Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Rose Landry/Svetlana Vetrova

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Rose Landry, Svetlana Vetrova

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Magic, Magical Realism, Paranormal, Ghosts, Reincarnation, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Soulmates, Red String of Fate, Second Chances, Flashbacks, Epistolary, Mild Smut, Shane Hollander Needs a Hug, POV Shane Hollander, once again i must remind you that the dead people are not permanently dead, Happily Ever After, Angst, Fluff, except for irina rozanova rip mama

Language:

English

Series:

Part 2 of the cursed cottage

Stats:

Published: 2026-07-29 Words: 23,337 Chapters: 1/1

before and between

Summary

a collection of somewhat linear bonus scenes not previously included in "i'll believe in anything"

Notes

!!! PLEASE NOTE THAT THIS IS A SEQUEL (prequel?). do NOT read this if you haven’t read the original fic yet (part one of this series). it won’t make much sense and it will spoil pretty much everything.

okay hii everyone i come back to you ~6 months after i first began writing this fic to offer you some bonus content from shane and ilya’s first life together in the 80’s and all the little sadnesses that happened before ilya found his way back to the cottage in his second life.

honestly, for a while i haven’t been sure if fleshing out these scenes and posting them was the best idea. one of the lovely things about the magical realism genre is that there is so much freedom for the reader to fill in the blanks on their own and thus create their personal version of the story that is the most magical to them. there is a lot of vagueness toward the end of the fic that is entirely purposeful, even if it has been a little confusing or frustrating for some readers. the good news is that this is literally the point. there is a nonsensicalness to magical realism that invites you to exercise your imagination and find beauty in uncertainty.

to those readers who want to continue being uncertain or would like to hold on to their own individual version of this story, i might discourage you from reading these bonus scenes. or to at least take them with a grain of salt. these next 25k words are simply how i imagined the past as i was writing their present and future, but just because i’m the author doesn't mean that mine is the only interpretation of this story that matters. my favorite thing about writing is that there is an innate collaborative nature to storytelling, so i would love to hear what you thought might have happened if it differs from what i’ve written.

cw: homophobia, homophobic slurs, references to homophobic violence (none depicted on the page), as well as all the same warnings that were relevant to the original 11 chapters

December 1982

Winnipeg, Manitoba

“They’re calling it the Miracle on Ice, round two.”

“Except they can’t fucking call it that if it hasn’t happened yet,” Shane reminded his teammate.

“Fuck off, Hollander. I’m manifesting. The Soviets are going to die today.”

Shane wrinkled his nose in distaste, but his teammate had already turned away to continue talking shit with their backup goalie.

He knew it was just the usual sort of trash talk that happened in locker rooms, but Shane didn’t want anyone to die today. People died every day for no good reason at all. It wasn’t fair. Everything felt so fragile all the time, so tenuous and brittle. Like if he spoke too loudly, stepped too heavily, wanted too badly… it would all crumble into dust.

Life had always felt that way for Shane, though. From a very young age, Shane’s existence had an untethered quality to it, as if God hadn’t been entirely certain if he wanted Shane to be real. Perhaps he hadn’t quite finished making him, but decided to toss him down onto Earth anyway.

Not that Shane believed in God. Not really.

He wasn’t sure what he believed in. Or if he believed in anything at all.

But Shane was seventeen years old and today was probably going to be the most important day of his life so far. Junior hockey was serious business in Canada, and they were about to face off against the Soviet Union in the World Junior Championships. Suffice to say, it was the most formidable opponent in the world.

Mostly because of Ilya Rozanov.

It was weird, Shane thought, as he changed out of his morning practice gear and ignored the rest of his teammates. Weird to know someone as intimately as he knew Rozanov without ever having met him. Weird to hear about the comparisons drawn between them in every sports paper and radio broadcast.

Weird, indeed, how similar they were.

Born barely a month apart on opposite sides of the world. Prodigal from a young age, cutting up the ice as soon as they could walk. Both of them 1Cs and captains of their respective teams. Similar height, though Rozanov seemed to have more bulk on him from what Shane had been able to determine from grainy televised game coverage. And Rozanov was stronger, maybe, but Shane was faster.

So, in many ways, they were evenly matched.

And thus, in that sense, they should be enemies.

But Shane found it difficult to hate someone he’d never met before. Maybe after tonight, when they finally played against each other for the first time, Shane would find a reason to dislike Rozanov.

Yet, deep down, he knew he already respected him too much for that to be a real possibility.

Shane shoved the rest of his gear in his duffel, pulled a toque on over his damp hair, and shrugged on his jacket. He’d be back in a few hours to officially suit up for the game, but until then he was expected to meet his parents back at the hotel for lunch. His mother had a lot she wanted to discuss with him all the time, professionally speaking.

After all, if things went well for Canada—and, thus, well for him—during this tournament, Shane would likely be the first overall pick for the draft in June. It would be nice to head to Montréal this summer and walk into the Forum knowing that he was the most wanted player in the NHL. Nicer to know that he had beat Rozanov, who was rumored to be interested in abandoning the Soviet Union to play in the NHL.

Again, not because he hated Rozanov, but because he was Shane’s only true competition. Shane liked to be the best, but the best meant nothing if he was never genuinely challenged.

Shane ducked out of the locker room, but not before overhearing more bullshit as his teammates continued chirping each other back and forth.

“Stop being so fucking gay, man!”

“Yeah, dude, you’ll catch AIDS!”

Shane cringed, practically throwing himself through the doorway to get out of there faster. They weren’t even talking to him, but the words felt like knives lodged in his back as he scurried down the tiled hallway toward the exit.

He loved hockey, but he hated this part of it. The part where there was only one acceptable kind of male athlete and any behavior outside the narrow norm meant that you were branded as a homosexual.

Which was, apparently, the worst thing anyone could be.

And it was also, admittedly, something that Shane had grown terrified that he might be.

But he was young. Puberty wasn’t over quite yet. Maybe something would finally click into place and he would figure out how to want girls the way that his friends and teammates did. Maybe that part of him was just taking a little bit longer to develop. That’s all.

Shane’s heart was thundering as he stepped out into the brutally cold winter air. There was a bus in the parking lot waiting to shuttle his team back to the hotel. He could go sit and wait on it for the next twenty minutes while the rest of the team finished fucking around. Orhe could breathe in some fresh air and try to calm his frayed nerves.

It’s not that he was afraid of facing the young Soviets tonight.

He just felt… strange. Like something was slightly off-balance. Like maybe the world had tilted a little too far on its axis and thrown everything out of order.

Shane sighed and ducked his head lower into the collar of his jacket to protect his neck and cheeks from the frigid wind as he wandered around the back side of the rink. His boots crunched over old snow and bits of gravel that had been tossed across the pavement to prevent slipping on unseen patches of ice.

He could win tonight. He could do it. He was good enough.

But Rozanov was good, too. And, if Shane was being completely honest, he had a better team behind him. Canada’s junior team was great this year, but their second line was slacking in practice this morning and Shane’s rightwing had been out of sync with him for the past week.

Which meant that Shane could do everything right and they still might lose.

And if they lost, then he could forget about being number one in June.

Shane was so lost in thought as he rounded the next corner of the building that he didn’t notice he was no longer alone until it was too late.

One minute, he was watching his breath fog in front of him, forming temporary clouds that blurred his view of the ground beneath his feet. The next minute, he had a face full of puffy nylon and a brief flash of golden curls clouding his vision as he collided with an unseen force.

Shane let out an embarrassing yelp, grabbing at the stranger’s broad shoulders to stabilize himself, but the stranger was also grabbing at him for balance. The sole of his boot slipped on a patch of untreated ice, sliding between the stranger’s two feet and accidentally hooking behind his ankle.

Everything turned upside down as they fell in a tangled heap.

A gloved hand slid behind Shane’s head at the last second to prevent his skull from smacking directly into the asphalt, but there was little to be done about the heavy crush of another person’s weight falling onto him.

“Oof,” Shane gasped, trying to see past a scarf that didn’t belong to him and more of those golden curls.

The stranger hissed, lifting their head to frown down at Shane.

Only then did he realize he hadn’t just bumped into anyone.

This wasn’t just a person.

It was Ilya Rozanov.

Blue eyes, wind-bitten cheeks, and rosy lips. Mere inches from his face.

Pretty, Shane thought. Almost angelic.

The two strangers stared at each other for a long moment, so shocked that neither one of them could remember how to move. Their bodies were pressed close, one of Rozanov’s powerful thighs coincidentally slotted between Shane’s splayed legs.

Their fogging breath mingled between their faces, forming little ghostly apparitions in the air before fading into the periphery.

“Fuck,” Shane breathed. “I’m so sorry.”

Rozanov grunted, removing the hand that still cradled the back of Shane’s head and then pushing up onto his knees. He glared down at Shane for a moment, then hoisted himself up onto his feet with a subtle wince.

Shit.

Shane braced himself, ready for a well-aimed kick from his greatest rival. It was the least he deserved for basically attacking him, even if it was an accident.

Instead, Rozanov bent forward and held out his hand.

It took Shane a second to realize that he was offering to help him up.

If Shane was the tough guy that his teammates expected him to be, he’d ignore the hand and haul himself off the ground. Maybe he’d even bark at Rozanov to watch where he’s going, then stomp off toward the waiting bus. Anything to erase the fact that Shane could still feel the weight of Rozanov’s body on his, could still taste the warmth of his breath lingering on his lips.

It could be a test, too. Maybe Rozanov would snarl and snicker at him if Shane dared to actually accept his offer, then run off to tell his teammates that Canada’s young captain was a fucking homo. Or whatever the equivalent of that was in Russian.

And yet, Shane felt an odd sense of calmness settling into his bones. As if, for the first time in his life, some kind of balance had been briefly restored.

So, without overthinking it for another second, he slipped his hand into Rozanov’s waiting palm and allowed himself to be yanked up off the cold, hard ground.

When Shane had his feet under him again, he loosened his grip on Rozanov. Still, he swore that the boy’s touch lingered for a moment longer than necessary before letting go.

“Sorry,” Shane said again. “I wasn’t—I didn’t—uh… sorry.”

Rozanov stared at him. A pair of headphones had been knocked off his head during the fall and now dangled precariously from a tangled wire looped around his neck. Rozanov didn’t even seem to notice.

“Uh,” Shane uttered, feeling stupid. Then, just to make himself feel even stupider, he held out his hand toward Rozanov. “I’m Shane. Hollander. Um, yeah, Shane Hollander. That’s me.”

Rozanov glanced down at Shane’s hand, the same one he’d just let go of, the corner of his lips twitching upwards.

Shane was half a second away from retracting his hand when Rozanov reached out to shake it.

“Zdraste.”

Shane didn’t know what that meant, but it wasn’t delivered like an insult or a curse. Rozanov didn’t seem like he was going to punch him, at least.

“You’re Ilya Rozanov, right?” Shane babbled. “I wish I could have introduced myself differently. Sorry about that. I wasn’t watching where I was going. I swear I didn’t, uh, come at you on purpose or anything like that.”

Rozanov lifted a brow, eyes twinkling with amusement.

“No speak English,” he replied simply.

Shane snorted at that. “Yes, you do. You did an interview this morning for local radio in English.”

Rozanov’s smirk grew. “Ah, so you are big fan of me.”

“No. My mom was listening and I happened to overhear it.”

“Ah, okay. You are not a fan, so you must hate me. You try to kill me before our teams play, yes? Trying to injure me?”

“What? No! No, I swear. I would never—”

Shane stopped himself mid-sentence when Ilya’s smirk turned into a grin, realizing that the other boy was only teasing him.

“Is okay,” Rozanov replied with a shrug. “I am not hurt. Felt like being hit by feather pillow. I hope you are meaner than that on the ice, otherwise it won’t be much fun tonight, no?”

“I…”

Shane laughed incredulously. Of all the ways he imagined finally meeting Ilya Rozanov, he never thought it would go like this. Rozanov was a beast on the ice, mercilessly aggressive and unflinchingly confident. Shane thought he might have the personality to match, all cold frowns and icy glares.

But his eyes were so… sparkly.

And he wouldn’t stop smiling at Shane.

Shane didn’t know what to say in response, so he offered a vaguely pathetic, “I can be mean.”

“Mm. I hope so.”

Something about the tone of Rozanov’s voice made Shane stomach flip. He felt the strangest urge to lean into his warmth, to ask him what he was listening to on his walkman, to ask him if he might see him in Montréal this June.

He also wondered what it would feel like to sink his fingers into those thick curls, to pull at them playfully, to see what kind of sounds Rozanov might make at his touch.

“Um. I should go,” Shane blurted, stumbling back a step and nearly slipping on the ice all over again.

“Bye, Shane Hollander.”

Shane’s stomach did another little flip at the quiet purr in Rozanov’s voice.

But it was probably just his imagination.

“B-bye,” he stuttered, turning back the way he came.

He held his breath until he had turned the corner again and was out of Rozanov’s sight. Held it until he was halfway across the parking lot and couldn’t last another second.

Only then did he exhale.

Only then did he let his ridiculous hormonal brain wish that he could travel backwards ten minutes and freeze time just so that he could feel the thrilling, yet oddly comforting, sensation of Rozanov on top of him for a little while longer.

***

June 1983

The Forum

Montréal, QC

“They say this place is haunted, you know.”

“There’s no such thing as ghosts, Mom.”

Shane’s mother smiled fondly, ruffling his hair. He batted her away, cheeks heating. He wasn’t a kid anymore.

He was eighteen. Officially an adult. Already successful in so many ways, having beat the Soviets at world juniors in December and earning himself the honor of being the first overall draft pick.

Come October, Shane Hollander would play for the Montréal Voyageurs, the most legendary team in sports history.

Also notable was the fact that, at the same time, Ilya Rozanov would begin playing for the Boston Bears.

It had all worked out a little too poetically, Shane found himself thinking as he followed his parents through the reception that came after the draft ceremony. Hollander and Rozanov, different but equal since childhood, would now be cemented in history as ultimate rivals. Everyone knew that the beef between Boston and Montréal was brutal. Bloody, in fact.

It was a rivalry that was set in stone back in 1955, let loose from  the confines of the hockey world. Back then, violent riots and an entire political revolution had changed Québec forever, in part thanks to that single bloodiest incident in hockey history, and even with the Nordiques nearby to keep Montréal pissed off in their own province, the Voyageurs were forever sworn to hate the Bears—and vice versa—because of that game almost thirty years ago.

Which meant that the last person Shane should be looking for in this crowded room, the last person he should ever be excited to see, was Ilya Rozanov.

And yet…

There he was, standing tall and stoic beside a stern-faced Soviet man who must be his father. Half the room spanned between them, dozens and dozens of people forming a gauntlet of barriers that prevented Shane from getting any closer to him.

Despite that, Shane’s entire body prickled with awareness.

As if Rozanov could sense his stare even with a hundred other eyes on him, he turned his face in Shane’s direction.

Their gazes locked.

Timed slowed for a moment. Just like that, Shane was flat on his back on the icy ground in Winnipeg, head cradled and protected by a large hand.

He blinked, marveling at how easy it was to remember every infinitesimal detail of Ilya’s body against his almost six months later.

“Shane?”

He startled at the sound of his mother’s voice, ripping his eyes away from Rozanov.

But it didn’t break the spell.

For the rest of the evening, Shane felt strong thighs slotting alongside his own. Smelled the scent of Rozanov’s shampoo clinging to his curls. Saw the glittering humor in those greenish-bluish eyes. Tasted desire at the memory of bow-shaped lips that curved enticingly in a mischievous smirk.

If he was being honest, Shane had thought of little else for months now. It was a miracle nobody had noticed how distracted he’d become, how so many of his thoughts now thrummed to the rhythm of three sweet syllables that his clumsy anglophone tongue sounded out like Il-ee-ah.

Which meant that it wasn’t surprising when Shane couldn’t sleep that night after all the festivities were over. He gave up with his tossing and turning around half past four in the morning and descended to the hotel gym. Soon, he would call this city home and have a place of his own, but for now he was still a visitor.

He hopped onto a treadmill and started out with an easy jog, slowly increasing the pace. He kept his gaze forward on the plain concrete wall, sweat trickling down his back as his feet pounded out a steady rhythm.

He’d only covered about a kilometer and a half when he realized that someone else had joined him in the gym.

Someone who decided that the best thing to do at five in the morning was to run on the treadmill right next to his.

Shane glanced over and, when he saw who was beside him, nearly tripped over his own feet.

Ilya Rozanov.

He didn’t meet Shane’s gaze, but the corner his mouth was curved upwards. A silent hello, a fun little game.

Shane faced forward again and increased the pace.

Ilya went faster, too.

Huffing out a breathless laugh, Shane pressed the button again.

So did Ilya.

Before he knew it, they were sprinting in tandem, breaths rasping loudly over the whir of their machines in the otherwise silent gym.

Shane’s muscles screamed in protest, his calves burning and his lungs aching. He didn’t want to give up first, though.

And yet, Shane knew his limits. Knew better than to strain himself and risk injury before his professional career had barely begun.

So, with a loud grunt, he slammed his palm onto the emergency stop button and then lifted himself up to rest his feet on either side of the belt as it gradually slowed down. He bent forward, resting his forehead against the control panel as he fought to catch his breath, and was vaguely aware of Rozanov doing the same a few seconds later.

When he was certain that he wasn’t going to drop dead, Shane stumbled off the treadmill and grabbed his water bottle before collapsing against the wall and sinking down to the floor.

He watched Rozanov hop off his own treadmill, his tank top damp and his skin slick with a light sheen of sweat.

Shane felt an inconvenient tightening in his shorts at the sight of Rozanov sauntering toward him. Felt it more insistently when Rozanov slid down the wall next to him and let his legs splay out wide. He knocked his shoe against Shane’s, a playful touch.

But Shane was still breathing too hard to speak.

For a couple of minutes, all they did was sit there and breathe, occasionally tilting their heads back to drink from their water bottles.

At last, Rozanov broke the silence. “Long time, no see.”

Shane laughed softly, rolling his head sideways to meet Rozanov’s gaze.

“Hi,” he murmured.

Rozanov smirked. “Hi.”

They were sitting so close. Unnecessarily close, really. Shoulder to shoulder, barely an inch separating them from contact.

“So,” Shane said, breath still a little unsteady and certainly not helped by Ilya’s proximity. “Boston.”

“Yes. Boston.”

“Congratulations.”

Rozanov winked. A tingle zipped down Shane’s spine.

“You, too,” he said to Shane. “Montréal is nice, yes?”

“Nice, yes. The best, in fact.”

“Ah, we will see.”

Shane was once again shocked by the ease with which he spoke to this boy.

No, this man. They were men now.

But, looking into those oceanic eyes, Shane felt impossibly childlike and small. Not in a bad way, but rather like he couldn’t help feeling overwhelmed by the sheer size of this unfamiliar desire cresting like a wave inside him.

“I’m surprised you don’t hate me,” Shane dared to say.

Rozanov lifted a brow. “Oh?”

“I’ve beaten you twice now.”

A wicked glint sparked in his eyes. “We have long careers ahead of us. I will beat you eventually.”

“You fucking wish,” Shane chuckled.

He felt a bead of sweat trickle down his temple and slide down his jaw, joining the dampness that clung to the skin of his neck. Rozanov traced the movement of that tiny droplet, throat bobbing with a swallow.

Shane’s lips parted, amazed at the realization washing over him.

That was desire in Rozanov’s gaze. He wasn’t mistaken.

His shorts got a bit tighter as his eyes drifted downwards at a slight shift in Rozanov’s position. He’d let his legs fall open a little wider, tiny blue shorts leaving very little to the imagination as Shane drank in an eye full of muscular thighs and…

And fuck, the very insistent outline of an impressive erection through the thin fabric.

Shane swallowed hard, trying to force his attention back up to Rozanov’s face.

But then Rozanov let a hand drift down his own stomach and slip between his legs. He palmed himself through his shorts.

Shane’s eyes shot up to meet Rozanov’s daring stare.

As if there was a question written plainly on his face, Rozanov nodded quietly.

And Shane couldn’t help himself anymore.

He’d never kissed a man before, but he fell into it as if it was second nature. Ilya barely had time to see it coming, and yet his mouth was already open, his tongue already slipping past Shane’s gasping lips, by the time they collided.

Shane tasted the salt of sweat and the earthy bitterness of tobacco, moaning softly as his mind instantly wrote the flavor of Ilya’s breathless kiss into his memory.

His body knew what he wanted before his brain did, moving on instinct to his knees so that he could straddle Rozanov’s lap.

Ilya’s hand went to his jaw, tilting his head to deepen the kiss as their clothed cocks pressed against each other. Shane whimpered at the friction, too dizzy and wild and greedy to care what he sounded like. He rolled his hips, pulse racing at the groan he felt vibrating in the back of Rozanov’s throat.

It occurred to him, of course, that they were technically in public. That, despite the early hour, anyone could walk into the gym right now and stumble upon them.

But Rozanov was painting kisses down the side of his neck and digging his fingers into Shane’s hips to guide his movements. It wasn’t enough for Shane, if he was being honest. He hated the layers of clothing between them, hated that he couldn’t touch and taste and feel every glorious inch of Ilya’s body right here and now.

Yet, for practicality’s sake, it was better that this was quick and easy.

So, when Rozanov cursed in Russian and dropped his head back against the wall, Shane buried his face in the crook of his neck and bit down on the exposed skin there to muffle his cry as they both came in their shorts at the same time.

Shane allowed himself thirty seconds to stay like that, limp and pliant in Rozanov’s embrace.

Then, with a sigh, he pulled away and crawled off the man he was supposed to hate, this time falling back against the opposite wall so they could face each other.

“I wasn’t sure,” Rozanov murmured, eyes glazed as he stared at Shane.

“Sure about what?”

“About you. If you… wanted to.”

Shane’s cheeks heated, and he was sure his blush would be obvious if he wasn’t already hot and sweaty. “Oh.”

“I had a feeling back in December.”

A cold trickle of horror poisoned his contentment. He sat up a little straighter. “A feeling?”

Was it that obvious? Did Shane give off an undeniably gay vibe? Was he basically walking around with a neon sign flashing above his head? Was it only thanks to pure luck that none of his former teammates had cared enough to genuinely accuse him of being a homosexual?

Rozanov shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe just wishful thinking.”

Shane relaxed slightly. “You’re saying you wanted to kiss me in December after I knocked you down?”

The other man smirked. “I saw your pretty brown eyes and knew that I wanted to do a lot of things to you.”

Again, Shane stiffened.

Pretty boy, his adversaries liked to call him on the ice. Racism and homophobia wrapped up into one stupid nickname.

But Rozanov was still smiling at him.

“Pretty,” he whispered to Shane. And it didn’t feel like an insult when it came from him. “Pretty eyes, yes, and a pretty mouth. Prettier, maybe, wrapped around my cock.”

Shane gaped at him, his dick twitching with interest again. “Oh… wow.”

“Pretty freckles,” Rozanov continued. “Prettier, probably, if I painted them with my—”

“Jesus Christ,” Shane gasped, cutting him off.

Rozanov grinned. “Come back over here, Hollander.”

Not here. Not again. Don’t be stupid.

“We shouldn’t,” he answered, gesturing vaguely at the gym door.

With a chuckle, Rozanov rose to his feet. He stepped closer, forcing Shane to tilt his head all the way back to meet his eyes.

“What room are you in?” asked Ilya.

“1410.”

“I’m closer. 810.” For the second time, Rozanov held out his hand toward Shane. “Let’s go.”

He didn’t even have to think about it. He knew what he wanted.

He also knew that it was a stupid thing to want, a reckless desire that would only grow hungrier the more he fed it.

And yet, there was no hesitation at all this time when Shane clasped hands with Ilya and let himself be pulled to his feet.

***

1983-84 NHL Season

Here and There, Everywhere

It blossomed petal by petal.

That first sprout, which had appeared the previous December in Winnipeg, became a flowering bud on that quiet June morning in Montréal when, clumsy with giddiness and breathless with laughter, two boys stumbled into Room 810 and fell into already rumpled sheets together. Sweat-damp clothes were tossed away carelessly, naked limbs tangling and moans mingling.

The sun rose beyond the walls, creeping sweet and golden through the cracks in the curtains. Dawn brought with it a symphony of wanton sighs and tender touches, tentatively exploring hands and fingers and tongues that stopped just shy of crossing that final boundary.

*

Then, October. The Voyageurs were scheduled to play against Boston for the first time that season.

Rozanov and Hollander bent over center ice, two rival rookies offered a brief chance to perform their roles for the benefit of the fans.

“2886 Beacon Street,” Ilya whispered to him. “Anytime after ten-thirty.”

Shane won the face-off, and then Montréal won the game.

Ilya didn’t care about any of that when Shane showed up on his doorstep later that night and murmured a quiet plea against his lips the second he’d crossed the threshold.

“Fuck me, please.”

*

Three weeks later, when the Bears were in Montréal, Ilya received a note from the hotel concierge.

An address. A time. Short and sweet.

“I already got myself ready for you,” Shane said in lieu of hello when Ilya showed up later that night.

“So impatient,” groaned Ilya, nipping at Shane’s throat. “So needy.”

“Just shut up and fuck me.”

Less than a minute later, Ilya had him bent over the arm of his sofa, whimpering into the leather cushions.

*

In December, it was an ill-advised detour from Hartford up to Boston when the Voyageurs played the Whalers. Just a couple of stolen hours before Shane had to leave again. Landline phone numbers were exchanged. Promises were made to meet again as soon as possible in the new year.

*

February. Montréal happened to be playing the Rangers at the same time the Bears were up against the newly christened New Jersey team. They met at a discreet hotel in Brooklyn. For a little while, they pretended that the rest of the world didn’t exist. That it was just the two of them, trapped safely in their own little pocket of time and space.

*

March. Montréal again.

Ilya made Shane come so hard he cried, then kissed away his tears and held onto him until the very last second before he absolutely had to go.

*

May. The Voyageurs won the Cup for the first time in over a decade. Ilya called Shane at home to congratulate him, to tease him, to playfully threaten that Boston would crush them next year. To remind him that he would be in Moscow until September, unreachable and untouchable.

At the time, Shane had wanted to ask, Could I write you letters?

But that was too tender. Love letters were a step too far, especially since Shane was most certainly not in love with Ilya Rozanov. He could wait one summer, just a few months, to see him again. There were other ways to satisfy himself in the meantime, plenty of memories to draw upon for inspiration late at night.

And, anyway, Shane had many other things to focus on. His health and fitness, his career, his team.

He didn’t need Ilya. He just liked having sex with him every once in a while.

So, at the end of that congratulatory call, he offered a polite, “See you next season.”

And that was that. For a little while.

***

January 1985

The Plaza Hotel

New York, NY

“You might want to fix your smile, buddy,” Hayden said to Shane, nudging him with his elbow. “You look miserable.”

Shane sighed, gazing around the crowded ballroom.

“I hate these things,” he replied.

It was the sort of thing he’d only admit to a friend like Hayden, who wouldn’t judge or chastise him for whining about being invited to an exclusive charity gala in New York City.

But Shane wasn’t only miserable because he was all dolled up in a tuxedo when he would have rather been in sweats. Nor was he miserable because he had to keep smiling and nodding at all the strangers who approached him and claimed to be huge fans.

He wasn’t even miserable because Rozanov wasn’t here or because he hadn’t seen Ilya since November, though that was probably a contributing factor to his overall misery.

Shane was miserable because he was here in this sparkly place surrounded by people dripping in diamonds and silk, all of them with more money than they needed, yet none of this wealth was being spent on the right things. Out there, just beyond the barrier of the hotel windows, people were dying in great swells of tragedy. They were suffering.

People like Shane—like Ilya, too—were in agony, and that pain was largely being ignored.

The charity sponsoring the evening’s event was a worthy cause, sure, but it was not the crisis that threatened to destroy the very community that Shane himself still hadn’t dared to claim as his own. Not publicly, at least.

It made him sick to his stomach.

It made him want to cry.

It made him want to sneak upstairs to his room and call Ilya at home just to hear his voice.

Instead, Shane downed the rest of his champagne and said to Hayden, “I need some air.”

His friend patted him on the shoulder and nodded in understanding.

Shane wandered off, slipping away from the sickening chaos until he’d found himself in a darkened hallway that seemed like it was for the staff rather than the guests. All he wanted was to step outside for a few minutes, and he was pretty sure there was an inner courtyard he could be relatively alone in for a while.

There was a dead end to this narrow hall, with a nondescript door that would hopefully deposit him outside. He didn’t see any exit signs, but maybe the building owners had forgotten to label this one. With a wordless wish for some semblance of peace, he reached for the knob and wrenched open the door.

What immediately followed was a flurry of movement, a swath of emerald satin tangled up with a white apron, and a two very loud gasps.

“Shit!” hissed a redhead with feathery bangs, her catering uniform rumpled and loose around the collar. She was clinging to another woman, white hands digging into her bare shoulders as if the opening of the door had sent them barreling downwards from a great height and she was the only thing to hold onto.

“Um,” Shane said, rather unhelpfully.

The other woman, the one draped in a pretty green frock, whipped her head around to gape at Shane. Her lipstick was smudged, her large eyes made even larger by how wild with panic they had become at the intrusion. She yanked up the fallen strap of her dress and frowned at Shane.

“What the hell?”

It was the sound of her voice, infuriated as it was, that triggered Shane’s memory. He knew this woman. Not personally, but he had seen her in quite a few films.

Rose Landry.

“Uh,” said Shane. Again, unhelpfully.

“Fuck,” whispered the other woman, smoothing out her collar. “I can’t be here. I have to go.”

With her head down, she pushed past Shane and ran down the hallway, leaving him standing there rather numbly, trying to make sense of what Rose Landry, the beloved young actress, was doing in a supply closet with one of the catering staff.

Except, it was fairly obvious what they’d been doing. Tousled hair, smeared makeup, and wrinkled clothes. The secrecy of it all. The ensuing panic and rapid escape from that poor girl.

Rose Landry had been kissing another woman. Very passionately, it seemed. Perhaps, if Shane hadn’t been such a fool, it might have escalated to more.

“I…” Shane cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. I thought—I was looking for the, um, outside.”

“The outside is usually accessible via doors with exit signs, Shane Hollander,” Rose replied with an exasperated sigh. She straightened the front of her dress and, even though she seemed a little disgruntled, Shane got the feeling that she wasn’t necessarily angry with him.

If anything, she appeared to be extremely nervous.

Which was understandable, given that she’d just been caught with her tongue down another woman’s throat.

“You know who I am?” Shane found himself asking.

Rose huffed at him. “I’m from Michigan. And I have brothers. Of course I know who you are.”

“I—”

“Listen,” she interrupted. “That’s not what it looked like, okay? I just needed some help with my dress. The hem was torn, and the staff member offered to sew it up for me.”

Shane stared at her. Then, because he apparently lacked a certain amount of tact, he remarked, “She must be a talented seamstress if she’s able to repair a torn hem in a dark closet with no needle and thread in sight.”

A dark flush spread across Rose’s face. Even so, she scoffed at him.

“What would you know about being a seamstress? You’re just a big, dumb hockey player.”

For some reason, Shane glanced down at his shoes. “I’m not that big.”

Rose sighed impatiently. “Well, are you going to move out of the way? Because if you keep me trapped in here for even another five seconds, I’m probably going to have to kick you in the balls.”

“Oh!” Shane blinked and took a big step back. “No! Sorry. Fuck. I didn’t mean to—fuck.”

Rose slipped out of the closet as soon as he gave her the room to, and let the door click shut behind her. Shane expected her to waltz off without another word and rejoin the party, assuming that people would be much more likely to believe her seamstress story than whatever gossip he might spread, but then she must have seen something in his expression, because she paused.

“The exit is down that hallway and to the left,” she told him, pointing back the way he came.

“Right. Thanks.”

“Yep.”

She took a couple of steps away, but then Shane blurted, “Wait.”

Miraculously, she halted, glancing back over her shoulder at him with raised brows. “Yeah?”

“I—it’s okay, you know?” Shane tried not to fidget as he searched for the right words. “I’m not going to tell anyone what I saw.”

“You didn’t see anything,” she snapped.

“No, of course not,” he agreed. “Nothing at all. It’s just… even if I did, I wouldn’t tell. I get it. I know how, um, difficult it is. To be like—well, to be different. I guess.”

Rose stared at him for a long moment, her expression softening first with confusion and then understanding. “I see.”
“Yeah.” Shane had never told anyone the entire truth before. Not even Ilya, technically. He’d never said the words I’m gay out loud, even if everything that he and Rozanov did together implied it.

Rose faced him fully again, taking a moment to truly look at him for the first time. “So, does that mean…?”

“Yes,” he admitted. “I’m like that, too. I’m like you. I’m… yeah.”

“Yeah,” echoed Rose.

Shane nodded. “Okay. Cool. I really am sorry, by the way. Please tell your girlfriend I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“My what?” Rose laughed. “No, she’s not my girlfriend. I just met her tonight. I thought she was pretty and she was making eyes at me… actually, I’m not sure I remember her name. Katie, I think?”

“Oh. Wow. Nice.”

She laughed again, a musical sound that put Shane slightly more at ease.

“Come on, Shane Hollander,” she sighed, looping her arm with his and tugging him down the hall back toward the party. “There’s only one way to handle this situation.”

He let himself be steered by this strange, enigmatic creature. “What’s that?”

“Well, we have to become best friends, of course.”

***

June 1985

Montréal, QC

“I wish you didn’t have to go.”

Rozanov smiled sadly up at Shane from where he lay beneath him. “Mm. You will miss my dick too much while I am in Russia, yes?”

Shane rolled his eyes. “No.”

“Ah, so you—”

“I’ll miss your mouth, too, obviously,” Shane cut in. “It’s my favorite part of you, at least when you’re not using it to talk.”

Rozanov snorted. “It’s a good thing you are so cute when you objectify me.”

“Objectify. Wow. Big word.”

That earned Shane another laugh, and then Rozanov was apparently so charmed by Shane’s chirps that the only thing he could do about it was push him onto his back and kiss him until both of them were breathless.

Shane was on a roll today with the quips, but not necessarily because he’d been possessed by a newfound sense of cleverness. It’s just that it was the only way he could get through this weekend without saying something he might regret later.

Something like, Don’t go to Russia. Stay here with me in Montréal.

Something like, I want to build a cottage somewhere private. We could go there someday together, once it exists. You could stay with me in the summers instead of forcing yourself to return home.

Or maybe, Let me be your home, Ilya. I could be a good home. I could be anything for you, if you wanted.

Perhaps, I don’t really know what I want to say. I don’t think there are any words for it. All I know is that I am happier when you are with me, and maybe that’s selfish, but I would lock the door right now and keep you all to myself forever if I could.

But those were stupid things to say. Pointless, too. Shane was not the center of Rozanov’s universe. He had a life of his own, a family that hoped to see him in the off-season. He had women who wanted him and friends that Shane had never met. Why would Rozanov choose him over all of that? Why would Rozanov ever want him that much?

It was simple, what they had together. If the secret ever got out, it would unravel both of their worlds, sure, but they were careful. Their hookups were efficiently coordinated and easy to cover up with other explanations.

Plus, nobody would ever think that Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov were… involved. They were rivals. They were athletes. They were men. They couldn’t be queer. They were too masculine, too tough.

So, maybe, with all of that taken into consideration, they’d been getting a little bolder recently. Taking some calculated risks. Like how Ilya had driven all the way to Montréal from Boston today just to spend one night with Shane before he boarded a plane to Moscow.

It was the first time they would ever spend a full night together. But it wasn’t like it meant anything. It was just the most convenient way for them to have incredible sex one last time before they were apart for three entire months. It’s not as if Shane had spent the past twenty-four hours preparing for this tryst by adding Coke and a bottle of vodka to his shopping list or picking up a spare toothbrush just in case Ilya forgot his. It’s not like he made sure his softest sheets were clean or like he took extra time to fluff his pillows.

It was just Rozanov. He’d come over, they’d fuck, and that’s it.

And that’s exactly what had happened so far, because here they were, naked and tangled and sated, sprawled on the shag rug in Shane’s living room because they hadn’t actually managed to make it to the bedroom once Rozanov arrived.

“I like you like this.”

Shane blinked, emerging from his thoughts. He was laying beneath Rozanov, and he’d been tracing idle patterns across his collarbones without realizing it, while the golden-haired man gazed at him with a strange expression on his face.

“Like what?” he asked.

Rozanov ran his fingers through Shane’s hair. “Relaxed.”

“Oh.”

“You are always like this after I fuck you. So sweet and sleepy.”

“I’m not sweet,” Shane protested automatically, even as he pulled him closer and nuzzled into the crook of Ilya’s neck. “And I’m not sleepy either.”

“Of course you are sweet. Like candy. You might give me cavities.”

Shane hid his smile by nipping at Ilya’s earlobe. “Well, half your teeth are already fake, so…”

Rozanov pinched his arm playfully. “Only two. And must I remind you that one of those missing teeth is your fault?”

With a loud scoff, Shane pushed him aside, sitting up halfway and pouting when Rozanov lazily rolled away with a playful grin.

“No, it’s not!”

Ilya laughed. “Yes. Is true.”

Shane huffed in annoyance, which broadened Ilya’s grin enough that Shane was able to slip the tip of his index finger past his lips and prod at the fake incisor on the bottom right side. “Comeau was the one who knocked this one out. Because you pissed him off.”

Rozanov playfully bit down on the tip of Shane’s finger.

“Me? Piss someone off? I do not think this could be true.”

“Well, think all you want, Rozanov, but I vividly remember you tripping him.”

“Yes, yes, but only because he hooked me and the refs didn’t call it!”

Shane smirked. “I don’t think that’s what happened.”

“No, is the truth. Comeau is very bad at handling his stick.”

“Regardless, I don’t know how that’s my fault.”

Ilya grabbed Shane’s hand before he could poke at his fake tooth again, entwining their fingers and then rolling over so that Shane’s back was once again pressed into the carpet and Ilya hovered over him. This endless dance, this give and take, this waltz of wordless steps that both of them innately understood… something about it always took Shane’s breath away.

“Don’t you remember?” Ilya pouted. “You are always so mean to me on the ice, Hollander. You hit me and it’s so rough—I think you always want me wearing a bruise from you—and what am I supposed to do?”

Shane snorted. “Check me into the boards even more roughly, apparently.”

“Mm, yes, but only because I think sometimes you moan when I do.”

“Oh, fuck off,” he laughed, blushing when he felt Ilya hardening against the bare skin of his thigh. They’d been doing this for years by now, and still Shane couldn’t get over how deeply he was affected by Rozanov’s unflinching desire for him.

Rozanov dipped his head to nip at the angle of Shane’s jawline.

“So, it is like this… how do you say? Tit for tat?” he whispered in Shane’s ear. “We settle our own score, then Comeau involves himself for no reason. I think all Voyageurs just want excuse to punch me.”

“Poor baby,” Shane murmured.

“Yes, poor me. He knocks out my tooth as soon as I am out of penalty box. Splits my lip, too!”

Ilya was now biting soft kisses down the side of his neck. He wished he could be bitten hard enough to leave marks, wished he could be bruised by Rozanov in a different way than what was dealt on the ice.

“You looked hot like that, though,” Shane replied.

“Ah, you think I’m sexy when I bleed?”

“Mm.”

Ilya slipped a hand between their bodies and pinched Shane’s thigh. “See? You are so mean to me.”

Shane squirmed beneath him. “What are you going to do about it, Rozanov?”

His eyes darkened with the dare inherent in Shane’s question. With a low growl, he dragged his teeth down the slope of Shane’s neck and then, without warning, sank them into the firm flesh of his trap muscles.

“What are you…?” Shane’s surprise melted into a quiet whimper at the pleasure-pain dealt by Rozanov’s teeth.

“Off-season,” Ilya reminded him, gently kissing the abused skin. “You won’t be back in the locker room for a while. So let me leave something for you to remember me by this summer, hm?”

Shane hadn’t thought of that. Hadn’t even considered that this scraped-together farewell weekend could be the perfect opportunity to step past their usual boundaries. And, sure, technically it wasn’t the worst thing in the world for Shane’s skin to play host to the lingering imprints of Ilya’s teeth and lips and hands.

Except that once, in the beginning of this arrangement between them, Rozanov had suckled a bruise above the swell of Shane’s ass cheek during their rookie season. Shane figured it wouldn’t be a big deal, considering it would be strange if one of his teammates fixated on his ass long enough to notice that the bruise was born from a lover rather than their contact sport.

But then Drapeau had noticed it anyway, commenting something along the lines of, Fucking shit, Hollander. What the hell kind of woman are you screwing?

Hayden, to his credit, had attempted to defend him. What’s the matter, dude? Jealous you can’t kiss his ass, too?

I’m not a fucking homo, Drapeau had snarled, instantly dissolving all the humor in the locker room. It was probably you who gave him that hickey anyway, huh, Pike?

Hayden had merely rolled his eyes and didn’t respond. Both of them knew that rising to Drapeau’s bait would only make all the bullshit worse.

And, thankfully, it did end there. For the most part, besides a few remarks lobbed Shane’s way in a joking-but-not-really-a-joke manner about how he liked his ass played with like a faggot.

Or something like that. Shane really tried not to fixate on the exact wording when comments like that were made.

The point is, Shane learned a lesson that day. Even if he enjoyed walking around with a mark that Rozanov had given him, and even if he thought it was sexy to wear a bruise that reminded him of their brief moments together, it couldn’t happen again. It was too risky. Not because the hickey had A MAN DID THIS tattooed above it in bold ink, but because, regardless of anything else, it was obviously extremely gay to let a woman mark you up like she owned you. It was supposed to be the other way around, and if Shane wanted to keep flying under the radar as a passably straight guy, he needed to conform to every single infinitesimal rule. Including the stupid ones.

It was a tricky game and, even now, Shane struggled to figure out how to play it right when the rules were constantly shifting. The main idea was clear, though. Being gay was the worst thing you could be. Especially right now, with them being blamed for the existence of the deadly virus that claimed so many lives every day.

Shane knew he was gay, though. Had known it for a while. Known it since he kissed Ilya Rozanov for the very first time, even if he’d been unwilling to accept that truth in the moment. He’d been suspicious of himself even before meeting him that cold December day in Winnipeg, had been terrified of the desire that raged inside him like a fever that would never break.

But it would be okay. Shane would be fine. He could enjoy these trysts with Ilya in private for as long as Rozanov remained interested, and then…

Well, he supposed he could probably find someone else to keep a secret once he retired. He would live a half life, torn between his love of hockey and his darkest truth, but that was alright. Many people had it much worse, Shane reasoned.

Many people lived their truth, and then they died for it.

“Earth to Shane?”

He blinked, unaware that he’d been spacing out for the past couple of minutes while Rozanov peppered teasing bites and tender kisses all over his throat.

“Sorry,” he whispered, tangling his fingers in the curls at the nape of Ilya’s neck. “Keep going. Feels good.”

Ilya chuckled, low and mischievous, slotting his thigh between Shane’s legs just like he’d accidentally done the first time they met. Shane sighed, grinding up against him shamelessly, already eager for round two.

And then the phone rang.

They groaned in unison, then laughed.

“Let it ring,” Rozanov murmured, slipping his hand behind Shane’s knee to curl his leg up around his waist.

“Mm,” Shane agreed.

It was probably just his agent, and it was the off-season, so he could call him back. And if it was his mother, he could also call her back later. Whoever it was, they could wait.

When the call transferred to his answering machine, Shane expected to ignore every single word of whatever message would be left for him, but then a cheerful, feminine voice filled the room and Rozanov was the one who paused to lift his head and frown in the direction of Shane’s phone mounted to the wall in the kitchen.

“Hey, Shane! It’s Rose! I’m unexpectedly in Montréal for the weekend. Surprise! Let’s go out tonight. I’m not taking no for an answer. There’s a place I heard about and you’re coming with me whether you like it or not. Pick up the phone!”

Shane cringed, happy as he was to hear from his newest friend. Rozanov leaned back to sit on his heels, eyebrows raised.

“Who is that?”

“Uh. My friend.”

“Your friend.” Rozanov’s brows lifted even higher. “I thought you did not like women at all.”

“I don’t. It’s not like that.”

“Ah.”

Shane sighed, rising up onto his elbows. “Seriously. She’s just—we met at that charity thing in January.”

“Oh, I see. So, she is rich? Or famous? Both, yes?”

He could see that Rozanov was doing his best impression of lighthearted teasing, but there was an edge to his voice and a sharpness in his gaze.

Which was interesting, to say the least, considering that he definitely didn’t bother keeping his numerous female exploits a secret whenever he wasn’t hooking up with Shane.

“Don’t be like that,” Shane grumbled.

But Ilya’s pouted only became more pronounced when the phone started ringing again.

He hadn’t known Rose for long, but he had no doubts about the fact that she was an extremely determined woman. And if she’d set her heart on Shane coming out with her tonight, there was probably nothing he could do about it to stop her short of outright informing her that he already had plans to have all nine inches of Rozanov’s cock buried in him for the rest of the evening.

Shane rose to his feet, snatching up his sweats from the floor and yanking them on as he scurried over to the telephone.

He picked it up on the last ring, feeling Ilya’s eyes on the back of his head.

“Hello?” Shane answered.

“Shane! You got my message?”

“Uh—”

“Get yourself dolled up, babe. I have a surprise.”

Shane watched Ilya rise to his feet out of the corner of his eye and pull his jeans on.

“I’m a little busy tonight, Rose. Sorry. Maybe tomorrow?”

“I’m heading back to LA tomorrow afternoon! What could you possibly be busy with anyway?”

“Uh. I have a guest tonight. They’re visiting from… out of town.”

There was a beat of silence on the other end of the line, and then Rose started laughing. “Ohhh… a guest, huh? He’s there right now? Is he that guy you were telling me about last mo—”

“Rose.”

She giggled again. “Just bring him with you! The place my friend told me about is specifically for people like us. It’s very discreet. Like, speakeasy style.  Nobody will give a fuck that Rose Landry and Shane Hollander are shaking their gay asses on the dance floor all night. Plus, I’m dying to meet this boy of yours.”

Shane glanced over his shoulder at Ilya, who was perched on the arm of the sofa, lips pursed, one eyebrow lifted at him.

He sighed heavily. “You do realize that meeting him would mean that he would know the truth about you, right?”

“Well, yeah.” Rose paused. “I mean, if you like him, I’m sure he’s trustworthy. If he can keep it secret that the captain of the Voyageurs is gay, surely he can add ‘Rose Landry is a lesbian’ to that list, right?”

“Uh. Well. The thing is… I mean, I just don’t think he—we weren’t really planning on… I’m not sure it’s a good idea. You know I don’t like clubs, Rose.”

“But this is a gay club, Shane. That alone makes it better than any dirty bar your teammates drag you to on a regular basis.”

“I can’t be seen going to a place like that.”

“You won’t be! The entrance is in a back alley and there’s a password to get in and I swear, Shane, it will be fine. Everything I’ve heard about it is amazing. Please? What could possibly be the problem with having a little bit of fun for one night with your dearest friend?”

“I mean…”

“Shane, come on.”

He cast another backwards glance at Rozanov, who was now glaring at the wall.

“It’s just that, um, heis also a public figure. So, it’s a little complicated.”

“Wait, what? Do I know him?”

“Not personally. I don’t think.”

“But I definitely know who he is?”

“Yes,” Shane admitted.

“No fucking way.”

“Yeah, so, I don’t think tonight is a good—fuck!”

In the handful of seconds that had passed since the last time Shane had looked Ilya’s way, he’d managed to sneak up on him and pluck the phone right out of his hand. Shane was so baffled that he didn’t even think to snatch it back before Rozanov had put the receiver to his ear and started speaking.

“Whoever this is, we will go to club with you. Shane does not get out enough and I would like to meet his new friend. What is address?” There was a pause during which Rozanov didn’t even look at Shane, listening to whatever Rose was saying to him on the other line. Then, “Ah. Okay. Yes. This is good. Yes, yes. Do not worry—I will make sure he does not dress badly. Yes. Okay. Bye.”

Shane gaped at him as Rozanov hung up the phone. Did Rose recognize his voice? Did the Russian accent give it away?

“What the hell?” Shane grumbled.

Rozanov smirked. “Here is the plan, Hollander. I dress you up. We go meet this girl named Rose. We have fun—you know what this is, yes? Fun?”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“And then I bring you back home and fuck you so good you will feel it for days, yes?”

Shane’s mind went a little hazy at that. “Um.”

“Yes?” Ilya repeated.

It wasn’t a good idea. It couldn’t be. Hidden and guarded as it allegedly was, there was no way Shane could be seen in a gay club with Ilya Rozanov. What if someone recognized him? What if they called the newspapers in the morning to tell them all about it? What if rumors started flying all over the place? What if everything went wrong and neither Shane nor Ilya got to play another season of hockey ever again?

“Hey,” whispered Ilya, stepping closer and gently cradling Shane’s jaw in one hand. “There is nothing to be afraid of. There is a club like this in Boston. Many clubs. I go to them sometimes. It is never a problem. Nobody cares who I am. If they realize they know my face, they keep secret. That is promise you make when you enter those places. Everyone knows it. Everyone keeps the secret for each other.”

Shane leaned into Rozanov automatically, seeking the inherent comfort of his strong, sturdy body.

“You go to gay clubs?” he murmured.

Ilya stroked his thumb along Shane’s lower lip. “Yes. Not often. Rare treat.”

“So… you… do stuff? With other men?”

One second, Shane was drowning a little bit in Ilya’s gaze. The next second, he was being kissed within an inch of his life, Rozanov’s tongue tangling with his. Shane’s legs weakened a little, so he threw his arms around his shoulders to keep himself from collapsing in a heap at Ilya’s feet.

When Rozanov broke off the kiss, he leaned his forehead against Shane’s and whispered, “Not the stuff that we do. No. Not like with you. Nothing is ever like it is with you.”

And then Shane was kissing him again. He couldn’t help it. It was second nature to fall into him, to fall for him, to fall apart in front of him.

A few hours later, Shane was leading Ilya down the back stairwell of his building. He was wearing a silky, slightly transparent shirt he’d bought last year and never worn, the top buttons undone and the hem left untucked over a pair of too-tight jeans that had Rozanov unapologetically drooling. He’d spent most of the last hour grabbing Shane’s ass through the denim, squeezing possessively and grinning at the blush that colored Shane’s cheeks.

As luck would have it, Ilya had gotten things mixed up while packing for Russia and packing for this jaunt to Montréal at the same time. So, he hadn’t just come armed with plenty of lube and lounging attire, but also a pair of leather pants and a cropped shirt that left the dusting of dark hair on his lower abdomen exposed. Shane wanted to lick it, wanted to stay home and spend the rest of the night on his knees tasting Rozanov.

But Ilya was determined to team up with Rose—still unaware that it was Rose Landry he’d spoken to—and take Shane to his first gay club.

Shane paused at the exit door for a moment, took a deep breath, and then pushed it open. There was a sleek Mercedes idling on the narrow access street behind the building.

“Oh. Good taste,” muttered Ilya at Shane’s side.

As they approached the vehicle, the back door flung itself open. A slender hand reached out, grabbing hold of Shane’s sleeve. He was dragged inside the car with a muffled yelp, yanking Rozanov along with him. As soon as the door shut, the driver set off without a word.

In the dark interior of the vehicle, Rose giggled. Shane was squished in the middle seat, squirming in his jeans between her and Ilya.

“Who did your hair, Shane?” she asked in lieu of hello. “It looks fantastic.”

“That would be me,” Rozanov chimed in.

A second later, Shane was shoved forward so that Rose could get a better look at the person sat on his other side.

“Oh, holy fucking shit!” she exclaimed. “You can’t be fucking serious!”

Despite her words, she sounded absolutely thrilled.

Shane groaned softly, dropping forward to rest his elbows on his knees. Thankfully, the driver didn’t seem to care who any of them were.

“Oh,” Rozanov replied. “You are Rose Landry. I saw your movie. Was good.”

“And you’re Ilya Rozanov, captain of the Boston Bears.”

“Yes.”

“You…? With Shane!?”

“Yes.”

Rose squealed with delight, smacking Shane’s shoulder. “Fuck you! This is so delicious! I can’t believe you didn’t tell me this is the guy.”

Shane groaned again. “Yeah, well, it wasn’t entirely my secret to tell.”

Rose tutted her tongue, but Ilya was chuckling.

“Ah, he talks about me? What does he say?”

“Just that you rock his fucking world. And also—”

“Rose,” Shane sighed. “Please.”

She laughed again. “God, this is already the best night of my life. It’s really nice to meet you, Ilya.”

And so Shane spent the remainder of the drive crammed between two people who knew his worst secret, who loved him despite it, who shared his fears and hopes. They were united, the three of them, in the silence that lay heavy over all the things that they couldn’t share with most others. United more strongly, indeed, in the wonder of being among people who you did not have to be silent with.

They were free. Briefly, and not without limitations, but unabashedly free.

Velvet Haze, the club was called. It was located in a large commercial building not too far from where Shane lived, hulking in the shadows among dozens of other clubs that were thrumming with energy and sound and color. The driver brought them around back, where they slipped out into the night and followed Rose down a narrow alley.

“Fabian sent me,” Rose told the bouncer, who stood tall and stoic before the plain metal doorway like Cerberus.

Shane wasn’t sure how that could be a password, but it was enough to make the bouncer smile faintly and let them inside.

In that tiny sliver of a moment, Shane’s life was instantly split into before and after.

Before Velvet Haze, he was skittish and secretive. He did not laugh too loud or speak too much, shrinking himself down so that he could be easily overlooked. He was half a man, playing a role he’d chosen for himself and shoving all the other parts deep into a metaphorical closet. He was not the sort of person who wore silk shirts that went transparent under the pulsing flash of neon lights, nor the sort of man who allowed his hair to be purposefully mussed up for the sake of fashion. He was, at all times, fully buttoned and neatly combed.

But after walking through the doorway of Velvet Haze, Shane felt something inside him being unleashed. It took only a minute or so for tightly wound knots to unravel, for his heartbeat to match pace with the pounding bass.

Here, his outfit was not risky. Here, smiling too brightly or blushing too deeply would not result in a slur hurled his way. Here, everyone was just like him. They were different. Different than the outside world, but the same inside this space.

So, when Ilya’s hand found Shane’s among the strobing, half-lit shadows, Shane didn’t hesitate to hold on tight.

“I want to dance!” Rose shouted, just barely loud enough to be heard over the music.

She led the way and Ilya followed, pulling Shane along behind him.

He marveled silently at the beauty of the people around him. A boy with delicate features and glitter on his cheekbones danced on a tabletop, pausing only to allow a kiss on the hand from a man with broad shoulders and a thick beard. An androgynous person with cropped hair winked at a long-legged woman clad entirely in sequins.

And everywhere, everywhere… men like Shane had never seen in person before. Men wearing little more than neon mesh. Men with slashes of eyeliner and rouged lips. Men with unnaturally dyed hair wearing glittering costume jewelry. Men so fascinatingly unlike Shane, men who dared to bend the rules of masculinity, men who seemed more like men simply because they allowed themselves to reject those rigid guidelines. They kissed each other, these creatures who Shane admired and feared and adored in equal measure. They laughed, unaware that a boy with freckled cheeks and wide eyes was seeing them for the first time and yet couldn’t help feeling like he’d known them forever. These men touched each other like they weren’t afraid, like they were truly safe here.

Shane was pretty sure he was crying a little bit, but it didn’t matter. When they’d traversed through enough of the crowd to reach the main dance floor, Ilya turned to face him with an expression that almost seemed nervous. He hesitated, hand going slack in Shane’s grip, eyes wide with a pleading sort of desire.

Are you still mine right now? that look seemed to ask. Can you be mine, right here in front of everyone? Can we really do this? Do you even want to do this? Is it different now? Did we go too far? Do I mean enough to you?

Shane knew that these were the questions written in Ilya’s eyes because he felt them mirrored in his own thoughts.

Yes, he thought in response to those wordless pleas. Yes, I am yours.

Shane held on tighter to Ilya’s hand, squeezing until he was holding on just as firmly.

Yes, I will always be yours.

He stepped close to Ilya, chest to chest. The crowd ebbed and flowed around them, thrashing to the beat of the song. Nobody cared about them, but only because everyone cared about them. Shane could feel it in the air. It was like a second pulse, a strange sort of magic in the atmosphere.

Yes, I think I have been yours since before I knew you.

Shane draped an arm around Ilya’s shoulders, smiling when he felt a large hand settling on his hip and curving around to the slope of his ass.

Yes, I think I might love you. Yes, I think that’s what this is.

Shane leaned in, brushing the tip of his nose against Ilya’s, and let the music overwhelm him.

Yes, we are probably doomed.

Ilya sighed in something like relief, warm breath ghosting against Shane’s mouth.

Yes, even if this ends in flames, it will always be you.

You, you, you, Shane thought to himself. Ilya tugged him closer, their bodies flush.

And then, in front of all those people, under the dazzling lights, tangled up on the sticky dance floor, Shane and Ilya kissed each other. And Shane knew, for the first time in his life, that every moment of happiness he thought he’d felt throughout his life so far could not compare to this. This is what it was to be happy.

***

August 1986

Los Angeles, CA

“I think you should tell him.”

Shane frowned at Rose across their secluded table at the exclusive Malibu restaurant where they were currently having lunch on the sunlit patio.

“Tell him what?”

Rose readjusted her massive sunglasses and shrugged. “That you’re in love with him, of course.”

“I’m not in love with him.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Believe in anything you want, but it’s true.” Shane shook his head. “It’s not love. We’re just…”

“Just…?”

“Just friends. Friends who fuck. That’s all.”

Rose sighed. “You’re full of shit.”

Shane stabbed at his salmon with the tines of his fork, watching it fall apart in little chunks of perfectly seared flesh. He chose not to respond. But, with Rose, that was never an effective method for ending the conversation.

“It’s been years, Shane.”

“So?”

“Shane…”

He dropped his fork and stared out toward the coastline, where crystalline Pacific water flirted with sun-baked sand and left behind foamy lace hemlines with each inch that the tide withdrew.

Rose was quiet, sipping her wine and patiently waiting for Shane to speak. He knew that if he tried to change the subject, she’d redirect it right back to Rozanov. And if he tried to stay silent for the rest of the meal, she would never forgive him. They only had so much time to spend together, especially with preseason starting in a couple of weeks.

He swallowed hard. “It doesn’t even matter.”

It was as close to an admission of truth that he could bear to make. As close to an acknowledgement of his true feelings for Ilya that he dared to allow.

“Of course it matters,” she murmured.

“It wouldn’t be fair to him.”

She scoffed quietly. “Elaborate on that.”

Shane could certainly do that. He thought about it often. Ruminated on it even while he slept. Played these logic games inside his mind over and over again, convincing himself that he was right.

“He’s not like us. He likes both,” Shane sighed. “Both men and women.”

“And?”

“So, if he likes women, there’s a chance for him to get to have a normal life. That’s why I can’t tell him that I—well, it’s why it’s better to keep things casual. If he knows that, like, I feel a certain way about him, it will complicate things. And I don’t want his life to be any more complicated than it already is. He should be free to find a nice woman to fall in love with. He could be happy without me. It would be selfish of me to stand in the way of that.”

When Rose didn’t say anything for a full minute, Shane finally tore his gaze away from the ocean to glance at her. She’d pushed her sunglasses up onto her head and was staring at him like he just announced he planned to walk directly into oncoming traffic on the I-5 as soon as they were finished eating.

“Shane…”

“It’s fine,” he insisted.

She leaned forward and took his hand, squeezing it affectionately. “That’s so fucking tragic, Shane. You can’t torture yourself just because you think it will save him. Maybe he doesn’t even want to be saved.”

Shane snorted humorlessly. “We’re not exclusive. He fucks plenty of other people. I probably don’t mean anything at all to him.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Like I said, believe whatever you—”

“And I don’t think you believe it either.”

Shane got quiet again. Rose waited.

At last, he let out a long sigh. “It just doesn’t matter, okay? It doesn’t. It can’t. So, can we please talk about something else?”

“Like what?”

“Like… how’s Svetlana?”

Rose pursed her lips at him, but her cheeks instantly colored.

It had been over a year since Rose and Ilya had first met each other, over a year since that first visit to Velvet Haze. Since then, Shane had revisited the nightclub countless times. Sometimes with Rose, often only with Ilya, and, a couple of times, with Ilya’s childhood friend Svetlana. She and Rose had hit it off a few months ago when they all magically happened to be in Montréal at the same time, and Shane knew that they’d gone back to Rose’s hotel room together that night even if Rose kept insisting a lady doesn’t kiss and tell.

He also knew that, as soon as Ilya and Svetlana returned to Boston from their summer in Moscow, the long-legged Russian girl had promised she would fly directly to California to see Rose. They wouldn’t have long together, since Rose started filming for a new project next month, but Shane had a feeling that they would make the most of it.

It would have to be a secret, though. Rose was a famous actress, and she was set to be starring in a romance soon. With a man, obviously. If the industry found out that she was a lesbian, it would ruin her career when it was finally starting to take off.

Maybe it wouldn’t be quite as bad as the world finding out that Shane was a gay hockey player in love with his bisexual rival, but still.

Rose dropped her chin into her palm and pouted at Shane.

“I wish things could be different,” she said.

Shane’s throat tightened at the sadness in her voice. It was the same sadness he couldn’t help feeling every day of his life. A grief for the lives they would never get to have, a loneliness that couldn’t be cured even while they swam in it together.

“I know,” he whispered. “I wish that, too.”

She managed a weak smile. “We need to find a genie that can grant us three wishes.”

He let out a breath of laughter. “A genie? That reminds me of this weird story my grandparents used to tell me about the lake where they built their cottage.”

“I didn’t know your family had a cottage.”

“It’s more of a shack, really. Basically falling apart at this point. My dad inherited it after they died, but it needs so many renovations now. Actually, I was thinking about having it demolished and building something new in its place, but… I don’t know. Maybe someday.”

“Well, what’s the story about? You’re telling me Québec has genies?”

Shane smirked. “No. It was just a silly bedtime story.”

“Tell me. It’ll take our minds off how depressing our love lives are.”

Good point, Shane figured.

“Okay,” he sighed. “My grandfather always said that the story begins, like, a thousand years ago, when the indigenous people believed that their loved ones continued to walk among them even after death, guiding their paths and protecting the earth. One spirit, who took the form of moonlight, was said to guard the lake. She kept the water pure for her people and full of fish for them to eat, but she was also known to offer wishes to a chosen few…”

***

February 1987

Montréal, QC

“Hold my hand! I can barely walk!” Rozanov called out.

Shane giggled as he stumbled up the back stairwell of his apartment building with Ilya hot on his heels.

“It’s too sweaty!” he complained.

Rozanov scoffed and lunged toward Shane clumsily, capturing him around the waist and nearly sending them tumbling down the paltry few steps they’d managed to climb so far.

“You like it when I’m sweaty,” Ilya murmured in his ear, hugging him tightly from behind and burying his face in Shane’s equally damp neck.

They were drunk, and they’d spent the better part of the last several hours dancing the night away at Velvet Haze, pausing only long enough for Ilya to drag Shane into one of the bathroom stalls and fuck him against the wall. And then, because they were both in such good moods, they decided to race back to Shane’s place on foot instead of calling separate cabs like they usually did.

Hence all the sweat, despite it being the dead of winter.

Shane moaned, trying to remember through the haze of alcohol and desire and Ilya Ilya Ilya that they needed to get upstairs and shut themselves inside his apartment before they indulged each other again.

But Ilya would be on a plane soaring away from him come morning, and they wouldn’t see each other again until the Voyageurs played in Boston five weeks from now.

Shane hoisted himself up to the closest landing, snickering at the way Ilya clung tightly around his middle and pretended to be dragged along behind like dead weight, then whirled in his arms and sank against the wall to catch his breath. Ilya was on him a second later, devouring his lips in a messy kiss that was all wildness and no technique.

I love you, Shane thought to himself as he melted in Ilya’s arms. I love you, and I’m sorry.

He’d gotten comfortable with allowing himself to think those words in Ilya’s presence, even if he was still determined to never say them out loud. I love you, always followed by an equally silent I’m sorry.

I’m sorry for loving you.

I’m sorry that I’ll never tell you.

I’m sorry that I will spend the rest of my life loving you and you will never know.

I’m sorry we live in a world where it’s better for you to not love me back.

I’m sorry.

I love you.

Ilya groaned quietly, pressing into Shane. They broke the kiss, panting for air, foreheads pressed together.

“I…” Ilya shut his eyes. Shane’s vision blurred with the effort of counting his lashes, his drunken mind eager to catalogue a new detail about this man. “Ya tebya lyublyu.”

“Hm?” Shane curled his arms around Ilya’s shoulders. “What does that mean?”

Ilya swallowed audibly, then pulled back a couple of inches. He smiled lazily, eyes glazed. “You’re my favorite person. I wish things could be different.”

I wish things could be different. Those were the same words Rose had said to him months ago. They hadn’t stopped being true.

And maybe the wise thing for Shane to do in that moment was pretend that Ilya meant something else. That he simply meant he wished they had more than just tonight to enjoy each other. That he wished they played for the same team so they could fuck all the time, right under their teammates’ noses. That he wished this stairwell had a feather bed and a privacy screen so he could rip Shane’s clothes off right here and now.

Most certainly, Ilya couldn’t possibly be wishing for anything more than that. Shane understood that.

But instead of merely smiling and allowing Ilya’s words to drift off into the ether where all drunk declarations go, he nuzzled into the hollow of Ilya’s throat and murmured, “Maybe they could be.”

It was the wrong thing to say.

Rozanov’s entire body stiffened immediately, turning to stone in Shane’s arms.

“They can’t be.” His voice had hardened, too. “That was stupid of me to say. Nevermind.”

“But…”

Rozanov pried himself out of Shane’s embrace, taking a step back. Instantly, the February chill crept over Shane.

He stared at Rozanov, who shook his head.

“Nevermind,” he repeated. “Pretend I said nothing.”

Shane’s head spun, but he couldn’t figure out how to let go of this thread that Ilya had decided to dangle in front of him.

“But you didn’t say nothing.”

Rozanov took another small step back. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not.” I love you. I’m sorry. “You’re my favorite person, too.”

Rozanov’s jaw tightened. He looked down at the floor. At their shoes, the soles of which were sticky with spilled drinks and flecked with stray bits of metallic confetti.

“Stop, Hollander.”

“Stop what?”

Rozanov shook his head, then met his gaze again, still hard and cold. Shane wanted to fall into him again, wanted to warm him up, wanted to rewind time to five minutes ago when all he could taste and see and feel was Ilya.

“It is what it is,” he said to Shane. “We are greedy if we ask for more.”

“I’m greedy, then,” Shane heard himself admitting before he was fully aware of it. “I want more. I want…”

“You can’t,” Rozanov cut in sharply, putting another step of distance between them.

A spark of frustration flared in Shane’s chest. “I can want. I’m allowed to want things. So are you.”

Rozanov sighed, glaring up at the next landing above them. He raked his fingers through his tangled curls. “Hollander.”

Shane imagined he could hear the real truth hidden in the way Rozanov said his name. It sounded a lot like I don’t want you like that. I will never feel the same way. I can’t love you. You’re right to be sorry.

“Maybe we should just stop, then,” Shane whispered.

Rozanov stared at him. “Stop?”

“Stop seeing each other. Stop this whole thing. Stop meeting up. Stop… everything. I mean, it’s not like we can keep going like this forever, right? We’re getting older. We should—you should find a wife.”

A crease formed between Rozanov’s brows. “A wife?”

“It’s what we should both do. That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it? We’re being too greedy. We need to stop pretending like this can be… something. Or whatever.”

I’m sorry.

Rozanov frowned at him. “And that’s what you want? To stop?”

I love you.

“Sure. Whatever. We were going to have to eventually.”

“Ah, so why not now, huh?” Rozanov crossed his arms.

I’m sorry.

Shane shrugged, feeling a little bit like he was free-falling from a great height. Any second now and he would strike the ground, bursting into a thousand irrecoverable pieces.

“Yeah,” Shane replied. “Why not?”

I love you.

Rozanov stared at him, a storm brewing in his eyes that didn’t help Shane feel any less like he was completely untethered.

Five minutes ago, they were kissing.

Ten minutes before that, they were laughing as they ran down back alleys in a twisting, secret maze from Velvet Haze to Shane’s building.

Half an hour before, Shane was putty in Ilya’s hands, draped against him on the dance floor.

An hour before that, Ilya had been inside him. Had been whispering sweet nothings in his ear from behind. They weren’t the only ones defiling that bathroom, but it somehow still felt like they were the only two people on the planet.

How did they get here? Where did it go wrong?

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

But, then again, it was always going to happen. If not tonight, then one day soon. It had been five years since they first met. They were testing fate at that point. They were being stupid. Reckless.

“Fine,” Rozanov snapped. “We stop. Okay. Done. Goodnight, Hollander.”

Shane couldn’t find his voice to beg him to wait. Rozanov was too fast, turning away and stomping down the stairs. In a matter of seconds, the heavy metal door had opened and slammed shut, and he was gone.

I love you, and I’m so sorry.

*

Two Days Later

Montréal, QC

Shane had to be at the Forum in an hour. They were playing the Admirals tonight, and then tomorrow they’d be on the road for a week.

He’d always loved Montréal, but the city felt dark and barren even since Ilya left.

He felt like his insides had been carved out, like someone had reached into his chest and squeezed his heart like a vise, then left the mangled husk behind for him to carry like a phantom limb.

It was all very dramatic, but Shane would have to get over it.

It didn’t matter. This was always going to happen. He and Rozanov were never going to end up together. It was impossible.

He needed to focus on tonight’s game, needed to make sure Montréal could keep up their winning streak especially with the playoffs looming closer.

But then his phone rang, and somehow he knew who it was before he was halfway across the room.

And, even knowing who it was, he did not have the strength to ignore it.

“Hello?” he answered, voice rasping a little. He had, perhaps, been crying a bit earlier. It was fine.

There was a beat of silence on the other end of the line.

Then, “Shane.”

Shane sank down onto the floor, pulling the phone cord taut. He pressed his forehead to the wall and murmured, “Ilya.”

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“I…” Another pause. “I am sorry. I do not want to stop.”

Shane closed his eyes. “I don’t want to stop either.”

“No?”

“No. Not yet, at least.”

Ilya sighed quietly. “No, not yet.”

Not yet, but someday. Let’s prolong the inevitable just a little bit longer. Let’s be stupid together for another few slivers of stolen time.

Shane exhaled slowly. “I’ll be in Buffalo next Saturday. You’ll be in Toronto, right?”

“Yes. Right.”

“Meet me in Hamilton after. I’ll book a hotel.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” Shane echoed.

“See you soon, Shane.”

“See you, Ilya.”

***

1987-88 NHL Season

Somewhere, Nowhere

Conversations through telephone lines

“You have a weak backhand.”

“Fuck you. No, I don’t.”

“Yes, is very weak. I am surprised. Must be a problem with your wrists.”

“You weren’t complaining about my wrist when I was jerking you off last week.”

“Ah. True. You caught me.”

“Asshole.”

“Maybe I like to be asshole to you. Maybe it turns me on.”

“Everything turns you on, Rozanov.”

“When it comes to you, yes. Now take off your clothes.”

“What? You can’t even see me right now.”

“I don’t care. I want to know you are naked. Take off your clothes, Hollander.”

“Fine. One second.”

“Ah, but put your glasses on. I like those.”

“Again, you can’t see me. And I don’t need glasses to have phone sex with you, Rozanov.”

“Again, I don’t care. Do what I say, Hollander.”

“… fine.”

*

“Good game last night, Rozanov.”

“You are mocking me, huh?”

“No, I mean it. Your wingers sucked, but you were playing great.”

“Still lost.”

“At least it’s good practice?”

“Practice at what?”

“Losing. Since you’ll be losing to Montréal in three days, too.”

“Wow… you are going to regret that.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Your asshole is going to regret that, too.”

“If you say so.”

“Get yourself ready for me ahead of time, because I’ll be bending you over the second I walk through the door.”

“Looking forward to it.”

“Yeah, I bet you are.”

“Mm.”

“And I am also looking forward to it.”

“See you in three days, Rozanov.”

*

“That little bitch broke your fucking finger?”

“It’s not a big deal, Ilya. I heal fast.”

“Don’t care. I will break all his fingers when we play New Jersey on the sixteenth.”

“Not necessary.”

“Yes, very necessary. How will you finger yourself and think of me if you are broken?”

“Well, it’s my non-dominant hand, so… not really a problem.”

“Still. I will make him regret this.”

“I didn’t realize you had such a vengeful streak, Rozanov.”

“Ah, no? Hm, well, now you learn something new about me. Congrats.”

*

“You broke his nose?”

“Yes, well, it was easier to reach. And he is so ugly. Maybe a crooked nose will improve his face.”

“You really didn’t have to go to the trouble. My finger is basically healed now.”

“It was my pleasure, Hollander. Really. I would do it again.”

*

“Congrats on the gold medal, Rozanov.”

“Don’t hurt yourself saying so, Hollander.”

“No, really. The Olympics were intense this year. You did well.”

“So did you.”

“We didn’t even get a medal.”

“Well, I can wear mine and you can admire it while you ride my cock.”

“Go fuck yourself, Ilya.”

“Yes, I think I will. Goodnight, Shane.”

*

“What are you thinking about? You are quiet tonight, Shane.”

“Nothing. Just looking at paint samples.”

“Ah, for the cottage?”

“Yeah, construction is basically done, but now I have to make all these decisions about furniture and color schemes and fabrics. I mean, how am I supposed to know what color linens will look best in the primary bedroom? My brain is, like, ninety percent puck. I thought hiring an interior decorator meant she would make all those decisions for me.”

“Warm ivory.”

“What?”

“The linens. Not pure white, because that is like a hospital. You need the bed to look inviting, and a warm ivory will look especially nice in the sunshine. You got all those windows installed, yes?”

“Yeah. Right. Okay. Uh, warm ivory.”

“You’re welcome.”

“What about the carpeting?”

“Hm… green?”

“Green?”

“I don’t know. Like grass, but maybe not so vivid. Or maybe darker?”

“I hope you know the next time you’re in Montréal, I’m forcing you to look at carpet samples. Since you’re apparently such an expert.”

“Well, it’s your cottage, Hollander. You do whatever you want.”

“You could… come see it. If you want. I mean, it’s not completely finished, like I said, but when you’re here next, we could take a drive. I could show it to you.”

“Would we have enough time for that?”

“Oh. Probably not.”

“Maybe in March? We play the Nordiques and then we’re off for a few days. I could drive down from Québec City.”

“I’ll be on the West Coast that whole week.”

“Ah, I forgot.”

“You could come see it after playoffs?”

“You mean, in the summer?”

“Yeah. Do you have to go to Russia? You could… stay. Couldn’t you?”

“Stay in Boston?”

“Stay at my cottage. With me.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Hollander.”

“Right. Probably not. Nevermind.”

*

“Okay, take that back. I will vomit.”

“I’m just saying, Ilya. I really think it might be the Flyers this year.”

“Ugh. You are too pretty to be saying such disgusting things to me.”

“Well, who do you think will win the Cup?”

“Boston, of course.”

“Ilya, Boston sucks this year.”

“Ah, you wound me.”

“Am I wrong?”

“Unfortunately, no. At least Montréal sucked worse than us this year. No offense. I try, but I cannot carry this team. Heavy is the head with the crown, or whatever.”

“Yeah, or whatever.”

“Anyway, I think it will be the Oilers.”

“Alright, now I’m going to vomit.”

*

“Ah, Shane, I told you so.”

“Told me what?”

“Didn’t I say the Oilers would win the Cup?”

“Hm. No, I don’t recall.”

“I did say this. I was right.”

“Okay, whatever. Congrats. We’re both losers. Now what?”

“Well, now you drive to Boston and come suck my dick.”

“Fuck you.”

“I can fuck you, yes. Come here.”

“Ilya…”

“Shane…”

“Okay, fine. But I can only stay for, like, one night.”

“One night is all I need.”

*

“I miss you.”

“I just got back from Boston, like, two seconds ago. Literally.”

“Come back. I didn’t get enough of you, Hollander.”

“Come here instead. Come to the cottage with me, Ilya. I’ll give you directions. You can meet me there.”

“Shane…”

“Not for the whole summer, if you don’t want. Just for a week or two? You can fly to Moscow after, can’t you?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“It doesn’t have to be, like, a thing. Just two friends hanging out by the lake. We can go fishing, or whatever. And I bought some kayaks. We could go for a hike. There’s a lot to do. I’m not just, like, inviting you to my love shack or whatever.”

“Ah, so it’s just like if you invited Pike, huh? Two guys catching fish and drinking beer. No fucking? This is what you want?”

“Well… no. I want you to fuck me, too. Obviously.”

“Hollander…”

“If you don’t want—”

“Okay. Fine.”

“What?”

“Fine. Yes. I will come to your cottage. One week. Maybe two. We will see.”

“Maybe longer?”

“Maybe. But only because it is maybe best not to be in Moscow right now. Things are very unstable.”

“Okay, sure. Stay with me the whole summer, then. For political reasons.”

“Yes. Political reasons.”

“See you soon, then?”

“Yes, Shane. Tell me address. I will meet you there.”

***

November 1988

The Boston Globe

THE END OF AN ERA

In a shocking mid-season trade, Rozanov heads down to Florida

Over the weekend, the earth reversed its rotational direction, the ice caps melted into the seas, and pigs grew wings to fly. On top of that, the 2OA pick of the 1982 NHL draft and beloved captain of the Boston Bears, Ilya Rozanov #81, was traded to Florida in exchange for two nickels and the vague idea of a future consideration…

***

December 1988 - February 1989

Sunrise, Florida

Voicemails unanswered

“Hey, Ilya. It’s me. Shane. Hollander. Uh, obviously. I hope it’s okay, but I got your new number from Rose, who got it from Svetlana. Call me back when you can, okay? Anytime, even if it’s late.”

*

“Rozanov, it’s me. I’m just checking in again. Didn’t hear from you. I’m worried about you. Can you call me back? I… I love you. I’m sorry.”

*

“Ilya, please. I know we didn’t expect this. I know it’s not, like, ideal. But we can figure it out. I know we can. I want to figure it out with you. Maybe there’s another trade… I don’t know. Can’t your agent do something? Call me. I love you.”

*

“I know you’re getting these voicemails. Rose told me Svetlana talks to you on this number every week. Please stop ignoring me. I want to help you. I want… fuck, Ilya. I miss you. I’m so sorry this happened.”

*

“You had a good game tonight, Rozanov. Your first game against Boston since, well, you know. I wish I could have been there. I’m proud of you. I know it’s hard. I miss you. I love you. Call me back when you can.”

*

“I went to Velvet Haze tonight. Alone. Wasn’t the same. Miss you so much. Please, Ilya. Please.”

*

“It’s been a while since we played Florida. Not since before… everything. I guess I’ll see you in a couple of weeks. I hope you’re doing well. Bye, Ilya.”

***

March 1989

Center Ice

Sunrise, FL

“Leave me alone, Hollander.”

“Why won’t you talk to me?”

“I can’t. It’s over.”

***

April 1989

Le Journal de Montréal

UNE ANNÉE MALHEUREUSE POUR ROZANOV

Le phénom russe termine sa saison pour faire le deuil de son père.

[A TERRIBLE YEAR FOR ROZANOV]

[The Russian phenom ends his season early to mourn his father.]

***

July 1989

Lost in Between

A letter addressed to Moscow

RETURNED TO SENDER

{Dear Ilya,

I love you. Maybe you don’t want to hear that. Maybe I’m not supposed to write it down where anyone can read it. I’m sorry, but I can’t help it. I can’t help that I love you. I can’t stop loving you, even if you’ve made it clear that it’s what you want.

I want to help you. I want to be there for you. Why is everyone else allowed to love you, but not me? Why do I have to hear about how you’re doing through Rose and Sveta? Why don’t you believe me when I say that I love you so much it kills me? It’s killing me, Ilya. I miss you so much. I wish I could

I wish things were different.

I’m sorry to hear about your father. You didn’t talk about him often, but I know things were difficult between you. It must be hard to be back home. I wish I could be there with you. Maybe a bad time for me to be in Russia what with everything happening in Berlin, but I don’t care. I’d do it. I would board a plane right now if you wanted me to.

I wish you wanted me to.

Will you come back? Will I ever see you again? The newspapers are saying you might buy yourself out of your contract with Florida, maybe play the rest of your career in the KHL. If that’s what you want, I understand. I wish you the best. I always will want the best for you, Ilya, even if that doesn’t include me.

I love you.

I’m sorry.

Write to me.

Come back to me.

Yours always,

Shane}

***

October 1989

Miami Herald

NO MORE HOPE FOR ROZANOV

From Moscow to… injury reserve?

Fans who have been anxiously anticipating Rozanov’s safe return from the USSR all summer were shocked to discover that he’s been placed on injury reserve barely a week into the regular season. Rumors are flying regarding the cause of the injury, with some reports hinting at a pre-season scuffle with a teammate during training and others suggesting that Rozanov was injured before he even touched back down on American soil. So, what’s the truth? Unfortunately, at the moment, the fans’ guesses are as good as ours…

***

January 1990

Montréal, QC

Voicemails in an empty apartment

“Hey, Shane. It’s Rose. I know you’re in Vancouver, but I couldn’t figure out what hotel you were staying at, so I guess you’ll just have to listen to this when you get home. Um, so… Svetlana finally heard from Ilya. You remember how I said he’s basically ignoring everyone nowadays? Well, she went down to Florida herself to confront him. I would have gone with her, but she figured it would be best if it was just her—” Dial tone.

“Fuck. Sorry. Me again. The answering machine cut me off. I’ll try to be fast. Honestly, I don’t know if I should tell you this over a voicemail, Shane. But I also know that you wouldn’t want me to keep it from you. It’s just… it’s bad news. About Ilya. He’s, um… sorry… fuck, I swore I wouldn’t start crying again. Uh. Hold on. Fuck. Shit—” Dial tone.

“Stupid fucking machine. I’m so sorry, Shane. Ilya is sick. He… he got… he’s… I’m sorry. He has it. The virus. Um. Fuck. Call me back, okay?”

***

April 1990

A letter sent to Florida

{Dear Ilya,

I still love you. I’m still sorry.

I know you’re sick. Please let me see you. Or, at the very least, please don’t slam the door in my face right away when I get the balls to ignore the lack of an invitation and drive down there myself.

I had a dream last night. We were at the cottage, laying on the floor in the bedroom, but the carpet was grass. Like, real grass. Do you remember when you said I should put green carpet in there? I think you were right. I regret the burgundy. Anyway, we were laying in the grass carpet and there was no roof, which was concerning, because it was raining. Thunder and lightning and all that. Everything was getting all wet, including the warm ivory linens. It didn’t really matter though, because we were just laying there in the grass and letting it all pour down over us. It was peaceful. Maybe if we stayed like that for a while, we would have drowned, but the dream ended before anything bad could happen.

I miss you. I think about you all the time. I never stopped loving you. I don’t think it’s possible. I think I’ll spend the rest of my life loving you, Ilya. Maybe even my next life, too, if that sort of thing exists. Sorry if that sounds corny. I don’t really care. I just want you to know.

Please write me back. The playoffs are getting kind of crazy, so I’ll be in and out of the city, but I’ll check my mail as often as I can. Or you can call, if you want. My number hasn’t changed. I also heard about that new thing they’re calling e-mail, but I don’t really understand it. I could figure it out if you wanted to talk that way, though. I mean, fuck, you could send me a telegram using Morse code or whatever and I’d still be grateful.

Just talk to me, Rozanov. Come back to me.

Yours,

Shane}

***

June 1990

Montréal, QC

A voicemail received

“Hi, Shane. It’s Ilya. I got your letter. I… fuck. Sorry. I’m a little out of breath lately. I am weak these days. Maybe that is why I finally have strength to say… I miss you. And I watched you in the playoffs. Another Cup. I am so proud, moy lyubov. I wish… I want… Can I see you?”

***

11 July 1990

The Cottage

Chaudière-Appalaches Region, QC

Not long after the midnight bridge between the tenth and eleventh of July 1990, Shane Hollander woke up from a terrible dream.

Only, it wasn’t a dream at all.

The cottage was on fire and it was real.

Ilya.

Shane tried to move, tried to turn his head to look for Ilya among the flames. To reach for him, to take his hand so they could move onward together into the new life that the lake goddess had promised him.

But he could not turn his head, for he no longer had one.

Nor did he have shoulders nor arms nor a torso nor legs. Nor hands to hold nor feet with which to walk.

He was, impossibly, more of an idea than a person. A wisp of a memory floating uselessly in the scalding breeze of the raging inferno that slowly ate away at the walls of the cottage.

He’d died, then. That part worked.

In fact, if he wanted it badly enough, he could float at a sideways angle that allowed him to mostly see what lay beneath him.

He lay beneath him. What was left of him, at least.

It was probably a good thing, Shane reasoned inside his not-head, that he no longer had a stomach, because it certainly would have emptied at the sight of his charred corpse laying in fragments on the kitchen floor.

Ilya…

Where was Ilya?

Shane shifted, clumsy at the wheel of this strange new ship that his existence had become. No longer limbs, but a vaguely sentient sliver of a soul that could, with enough willpower, sort of hover around and view the living world around it.

ILYA!

Ilya had died too, hadn’t he? If he was dead, shouldn’t he also be a detached sort of nothingness like Shane? Shouldn’t he be roaming around in here with him?

Maybe he’d gotten lost. Maybe he was still stuck in the bedroom.

But Shane knew, right down in the marrow of the phantom bones he no longer had, that Ilya was no longer here. He’d gone somewhere else.

And Shane was still here.

It may go wrong, the Lady of the Lake had warned him.

What else had she said?

You may get stuck here while he moves on…

Was that it? Had Ilya moved on? Was Shane stuck without him? Could he get unstuck and follow after him?

Was Ilya safe, wherever he’d gone? Was he no longer in pain? Was he no longer afraid?

He will try to find you again…

No problem. Ilya would look for him. He would find him. All Shane had to do was wait for him here. He could do that.

And so that is what he did. He waited.

Waited, while the fire crew arrived on the scene and put out the flames. Waited as the coroner gathered up the remains of his body. Waited as the sun came up and the media crews arrived, police barely managing to fight them off, until the sun went down and they snuck back in again.

Waited, still, as the sun came up and went down and came up and went down.

Waited as his parents came to pick through the blackened remnants of the cottage to gather what little was left of the life his son had lived. Shane tried to shout at them. Tried to tell them that he was still here, that he wasn’t really gone, that there was no reason for them to cry, that he would come back to them as soon as Ilya found him.

He waited long enough that time ceased to have meaning. Long enough that he realized Ilya might be gone for quite a while, that he might be alone for years or decades or perhaps even a century. The Lady of the Lake hadn’t specified how long it might take Ilya to find his way back, only that he eventually would.

As Shane waited and waited, he began to unravel. He was hardly anything at all anymore, and it was so difficult to keep all those tiny pieces of nothing tethered to one anchor. So, as his former haven crumbled around him, Shane let go. He allowed himself to scatter like strewn pebbles around the property. He became droplets of lake water beaded on the moss-covered stones. Sweetness in the soil as it rotted with the sickly heat of summer and then promptly froze to bitter ice when winter arrived without mercy. A breeze in the spring air as weeds took over his sloping lawn. The snap of a twig under pressure after a ruinous thunderstorm. He sank into the bones of the cottage, snarling each time the goddess in the lake tried to soothe him with a soft sigh in the trees or a gentle hum deep in the clay.

He was nothing at all. Nobody.

But Ilya was out there somewhere. He was something. Someone.

So, Shane would wait.

He would wait forever, if that’s what it took.

***

June 1995

The Cottage

Rose Landry drove to the lake alone. She hadn’t been out here since before her friends died. It was selfish, she knew, but she couldn’t bear it. For five years, she feared this place.

But she also missed him.

She had faith that Shane was out here. They’d found his body.

They hadn’t found Ilya’s, though.

And that had to mean…

She sighed to herself, pushing open the door and stepping out of her rental car.

It was worse than her imagination had allowed her to think. The cottage was no longer the pretty little cabin with blooming flower beds and a charming gravel footpath. Gone were the smooth stones that they had all painted together, curled up in the living room and giggling at the childish craft. She remembered that Ilya, wrapped up in a cocoon of blankets, had been so sick that he struggled to hold his paintbrush. Even so, he managed to paint a reasonable likeness of a loon on one of the stones. He’d wrinkled his nose when, after showing off his rock, Shane mimicked the eerie howl.

That was the last time Rose saw both of them. She and Svetlana had left the next day, promising to return in August after she finished the reshoots for her latest movie.

Neither of the boys made it to August, though.

Now, in 1995, a handful of years into a version of reality where Shane Hollander was no longer alive and Ilya Rozanov no longer existed at all, Rose walked gingerly into the disturbing corpse of the abandoned cottage. It had been picked clean by fans and thieves alike, but she could hardly blame the Hollanders for being so caught up in their grief that they didn’t have the energy to do anything about it.

Rose halted in the kitchen. Or rather, what was left of it. Once upon a time, she’d spent an entire evening bickering with Shane here, trying to convince him to eat the fresh pasta she swore she could make by hand. In the end, it was definitely inedible, and Shane had been kind enough to not tease her too much as he rummaged in the cupboards for a box of store-bought pasta.

She smiled to herself.

God, she missed her best friend.

She took a deep breath, gazing out through the ash-streaked remains of shattered windows toward the lake.

“Shane?” she called out. “It’s me. Rose. I don’t know if you can hear me. Or see me. Or if you’re even still here. I hope you are. I mean, I guess if you are, I hope it’s not too bad. I hope it’s not too lonely. I’m sorry I haven’t come to see you. I’m… I’m really sorry, Shane. About everything.”

Outside, a gust of wind caused the boughs of an old maple to groan.  Strange, considering there hadn’t been even the slightest breeze in the air at all today. Goosebumps erupted on Rose’s arms.

“Is that you?” She sighed. “God, maybe I’m crazy. But, since I’ve chosen to believe in that story you told me, I guess I’m also going to believe that you’re still here. That you’re listening. So, um, I can cut right to the chase, I suppose.”

Rose swallowed hard, rubbing her arms as an unnatural chill descended over the cottage, even as the sky remained cloudless and blue overhead.

“He… Ilya is gone. He must have moved on. That must be why they never found his body here. That’s the working theory, at least. So… reincarnation, right? We’re doing everything we can—we, meaning me and Svet—to find records of a baby born in Moscow named Ilya Rozanov, but it’s kind of impossible. We even went to Russia for a few months and we hired this guy who could apparently get his hands on some records for us, but the problem is that they’re, like, digitizing everything nowadays. The world is so weird now, Shane. It’s even weirder without you.”

Rose moved through the cottage remains as she spoke, stepping gingerly over the treacherous mess that the floor had become. She paused at a broken window and pressed the tip of her finger to the thin layer of ash and dust and earthly grime that had settled over it.

Like a hopeful child, she drew a small heart.

A breeze blew through the gaping wounds in the glass, smelling impossibly like fresh snow. Like ice.

Like Shane.

“Whatever magic you wished for, it’s had some freaky outcomes,” Rose continued. “The thing is… there’s no record that Ilya Rozanov ever existed. There’s no record of his parents’ existence in Russia either. The newspaper articles they published after his father’s death are nowhere to be found in any archives. In fact, none of the articles that ever mentioned Ilya seem to exist anymore. It’s like none of it ever happened. There’s no proof of him ever being on Boston’s roster, nor Florida’s team. If me and Svet mention him to anyone, they look at us like we’re crazy. Nobody remembers that he was one of the best players in the NHL. Not even the people who played with him. It’s fucking insane. Some days, it makes me feel like I’ve lost my mind.”

Rose moved toward the empty space where the sliding glass door to the patio had once been. The wooden slats underfoot were beginning to rot, grass and weeds growing through the cracks and threatening to take over.

She made her way over toward the fire pit, now filled with a greenish sludge from five years’ worth of rainwater and snow left to melt and mold in peace. With a frown, she sat down on the iron bench where she’d once roasted marshmallows.

“But anyway,” she said, hoping with every ounce of her heart that Shane was listening, even if she couldn’t be sure he still lingered here. “Maybe it’s a good thing that nobody can remember him, right? It means the wish half-worked. It means he’ll find his way back. Maybe we’ll just have to wait a little while longer. Or, maybe, if the Lady of the Lake felt like showing herself to me right now, she could explain the finer technicalities of the whole thing?”

Rose stared down toward the lake. The surface remained smooth as glass, wholly undisturbed.

“Yeah, okay,” Rose sighed. “I guess, other than the fact that I miss you like fucking crazy, life is alright. I think I’m going to retire from acting, though. I don’t know. Things are a little bit easier than they were in the eighties, I guess. Kind of. All I know is that I want to be with Svetlana, and Hollywood is so… complicated. Plus, I want to do something more with my life. I want to help people. The AIDS crisis—that’s what they call it nowadays, by the way—has left so many wounds. It’s not over yet, either. I mean, they have it under control, but there are other parts of the world where it’s still, you know, a pretty bad problem. I don’t know. I’m rambling. And I don’t even know if you’re here at all.”

At that moment, a chickadee landed on the edge of the fire pit. Rose paused, watching as the tiny bird quirked it’s black-capped head to the side as if observing her.

Chickadee-dee-dee-dee, it sang.

“Hi,” she answered.

The bird tilted it’s little head the opposite way, ruffling its feathers.

“Is he here?” she asked the bird. “Do you know him?”

Chickadee-dee-dee-dee!

“Does that mean yes?”

It gave a little hop, daring to inch closer in Rose’s direction. She found herself smiling, knowing that it was ridiculous to have a conversation with a bird, but all too willing to believe in the impossible for the sake of her own grief.

“Well, if you see him around, will you tell him I stopped by?” she asked the chickadee.

The tiny creature gave her a sweet little chirp, then darted off into the trees.

Rose sat there for a while, gazing out toward the lake.

Then, at last, she rose to her feet. Svetlana was waiting for her.

“I miss you, Shane,” she whispered to the sky. “I love you. And I hope I get to see you again someday. I hope I get to see both of you again.”

***

1996 - 2006

The Cursed Cottage

The Ghosthunter’s Forum

Welcome to the first internet archive of its kind, founded in 1996, with a mission to discover, describe, and debunk the most notorious hauntings in North America.

May 1996

Ghostgurl222: Has anyone been to that famous dead hockey player’s house in the woods? I heard it’s haunted as f*ck.

- Coolghoul82: Shane Hollander, you mean? That guy couldn’t haunt a fly.

- Ghostgurl222: You knew him personally?

- Coolghoul82: Obviously not. Just saying. He was known for being polite.

- Redrumredrum: Doesn’t mean he didn’t turn evil in death, dude. Happens often when people die violently.

- Ghostgurl222: That’s so sad.

- Redrumredrum: IDK. I think it’s cool.

- Coolghoul82: Typical Boston fan. Weirdo.

September 1996

Screamfan123: The stories about Hollander’s cottage are true. Me and my friends went there last weekend with a ouija board. The ceiling caved in while we were using it. Almost fucking crushed us to death. We couldn’t even dig out the board, so that’s lost forever. Something isn’t right about that place. Had goosebumps the whole time and there were random pockets of cold air. I swear someone whispered in my ear at one point, too.

March 1997

Gohabsgo93: Hockey fan and ghosthunter logging in to corroborate the hundred or so previous reports about the Hollander cottage. That place is cursed. My boyfriend broke his nose on a tree branch that flung itself at him! Something about that place doesn’t feel right. I was sick to my stomach the whole time.

- Flyersflyhigh: You sure you’re not pregnant or something?

- Gohabsgo93: I’m a man with a penis. People are gay, flyers fan.

- Flyersflyhigh: Freak.

July 1998

Flyersflyhigh: Me and some buddies decided to go check out the Cursed Cottage, as everyone has started calling it, on the anniversary of Hollander’s death. Wish I could say everyone on this forum is full of shit, but the truth is that I never want to go back to that place as long as I live. As soon as I set foot on that property, I felt like I would never feel joy again. The energy in that place is fucked up.

- Redrumredrum: I have a new theory that it’s a demon, not the ghost of Hollander. I think the violence of his death opened up a portal to the Underworld and let loose a demonic entity that has been trapped there ever since.

- Flyersflyhigh: Bro, I don’t care. Get a life.

January 2001

Melaniemedium: I know people have been warning against going to the Cursed Cottage for years now, ever since that poor girl fell into the lake and nearly drowned, but I’m a professional medium and I simply couldn’t stop myself. But… I wish I had stopped myself. Something mystical is afoot in that place. I swear I was following the road, but it kept twisting and turning in random directions that weren’t marked on the map. I broke out a compass, too, but even when I tried to head directly toward the ruins on foot, I ended up right back where I started. Whatever guiding force has been watching over me for my entire life, it did NOT want me anywhere near that place. It’s been days and I’m still spooked.

- Carlthepsychic00: Holy shit. Same thing happened to me. Can we connect on AIM?

February 2004

Moderator000: Admin here. I am one of the original founders of this site and felt that it was important for me to make this statement, which will be pinned to the homepage for all new visitors to the forum to read first. It is the official stance of The Ghosthunter Forum that we strongly advise against visiting the haunted property referred to as the Cursed Cottage. Reported injuries from visits to this site are alarmingly high in number and we can no longer risk being held liable for anyone who chooses to put themselves in danger. Any new threads that encourage visits to the Cursed Cottage will be heavily moderated or deleted entirely.

- Redrumredrum: What, so we can’t even talk about the place anymore?

- Gohabsgo93: That’s not what they said, idiot.

***

2003

Moscow, Russia

When Ilya Rozanov was twelve years old, he woke up in the middle of the night for seemingly no reason at all. He gazed around through the shadows, not yet bothering to lift his head from the pillow, trying to figure out what might have jostled him out of the wonderful dream he was having. The dream was already fading fast, but he could recall a sunlit lake and warm grass underfoot, strange bird song and the distance laugh of a boy he swore he recognized.

He wanted to go back there.

But what remained of the dream was gone the moment he caught sight of a flutter of movement in the open doorway of his bedroom. It was a tall, slender figure with golden hair that shined unnaturally in the darkness of their silent home.

“Mama?” Ilya called out.

“It’s me, Ilyusha,” the figure whispered.

He shifted under the covers, watching the odd way that his mother moved as she drifted into the room. She’d always been graceful, of course, but it was almost as if she was floating. And there was a see-through quality to her features that had Ilya wondering if he was still dreaming, or if it was possible for the shadows to make people look like they were only halfway real sometimes.

His mother came to his bedside. When she sat down on the edge of the mattress, it didn’t even sink under her weight.

“I wanted to say goodbye,” she murmured to him, brushing curls off his forehead with a tender touch. “I am sorry. It was time for me to go. Please forgive me.”

Ilya sat up halfway in bed, noting the eerie way that his jostled blankets seemed move right through his mother’s form.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Somewhere better, I hope,” she answered. “Give me your hand, Ilyusha.”

Confused and still half-asleep, Ilya held out his palm. Her wispy fingers deposited a tiny shard of something golden into his waiting hand.

It was her necklace. The pretty one on the delicate chain. The one she clung to like a lifeline when she thought nobody else was watching.

Ilya didn’t understand. “Mama?”

“I have to go now, okay? But I will always be with you. Do not forget that.”

She stood again, drifting back toward the door in that bizarre, floaty way.

“Mama?” Ilya called out again.

She didn’t turn around, gliding out of the room and disappearing into the dark hallway.

Ilya climbed out of bed, the necklace gripped in a tight fist. He thought about calling for her again, but he couldn’t find his voice. Plus, Alexei was asleep in the room next door and waking his older brother was never a good idea. And even though his father wasn’t home tonight, he would be furious if he learned that Ilya caused a disturbance in the middle of the night.

So, on quiet feet, Ilya tip toed down the hall toward his mother’s bedroom.

There was no sign of her, no spectral glow of moonlight, no glimmering hair like a beacon in the dark.

Nothing at all.

Ilya pushed open the door to her room.

And there she was, for real this time. Neither floating nor shining. Not whispering to him sweetly nor humming his favorite song.

She was completely motionless, her chest no longer rising and falling with breath, her skin no longer warmed by the tide of blood orchestrated by her tender heart. One dainty hand had slipped over the edge of the mattress, terribly pale and limp as Ilya’s eyes fully adjusted to the dimness.

Gone. Just as she had said, she was no longer here.

That was how Ilya discovered he could speak to the dead.

***

May 2007

The Cottage

Rose Landry sat at the edge of the dock and stared out at the algae-ridden lake in the fading evening light.

“It’s me again,” she said to the empty air around her. “Obviously. So, as usual, I came to wish you a happy birthday, Shane. You were supposed to turn forty-two this year. Crazy, huh? Crazy that I’m in my forties now and you never lived a day past twenty-five. Anyway, I’ll make this quick, since I figure you don’t like being bothered all that much. I mean, I heard about all the stuff happening here. Is it real? Is it you doing those things? Not that I’m judging you. I mean, I get it.”

She picked at the splintering wood beneath her. It was probably not a good idea for her to be sitting here. The dock was most definitely rotting. Any second and it could give way, plunging her into cold, murky water.

But, for whatever reason, she had faith that it would hold steady for her. For a little while longer, at least.

“There’s still no sign of him, which I’m sure you’ve already deduced,” she continued. “But I do have some good news. The world is a lot better than it used to be, Shane. It’s not perfect by any means, but it’s… better. Yeah. For the most part. Canada legalized gay marriage a couple of years ago. When we were younger, it felt like that would never be possible, but… hey, humans can make good things happen sometimes. I’m hoping it will be legalized in America soon, too. I want to marry Svetlana. I mean, it’s legal in Massachusetts, but not California yet, so I guess we could have the wedding in Boston. It’s complicated. I don’t know. Anyway, if we do get married soon, you’re definitely invited. I’d be thrilled if you came to haunt our venue.”

Rose lay back on the dock, staring up at the sky as tiny pinpricks of starlight began to appear.

“I miss you,” she said for the thousandth time in the seventeen years that her best friend had been gone. “I miss Ilya, too. I hope he finds his way back soon.”

Chickadee-dee-dee-dee, sang a little bird perched on a tree branch nearby.

“Totally,” Rose agreed.

***

December 2008

Moscow, Russia

A letter received

{Dear Mr. Rozanov,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been admitted to the University of Ottawa for Fall 2009 entry for a Bachelor of Science. Your admittance includes a full athletic scholarship with uOttawa’s OUA Hockey team. We look forward to receiving confirmation of your intent to enroll by 30 April...}

***

May 2010

Ottawa, Ontario

“I don’t get it, Rozanov,” Coach Wiebe sighed.

Ilya sat across from him, frowning at the cluttered surface of his coach’s desk.

“What?” he replied.

“You didn’t even apply to participate in the combine?”

Ilya shrugged. “No.”

“Why not?”

“We do not have to if we don’t want to, yes?”

“Of course not.” Coach pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. “But that’s what I don’t understand. Why don’t you want to enter the draft? You can play in the NHL, kid. No doubt about it.”

“I would like to play here. I like university.”

“University ends, Rozanov. What about after?”

Again, Ilya merely shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Coach Wiebe looked a little bit like he wanted to throttle Ilya, but not in a mean way. Not the way his father always used to look at him. Coach’s frustration came from a place of concern. And confusion, apparently.

But Ilya didn’t have the answers for him.

“You have so much potential,” Coach insisted for what must have been the millionth time since Ilya first arrived in Ottawa. “Why are you wasting it? You’re a force of nature on the ice, but I can tell you’re holding something back. If you would just unleash whatever it is… listen, Rozanov. I know greatness when I see it.   You have it inside you. You can achieve it.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

Coach stared at him, utterly dumbfounded. “You don’t want it? It’s as simple as that?”

“Am I in trouble? Because I did not apply for NHL combine?”

“What? No. You’re not in trouble. I’m just trying to figure you out.”

“Ah. Well, let me know when you do. I have been trying to figure myself out for a long time now.”

Coach Wiebe frowned at him for a little while longer, then gave up and dismissed him from his office.

The truth was, Ilya didn’t know why he had no desire to play in the NHL. All he knew was that he liked playing for uOttawa, liked his teammates, and would be perfectly content moving on to a small-scale league after graduation. Nothing more than that, even if Ilya knew deep down that he was capable of it.

He couldn’t explain why he couldn’t bring himself to live up to all that so-called potential he apparently possessed. It felt like something was missing. Something wasn’t right. The universe was off balance and whatever unknown force was supposed to have triggered the full breadth of Ilya’s competitiveness had never been activated.

Or something like that.

***

September 2013

Trois-Rivières, QC

“Hey, man,” Wyatt Hayes greeted Ilya, clapping him on the shoulder before ushering him over the threshold. “Welcome in. Are those all of your things?”

Ilya, his bulbous bag of hockey gear strapped across his chest, glanced back at the single suitcase and two cardboard boxes resting on Hayes’ front porch that held all his worldly possessions.

“Yes,” he answered. “I travel light.”

Hayes snorted. “Apparently.”

Ilya dragged his suitcase further into the dingy apartment while Hayes was nice enough to grab the rest. He wouldn’t be here for long anyway. It’s just that he was new to Trois-Rivières and it was customary for rookies to stay with older teammates while they gained their footing and searched for their own places. If they could afford it, that is. ECHL paychecks weren’t large by any means.

Ilya didn’t mind, though. He was just happy that Troy and Bood had followed him here from Ottawa. Hopefully, they’d get to play together for many more years. Life could be simple like that. Hockey, friends, mundanity, and the relief of having a visa that could get him one step closer to never having to return to Russia.

“The room’s this way,” Hayes said, gesturing for Ilya to follow him down a narrow hall. “It’s a little small, but we’re not home often anyway, you know? Just a constant cycle of rink, gym, and whatever bar the guys decide to gather at that night.”

Hayes was grinning expectantly at him, but Ilya had paused outside the bedroom and was staring at a poster taped to the wall. It was one of many unframed posters haphazardly stuck to the dull plaster that formed the apartment’s walls, but this one in particular caught his attention.

This poster featured Shane Hollander of the Montréal Voyageurs. One of the greatest hockey players who ever lived. Ilya had always known about him, even in Russia. When he was especially young, he’d even dreamed of getting to meet the legend himself one day. But then, of course, he learned that Hollander had tragically passed away before he’d even been born.

“Oh,” Hayes laughed, noticing what had caught Ilya’s attention. “Yeah. I’m a big fan. Obviously. I mean, the dude was a hockey god.”

“Mm,” Ilya agreed absentmindedly, still staring at the frozen-in-time look of intensity on Hollander’s freckled face. He snapped himself out of it after a moment and shrugged at Hayes. “It’s weird. Something about him always seemed familiar to me, even before I knew how famous he was.”

“Really?” Hayes chuckled, pushing open the door to Ilya’s new bedroom. “That’s funny. Maybe you knew each other in a past life.”

***

10 July 2020

The Cursed Cottage

Chaudière-Appalaches Region, QC

Exactly thirty years after the day of his death, Shane Hollander had gotten the hang of things enough that he was no longer a vague cloud of energy drifting around mindlessly. He’d taught himself how to move more efficiently, to listen and look through ears and eyes that were no longer truly ears and eyes. He could sprint and fly, moving just as fast as he once had when there were skates on his feet and ice beneath him.

He had also devoted an entire decade to mastering the art of manipulating physical objects, though it required so much energy that he was still somewhat clumsy with it. He’d pummeled his own cottage into dust, choosing to destroy the place he loved in hopes that it would keep people away.

Most people, at least.

And, more recently, he was getting really good at reconstructing a believable visage of the man he used to be. It took a lot of focus and an immense amount of energy, but he had used the reflective shards of glass that still clung to the shell of his cottage as mirrors of sorts, practicing how to take on a ghostly version of the body he once lived in. Maybe the next time Rose visited, he’d actually be able to show himself to her instead of sending the chickadees in his stead.

Shane spoke to the birds often. The crickets, too. They didn’t have much to say, but he’d learned not to be picky about company.

The Lady of the Lake was always present, too, but she wasn’t much of a conversationalist.

Plus, even after all this time, Shane wasn’t pleased with the results of his one dying wish. Sometimes, in his angriest hours, he felt tricked and cheated. He wondered, every once in a while, if the goddess had fumbled her own magic for the sake of her own entertainment. But if she lived to torture Shane’s eternal soul with loneliness, she wasn’t very obvious about it. For the most part, she kept to her lake and Shane kept to his cottage.

Shane’s soul was fifty-five years old, but he never stopped feeling like the twenty-five year-old boy who gave his life for the small chance that it might save the love of his life.

And so, when he felt a presence looming closer to his property, Shane’s first reaction was not one of wise patience, but rather immediate annoyance.

He’d done such a good job of scaring people away in the early years after his death that he was sure nobody would dare to bother him nowadays.

With the closest thing to a sigh that he could manage in this incorporeal form  with no lungs or throat or lips, he sank into the rain-dampened earth and drifted outward down the narrow, overgrown road that led to his cottage.

A van was rumbling toward the property. Rusty and dented, bumping and groaning over the uneven dirt and gravel. It seemed like it would fall apart from one strong gust of wind, and Shane considered testing that theory.

Except…

Don’t you see, child?

It was the Lady of the Lake’s voice, whispering through the leaves and making the dappled sunlight dance.

Shane paused. She hardly ever spoke to him. It was even more rare for him to bother answering.

What was he supposed to be seeing, though?

Shane following the van, soaking in a few breaths of energy from the engine as he rolled along with the gravel the tires kicked up. He could hear voices within. Masculine and lively, but not boisterous. Another squad of so-called ghost hunters, maybe? A demolition and cleanup crew sent by his parents at last, thirty years too late?

When the van rolled to a halt, Shane melted into the long blades of grass, sinking deep into the back end of the property. As macabre as it was, he found solace in his former bedroom. It was the last place Ilya’s heart had been alive and beating, and the sanctuary where they made love every day for that one blissful summer before everything went wrong.

Shane felt hazy in the sunlight. Spirits were stronger when the stars were out, according to the goddess. They shone brighter in the dark.

So, instead of greeting the trespassers out front, he lingered in the bedroom and waited. Perhaps he could dispatch them quickly. The east-facing wall was almost entirely rotted through, and he might be able to send it crumbling down in one great heap of menacing dust if he focused hard enough.

You must look… you must listen…

Shane frowned at the lady’s unwarranted advice, but followed it anyway.

He looked toward the hallway, where a tall figure with broad shoulders was approaching the bedroom with measured steps. He had a calm essence. Settled, in a physical sense. As if he knew that he was strong and graceful, but he didn’t like to make a big deal out of it.

Something clicked into place. Shane froze where he hovered above the headboard as a young man stepped through the doorway and gazed around the room.

Ilya.

Ilya Ilya Ilya Ilya Ilya Ilya Ilya Ilya Ilya…

You are here. You found me.

You you you. It’s you.

I’m here. It’s me. Me me me me me. I have been waiting for you.

Ilya!

Shane soared toward him, but he was so shaken that all he managed was a clumsy sort of tumble through Ilya’s curls. He reversed direction and came hurtling back toward him, screaming at the top of his lungs, but he ricocheted off the hem of Ilya’s sleeve and accidentally flung himself deep into the moldy insulation that had been exposed via a rodent-chewed hole in the far wall.

He groaned at himself, fighting to collect enough of himself to claw his way out of the sticky fiberglass and return to Ilya.

Ilya.

He was here. At the cottage.

Shane had been starting to think that he would never find his way back. All he had to do was show himself. Ilya would remember him. The magic would start working the way it was supposed to, and everything would be okay.

He just needed to get to Ilya…

But by the time Shane managed to extract himself from the wall, the bedroom was empty again. He ignored the other voices coming from the front yard and followed that quiet, golden-haired presence down to the lakeside.

Ilya stood in the tiny patch of sand by the water, staring out at the horizon.

Steadying himself with a great inhalation of all this delicious new energy that had arrived, he quietly floated down toward Ilya.

He wasn’t quite sure what to do, though.

Clearly, simply throwing himself at Ilya wasn’t the most effective course of action. It had been, once upon a time, but this was a different Ilya than the one that had held Shane in his arms so many times before. He was older than the Ilya he’d known, though perhaps only by a few years. His hair was longer, too, and his face was smooth instead of covered in the handsome stubble his Ilya had once worn.

He dressed differently. Not just because the passage of time had brought a change in mainstream fashion, but because Shane’s Ilya would have probably preferred something a little more stylish than a plain cotton tee and denim shorts.

But, still. It was Ilya. Ilya, remade. Ilya, who had been wandering around this world for almost thirty years, likely never knowing that he was fated to come to this place sooner or later.

Ilya, who seemed aware that he was being watched from afar.

Shane hovered at the tree line, watching as Ilya’s lips parted.

“Hello,” he murmured aloud.

Hi, Shane wished he could say.

“My name is Ilya. Ilya Rozanov.”

Yes, I know. You are Ilya Rozanov and I am Shane Hollander.

There was a pause.

Then, inexplicably, Ilya began speaking French.

If Shane was capable of it, he would have laughed. That was new. His Ilya may have spent a significant amount of time in Montréal, but he never bothered to learn anything more than oui and merci.

Shane crept closer, honing in on the curls at the nape of Ilya’s neck. He used to love tangling his fingers in his hair, could still recall the sensation of those soft strands gripped in his hand.

More French came out of his mouth, including a charming slang word. This time, Shane actually managed something close to a laugh. It came out more like an errant breeze, a clumsy puff of breath, but it tickled those lovely curls enough that Shane knew Ilya had felt it.

Shane wove himself into Ilya’s hair, summoning the strength to speak. He knew he could do it. He’d managed a few words every once in a while, mostly just to freak out particularly disruptive intruders.

Ilya, Shane tried to say.

Nothing.

ILYA, he tried again.

He kept speaking as if Shane had said nothing at all. Babbling, in a way. This Ilya was slightly sweeter than the one Shane had known. A little bit softer around the edges, too.

I love you. I’m sorry.

I love you, sweet and bitter. I love you, soft and jagged.

I’m sorry you can’t hear me. I’m sorry I don’t know how to speak to you.

I’m so fucking sorry.

I love you.

I LOVE YOU!

At that, Ilya flinched.

Shane grew still, slipping down Ilya’s neck toward the base of his spine on accident. He tangled himself in the threads of Ilya’s waistband, clinging with all his might to stay grounded here with him.

“Try again if you can,” Ilya was telling him.

He’d almost heard him, then. Shane had just been a little too forceful.

With a spark of determination, Shane hoisted himself back up into Ilya’s hair, hanging from the very end of a curl that curved inward toward his ear.

I love you, Shane whispered.

Ilya’s features twitched, as if he heard something faint but couldn’t make out the individual words.

And Shane was already too exhausted to try again. He drifted away.

It’s okay, he murmured to the mourning dove who watched from above. He is here. That’s all that matters. Ilya came home to me. Everything will be okay now.

Ilya came home. Everything would be okay.