Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories:

F/M, M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov/Svetlana Vetrova

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander, Svetlana Vetrova, Hayden Pike, Original Characters, Gilbert Comeau, Patrice Drapeau, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, Eric Bennett, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Dallas Kent, Troy Barrett

Additional Tags:

Car Accidents, Blood, Making Stuff Up About Hockey, Internalized Homophobia, Homophobia, Group Chats, Ilya's Social Media Accounts Haunt this Narrative, Shane's Beautiful Mind Redefining the Concept of Friends with Benefits, The Shane/Ilya/Svetlana Love Triangle No One Was Asking For, Sexism, Discussions of Food and Calories

Language:

English

Series:

Part 7 of Hope You're Not Waiting For Me to Wait For You

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-25 Words: 8,660 Chapters: 1/1

Hockey Statistics of the Early 20th Century

Summary

Shane Hollander wins the Stanley Cup in a completely successful ploy to stop thinking about Ilya Rozanov.

Notes

So what happened was that I decided to write that scene where Shane shares his stalker folder, figuring it was already written anyway so it would be like 1k words at most. And then this happened.

Shane yelped when he entered the kitchen of his Montreal condo and found his mother filling a glass of water, startling her into spilling some fluid on the counter.

"Honey, are you okay?" she asked, after they'd both calmed down.

What was she doing here? Had she even asked? Well, yes. Shane had forgotten that she would be staying with him for a couple of weeks. "I'm good," he said, blinking hard. He needed to get his shit together, or she would worry. This week, she was meeting some international clients in Montreal. Next week, she seemed certain that the Voyageurs would be hosting the Stanley Cup. Shane prayed he wouldn't disappoint her.

Yuna put the glass down and stepped closer to give him a hug. He sank down and let her hold him for a moment, sighing. The flight from Florida was one of the worst he'd had endured in a while, so he'd been looking forward to retreating to his condo for some much needed solitude. Seeing Yuna wasn't too bad, though. The familiar scent of her floral shampoo soothed his nerves a bit.

"The series against the Sharks was really exciting," said Yuna.

"Yeah," said Shane, stepping back. All seven grueling matches might have been fun, if they'd happened any other season.

"Your father made lasagna earlier," said Yuna, looking up at him with hopeful eyes. "I have some for you in the fridge, next to your meal preps."

"Mom, you know I can't eat that," said Shane, rubbing his eyes. God, just knowing his father's food was sitting on his fridge was a temptation he couldn't afford. "We're in the playoffs; I have to take my nutrition plan seriously."

"David's cooking is very nutritious," said Yuna. "He added another layer of vegetables just for you."

"I guess as long as there's some veggies in there." Shane snorted. "It's not as bad as Xie's little plan."

"What?"

Shane looked towards the counter. "The little--he's drinking ice cream."

"What!"

"Well, it's just sugar and cream if you let it melt first," said Shane, trying not to gag. "He's been leaving ice cream out to melt, then drinking it after games so he can 'get his calories in quickly'. Which he told the rest of the team, and the idiots decided to try it."

"Even the veterans?" asked Yuna.

"Not all, but enough," said Shane. They'd tried their little experiment on the plane ride back to Montreal. Somewhere over Pennsylvania, assorted Voyageurs started either vomiting or rushing to the plane's bathrooms. The resulting scents would follow Shane to the grave.

"That sounds unpleasant," said Yuna, "but your father's lasagna isn't melted ice cream."

"Mom, I need to eat my dietitian-approved meal in peace, please."

"Right," said Yuna, mouth tight. "If you'd rather have the place to yourself, I can go to a hotel."

"No, there's plenty of room here." He'd gotten such a big condo in the first place because Yuna did a considerable amount of work in Montreal. "I just need to eat, shower, and sleep, so I won't be keeping you company."

"You don't need to, honey," said Yuna, her gaze softening. "I have work of my own. But I'll be here if you need anything."

If he needed anything. Fuck. What Shane needed was to. . . he didn't know. He did know. But he didn't want to do it. He didn't want to risk doing it.

His shower was longer than it needed to be. He stood under a spray of hot water and tried the breathing exercises that Cassandra swore helped to regulate something or other. They regulated nothing for Shane. Certainly, they didn't stop him from reaching for his tablet as he settled in bed. Instead of looking for a replay of any of his games against the Sharks, he opened an incognito window and went to Lady Istar's page.

Her latest video was about the Admirals-Wolves series. The Admirals had won and the Voyageurs would be flying to NYC in three days for the next part of the playoffs. Shane should watch the series to see how the Admirals were playing, their current strengths and weaknesses, if anyone looked injured. Instead, he opened the locked folder where he kept the videos of Rozanov's accident.

There were seven total, from different angles. Seven different people had watched Rozanov stumble out of his hideous orange Porsche, bleeding a crying out in Russian, and recorded it. When they should have been trying to help. Five more people had been in the background, watching like dumb rabbits. Shane didn't know why he kept watching the videos, but he did.

He had them all memorized by now, frame by frame.

He watched Rozanov opening the door of his car, trying and failing to wipe bright red blood off his face, shouting something--call an ambulance, the internet had translated--taking shaky steps towards the black Bentley's driver's door, opening said door and freezing for a terrible moment, closing it, jumping over the dark hood and over the statue's sword, opening the passenger door and looking at the sobbing girl, saying something--it's not as bad as it looks--taking off his sweater, pressing his sweater against--

--there was no decent footage of the inside of the Bentley. Presumably, Rozanov had been trying to use his sweater to apply pressure on a wound. Whatever he'd been doing, he hadn't managed it for long. He turned to one of the people recording and shouted something else--call a fucking ambulance--and collapsed. The camera followed him and finished with a shot of him shirtless, in a pool of his own blood.

He was alive.

Shane knew that. The whole world knew that. Rozanov himself had posted a photo from his hospital bed, one of his doctors standing next to him. Dr. Yulan Xie, who by sheer coincidence had turned out be Dylan Xie's sister. If not for that odd turn of fate, Shane might have even less information about Rozanov's status.

Though the information she had provided--unintentionally, via her brother--had cost Shane a full blown anxiety attack a week or so ago. She was a cardiothoracic surgeon, so Shane had wondered if there had been damage to Rozanov's ribs, or lung, or (God) his heart. But no. Yulan Xie was a cardiothoracic surgery resident, which meant she was in training, so she'd probably been "rotating" through the vascular surgery department.

Shane didn't want to admit how long he'd spent combing assorted forums, official Harvard profiles, and random blogs to sort all this out. It wasn't like he could've asked Xie any of it. What reason did he have to be so concerned with Rozanov? If anything, he should count his lucky stars that his greatest rival had taken himself out before their series against the Bears.

He'd almost broken Aubrey William's face when he said that. Since Williams was one of his teammates, that would have been hard to explain.

Anyway. There was an official story about the accident from the MLH and everything, not that anyone believed all of it. But Shane did because it made sense. The other driver had been high and joyriding. Rozanov wouldn't do such a thing, definitely not right before a playoff series. Against the Voyageurs. He wouldn't have done that. To his team or himself. Or to Shane.

His phone vibrated.

Kalle Wynn

Kalle Wynn
Hunter is more unpredictable than usual this season
but overall he is playing well enough to advance his team

Shane Hollander
what about the rest of the Admirals?

Kalle Wynn
Bennett will be the biggest problem
it is not easy to score on him
he'd be a nightmare in a better team

Shane Hollander
let's count our blessings he's not on a better team

Kalle Wynn
he's a better goaltender than Drapeau and St. Simon combined

Shane Hollander
that's exaggerating

Kalle Wynn
it's hyperbole

Shane Hollander
it's not funny!
we're the ones who have to deal with Bennett

Kalle Wynn
maybe the Admirals can be persuaded to trade him

Shane Hollander
as if
they will trade Hunter first
anyway
how are you

Kalle Wynn
fine
extra training is going well
especially now since Roz got the rest of the Bears to stop whining about it

Shane started typing frantically, but luckily got a hold of himself before hitting send on some desperate questions about Rozanov. His heart hammered in his chest like a rabbit, and it took three deep breaths before he could process Wynn's last message. Roz got them to stop whining. He was talking. Of course he was talking. Shane had known that. For a while now. Since Rozanov had gotten a hold of Dylan Xie via the his sister in order to contact his team while they'd been in Montreal for a playoff series.

Kalle Wynn

Shane Hollander
so he's back to normal then?
Rozanov?

Kalle Wynn
I suppose
he downplays injuries which I'm sure you've noticed
but Svetlana seems satisfied with his progress

Shane Hollander
Svetlana?

Kalle Wynn
Roz's girlfriend
well he said she is not his girlfriend
but she lives in his apartment and calls him Ilyusha so who knows what they are

Shane Hollander
she lives with him?

Kalle Wynn
it seems so
understandable
Svetlana is beautiful but more importantly she understands hockey
they should make her a coach
she would be better than Terrent

They should make her a coach. It was the greatest Shane could imagine Wynn giving anyone. Was this woman going to steal everything from Shane?

A strange thought. Even Shane could see that. He messaged Wynn that he needed to rest after his long flight, then went back to the internet. The games. He trusted Wynn's judgment, but he ought to watch them himself.

He went through Rozanov's tags instead, reading through post after post speculating about his injuries. How bad was it, really? They must be really bad, or the Bears would have put him in front of cameras already. He had a cut on his face; everyone had seen the videos. Was he disfigured? Was that why he seemed to have vanished from the public eye? The last thing he'd posted was a picture of borscht.

If Shane liked soup, he would've asked his dietitian to incorporate it into his meal plan.

No, wait.

Rozanov had posted a few minutes ago. A photo of a pond, one that Shane recognized. Rozanov's favorite pond, which Shane had identified on several other posts with pictures taken during different seasons. He'd been on the way to that park on the day of the accident, which Shane had guessed when he looked up the location where the crash happened on Google maps. It had been at an intersection near this specific pond. Rozanov was just going back there, like nothing had happened? Shane hoped he'd called a driver.

Or maybe not. It would be better if he was healthy enough to drive himself.

The sun shone from behind where he was, giving the pond a gleaming, surreal quality. Where they were, Shane realized, when he saw a smaller silhouette next to Rozanov's. Not next to him, hanging off him. Like they were curled on his side, seated on a bench perhaps. Who could it be?

Of course, it must be Svetlana.

Shane didn't know much about her. He didn't look into the many women Rozanov took to bed. Not even her. A part of him was grateful that she had posted an old childhood photo of Rozanov--of the two of them together, which Shane had saved it to his Hockey Statistics of the Early 20th Century folder. The picture was simple: Rozanov with chubby cheeks and overlong soft curls gripping a hockey stick, and a slim girl with her arms around him, grinning. The caption said, according to Google translate, this was the last time Ilyusha was shorter than me.

The internet was of course speculating about the new pond photo, which Rozanov had posted without comment. He did that sometimes. Snapped a picture of a random landscape and posted to his account, never to interact with it again. The few times he'd been asked about his photography during interviews, Rozanov shrugged and said that everyone liked posting photos online. It was fun.

What the fuck was Shane supposed to glean from a photo of a random pond?

What Shane needed to do was check on his team.

Voyageurs

Shane Hollander
how are you dumbasses doing?

Jake Merrell
I still can't believe half of you tried drinking ice cream

Dylan Xie
I told everyone not to *start* with a pint
Comeau you're fucking lactose intolerant are you stupid?

Hayden Pike
I can't believe all of you

Jonas Raphael Carmichael III
Aren't you supposed to be some kind of genius Xie?

Shane Hollander
who the hell said that?

Nikolai Babikov
Dylan is really smart!

Gilbert Comeau
you're playing too well for a nerd Xie
I thought maybe it was the ice cream

Shane Hollander
I am going to kill all of you before this season is done

Jeremy McAllister
don't joke about that Shane!

Hayden Pike
hate to be a pussy but yeah let's all chill on the murder jokes

Shane Hollander
fine
but for fuck's sake
we are too close to our goal
@Dylan_Xie see one of the team nutrition people
stop drinking ice cream

Dylan Xie
no way you don't get to tell me what to eat
I've been doing better thanks to Ben & Jerry's

Shane Hollander
you have *not* been doing better
this is why you keep crashing out after games
your blood sugars must be a disaster

Dylan Xie
no they fucking aren't
and I'm not crashing
I scored the final goal in three of our last six games

Shane Hollander
maybe it would be six out of our last six games if you weren't having glycemic spikes all the time
eat complex carbohydrates

Dylan Xie
no!
and glycemic spike is not a thing you picked that up from some grifting influencer blog
my pancreas can't tell the difference between Ben & Jerry's and a potato

Greg Cornick
pancreas?
wtf does the pancreas have to do with it?

Shane Hollander
Xie you need to be eating protein
moron

Dylan Xie
there's protein in the peanut butter chunks at the bottom of the cup

Patrice Drapeau
that is so fucking gross

Jean-Jacques Boiziau
my God in heaven
just chug raw eggs like the rest of us

Aubrey Williams
pancreas is the organ that makes insulin which is what's fucked in diabetes
which you get when you eat too much sugar
my mom's diabetic

Dylan Xie
thank you Dr. Williams but that's a myth
Diabetes is an autoimmune condition

Shane Hollander
stop fucking drinking ice cream Dylan
do I have to go and rat you out to Coach about this?

Dylan Xie
coach can't stop me from eating ice cream either

Shane Hollander
you're *drinking* it

Jake Merrell
this is a bad idea Dylan
we need you focused on the ice
talk to the nutritionists if you're having trouble meeting your calorie goals

Dylan Xie
ok fine
but you're all overreacting

---

Next time Rozanov posted, they were on the plane again on the way to NYC for their playoff series against the Admirals. Finally, it was a selfie.

"You got notifications for when Rozanov posts?" asked Hayden, from his seat next to Shane.

"What?" asked Shane, locking his screen. "I mean, yeah." Better to act as if it wasn't weird. "I want to know if I'll get to play against him again."

"All right, let's see," said Hayden. "I'm curious too."

A little reluctantly, Shane unlocked his phone and went to Rozanov's page. Though the post was public, there was something illicit about looking at it with Hayden.

"Those girls are hot," said Hayden. "Is he back at the clubs?"

"No. . . I don't know," said Shane, though he did know. "The one at his left is Svetlana. I think."

"Damn, is she a model?"

"I don't know," said Shane. "She's a rich girl; Sergei Vetrov's only heiress."

"Their kids are probably gonna have insane hockey genes," Hayden said wistfully.

"We don't even know if Rozanov wants kids." Why was he even looking at this with Hayden?

"And the girl on the right?"

Shane shrugged. She was new; a beautiful girl with a round face, dark skin, and red and gold threaded through long, thin braids. There was a caption this time. Shane ran it through Google translate. Cousin Luelle came to visit me!

"Nice if he has family with him," said Hayden.

Sure, that was true.

Shane stared at the photo for bit, taking in Rozanov's soft smile. The way his head laid on Svetlana's slim shoulder, the other girl curled on his right side. He checked to make sure that Hayden had been distracted by his own screen and the went to see what people were gossiping about online. Nothing new or useful, except from some reheated "discussion" about whether Rozanov had a race fetish since he disproportionately seemed to go for Black and Asian girls.

Shane didn't know who had run the numbers, or the "proportionate" number of non-white women that white men were allowed to hook up with.

---

The first game against the Admirals was close, but they won three-to-two. Shane scored twice and Merrell cinched the last goal close to the end of third period. As they lined up to shake hands, Shane kept and eye on Xie to see if the little idiot looked like he was about to pass out. So he noticed that Scott Hunter seemed to shake his hand for a little too. . . something. Stared at him a little too long. Was Shane seeing things?

He gave the winning puck to Carmichael this time. The kid looked surprised and a little suspicious, but took it without question. Shane had no ulterior motives. The fourth line had done their job tonight; they'd worn down the Admirals' forwards, giving the rest of them more room to fuck up a bit.

Kalle Wynn

Kalle Wynn
what is going on with Hunter and Xie?

Shane Hollander
you noticed it too?

Kalle Wynn
Xie stole the puck from him three times this game

Shane Hollander
really?

Kalle Wynn
really what?
you were at the game no?

Shane Hollander
no I mean
Xie is fast and good at passing

Kalle Wynn
he also takes wild shots and most goalies haven't figured out how to manage him
Bennett likely has

Shane Hollander
but he's not that good at stealing the puck
not from a veteran forward
or he shouldn't be

Kalle Wynn
maybe it's nothing to do with Xie at all
and it's just Hunter being his usual uneven self

Maybe. Shane ought to go and watch the game himself.

He could do that tomorrow. Or perhaps multitask. Lady Istar had uploaded a video of her livestream of the game and maybe she had talked about Rozanov.

Like most livestreams, almost half the screen was taken up by the streamer's face and a screenshare of the stupid chat. Shane had trouble focusing on the game. He did noticed he hardly remembered most of it. Alarming. It'd been less than two hours since he'd played the very same game. He watched himself on the screen reacting to an annoying but perfectly legal check by throwing a punch. The opposing D-man had dodged, but still. It was a miracle that the ref hadn't given him a penalty.

Lady Istar mentioned Rozanov's name, drawing his attention.

"Glad to see he's back to his old habits and posting selfies with gorgeous women," she said, projecting the selfie Rozanov had posted earlier. "Those among us suffering from the highest levels of thirst will note that his hair is getting longer. The curls are getting looser and fluffier. And those of us who have been stalking him since he was a teen remember that interview back in Russia where he said he didn't like his hair getting too long, but that's how Sveta likes it."

Shane closed the window. What the fuck was he doing? He had another game tomorrow. He should be checking on his team.

He took a peek at the Voyageurs group chat. They were chirping about some video that had something to do with Xie. Apparently, a Korean gay make up influencer type had made a video about him that was pretty funny. To hockey players. Shane saved the link for later and told them to cut out their bullshit and rest up for tomorrow.

---

"Is something going on with you and Hunter?" Shane asked Xie next day in the locker room.

Xie paused taping his stick. Weeks into the playoffs, it was obvious he couldn't grow a full beard. The uneven wisps of dark scattered on his jaw and cheeks, combined with the kilos melting off him, gave him a sickly air. "Excuse me?"

"Like does he know you?" said Shane. "He hit you up earlier in the season? Like Price?"

"What?"

A couple of guys near them were openly listening. Shane rolled his eyes. He didn't mean it like. . . however they were imagining. He'd just finally gotten around to watching their last match and verified Wynn's impression. Hunter was off around Xie. Whatever the reason, they could use that to their advantage. It was part of the game to get in each other's heads.

"You took the puck from him three times yesterday," said Shane. "And that's not one of your strengths."

Xie let out a short, mean laugh and Babikov glared. Unlike Xie, he'd sprouted a full beard within a few days and by now, he looked like a hulking lumberjack.

"Yeah," said Xie. "I guess I'm so hot I made him throw the game."

That was not what Shane meant. He opened his mouth--

"--Hollander, can I talk to you for a moment?" asked Merrell.

Shane couldn't help but glare for a second before nodding tightly and followed him out to the hallway. The last thing he wanted was to start a fight with his second best player right before a match.

"You can't be this fucking stupid, Hollander," Merrell said outside.

"Fuck you," said Shane. "Did you watch the game? You know Hunter's being weird about him."

"No, I don't know that because I'm not a mind reader so I don't know what's going on in Hunter's head," said Merrell. "And neither do you."

"Watch how Hunter plays tonight," said Shane. "I bet Xie will skate circles around him."

"Or maybe Xie will crash out because he's a rookie and his captain just embarrassed him in front of the entire team for no fucking reason."

"I did not mean it like that," said Shane, certain that he was blushing and hating himself for it.

Merrell sneered at him. "Just do me a favor and stay the fuck away from the rookies until you learn how to fucking talk to people."

And like an asshole, he went back into the locker room before Shane could come up with a comeback. Shane followed him, fuming, but stopped in his tracks when he sensed the tension blanketing the guys. Great. Fucking great. The rest of them were constantly chirping at Xie for being gay, but Shane mentioned it fucking once, and it was a calamity.

"I expect us to win today too," said Shane. "The sooner we clean up here, the more time we'll have to rest up before the Cup."

They did not win that game, and not because of Xie. The Admirals, spurred by their home crowd after a playoff loss, were more focused and aggressive. During first period, one of their left wings checked Xie into the board hard enough to make him stumble. Theriault called for a timeout so one of the medics could examine him, which was probably a little much, but it gave them a chance to reset the play.

Though the medic cleared Xie almost immediately, Babikov wasted no time before retaliating and triggered a brawl on the ice that landed him and an Admiral D-man in the penalty box. The crowd cheered and booed in equal measure as Shane scanned the rink. Less players on the ice meant more room to maneuver.

The score was stuck at one-to-one by mid third period. Weariness and excitement permeated the crowd, drawing aggression from both teams. Shane almost scored but was checked from behind. He managed not to fall, but lost the puck. The referee didn't even pause the game. Shane felt bile rising in his throat as he followed the forward who checked him and got in his face. He grabbed the fucker's face mask and threw the first punch.

He was the only one who ended up in the penalty box. And for five fucking minutes. As he fumed, he watched a replay on the jumbotron and--well, okay. That didn't look like a bad check from this angle. Five fucking minutes for nothing. There would be a little over two minutes left on the clock by the time Shane was allowed back on the ice.

It was a long time for any PK unit. Merrell and Hayden managed to hold out for a full three minutes before Drapeau had to block a shot, then Theirault switched them out for Comeau and McAllister. It might've been fine, but the Admirals sent out Hunter followed by his fastest wings.

Sixty-five seconds later, the score was two-to-one, Admirals in the lead. The Voyageurs didn't score again.

There wasn't much to say in the locker room. None of the guys looked at him, occasional glare from Babikov aside. Shane resisted the urge to apologize and forced out some platitudes about resting up for the next game. He hoped, pointlessly, that Rozanov hadn't watched that shitshow.

"You okay, man?" Hayden asked later, while they were getting ready for bed.

"Yeah," said Shane. "I thought he'd checked me from behind."

"It happens," said Hayden.

But it fucking shouldn't. Not to Shane. What had he been thinking? The referees had done nothing. The Voyageurs had kept on playing without protest. Shouldn't that have broken through Shane's sudden attack of tunnel vision?

"Let's just put it behind us," said Hayden. "Can't let a bad game bleed into another, yeah?"

"Yeah, thanks," said Shane. "Good night."

After Hayden's breath went deep and even, Shane burrowed under his cheap hotel blankets and scrolled for a bit. Through highlight replays of the game first, then through comments from disappointed Voyageurs fans calling him a dumbass. Yeah, Shane had seen that already.

He finished off the evening by watching the video of Rozanov's accident a couple of times.

About a week later, during their seventh grueling game against the Admirals, Xie fucked up in the exact same way Shane had. In a worst way, Shane would think later, when he watched the replay. It looked like Xie had been baited into attacking by some stupid chirp.

No matter. Shane scored from a penalty kill, pushing the game to overtime, and Merrell scored the final goal. With that, they were heading to the Stanley Cup.

---

An atmosphere of excitement permeated the air on the plane ride back to Montreal. Not just from the Voyageurs, but from their phones. They would be facing the Toronto Knights for the Cup so even if they lost, Canada had already won the season. Shane tried to be happy for his country, but he found that he could hardly be happy for himself.

"Guess Boston Lily didn't drive down to mellow him out," he heard Cornick mumbling when he walked past.

It took all of Shane's self control to keep walking until he found Xie, seated close to Babikov as usual. Behind them, Comeau was smirking. "Hope Hunter didn't wear you out too much, Dylan."

"Fuck off, Comeau," said Shane, sitting on Xie's other side and signaling at Babikov to stay down. Comeau let out a mean snort, but he walked away. "You good?" Shane asked Xie.

"I'm fine," said Xie.

"Not drinking ice cream?"

"No, I'm not fucking drinking ice cream." Xie rolled his eyes and scratched at his pitiful beard. "I'm eating two T-bone steaks a day. You can relax."

Shane reached into his bag and passed him a couple of plain protein cream tubes.

"The fuck is this?" said Xie.

"Protein and carbs, mostly," said Shane, tossing a couple of tubes to Babikov too. "My dietitian had them custom made for me."

"How do they taste?" asked Xie.

"Plain," said Shane. "But the texture's not too bad and they're easy on the stomach. They're customized for my needs, technically, but since you've been chugging ice cream." Shane made a disgusted noise. "This is an improvement."

"It's kinda gross," said Babikov, had was already halfway through one. "But I'm not gagging."

"Oh, ew," said Xie. But he shrugged and kept sucking on the tube.

"If you guys like them, I'll put you in touch with my dietitian," said Shane. No one had ever taken him up on it, not even Wynn. But this had to be less awful than resorting to melted ice cream.

He left the brats to whatever they did during flights and retreated to his corner at the tail end of the plane for his usual scrolling. The hockey tags were on fire with speculation about the upcoming Stanley Cup series. Shane wasn't thrilled to see that SportBets was favoring the Knights by a wide margin, though he understood where the gamblers were coming from. The disaster with the Thompson family didn't inspire confidence in the Voyageurs, never mind that it was crazy to expect any of them to have foreseen that.

The comments about how the team was crumbling, hanging on by a thread with three call ups? Well, it was true that they had lost three of their members to craziness and injury, but it was unfair to say the Voyageurs were "crumbling". They'd made it to the fucking finals, hadn't they?

Hayden plopped down next to him while he glared at yet another screed about Xie from some disgruntled hockey bro. "Fuck, can you believe it?"

"What?" asked Shane.

"We made it to the finals," sighed Hayden. "The finals!"

"Yeah, I do." If anything, Shane should've managed it faster.

"The Knights are not a bad team to be up against," said Hayden, looking at his phone. "Their goalie sucks ass and besides Kent and Barrett, their forwards are pretty average."

"Yeah," said Shane. He refused to lose the Cup to fucking Dallas Kent.

"Hey, Rozanov posted again."

"What?" Shane looked towards Hayden's screen, then remembered he was holding a phone. A notification from Rozanov's page popped up. What they fuck had caused the delay?

It was another selfie. Another one that included Svetlana. They were at what looked like some kind of grocery store and Rozanov had his arm around her. She held a package of noodles with a Cyrillic label.

"Oh, wow, she's got him running errands," said Hayden. "I bet they're married by the end of the year."

"Shut up," mumbled Shane, scrolling past the picture.

"Seriously, I'd bet a paycheck on it," said Hayden. "I wonder how many kids they'll have."

"Not everyone wants to get a wife and knock her up once a year," snapped Shane.

"Excuse me?"

Shane sighed. "Sorry. That came out wrong."

"You okay, man?"

Shane glanced at Hayden. And looked away from the concern in his gaze, angling his body away. "I'm good."

---

It was the tail end of the third period of the seventh game of the Stanley Cup, and they were locked at a grueling two-to-two. Shane faced off against Dallas Kent, face numb as the fucker smirked at him. Sweat trickled down Shane's forehead, stinging as it passed over a little abrasion. Kent said something, probably shitty, but Shane had gone somewhere else in his head. He won the face off.

They had less than a minute on the clock, though, and Shane was intercepted by a D-man. Barrett got the puck from him and just barely made it close enough to take a shot. Drapeau caught it. The crowd erupted and the game went into overtime.

At their box, Theriault looked them over with a critical eye. They were all wiped the fuck out. Shane knew, or at least hoped, that the Knights were in a similar state. Who would Theriault send back to the rink? Shane, obviously, but who else? He was pretty sure Merrell's left ankle was fucked. Hayden was out for the rest of the game with what was hopefully a mild concussion. Theriault picked Xie and McAllister as his wings. Fine. J.J. and Babikov would man their D-line.

Shane looked at Xie and McAllister. They both stared back at him with wide eyes, a little dazed. Shane squeezed his eyes shut. "Just breathe and rest. Rehydrate."

Fifteen minutes later, he was facing off against Kent for the last time in the season. "Think you can pull this off with your little twink bitches, Hollander?"

The words bounced off Shane. The puck dropped. He got took it, skated around and passed to McAllister.

They moved quickly, gliding around the rink like comets, the puck an aggressive spark on the ice. It all flowed in slow motion, but so fast that Shane barely registered what was happening. He passed the puck to Xie, kept moving forward, keeping track of the D-man--and Xie took one of his crazy shots. He heard a buzz and then McAllister's arms were around him. The crowd screamed.

---

Yuna celebrated for like a day before arranging new sponsors for him. This was her way of being happy; to line up and harvest the fruits of Shane's accomplishments. Three days later, after their private Cup celebration, she set up a meeting with Farah and two separate financial advisors to make sure that Shane's accounts were in order. One of the advisors proudly announced that Shane's net worth was fifty-two million dollars. He did not need to work another day in his life if he didn't want to.

After they signed off, Yuna pulled him into a hug. "Honey, you really don't have to continue doing this if it's too much."

"Hm?" Shane hummed.

"Working," said Yuna. "Playing hockey. Financially, you're set for life."

"I already don't work, Mom," said Shane.

"Shane--"

"--Mom," said Shane. He squeezed her a bit, then gently pushed her off him. "I'm okay, okay? I'm happy, just a little tired. I need to go to all these parties with the team, relax for a bit, then start training for next season."

"Don't you want to take a longer vacation?" said Yuna.

"For what?" Shane shook his head. "We won, but it wasn't exactly elegant. We got lucky we were up against the Knights, and even then, we played seven games and went overtime."

"They were great games," said Yuna.

"I'm sure," said Shane. "But they were all very close."

Yuna stared at him with dismay.

"Mom, I'm really happy," said Shane, twisting his face into a grin. "I just gotta get ready for Hayden's party."

As usual, the entire team showed up to enjoy Jackie's food. It was probably the last time they'd all be getting together before the guys started heading home of the summer. Shane tried to get in the spirit of things. All around him, there was laughter and joy. The guys mock-complimented each other's faces now they were all finally shaved.

Children ran circles around Shane and he tried to be a good sport about it. One of them brought him a jersey to sign, which Shane balked at until his mother explained that it was for a school friend. He signed it and escaped to the hammock in the Pike's backyard, half planning to take an afternoon nap while everyone got drunk.

Instead, he scrolled. Not the highlights of the Stanley Cup series, which all looked samey. Rozanov's tag. It was oddly empty, as if the world had forgotten about him after mere weeks. How could they? How dare they?

Shane opened up his chat with Wynn and before he lost his nerve, he sent a simple straightforward question. Hey can I get Rozanov's address?

Kalle Wynn

Kalle Wynn
why?

Shane Hollander
my mother wants to send him a get well card
like a physical one

Kalle Wynn
why?

Shane Hollander
idk
she says it's good sportsmanship since we're rivals

Kalle Wynn
wouldn't that have made more sense when the accident first happened?

Shane Hollander
apparently I was supposed to have thought of it

Kalle Wynn
strange but okay
[address]
he hasn't mentioned you
I don't think he's expecting a card

Shane Hollander
that's ok
hey
can I visit you in Boston?
if you haven't gone back to Finland I mean

Kalle Wynn
I'm still in Boston
but what for?

Shane Hollander
it's a famous city no?
and we have all the time in the world now to watch the season's games

Kalle Wynn
ok
this is perhaps excessive but I don't have anything better to do
tell when when you'll arrive
and a copy of your meal plans
as well as what exactly you want to see in this famous city

---

He got into Rozanov's apartment complex by helping an old woman get her groceries into the elevator. The granny wore dapper exercise clothes and told him that she could, of course, get her stuff delivered, but she had grown up in a working class family and had never quite gotten used to having servants pick out vegetables for her.

"And what brings you here, darling?" she asked Shane.

"Visiting a friend," said Shane, hoping that by the end of the visit, that wouldn't be a lie.

The lady lived on the same floor as Rozanov, which Shane decided had to be some kind of sign from the cosmos that he was doing the right thing. He didn't believe in that sort of thing, but as he stood in front of Rozanov's door and rang the bell, he thought that maybe he ought to start.

He counted to ten in his head before ringing a second time.

Then, he almost ran away when Rozanov opened his door and looked at him, expression unreadable.

Shane didn't know how long he stared at Rozanov's face, at the fresh scar at his temple. An eternity? Eventually, he looked at the entirety of him--Rozanov in all his glory, dressed only in fine black underwear, silly tattoo on display, all his moles and the mouthwatering muscles bare, his happy trail pointing down at his groin.

"Uh, can I come in?" Shane had to say something.

Slowly, Rozanov stepped aside to let him.

Shane hurried inside, unable to take his eyes off Rozanov. But unable to meet his eyes. Unable to stop sneaking glances at the ugly scar on his inner thigh.

"You're at my house, Hollander."

"Yeah, I. . . uh." God, he was breaking like twenty different social conventions about when and how it was appropriate to visit someone, he fucking knew that. Shane sneaked a glance at Rozanov's face and the carefully neutral expression made him balk. "I wanted to see you." He tried to for honesty. He was dead in the water if he couldn't even explain why he had come.

"Why?"

"To make sure you're okay."

"I posted--"

"--I know what you posted." Shane squeezed his eyes shut. Took a deep breath. "Sorry--I mean. Just, I don't have your new phone number."

"My new phone number."

It might be a weak fucking excuse, but it was true. True enough.“Yeah, I don’t have it. So I couldn’t text to check if this was a good time. I wouldn’t have dropped in on you like this out of the blue if I had another option.”

"Is okay, Hollander," said Rozanov, and Shane could have melted with relief. "It's fine time. I'm not busy."

Shane looked, again, at the gnarly scar. It was linear and clean, its edges redder than the adjacent skin. Did it itch? Did it hurt?

“It’s healing very well,” he heard Rozanov say. “Itches sometimes, but doctors say the scar might not be so ugly. Will be a great story to tell my grandchildren one day.”

And Shane couldn't help it. He burst into tears; they erupted out of him, all the ones that had built since one of his teammates had burst into the Voyageurs' lounge to announce that Rozanov had died in a car accident.

“Oh," he heard, a second before Rozanov pulled him into a hug. “Shh. . . it’s fine. Over now; doesn’t hurt at all.”

Shane clung to him, wishing he wasn't suffering a sudden attack of the shakes. He wanted to run his hands all over Rozanov's body, to feel that the man was solid and not a figment of Shane's exhausted imagination, but all he could manage was to bury his face in Rozanov's neck to sob while Rozanov babbled comforting phrases in English and Russian.

“Fuck, that video!” Shane cried, letting Rozanov lead him to the couch. “I must have watched it a million fucking times.”

“Now, why do such a crazy thing?”

“I wanted to figure out why no one helped you!” said Shane. “You were covered in blood, stumbling around, and those assholes just filmed for their fucking socials? Have you sued them? You better have twenty lawsuits going.”

“Hollander, I am rich.”

“That’s not the point!” snapped Shane. “There has to be a precedent to establish a legal framework—sorry, my mom is a lawyer. I’m fucking this up again.”

“It’s fine, Hollander.”

“It’s not.” Shane wanted to fucking shake him, but that could wait. “I came to apologize properly and honestly—”

“—you don’t need—”

“—shut up, I do!” Shane cringed. Fuck, why was this so hard? “I mean, please. I want to. Can I? Please?”

“Okay,” said Rozanov, gently. Maybe?

“I lied about all of it,” Shane was horrified to hear himself sniffling again. “I guess not about us not being friends—if we were friends then I wouldn’t be getting updates about your life from Lady Istar. Or Dylan fucking Xie.”

He tried to watch Rozanov's face, but looking at his eyes felt he was rubbing metal pieces against each other right next to his ear.

“But about everything else,” continued Hollander. “I do like you. So fucking much. It’s embarrassing how much I like you. I’m fucking obsessed with you; it’s probably not normal, but what about me is? Let’s be honest.” He paused to take a deep breath, then forced himself to look at Rozanov. “I’ve been following you online—cyberstalking you; let’s be really fucking honest—since we were sixteen. Here, let me show you.”

He reached for his phone, unlocked it, unlocked the Hockey Statistic of the Early 20th Century folder, and passed it to Rozanov. He tried not to dry heave as he watched Rozanov's expression shift with every passing second he spent looking at Shane's screen. Expressions were not easy for him to decipher, but these were easy to read: confusion, disbelief. . . amusement?

“Okay,” said Rozanov, smirking. “This is pretty crazy.”

“I know,” said Shane. “There’s another folder your actual games and highlights that’s less embarrassing because I can pretend it’s about our stupid fucking rivalry. I told myself you were my competition, and that was part of it, but mostly I just thought you were so cool and confident.” He smiled, a light memory piercing through his nauseating nervousness. “When I walked up to you before our rookie year, remember that?”

“I remember,” said Rozanov.

Shane had practiced what he would say to the boy who'd been haunting him for years by that point. He was so fast, so agile, and as accurate as bullet. And his voice. Shane couldn't understand him without subtitles, and the subtitles made him sound pretty boring, but Shane couldn't stop looking for recordings of him anyway. He hadn't understood why his heart fluttered every time he heard the murmured Russian.

“I wanted you to like me so bad,” said Shane. “I was planning to ask for your number then. So we could talk chop or give each other pointers, I don’t know. But I felt like I could barely talk, and then I started lecturing you about smoking, and I felt so awkward and stupid, and you were smirking at me—”

“—I thought you were cute.”

“That’s not what it looked like to me,” said Shane. “Anyway. You know everything that happened after that. What I said to you the last time we met—really sorry about that, again. Then, the accident and that fuckass video where it looked like you died, and I had to live knowing that was the last thing I said to you. That I didn’t like you and I thought you were stupid. I think that almost fucking killed me. Then, when you called Dylan, can you believe I was mad?”

“Why?”

“Because I was dying, and you call my fucking rookie with updates instead of me?” Shane laughed. “I know that’s crazy. You didn’t exactly call him by choice, and it’s not like I gave you a reason to think I’d care that much one way or the other. But since I flew all the way out here to be honest, here’s the truth: I was mad he got to know things about you I didn’t, even for a little bit. And I was still scared you were dead or dying. I don’t know; I was all fucked up.”

Slowly, Shane risked looking at Rozanov. His face was unreadable, but his body seemed relaxed. Like a panther secure in his domain. Was that good?

“I thought winning the Stanley Cup would fix me,” Shane made himself continue. “And it did, for a bit. Like a week. Then, I was back to my folder and my cyberstalking, except this time there’s almost nothing new. There’s some of your crappy Boston landscape photos, but no going to clubs so girls can take sleazy selfies with you.”

“I’m recovering from surgery, Hollander,” said Rozanov, with a short laugh.

“Well, it’s not fair to me,” Shane burst out. He felt his cheeks heating when he realized how crazy that sounded. “Whatever, I flew all the way out here to tell the truth. I’ve been going crazy. I even thought about being friendlier with Merrell in case he talks about you to his other friends.”

That finally made Rozanov burst into pearls of mocking laughter. Shane cringed and started to get up, but Rozanov pounced and threw his arms around him. Shane grunted and started to wrestle him, desperate to get the upper hand, if only to escape this apartment. What the fuck had he been thinking? He squirmed, reaching for Rozanov's arm, then almost fainted when Rozanov let out a pained grunt.

“Rozanov!”

“Is nothing,” said Rozanov, as Shane wrapped a hand around his knee, gaze flying to the scar on his thigh. “Just need you to calm. I’m not laughing at you—I’m laughing at Jake. Imagine what he would have done if you’d. . . what? Invited him to coffee?” Shane grimaced and watched as Rozanov suppressed a smirk. “Jake is so nice; he definitely would’ve said yes!”

“Merrell is not nice.” He was a sarcastic dickhead.

“He is very nice, Hollander,” said Rozanov. “Everyone knows this. Jake Merrell is the nicest, most humble superstar in league. He is like your Hayden Pike, except he can play hockey.”

“Hayden also did very well this season,” said Shane, nose scrunched up in annoyance. Hayden was reliable, excellent at passing, and caused no problems for anyone. His numbers put him squarely in the upper mid tiers of the league. “Anyway, I didn’t come here to talk about Merrell or Hayden."

Shane paused to look at Rozanov's face, but couldn't maintain eye contact. He settled for looking him up and down, then blushed when he realized how close they were. Rozanov was sprawled on the couch, legs spread, boxers riding up to frame his bulge. Shane's mouth suddenly ran dry. "I wanted to ask you something,” he managed.

“Okay,” said Rozanov.

“Could we be friends?” asked Shane, still unable to to meet his eyes.

“Friends?”

“Y-yeah,” stuttered Shane. “For real? I’ve been thinking about it, and it wouldn’t be so weird since our teams hung out a bit this season. Because of the Wynn-Merrell trade. And I know the league built up this crazy rivalry between us, but if you think about it, we never had any personal problems. We both say we like playing against each other. You in your douchebag way, but still. So, would it really be so wild if were friendly?”

“Friendly,” repeated Rozanov.

“Yeah, and if you ever get into an accident again, I can just text you or call you,” said Shane, letting his hand slide upwards from its place on Rozanov's knee. “It’s normal for friends to worry about their friends who’ve been in accidents.”

“Hm." Rozanov breathed, shifting a little.

Shane's heart thundered in his chest.

“Okay,” said Rozanov.

Shane's shoulders sagged as a huge weight lifted of his shoulders. He could breathe again since the first time he watched the fucking video. Feeling almost lightheaded, he leaned closer to Rozanov.

“Shane.”

Shane almost jumped out of his skin.

“This is what your friends call you, yes?” said Rozanov.

“Y-yeah.” Shane licked his lips.

“And what do my friends call me?” said Rozanov, reaching for Shane's chin and coaxing him into making eye contact.

“Roz.” Shane sighed. The single syllable felt like a treat in his mouth.

“Yes,” said Rozanov. "What else?”

“Ilya.”

And Ilya squirmed, drawing Shane's attention to his body. To the full fledged erection Roz-Ilya was sporting. He licked his lips. God, how long had it been since Shane had so much as thought about sex?

“Can I?” he asked, eyes flitting up to Ilya’s face.

“Can you what?”

Like it wasn't fucking obvious. “Can I suck your cock, please? Ilya.”

“My friends do this for me all the time,” said Ilya, nodding.

Of course they did. What a relief. Shane sank down so he was kneeling between Rozanov's legs. Ilya's legs. He nuzzled Ilya's groin, inhaling the familiar scent of him.

"Not here," he heard Ilya saying.

"Why not?" He'd come all the way from Montreal for this.

"Svetlana's staying with me."

Shane reared away and shot to his feet. How the fuck did he manage to forget that? There was a refusal to dwell to unpleasant things, and then there was refusal to acknowledge reality.

"She's not here right now," said Ilya, sighing. "She's gone to museums today. I don't know how long until she comes back."

"Okay." Shane nodded to himself. "Okay. Of course. This my bad; I just showed up here. I'll just go."

"Hollander."

Shane froze.

"Shane. Do you not want my new number?"

"Right!" Shane sighed and reached for his pocket. "Right. That's what I came here for."

Ilya told him the number and Shane inputted into his phone. Ilya Rozanov. He looked at the letters of his name and sighed. He had a right to the name now.

"How long will you be in Boston?" asked Ilya.

"I don't know," said Shane. "I booked a one-way flight. Because I wasn't sure if I'd have trouble finding you! And I'm staying with Wynn so he can show me around Boston."

"Your other friend," said Ilya.

"Yeah," said Shane. "Anyway. I have to be home in two weeks, though. Some endorsement stuff and I want to spend some time with my folks, so if you want to meet somewhere. . . more discreet. I mean, I can't be with Wynn all the time."

"No, Wynn is very particular about time," said Ilya. "But I have your number again. Feel free to send message if you find more discreet place."