitively, however, he knew that he should get to the bottom of this.
Maybe it was the sweet scent of the lilies, but Shane felt calmer after more breathing exercises.
He didn’t want to run away, not this time.
If a creep, a wanna-be stalker worked across from Shane, he should find out about it. Not being able to play professional hockey didn’t mean that Shane wasn’t more muscular than most guys. He still exercised.
Yet, having made up his mind, he was incredibly nervous. As Shane pulled on his jacket, his legs could hardly stay straight. All his bones seemed to be melting.
He was only going over there to find out what was going on—a part of him still hoped this was all a misunderstanding. Maybe it was a fan? Or just someone curious about his flower shop?—the displays that Shane was proud of had gotten Shane’s store featured in local influencers’ posts.
A navy blue dusk had embraced the sky when Shane stepped out onto the sidewalk and locked the door behind him. A cold wind swept by.
One step followed by another, he crossed the road. There were barely any cars parked on the street at this hour.
His heart beat wildly. But he paid it no mind as he pulled open the heavy glass door of the tattoo parlor. He was eager to figure this out and go back to reading in peace, to return to that fictional world.
But the unstoppable pounding of his pulse quickened to the point of explosion in less than a second.
All it took was the slightest turn of his head, and his world changed.
Ilya Rozanov, the last man that Shane wanted to see or thought he would see, was standing behind the reception desk, his face unreadable. Under the seductively low lighting, the sharp features of his face were more prominent than Shane could recall. Ilya’s jaw was tight as his full, daunting attention found its way to Shane.
There was a spark in his eyes that Shane couldn’t begin to comprehend, his mind spinning hopelessly. Shane was no better than a deer in the headlights, eyes wide, basked in pure shock.
“Hi, Shane,” said Ilya.
His voice was deeper than Shane remembered. It vibrated in his chest, drawing him in. And Shane found himself indeed stepping closer, right into Ilya’s penetrating gaze, like being reeled in by pure magic.
Despite how difficult it was to breathe, the aroma in the air traveled down his nose.
The closer he got to Ilya, the more he could smell it: Ilya’s sophisticated cologne that had used to always make Shane feel boyish and another familiar scent that Shane had never been able to identify—something magnetic, something masculine, and something purely Ilya.
After these years, and Ilya smelled the same?
Shane’s eyes burned.
“What are you doing here?” he managed to say with a strained tone. By now, he had bridged the few short steps from the door to the front desk.
All that separated them was the dark, glossy marble counter.
“Not even a ‘hi’? After so long?” Ilya raised an eyebrow, the rest of his face composed. His alluring accent was still thick, but sentences flowed out of him easily, and Shane couldn’t get enough of that voice. “I own this place, you know.”
This… could not be possible.
Shane’s eyes went down and noticed the start of Ilya’s bear tattoo, which was not really covered by his almost transparent white shirt, the top buttons undone and exposing the shine of his smooth, golden skin. Ilya had added more tattoos to himself, Shane noticed, one arm appearing to be covered in ink. The tight shirt also illustrated Ilya’s muscles, which Shane had once known so well.
One look, and he was brought back to the stolen nights and fractions of daytime that they’d spent together a lifetime ago, all the air sucked away from him.
If his heart kept going faster and being torn in different directions, Shane felt that he might pass out.
“I… I—I didn’t know,” Shane said quietly.
With that, the two of them became silent.
It was so similar to the face-offs that they’d done on the ice, that moment of suspense and anticipation before action, observing each other, watching for a weak spot.
He looked down to Ilya’s left hand and was surprised that he didn’t see a ring there. But he couldn’t begin to ask, not directly.
“Now you know. I’m here to stay, Hollander.” Ilya broke the heavy silence.
“This is your idea of retirement? You just… happened to be across the street from me? What a small world, isn’t it? And a tattoo parlor in Ottawa, probably away from your wife?” said Shane impulsively.
He shouldn’t, but he asked anyway, lowering his gaze to the counter. Shane couldn’t look Ilya in the eye—it was too difficult, and he might cry.
“Hollander,” Ilya spoke in a quieter tone, “I only married Sveta for green card and passport, so I could stay in America after hockey. She wanted to help.” Sucking in a sharp breath, he continued, “So it will be easier for me to come to Ottawa. And, you see,”—he extended his left hand—“no ring. Because we already divorced. It was secret. I’m retired now. It doesn’t matter anymore. No more pretending.”
Shane’s eyes shot up in shock.
How?
A few years ago, back when Ilya Rozanov’s wedding had happened, those glamorous photos of the hockey world’s superstar and his childhood sweetheart had been unavoidable for at least a week every time Shane went online, no matter how many “not interested” buttons Shane had pressed.
Ilya had been the carbon copy of perfection: his curls neatly trimmed, dark suit tailored, and his gorgeous bride was holding on to his waist as he dipped her into a kiss in front of the church steps and their cheering friends.
Shane could remember how he, standing by his work station, had dropped the pair of ribbon scissors in his hands when that breaking news headline had popped up on his phone screen. The sharp point of the scissors had almost stabbed into his foot. Not that he would have cared.
Because no physical wound would hurt as horribly as the pangs spreading in his heart as he’d stood there alone in his flower shop, a trickle of poison injected into his bloodstream. Surrounded by flowers but on his own, while Ilya had been happily married.
Even though he was the one who had cut off contact with Ilya.
“Divorce?” Shane heard himself slowly repeat the word.
“Yes, divorce. And it wasn’t real marriage.”
“And she is okay with that? The green card and passport, the pretending, the divorce…?”
Ilya nodded. “Yes. And… she always knew. About us.”
“You told her?” Shane was sounding positively accusatory, his face heated.
He didn’t want to act like this, but he was pushed off the edge of his sanity by these boulders of information thrown his way. Later tonight, he would regret being rude. He couldn’t care less right now.
“Never. She figured it out, long time ago.” Ilya then added with a dry chuckle, “With me? It was obvious… how I felt about you, Shane.”
By this point, Shane’s eyes were filled with tears. His mind yearned to see Ilya better after so many years had passed, but it was impossible with how rapidly tears were forming at the edge of his vision.
Ilya was so close—if Shane wanted, he could reach out his hand across the cold marble surface and touch Ilya on his chest, his neck, and his muscular arms, to feel Ilya, to make up for the years of lost time now that he could.
Except that Shane stood perfectly still, leaning against the icy stone, like he had turned into marble himself. Ilya held his gaze. Shane wanted to blink the onslaught of tears away, but the tide was winning. And it was drowning him.
“I’m sorry,” whispered Shane, before averting his eyes.
And his feet were carrying him away before he knew what he was doing. Fuck. He couldn’t do this. Ilya didn’t stop him.
When his hand was already on the door, Shane turned around sharply.
He wanted to ask the question that was lingering in the air, the one question to which he already knew the answer, and Ilya knew that he knew and was only waiting for Shane to cross the final threshold. Waiting for him to ask about it.
“Why are you in Ottawa—here?”
Ilya’s reply came without hesitation, although his voice was hoarse.
“When you were injured, before you disappeared, you invited me to your cottage. I still want to accept, Shane, I want to go. If you still want to invite me.”
Slowly raising his gaze, Shane opened his lips, but he wasn’t sure what to say.
It was as if he materialized in the back room of his flower shop the next moment, having no memory of how he crossed the road without being run over by a car in the dark. Shane found the smallest corner he could hide in, which was between a storage shelf and his work table.
He sat with his back to the brick wall of the historical building.
That was when the paper-thin mask on his face fell apart, like the breaking of his heart, and he sobbed.
A tingling sensation emerged in his fingertips, climbing insidiously into his blood, blooming into pain.
And he was heaving; his chest hurt so much that he had to hold himself in one piece with an arm to his stomach. How could this hollowness inside him make his limbs tremble so much? How could any of this be real?
With tears streaming down his face, Shane couldn’t breathe.
Tonight, the cork of the bottle of poison carefully hidden in the depth of his heart popped open. All the sadness growing and festering and waiting for the right moment to strike him was bursting forth.
Shane thought of the morning after his injury, Ilya standing stiffly by his bedside in front of the half-drawn blinds, and his impossible question to Ilya delivered in a small, chirpy voice. Sure, it’d been the drugs and the painkillers, but Shane had meant it—he’d wanted to spend his only two weeks off that year with Ilya. The smile that had rose to his lips at Ilya’s hesitant “maybe” had been genuine.
Except that the doctors had brought him the diagnosis that afternoon, and Shane’s two weeks off had turned into a lifetime of being off, of being banished from hockey, forever.
And he’d panicked.
For the rest of his life, Shane would be ashamed of not sharing the news with Ilya, but Shane couldn’t think. He’d forgotten how to, as he’d breathed in the fragrance of more and more flowers that had kept arriving. There had been so many flowers that he’d started to smell like them. And, when he closed his eyes, Shane could still recall the color of the ceiling above his hospital bed.
When the doctors had come into his room, Ilya had already been on a plane, heading to the next stop of Boston’s road trip. Two hearts being brought apart. Then, the invisible string between them had snapped when Shane, after telling his mom that he’d wanted to start a flower shop, had also asked her to get him a new phone number.
He’d thought that he’d text Ilya back, since, under the same Apple ID, Shane could still receive the same messages of Ilya asking him if he was okay. He’d text Ilya back the next day.
Once he was out of the hospital.
Once he was sleeping in the comfort of his parents’ house.
Once he was spending some alone time in his cottage, now that he’d had all the free time as Yuna had scouted for the most ideal location in Ottawa for a flower shop.
Only that courage had never crystallized in Shane’s heart. The longer he’d put it off, the more it’d seemed impossible. What could he say, as Boston had fought tenaciously closer to another Stanley Cup?
Eventually, weeks, months, seasons, a year or two and more passed, and Ilya’s texts had stopped.
Shane wiped his nose with the sleeve of his flannel shirt, drawing his knees closer to his chest.
If he curled up tighter, maybe he could forget all of these memories that he’d learned to push down. Maybe he could wake up early the next morning as usual, smile at the freshly delivered flowers, and forget. Forget about tonight, Ilya all beautiful and yearning, in his nearly transparent white shirt. Forget about that hazy morning on the hospital bed and Ilya’s soft fingertips on his cheeks. A touch that had been all too brief, one that Shane would always wish he’d remembered better.
Hiding the broken sobs spilling out of his throat, Shane knew that he couldn’t forget.
He imagined Ilya’s arms draped around him to calm him down, Ilya’s soft kisses to his cheeks and the back of his neck. Sensations from a lifetime ago. Tenderness that he hadn’t deserved.
Ilya was so close but so far.