Chapter Text
For me, it was always going to be about love. And that summer, I walked into the eye of the storm.
💫About Time
Shane was dreaming of Ilya Rozanov again.
Thankfully it wasn’t his least favourite dream, the one that made him wake in a cold sweat, his heart pounding like he’d run a mile, voices of people who didn’t exist echoing around the room like shadows of sound, not real, but not a complete figment of his imagination either.
That one always took place at his cottage, but it wasn’t the cottage as it was in real life. The dream cottage was messier, lit in a perpetually golden light that made Shane’s eyes burn, even as he basked in the impossible warmth that seemed to reach him even through sleep. Rozanov would be standing in the kitchen, singing along obnoxiously to loud music as he cooked a meal, or sometimes he was lazing on the couch, pretending to read a book while he peeked at Shane over the pages, his eyes lit with something Shane didn’t understand. Rozanov always looked older in this dream, little creases around his eyes that he had never achieved in real life.
Shane would approach him, try to speak, though he was just as tongue-tied with this dream Rozanov as he had always been around the real man. All his words would stick in his throat as Rozanov watched him, until a happy chorus of voices started to call out. The voices belonged to children, Shane able to differentiate three individual ones over the years. They were always calling for their father - or fathers, Shane wasn’t sure, but they often used different versions of the title, like they were referring to two people. Papa! Dad! Rozanov would drop whatever he was doing with a fond shake of his head and head towards the voices, looking over his shoulder as if he expected Shane to follow.
But Shane’s feet were rooted to the floor and he could never follow him, no matter how hard he tried. He would stand there with concrete limbs and watch as Rozanov’s grin slowly dropped, until his expression transformed into one of disappointed expectations, like Shane was somehow letting him down. Then Shane would wake, unable to forget that disappointed face, with a feeling he could only identify as longing building to an ache in his chest, edged with something more jagged, something that stung, close to self loathing.
Even the sex dreams caused him less shame, though he’d had those even when Rozanov was still in his life, his subconscious mind the only outlet for the maddening desires Shane kept on a tight leash during waking hours. They were completely filthy, these dreams, Shane doing things that made him blush the day after, things he would never do in real life, could never have even come up with himself. Rozanov spoke often, whispering hotly against his ear or the back of his neck, words Shane had memorised, playing them back when he allowed himself to jerk off. Da, like that Hollander. On your knees. Fuck, so pretty. So good for me. Rozanov would manipulate his body like he owned it, guiding him into positions that made Shane gasp and arch like some desperate, wild thing. But Shane preferred when Rozanov was on top of him, the gold chain he had always worn glittering between them, cold against Shane’s chest when Rozanov would lean down to kiss him. Dream Rozanov kissed Shane like he was something precious, to be worshipped and treated with care, so different from how they had pushed each other around on the ice in the real world.
Tonight Shane was dreaming his favourite dream, though he always woke with tears in his eyes afterwards. They would lie together in the quiet dark of a room that seemed familiar. Rozanov - but here he was Ilya, only and always Ilya - spoke to Shane with an ease and affection that they had never managed to find in real life. Shane could make him laugh here, deep, rumbling laughs that made his whole body shake. My Shane, he would say in that accent that made Shane’s hands clench whenever he heard it across a room, my funny Shane. Why don’t you give me a kiss, hmm? And Shane tried, would always try so hard to kiss him here in this perfect place where he felt no shame, but he always woke up before he could.
The aftermath of the dream was no exception, Shane blinking open eyes filled with tears he would never let fall. “Fuck,” he muttered to himself, scraping a hand across his face as he sat up in the cold grey light of the morning.
Stumbling out of bed to the bathroom, he splashed his face with cold water before examining himself in the mirror. Maybe his genetics had helped slow the effects of time, but Shane was always surprised by how old he looked in the reflection. He was nearly eighty-one, but most days he still felt like a seventeen year old kid. “Get it together, Hollander.”
Dressing in worn, comfortable clothes, Shane made his way to the kitchen to have his usual cup of green tea, begrudgingly taking the small handful of pills his doctor insisted on prescribing. Shane had been so careful, so rigid and unyielding in his quest for optimal physical health, but he had discovered that time didn’t care how many chocolate bars or chicken parmesans you turned down, it still marched on, leaving irreversible damage in its wake. He settled into the single chair on the perfectly manicured lawn that overlooked his lake and watched the sun rise over the water, orange meeting silver.
The dreams were coming more frequently these days. When he was younger they happened maybe twice a year, gradually increasing until now a week couldn’t pass without Rozanov disturbing his sleep. Shane didn’t mind so much. The dreams made him feel less alone, even if they made him sad, too.
He finished his tea and headed back inside, washing the single mug and setting it on the rack to dry. The day passed much the same way the previous thousand had, Shane moving through the familiar motions with acceptance if not enjoyment. A simple workout routine, stretches and light weights, his body still in fairly good shape though nowhere near as strong as it had been. Shower, then breakfast, scanning the television for any updates on the pre-season, lunch, reading some book he wasn’t really enjoying, pretending to tidy up the spotless cottage.
A call came in from Ruby about a memorial they were having for Hayden next week, three years since he had passed gone in the blink of an eye. The kids called Shane every couple of weeks to check in. The gesture was sweet, and Shane appreciated it, but it still made him feel like a burden, like one of those sad old men everyone agonised over when they saw them eating alone in a restaurant. Assuring Ruby he would be there, he hung up after sending well wishes to Jackie and the rest of the family.
The time came for dinner but Shane wasn’t hungry. Instead he found himself digging through cabinets he hadn’t opened in years, collecting fragments of his life to spread around as though he was trying to solve some obscure mystery. There was a photograph from the draft, three boys lined up on the precipice of their lives changing. Shane couldn’t even remember the name of the third boy now, only having eyes for the golden curls and crooked grin of that year’s number one draft pick, both now and back then. It was hard to summon the outrage Shane had felt all those years ago at coming in second for perhaps the first time in his life. In fact, the photo made him smile now, remembering the way he’d squirmed away from Rozanov’s shoulder as the other boy kept insisting on pressing against him.
Then an article about the rivalry, some bullshit about their deep respect for each other despite how hard they competed on the ice. They had respected each other, at least Shane thought they had, but it wasn’t anything like the joking camaraderie so many of the other guys had shared across team lines. Montreal and Boston were long standing enemies, that being reason enough to make relations between them frosty, but it was more than that, and less. Shane and Rozanov were equals in a way that they weren’t with any other player, able to match each other skill for skill, neck and neck for any prize, in any competition. Shane hated being compared to him, hated that he loved the excuse to stand next to him so often, on podiums and stages, at award shows and interviews.
Fifty years. It had been fifty years since they’d stood together. No one had ever measured up to Rozanov, not even by half. Shane’s hands never shook with nerves and anticipation, lit up like a live wire, the way they had when he approached Rozanov for a face off. It was the only time Shane could stand nearly as close to him as he wanted, could study every striation of those green and gold eyes, each colour battling for dominance with Shane never able to decide which won out.
And that was the real problem, the tiny, secret, consuming problem. Those eyes, the way they studied him back, like they knew every desire Shane had ever had, effortlessly able to see his great weakness. Shane had never been easy around those eyes, never willing to drop his guard in case Rozanov obliterated his carefully constructed defences, the walls he’d built around his life, hemming himself in until he was safe and always alone behind them.
Eventually the papers and memories started to blur together, until Shane’s tired mind was at capacity. Settling back into his recliner, he studied one last piece of history, the most painful one, a faded obituary clipped from a newspaper decades ago. His eyes grew heavy and slipped closed as visions of a great fall through fire, a drop into a dark ocean swirled through his head. Was he scared, in those last moments before everything ended? Shane didn’t think so. Rozanov had never seemed afraid of anything.
I hope he wasn’t scared. That was the last thought Shane remembered thinking before he awoke again, still in his living room, but not, somehow. There was a woman staring down at him, a grin curling up one corner of her mouth like he was amusing to her. Shane didn’t know her, but he did, somehow.
“Can I help you?” he asked, unreasonably calm considering there was a complete stranger in his house.
Her eyes creased and something about them… Shane wasn’t sure, but he thought he’d seen that colour somewhere before. Her face was austerely beautiful, with a sharp jawline and carved cheekbones, though softened by full lips and the golden curls that framed it.
“You cannot help me, no. But I can help you,” she replied, her voice lightly accented with something that sounded vaguely European.
Shane began to rise from his chair. “Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but this is my house and you’ve - ”
“This should be my son’s house, too.” The woman’s smile was sad now. “But what should be is not always how things happen, I suppose.” Moving around now, she studied the photographs he had displayed on the walls, the trophies and plaques gleaming behind panes of thick glass. “Tell me, do you have any regrets about this life, Shane Hollander?”
This was one of the oddest conversations of his life, and this woman was really quite presumptuous, but Shane was pretty sure he was dreaming, so he decided to give her an answer. Maybe not the most honest answer he could give, but an answer nonetheless. “Missing out on that last cup, I guess. I always wanted seven.”
“I can see why he loves you,” she replied laughingly.
“Who does?” Shane asked.
Ignoring the question, she stepped towards the stack of papers he had discarded, flicking through them with idle interest. “What would you say if I told you that this life has come to an end for you?”
Shane contemplated the question before sighing. “I guess I can’t be too disappointed. Eighty is a pretty good age.”
“So accepting!” The woman shook her head, the motion disturbing her curls. She really was so familiar. “He was not so resigned, but he was much younger than you are now.”
Shane was tired of the cryptic messages, so tired of a lifetime of never understanding the hidden meaning behind people’s words and faces, always a step behind, outside the action of life. Maybe he was apathetic about his death, but his life hadn’t really caused much of a fuss in the grand scheme of things, so why should his death be any different?
“Can we get it over with?” Shane asked impatiently. It would be nice to see his parents again, if that was possible, and Hayden. Wherever he went, Shane hoped it was nice.
The woman looked him up and down, a curious expression on her face. “We are going to go on a journey together first. A small odyssey of regrets, if you like.” She smiled like she was amused by him again. “Because I do not believe you, Shane. I know there are things you would change. And you are in luck, because you might just get a chance.”
“A chance for what?”
“To find a loophole. Fate can be persuaded, sometimes. She’s a romantic,” she whispered, leaning forward conspiratorially, as if they were keeping secrets from the universe. Holding out her hand, she urged Shane to take it. “Come. Before we go forward, we must go back.”
Shane had never liked to touch people he didn’t know, but the woman’s hand felt surprisingly nice as he took it. “This is insane.”
“Sanity is overrated.”
The house that was his house and also not began to spin and melt, colours and light merging together around them until they were in the eye of a storm, but not the traditional kind comprised of lightning and rain. This was a storm of time, a straight line and a crooked tempest all at once. There was no clear path forward, but Shane followed her into the breach anyway, surrendering control for the first time in his life, a life that was apparently over.
-
Watching memories was like staring through a window without glass. Out of order, and a little too close for comfort.
“Where are we?” Shane asked the question, but he already knew the answer.
This was the hotel gym where Shane had realised there was something else about himself he would have to hide, the same way he dodged questions about where he was from. He was from Canada, that was all that mattered. He was from Canada, he played hockey, and he didn’t like boys, couldn’t like boys. That was all that mattered.
“You were captivated by him,” the woman said quietly, though dream - or past? - Shane and Rozanov didn’t seem aware of them at all. “It’s ok, Shane. There should never be shame when appreciating something you think is lovely.”
Shane shook his head, dismissing that statement as pure nonsense, turning away from the scene to look at her questioningly. “I don’t understand why we’re here.”
“We could have started outside the rink in Saskatchewan, I suppose. But no, I think this is your first true regret.”
“Regret about what?” Shane called out, but she was already walking away, forcing him to follow. The only regret Shane thought he might have from that night was touching himself to thoughts of Rozanov after he got back to his hotel room, the first time he’d ever thought of anyone when doing that. Before meeting Rozanov it had been fulfilling a bodily function, but after, picturing his body and that grin, Shane came harder than he ever had before, the pleasure tainted by his intense shame.
They were walking through time again, though it was calmer than the first journey, Shane guessing because they didn’t go too far at all. There was a rink, a photoshoot, and two boys the whole world was watching, waiting to see who would be the first to draw blood, unable to stop giggling together.
The woman smiled tenderly, her eyes dragging over Rozanov’s upturned face like he was something she wanted to memorise. “Beautiful,” she whispered, touching the corner of her eye to wipe away a tear. “You need to realise this yourself, Shane. But I wish I could make you understand right here, how much shame will steal from you, if you let it.”
The scene shifted, to the locker room Shane got dressed in… after. Shane was grateful they hadn’t watched what had happened in the showers, not sure he would have been able to bear the embarrassment. It had been bad enough the first time, without reliving it next to this strange woman.
“This is what you want? To forget?” Rozanov asked.
“Yeah, for sure,” past Shane replied.
Shane turned to face the woman. “You seriously want to see this?”
“And what are we seeing, Shane?”
“He - he was fucking with me. I got - when we were in the showers together, I couldn’t help it. He fucking knew I couldn’t help it, and he had to hold it over me like he did everything else.”
The woman sighed. “Oh solnyshko, you are so wrong. He was very nervous here, just hiding it. He is very good at hiding the things that matter to him.”
Rage coursed through him, reddening the memory at the edges. Shane stalked off, no idea where he was going without his guide, suddenly convinced this whole thing was just a stupid, painful idea. A quiet death, quick euthanasia, seemed like a better option than this ripping open of old wounds, but Shane had agreed to it, foolishly believing he could face his past with equanimity.
They reached another memory that took place on the ice. It was cold under his feet as he watched Rozanov hang onto the board, leaning past the plexiglass barrier between them to whisper jokes at past Shane, grinning at the blush blooming on his traitorous cheeks.
“Come on, Hollander. Have drink with us, better than boring Americans.”
“What’s better, a bunch of Finnish guys talking about the cousins they’re in love with?”
Shane had been particularly proud of that chirp. Looking over at the woman with an unimpressed expression, he gestured to the conversation taking place in front of them. “I’m sensing a theme.”
“You are smarter than you look.”
“Hey!” Shane protested. “I’m not a complete idiot, ok? But why here, why… him?”
“We will get to that,” she replied. “We have time, Shane.”
Rozanov climbed over boards and skated across the ice, sticking his face into past Shane’s for less than a second as he threw out the number. “1221.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Past Shane asked.
Rozanov shrugged, skating back and forth in front of past Shane before throwing out that crooked fucking grin. Except now with the clarity of time, Shane could see how the curve of his lips faltered a bit at the corners, like he was struggling to hold the grin in place. “Room number. No Americans, no Finnish, just us.”
Shane had blushed again, blazing red instead of pink this time, praying that the other guys around them were as oblivious to the exchange as they seemed, so angry at Rozanov for trying to humiliate him that way. He’d always seen right through Shane, right down to the bone, and he never let him forget it.
“Fuck you, Rozanov,” past Shane shot back.
“Silly,” the woman said, clucking and shaking her head. “Come, much more to see.”
The next memories passed in a blur, the same way Shane’s life had at the time, an endless repetition of game and train, practice and press. A rooftop, past Shane drunk and not as happy as he though he would be after winning his big award, cigarette smoke and Rozanov, Shane thinking he seemed upset about something more than losing, scared to ask - here is view, Hollander, check it out! There was Russia, cold and unforgiving, past Shane watching Rozanov from the stands of some ice skating event, wondering if he was happy to be home, if he was ok, but scared to ask. Backstage at an awards show - where were you? - busy - with who? - wondering if Rozanov was ok, scared to ask.
Then they were at the club, pink light and sound blaring around them, and Shane still flinched like he’d been struck when he saw Rozanov with the girl on the dance floor. Of course Shane had heard the stories, like everyone had, seen the paparazzi photos and social media threads, all about Rozanov’s sexual exploits, his supernatural ability to charm and seduce anyone with a pulse. But it had been different seeing it up close, seeing his mouth drag down a neck that wasn’t Shane’s, could never be Shane’s. It made him feel sick. Past Shane told himself that he had overindulged on the booze, but truthfully it was seeing Rozanov with someone else that had him losing the contents of his stomach in a dirty night club bathroom. He wasn’t drunk at all, really, sober enough to drive himself home, pulling over to the side of the road to sob for reasons he couldn’t understand.
The woman pressed a hand to his shoulder as they watched past Shane through the fogged up windows of the car, rain falling around but not touching them. “Poor boy,” she said quietly, stroking her thumb across his shoulder in a gesture that reminded him of his mother.
But even in death or this weird memory journey, Shane couldn’t allow himself to show weakness in front of others. The tears welled but he didn’t let them fall, not like past Shane, alone in his car and beside himself.
“I don’t… I don’t want to watch this anymore.”
The woman nodded, steering him away. The next memory was in a restaurant, and Shane nearly fell to his knees in gratitude that it didn’t feature Ilya Rozanov. Apparently he had other regrets, and this one seemed to involve… “Rose?” Shane said, eyes raking over her face. It had been such a long time since he’d seen her, his dear friend who had never really known him.
“Can I ask… have you ever been with a guy?” Rose asked.
The look on past Shane’s face, disgust and poorly disguised terror, was so much worse to watch from the outside. Shane remembered how exposed he had felt in that moment, sure that everyone in the restaurant could hear every word.
“Of course I haven’t been with - what are you saying?”
Rose tilted her head, eyes kind. “Shane, I don’t think we can keep doing this. You’re not - we’re just not meant to be together.”
Past Shane shook his head. “I thought things were going great. I know we’ve got things to fix, but I - ”
“Some things aren’t meant to be fixed.”
Then they were out on the street, past Shane walking Rose to her car, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might snap. Shane knew that he wouldn’t lose her, that they would remain friends and speak often over the years, but he couldn’t help but wonder.
“What would have happened if I told her the truth?”
“And what is the truth?” the woman asked, eyebrows raised speculatively.
“You remind me of someone, I just can’t place it,” Shane muttered.
“Someone gorgeous, I hope,” she replied with a grin.
“No, someone really annoying.”
But she just laughed at that, tugging Shane forward to one of his favourite places in the world, his parent’s cottage in Ottawa, safe and familiar. Surely Shane didn’t have any regrets here. He loved this place, loved the people that lived there.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
His mother, his beautiful, exacting mother was right there, the brown eyes she’d given to Shane creased with sympathy. “I just thought - Rose seemed so lovely.”
“You know we love you no matter what, right?” And then his father, his father, who was so kind and had died when Shane was only thirty-five, leaving him before he was ready, if anyone could ever be ready to lose such a person.
Shane pressed a hand over his trembling mouth, trying to cover his startled cry. “I can’t talk to him? Even for a second?”
The woman shook her head slowly. “Not here, solnyshko. But make sure you’re listening to what he is saying.”
They continued their winding path, arriving at a bustling room in Florida. Past Shane was at the bar, giggling at something Rozanov was whispering to him, drunk on the beer in front of him and maybe something stronger, too. It was the last night of the All Stars weekend, the first time they’d ever played together. Their chemistry on the ice was some kind of mysterious alchemy Shane had never been able to account for, Rozanov exactly where he needed before he even had to think about it. Rozanov smacked a kiss to his helmet after their last goal and Shane had wanted to… well, he wanted, so much he had gotten incredibly drunk afterwards, either to smother the feelings or let them free. They rose from the bar, past Shane’s arm slung around Rozanov’s broad shoulders as he guided him back to his room.
Shane covered his face with a groan. “Do we have to watch this?”
“Hush, I like this part.”
Past Shane was hovering in the doorway to his room, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. “Do you wanna come in?”
“Yes. But I shouldn’t.”
At the time, Shane had been so sure Rozanov was fucking with his head, trying to humiliate him. But without the sensitivity of youth and the haze of alcohol, Shane could see the uncertainty on his face, how he twisted his hands behind his back like he was restraining himself.
“Oh. Right,” past Shane muttered, casting his eyes down.
Rozanov took a quick scan of the hallway behind them, then reached a hand up to touch past Shane’s cheek. Shane lifted a hand to his cheek, still able to feel that touch, fifty years after it happened.
“You are drunk, Hollander. Ask me in the morning.”
Past Shane’s face screwed up, his dark eyebrows creasing with anger. “Fuck off, Rozanov. I don’t need your - your pity.” The door slammed between them, past Shane throwing himself face down on the bed and letting out a muffled groan of embarrassment.
Shane looked over at the woman in disbelief. “You’re trying to tell me that he was being serious?”
“Is this so hard to believe?” she replied.
“It’s impossible,” Shane said, shaking his head. “Rozanov isn’t even - he wasn’t into… men.” The last word was whispered, Shane reluctant to say it at all. But Shane was right, he knew he was right. Rozanov was the straightest guy in the world. Even a rumour about him being with a guy would have been instantly dismissed as a ridiculous lie, by Shane most of all.
The woman just raised her eyebrows knowingly. “What happened next, Shane?” she asked.
“I was sick all the next day. I drank so much, trying to work up the courage to - I don’t even know. I just wanted to know what it was like.”
“To be with a man or be with him?”
“… him.”
Even in this dream world, and with fifty years of hindsight, Shane still didn’t have the words to express just how intrinsic Rozanov was to that part of himself. Every fantasy, every sex dream, had always been about him. Shane didn’t know why. A light turned on the day he first saw Rozanov, a light that never turned off again. In the years after this memory, he’d tried with other men, a few clandestine encounters that should have been exciting or sexy but instead just made him feel disgusting afterwards, nearly as bad as when he tried with women.
But the woman was watching him with eyes that seemed to see everything anyway. Normally Shane would have cringed away from it, but he had nothing left to lose, here at the end of all things. They moved on, Shane unable to stop himself from looking back at that hallway as they left it behind. Rozanov was still standing at the door, clenched fist pressed to the wood.
“Yes, he stayed. For a very long time,” she whispered, looking around like someone was watching them. “I am only supposed to show your memories, but is important for you to know. He stayed.”
The ice was back. Rozanov was warming up, strong legs swaying as he stretched out his quads. Past Shane skated past him, back and forth, watching him with trepidation, clearly trying to make an approach. Rozanov looked up at him with that familiar withering expression, the one that made Shane’s throat clench up.
“What do you want?”
Past Shane turned his skates to stop abruptly, fidgeting his gloved hands. Shane knew what he was trying to say, what he’d rehearsed for weeks in preparation: I’m sorry about your father. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do. Empty words, the exact sort of thing that Shane hated hearing when his own dad died. What could anyone possibly do to help, unless they knew how to resurrect the dead? But he’d wanted to say the stupid words, to let Rozanov know that despite the league’s obsession with this rivalry, Shane still… cared about him. They had been boys together. Watched each other grow into men. Surely that had to mean something, even if the whole world insisted that they hate each other.
“I’m…” past Shane’s voice cracked, and Shane remembered the distinct feeling of wanting to die from the embarrassment.
Rozanov watched him for a moment, but past Shane was frozen. Shaking his head, he turned away, dismissing him. “Fuck off, Hollander.”
Past Shane skated off to the boards to stand next to Hayden. God, he looked so young, nothing like the old man Shane pictured when thinking of him now. Hayden handed him a water bottle, looking over at Rozanov with a suspicious expression.
“What did he say to you?”
“Told me to fuck off,” past Shane answered, leaving out the part where he’d stood in front of Rozanov like an idiot.
“He’s such an asshole,” Hayden said.
Past Shane nodded, laughed. “Yeah.” It felt like a betrayal to say that. Shane had seen Rozanov with the kids in the stands, the rookies on his team. He’d felt his gentle touch outside the required violence of the game they both played, even if he had told himself that it was a joke. Rozanov wasn’t an asshole, beyond a few chirps on the ice, usually to actually cruel or bigoted players, things Shane wished he would have had the courage to say, looking back. The woman was looking at him again. Her eyes were a mercurial mix of green and gold, not able to decide quite what colour they should be.
“I’m sorry,” Shane found himself saying, though he wasn’t really sure why he was apologising to her.
She didn’t speak, and they walked for a long time after that, through years and months and moments. I don’t want a piece of cake, dad. I’m not drinking during the season. I think I just like the control. Shane watched himself get leaner, his face harder. Those years were a study in control, Shane trying everything, restricting his diet and his desires, all in an effort to be what he should be, what everyone wanted him to be. And then they arrived at the time he had come the closest to losing that control completely.
The playoffs. 2021. Second round, Montreal vs. Boston, for the first time in decades. The pressure was unimaginable, seven games to beat the team that drew more hatred from Metros fans than any other. And all Shane had been able to focus on was Rozanov, his face, those gold eyes, that crooked grin. Every face off had felt like outright torture, being that close to him and watched by thousands of people as Shane tried desperately not to crack. Losing and winning, game after game, drawing it out until everything came down to one tiebreaker on Montreal home ground. And losing, missing out on their chance at another cup by one fucking point. Shane watched his past self, shoulders bowed in defeat, face ablaze with anger and shame. So much shame.
And in the midst of all that, Rozanov had smiled at him from across the divide as they ushered their respective teams off the ice. It wasn’t a smirk, or even the grin that secretly drove Shane crazy. This smile was soft, genuine, softening his face and making his eyes crease around the corners. Shane had always been embarrassingly aware of how attractive Rozanov was, but in that moment he was struck by his beauty in a way he never had been before. The greatest regret of his life was that he didn’t smile back, only scowled and looked away, upset by the loss and too ashamed of his impossible feelings to show any sign of weakness. But any chance he might have had to change things was lost forever when the plane went down, reduced to ash in a collision of metal and fire. Shane never saw his smile again.
Ilya Rozanov died the next day.
The dream world shifted to the aftermath, Shane breaking down in his apartment, his phone flashing with dozens of notifications asking if he had heard the news, as if it were gossip, something entertaining, when Shane’s heart was ripping apart.
The woman spoke then, tears in her own eyes as they watched past Shane wail, clutching at his head and rocking back and forth on the floor, writhing in agony. “I really do not like this part.”
Shane scraped at his eyes. “Me, either.”
The crash was investigated for years afterwards, eventually put down to some combination of inclement weather, inexperienced pilots and a mechanical error. Mundane, random factors that added up to twenty dead players, as well as the flight crew, lost off the coast of Massachusetts, most of the bodies never even recovered.
Shane had no claims to Ilya Rozanov, not to his body or any piece of his soul, but that still tore him apart. He’d stared at the empty casket during his funeral and wondered how someone could ever be properly laid to rest when their earthly remains floated through a cold ocean, untethered and unclaimed for eternity. The woman held his hand as they watched past Shane sitting in the back of the crowded church, watching stony faced as they spoke about Rozanov’s career, his indelible mark on the NHL and the city of Boston. Shane knew that his past self held his tongue that entire wretched day, every time they got a stat or fact wrong. No one knew Rozanov’s career like Shane did, no one had been a more devoted study of his life, his achievements, mostly because Shane had been there, competing against him for every single one.
“I didn’t really know him, I get that,” Shane said to the woman. “But it just felt like the whole thing was organised by people who had no idea what he would have wanted. And I never understood why his family wasn’t there. His father died but surely he had other people who should have been there.”
The woman was crying in earnest now, the tears reddening her beautiful face. “Not everyone had what you did, Shane. I know life was not always easy for you, but no matter how alone you have felt, it could not compare. Ilya did not make it easy to know him, but that was only because he had been hurt so many times before by those who were meant to love and protect him. At the end, he was so scared, not for himself, but for his team, for all their families. He knew there would not be many people to mourn him, in the end.”
“But I did, I mourned him!” Shane yelled, heedless of the funeral in front of them, knowing no one would hear him. “I was never - nothing was the same, after that.”
“But he never knew that. You did not tell him when he was alive, what does it matter how you felt when he died?”
Shane shook his head, turning away in disgust, unsure if it was for her or himself. This woman clearly had no idea how he felt, how he’d struggled for years with those very feelings, torturing himself with how things could have been different, until eventually time and old age gave him no choice but to accept what was. But no matter what she said, it did matter. That pain had been the sharpest he had ever felt, until six years later when he lost someone he knew better than anyone, another person Shane never really let know him.
There it was, right in front of him. That last phone call, the last time he had spoken with his father, the last time he told him a lie. Past Shane paced around his apartment, wearily nodding even though the person on the other end of the line couldn’t see him.
“I know, dad. I know you - I’m ok, I promise. Why wouldn’t I be?” He had just won MVP and a slew of other trophies, led his team to their fourth Cup. His mother was ecstatic, helping Shane to design a new room at his cottage to display everything, but his dad never stopped watching him with sad eyes Shane wished he could escape.
“I just love you, buddy. And the last few years, I’ve noticed you haven’t been yourself.”
“I’m playing better than I ever have,” past Shane replied in frustration.
“I don’t mean that. You’re not just a hockey player, Shane. You’re allowed to care about other things.”
“Of course I know that.” But past Shane was lying, Shane knew that now. They had said goodbye, and Shane said I love you, but he never told the truth. His mother rang a few days later with the news and the woman wrapped an arm around Shane as they watched. The funeral was arranged perfectly, everyone spoke from the heart, and David’s ashes were scattered in the lake behind Shane’s childhood home, safe and close forever.
That was where they sat now, on the shore, years of interminable memory playing out on the dancing water. Shane’s career, his retirement, his lifetime achievement award and book deal and advisory roles within the NHL. Losing everyone that he had loved, until he was alone with this strange woman, the sky of the dream world whirling above his head, daylight and starlight impossibly intermingled and reflecting endlessly in the lake before them.
“Well, we are at the end. Are you so accepting of death now you have remembered your life?”
“I guess not.” Now he had watched it all back, Shane realised this wasn’t his death, not really. He’d been dying for years, every time he denied himself something he wanted, with every I’m just not interested in dating and hockey is the most important thing and no I don’t need to talk and I’m good. Every lie he’d told his parents, or his friends, or himself, had killed him slowly, piece by piece. Until there was nothing left. Shane sighed, feeling weary down to his bones, deeper, tired to a molecular degree. “You were right. I do wish I could change things. But that’s impossible.”
“Not if you have someone very determined on your side,” the woman replied, a mischievous grin on her face. “But if I help you go back, you cannot make the same mistakes. New ones only, please. And you will have to be honest with me, need to know you can be, before I send you to him. I asked you before, but you did not give an honest answer. Shane Hollander, is there anything in this life you regret?”
Shane took a deep breath, studying the twisting light above and below him, purple and green and gold, beautiful and terrifying at the same time. Is this what the universe really looked like, underneath all the human constructions of what everyone thought life should be?
Shane looked ahead for a long time before answering. “Can you tell me your name?”
“Irina,” she replied gently.
“Ok, Irina. I haven’t said this before so it probably won’t be right, but I want to say it anyway. I - I’m gay. I never told anyone that when I was alive, I don’t think I even said it in my own mind. But I am.”
Irina didn’t look surprised, which amused Shane maybe more than it should have. “And?”
“And I think it’s pretty obvious that I had… feelings for Rozanov. But I don’t know what you want from me. Am I meant to stop him from getting on that plane? I don’t know how to do that. I could never manage to tell him what I wanted, not one single time.”
“Did you ever wonder why you dreamed of him so often?”
Shane shrugged. “I don’t know. I was happy I got to see him at all, after he was gone. I didn’t really want to question it, in case they went away.”
Irina looked around like she had a few times before, as though she was checking they were alone. “Another thing I should not tell you. But those were not just dreams, solnyshko. Dreams are often glimpses of other worlds. Before you go back, you need to know this. There is a world, many worlds in fact, where you are brave enough to ask for what you want.” Her voice dropped lower, so Shane had to lean forward to hear her. “And he cannot say no to you.”
“Seriously?”
“That is all I can say. We will get into trouble if I reveal too much. And it is important you learn things for yourself. Come, I feel it is time.”
Irina stood, motioning Shane to follow her to the edge of the lake. Shane felt the water lapping at his feet, drawing him forward. “Where will I be, when I get there?”
“I am not sure,” she replied. “But the universe has a sense of humour, so I would not be surprised if it will send you to a difficult moment. Try to stay calm, you cannot tell anyone that you have travelled back.”
“Wait, there are rules to this?”
“There are rules to everything, silly boy. Listen carefully. The nature of your return must be a secret. You can change whatever you want, but some things are always meant to happen. And the last rule is from me personally, ok? You must be kind to him, and tell the truth, even when it seems like the hardest thing you will ever have to do. It will be, but that is because it is important.”
“God, I don’t know if I’m ready for this.” But Shane knew that was the last lie he would tell for a long time, because he was ready. The life he was leaving behind had been empty, every award and achievement ringing hollow because they weren’t really for him, not for who he truly was. If the universe or fate or this familiar stranger were giving him a chance to change things, he would take it gladly and without hesitation.
“Step into the water, solnyshko. It will take you where you need to go.”
So Shane did. It was cold, then hot, like being pulled apart and put back together all at once. Flashes of colour and sound flew past him, disorientating him until all he could do was grit his teeth and clench his fists, pulled along the undertow of time to some unknown destination. Finally everything settled and he felt himself land somewhere solid. Shane blinked his eyes open and looked down to see he wasn’t drenched like he would have thought. He was dry, but cold, and his body felt heavy, though not with age. His gear was a familiar, intimate weight. The realisation struck him: he was back on the ice. So much for everything not being about hockey. But Shane wasn’t sure where he was, or when, and he started searching around for some sort of sign.
When he saw the crowd gathering, the signs, his team around him and the opposing team across the ice, he knew. 2021. The playoffs, round two, game one, in Montreal. The universe really did have a sense of humour. Shane was almost frightened to look, but his eyes were drawn to him like magnets, like they always had been. And there he was, grinning and joking, waving at the booing home crowd like he was having the time of his life.
Ilya Rozanov, beautiful and alive, impossibly alive. And Shane only had ten days to stop him from dying again.