Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Hayden Pike, JJ Boiziau, Rose Landry, Wyatt Hayes, Svetlana Vetrova, Troy Barrett, Ryan Price (Game Changers), Zane Boodram, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Theriault (Game Changers), Misc. Game Changers ensemble cast, Luca Haas

Additional Tags:

Ghost Shane Hollander, Hockey Coach Shane Hollander, Doctor Ilya Rozanov, Retired Hockey Player Ilya Rozanov, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Temporary Character Death, Temporary Amnesia, Major Character Death is NOT tagged for a reason, Angst with a Happy Ending, Ghost Sex, Supernatural Elements, Hand Wavy Magical Rules for Romance Purposes, Ilya Rozanov Solves a Mystery and Tries to Keep His Sanity While Doing It

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-19 Updated: 2026-10-16 Words: 25,761 Chapters: 4/?

a light refracting

Summary

“I know you’re there,” he spoke gently, proud when his voice sounded nearly confident in spite of the way his hands were shaking under his desk, “I’ve seen you.”

The air in front of him seemed to shimmer in a way that was almost corporeal. Beneath his lab coat, the hair on his arms was standing on end.

Suddenly, so softly that it could hardly be called a whisper, a man’s voice answered, “So what if I am here? What would it matter anyway?”

Or, a scientist and a skeptic, new Team Physician Dr. Ilya Rozanov holds no belief in ghosts or ghouls or anything remotely supernatural, but soon even he can’t ignore the strange and inexplicable occurrences happening around the university’s sports complex.

Hollander Arena isn’t haunted… except for it sort of, probably is.

Notes

In my humble opinion, every fandom needs some mysterious death Ghost!Fic and I have arrived to quench my own thirst.

Brief disclaimer notes:

• Yes, Shane is dead. Will he stay dead? The tags should hopefully give you a clue.
• If you've read my other fics, you'll know that I'm an obsessive pro hockey fan. I know admittedly a bit less about hockey in a Canadian U Sports setting and even less about being a Team Physician/staffing for university sports in general, but if you know me, you'll also know that I research like a fiend to avoid most glaring inaccuracies. That being said, there are literal ghosts in this fic, so... hopefully we can suspend our disbelief on the rest of it ;)
• As of now, there is no specific update schedule for this fic as I dabble in oneshot land, but I have never abandoned a WIP and I can promise I won't start now.

Happy haunting! 👻

Chapter 1

In hindsight, maybe he should have known this job was going to be… different, given that the first thing Dr. Ilya Rozanov heard as he stepped through the sliding doors of the Saint Luke’s University sports complex was:

“Welcome to hell!”

He immediately frowned, wondering if somehow — after a decade in Canada and multiple English-taught degrees — that there was still a strange culturally-specific idiom he had yet to learn.

“Pike, knock it off,” a handsome Black man said, shoving at the chuckling blond next to him. His accent was not-quite-French-Canadian in a way that intrigued Ilya’s immigrant ear, though he couldn’t immediately place the origin.

Hesitating, Ilya took a few tentative steps toward the smiling pair, swiveling his head to take in the full atrium as he did so. Red and black banners hung from the rafters listing the school’s many Canadian championships across men’s and women’s sports, some as recent as the previous season. Rugby, football, lacrosse, swimming, track and field… SLU was often dominant and even unrivaled. It was only the years on the Men’s Hockey banner that seemed conspicuously short. That was… sort of why he was here, after all.

“Dr. Rozanov, welcome,” the man greeted as he approached, holding out a hand for Ilya to shake. “I’m JJ Boiziau, the Head Athletic Therapist for Loons Hockey.”

As Ilya reached out to complete the handshake, Boiziau added, “And this melodramatic clown is Hayden Pike, our Strength and Conditioning Coach.”

Apparently quite happy to accept the clown accusations, Hayden Pike executed a full on bow with a flourished arm gesture, like he was some sort of European butler. “Enchanté.”

Ilya blinked.

“It is nice to meet you both,” he managed politely after a moment, though he feared he was doing a poor job at hiding his flummoxed expression. 

He’d heard enough about Saint Luke’s before accepting the position to know that the university’s men’s hockey program was regarded as being a bit… strange; he just hadn’t expected to come face to face with that the moment he arrived.

“I’ll take you through to the administrative offices first,” AT Boiziau was saying, motioning for Ilya to follow, “They’ll get you all set up with your ID badge and any remaining paperwork. I’ll probably have to duck out for Loons practice before I can give you the full tour, but I’ll make sure someone from our staff is around to do the honors otherwise.”

“I could—” Coach Pike began to offer, but he was immediately cut off by Boiziau’s sharp ‘No!’

Once more, Ilya could only look on helplessly, wondering what exactly he’d gotten himself into.

“Crisse, Pike, you know you can’t,” Boiziau continued, with a sigh so exasperated it seemed to emanate from his entire person. “The last time you tried to enter that hallway a literal ceiling tile fell on your head.”

“Faulty installation,” Pike said with a chuckle, though it was noticeably nervy, “C’mon dude, this is a super old building after all. That probably wasn’t even related.”

“White people,” Boiziau muttered, not quite under his breath, “This is why you die in the horror films.”

Pike’s laughter was lighter this time, as he turned to look at Ilya and explained, “Hollander Arena isn’t actually plagued by ghosts or demons or anything, or at least I don’t think so. It’s just… creepy here at times. Most times. And a little, uh, inexplicable, one might say.”

“A little,” Boiziau scoffed. He opened his mouth as if to continue that train of thought, but seemed to think better of it. “Sorry, Dr. Rozanov. I’m sure this all sounds like crazy talk to you. You will find that the staff around here are… varying degrees of superstitious.”

Two pairs of expectant eyes turned on him, as if the men were wondering just how much Ilya was liable to believe. They would be very disappointed, if that were the case.

“Um,” he replied inelegantly, searching for a kind way to say that he thought spirits and supernatural creatures and whatever else were deeply unscientific phenomena. He swallowed, shifting into professional Physician Mode. “It is natural for human minds to seek out explanations for things. Some reasons more… ah, fantastical than others.”

As they turned another corner to head deeper into the dimly lit, mazelike depths of the arena, Ilya could see how a walk here alone could spark a feeling of unease. Surely that was all this was; a bit of ‘liminal space’-induced delusion. A humming fluorescent light on the ceiling flickered overhead as if to prove his point.

Ahead of him, Boiziau was nodding, seeming unsurprised by Ilya’s rationale. “Yes,” he said easily, “I used to think that way too.”

“Most new hires don’t stick around long,” Pike added, his placid smile bordering on unnerving, “Once they realize most of it can’t be explained without a little… fantasy, as you said, it tends to make them upset.” He let out a shaky breath. “Those of us who do stay just learn the rules and, um, if you’re like me, ignore why we all follow them.”

Ilya raised an eyebrow. “The rules?”

Boiziau coughed, pushing open a door marked ‘STAFF ONLY’ in stark black lettering. “All in due time, Dr. Rozanov.”

The tone was ominous enough to make Ilya shiver — not because he believed a word of what these apparent paranormal observers had to say about an inanimate building, but rather the realization that this was the team he was meant to work with to provide medical treatment and rehabilitation to student athletes. The bizarre first impression was making him slightly worried that they were casting healing spells on sprained ankles here, instead of prescribing pain management, taping, and adaptive exercises. He half imagined a candle-lit summoning circle in place of an exam table. But maybe he was getting ahead of himself.

In all honesty, Ilya didn’t actually mind a bit of whimsy at work — in fact, a lot of his former hospital colleagues and classmates would probably describe him as dryly funny and almost recklessly adventurous (in his early twenties, at least) — but this introduction to Saint Luke’s was already so strange, it verged on unsettling. Enough so that he was now envisioning himself as the protagonist in his favorite horror films, ignoring all the neon signs to Turn Back while he still could. Ridiculous.

The vibes felt that much stranger when Ilya realized their group of three now stood in a very normal-looking university admin space, with a front seating area and a long hallway of identical doors leading to individual offices. Ilya could see the closest name placard designating the office on the right as belonging to Scott Hunter, Director, Hockey Operations.

“Rose,” Boiziau called out, “I’ve brought you a sacrifice.”

Ilya looked at him sharply. God help him if another person at this school started speaking like they were reciting passages from a gothic novel—

A pretty, petite woman with red hair and even redder lipstick appeared from behind them with a light cough, making all three men jump.

“Sorry, sorry,” she said sheepishly, waving the paper cup in her hand. “I was fighting with the coffee machine again. It refuses to make anything that isn’t—“

“A vanilla latte,” Pike finished, nodding solemnly. He glanced over at Ilya, shrugging, and said ‘it’s Wednesday’ as if that explanation was self-evident.

In that moment, Ilya decided the fewer questions he asked, the better for his sanity.

“Hi, I’m Rose Landry,” the redheaded woman was saying, holding out a manicured hand, “I lead our Human Resources team under our Head of Athletic Operations, though I work with Scott Hunter, who was on your virtual interview panel, for hockey staffing specifically." Her wide blue eyes flitted around, hypervigilant in the way that Pike had been. “Scott, um, doesn’t use his office down here much, but you’ll meet him in person at some point, I’m sure.”

“At some point,” Boiziau echoed, chuckling oddly.

Everything here was odd, Ilya was coming to realize. The academic rumor mill had not been exaggerating one bit.

Boiziau clasped Ilya on the shoulder then in a friendly goodbye, motioning to Pike as well as he said, “We should get going. Practice soon. Talk later, Dr. Rozanov.”

Ilya nodded his head in acknowledgment, watching as they both exited with unconcealed haste.

At their leave, Rose continued her onboarding spiel. “I had security activate your badge this morning. You’ll have access to most areas of the arena and its adjacent sports complex, excluding a few equipment storage areas and locker rooms that belong to specific sports.” She shrugged her shoulders, smiling apologetically. “Well, theoretically anyway.”

This time Ilya couldn’t help his curiosity. “Theoretically?” he asked, the word a stretch against his still stubbornly thick Russian accent.

Rose frowned. “Um, I wouldn’t worry about it, really,” she hedged, “It’s just more common than not that things don’t work how they’re meant to around here.”

“Okay,” Ilya replied, because what else could he say really? He added a joking, light-hearted: “Could you remind me what does work around here then?”

She took this in stride, eyes crinkling. “For sure! SLU loves its sports so there are always resources and funding available. We have great wellness benefits and pretty generous vacation time, especially during the off-season. There’s an on-site cafeteria that does amazing paninis on Thursdays — the tuna melt is to die for. And, well, it certainly never gets boring?”

Ilya nodded slowly. “And… the ghost?”

At that, Rose blanched, her expression transforming into something that looked like genuine fear. Her voice came out a low murmur. “They don’t like to be called that.”

Ilya felt both skeptical eyebrows approach his hairline. “You do not really believe—”

Suddenly there was an ID badge, a key with a loon-shaped charm, and a packet of papers shoved toward him. 

“Here you are, Dr. Rozanov. Your office is on the fourth floor,” Rose said hurriedly, “And the team medical facilities are just around the corner from the locker room, sub-basement level one. Someone from IT should be by later to help you get your laptop set up.”

He accepted the items from her, trying to hide his shock at the sudden shift in demeanor. Had everyone at SLU worked themselves up to this level of paranoid mass psychosis? Surely there had to be at least one other employee here who shared Ilya’s healthy scientific skepticism for… unobservable ideas.

“Happy first day!” Rose said, valiantly attempting a cheerful smile. In the end, it was sort of half smile/half grimace if anything.

“Thank… you,” Ilya said slowly, mustering up his own smile in return.

She gave him a perfunctory nod and then scurried off back down the hallway of offices, turning the corner where it curved at the end, tracing the oval-shaped arena’s perimeter. 

Ilya stood there for a moment, briefly considering what it would mean to tinder his resignation — a cancelled work visa and a one way ticket back to Russia probably — before spinning on his heel and exiting the room.

Getting settled in his office space first seemed the logical next step and so he retraced the winding pathway back to the atrium before locating a bank of elevators on the right side. Once inside, he pressed the number 4 button, frowning when it didn’t light up in response. Confused, he poked at the button again, a few times gently and then with one hard jab of his pointer finger. Still, nothing.

“Oh, you’ve got to press 2 first,” a voice said, startling him.

He looked up as a strikingly beautiful woman in a black Loons polo stepped into the elevator alongside him. Embroidered below the red school logo on her chest was the name ‘Vetrova’ which Ilya recalled from the athletics website. Svetlana, then. The head coach of the women’s hockey team.

“But I am not going to this floor,” he said, confused. 

Laughing, Coach Vetrova tucked a copper curl behind her ear, and explained, “Just one of the… quirks of this place. If you’re going to the fourth floor, like we both are, you have to stop on the second.”

She reached over and hit the 2 button, raising an eyebrow in challenge and gesturing for him to select his stop. Sure enough, when Ilya hit the 4 this time, it lit up with a single tap as normal.

“Is someone going to fix that?” he asked, as the elevator rose.

Coach Vetrova flashed him a rueful smile. “They’ve tried. Even put in a brand new set of elevators by the south entrance two summers ago. They all do this.”

Ilya could admit that was odd, if true. Some kind of universal electrical wiring issue, surely. Still, he ventured, “And I am guessing you also believe the building is haunted?”

She cocked her head, appearing nonplussed by the question. “Oh, it definitely is.” 

Fantastic, apparently hot and crazy is a hiring prerequisite, Ilya thought nonsensically, wondering what that said about his own qualifications.

The elevator doors slid open on the second floor, paused, then closed again.

Ilya felt his shoulders sag in defeat. “Right, great.”

She regarded him with a puzzling mix of pity and a little condescension. “He’ll make his presence known to you soon, I’m sure.”

“He?” Ilya asked, wincing when he remembered he’d committed to stop asking follow-up questions. The alleged ghost having preferred pronouns? Anything felt possible at this point.

Unlike the other staff so far though, Coach Vetrova looked perfectly at ease with the idea of a resident spirit, gender notwithstanding, as she explained, “Everyone has a theory about who or what haunts the arena. My theory is right.” She side-eyed him, lips pursing. “Though I’ll wait for you to form your own conclusions.”

As the elevator chimed its fourth floor arrival, she stepped out, waiting for Ilya to follow.

“Ah, sorry I didn’t introduce myself,” she said, holding out a hand, “I’m Svetlana Vetrova, head coach for women’s hockey.”

“I figured, from the polo,” he replied, gesturing toward her shirt before clasping her hand in greeting. “Ilya Rozanov, new team physician for men’s hockey. It’s my first day.”

“I figured, from the elevator buttons,” she teased, echoing his syntax. Blowing out a dramatic whoosh of breath, she added, “But men’s hockey, hmm? I wish you all the luck with that. You seem more stubborn than the last doctor at least. He only made it through half the season.”

Luck? Ilya was beginning to think he’d actually need it, though not for the reasons everyone else involved in Loons Athletics seemed to believe.

Looking at him appraisingly, Coach Vetrova abruptly asked, “Вы говори́те по-ру́сски доктор?”

He smiled a little at the formality, and at the way her neutral North American accent shifted into something sharper in their native tones. At his nod, she continued in Russian, “Let me take you to dinner sometime as a welcome gift. I know a great place for the kind of food that will make you miss the homeland.”

There isn’t much I miss, Ilya wanted to say, but he nodded in polite agreement instead.

Smiling, she fished her phone out of the pocket of her black athletic trousers and handed it to him, watching as Ilya added his number obediently. Then, with one last ‘Welcome to SLU!’ she was marching down the mezzanine in the opposite direction.

Well, that was better than ‘Welcome to hell’ anyway.

For a moment, he stood rooted to the spot in front of the elevator bay, tempted to descend back to the first floor to replicate the button trick in another elevator entirely. If the university’s bizarre reputation had not preceded itself, he might have thought this was a prank or some elaborate hazing ritual for newbie staff. But Coach Vetrova had seemed so matter of fact about the haunting. And hadn’t Coach Pike — the most skeptical of the bunch, if you could call it that — mentioned following strange rules too? All this combined with the fact that everyone else he’d met so far appeared to be genuinely afraid of… well, of something anyway…

Maybe things were just different on this side of the country, Ilya considered optimistically, where the colonial history was older and the British and French influence more deeply entrenched; he had only just moved a few weeks ago after all. UBC and its city of Vancouver had been quirky, sure, but in that sort of artsy, coastal way that Ilya had found warm and intriguing over the decade he’d spent there. Saint Luke’s on the other hand had less than a third of UBC’s enrollment and was situated two hours from Toronto on the shores of Lake Erie — cold and grey and constructed with castle-like stone and faded brick, not entirely unlike the old Moscow city centre of his youth, albeit with the saturation turned down.

If anything, it was buildings like the library on the main quad with its turrets and gargoyles that seemed more worthy of a haunt. Hollander Arena — renamed and refurbished after catastrophic flooding in the nineties — sported a contemporary glass and steel facade and a clean, almost hospital-like interior. A ghost flitting about the complex’s ice rink, basketball and tennis courts, and Olympic-sized swimming pool while placing curses on elevators and espresso machines seemed comically modern in comparison. But whatever, it was all spooky nonsense anyway.

Shaking his head, Ilya shrugged his shoulders back and stalked toward office 410 as his new key’s loon-shaped tag instructed, determination renewed.

He had overcome plenty of impossible challenges before — a difficult childhood, life in a new country in a language full of stupid contradictions and pronunciation that plagued him, several hockey-induced concussions, and enough years as a depressed, sleep deprived med student to put him in an early grave. He could handle this job, diagnosing and treating common sports injuries; he’d worked and trained for it thoroughly, dreamed of making it here even, and now he finally had. A few strange personalities and a location intent on making him feel like a horror movie ‘Final Girl’ would not be enough to stop him.

“I would say I am not afraid of you,” he muttered under his breath as he walked, “but that would mean I think you are real. Which I do not.”

The empty hallway said nothing in return, save for the soft buzz of the HVAC system and the squeak of his footsteps on the speckled vinyl floor.

Overhead, a light flickered.

* ⚕️ *

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

By late afternoon, Ilya was nearly finished unpacking the boxes that the university had arranged to be delivered to his new office.

They’d awarded him a room with a view, one side formed entirely by a see-through slab of the arena’s outer paneling (though his welcome packet had helpfully reassured him that the floor-to-ceiling glass was one-way and tinted for privacy). After taking time to admire the panorama of Saint Luke’s fall foliage from the window, he had spent a few hours organizing and decorating the stark space. 

The black acrylic shelves that lined the two adjacent walls were now filled with rows of expensive medical textbooks, a handful of trinkets and awards for sports and academics, his university degrees, and several framed photos: a crisp shot of his recently adopted mutt Anya, tongue lolling as she rolled in the sunlit grass of a Vancouver park, and a much older portrait of a beautiful blonde woman — his late mother, Irina — wearing a severe, tight-lipped expression that was betrayed by the barest hint of mirth in her icy blue eyes. If you squinted, a man’s arm in military dress could be seen at the edge of the photograph; several years ago, Ilya had ripped it… accidentally while sliding it into a new frame.

Momentarily exhausted, Ilya perched in the black leather office chair in the center of the room, rotating idly behind the solid wood desk, its modern shape emphasized by a sleek, dark cherry veneer. The desktop was messy with the remnants of the Loons’ full welcome package — a set of embossed business cards, a custom prescription pad, three expensive ink pens with ‘SLU Athletics’ engraved on the side, and the plastic wrap from a white lab coat that now hung on the chair behind him, his name embroidered in red and black thread. He leaned back in the chair even further, poised for a slightly unprofessional cat nap, when a knock at the door startled him upright.

Walking cautiously to the front of the room, Ilya peered through the frosted glass, unable to make out any details of his visitor beyond their impressive size. As he opened the door, he came face to… er, pecs… with a broad-chested, auburn-haired man sporting a thick red beard to match. Ilya was not a short man by any means, easily clearing one-ninety, so it wasn’t often he had to tilt his head up to make eye contact. (Boiziau had been nearly as tall, he remembered; this place clearly harbored giants.) He swallowed, taking in the way the man’s biceps were straining against the tight sleeves of the same Loons polo Coach Vetrova had worn. Christ.

“Hi, Dr. Rozanov?” the man greeted, his voice soft and almost shy in a way that was ill-fitted to his towering stature and He-Man physique. “I’m Dr. Price. Ryan, if you like. I’m the resident sports psychologist. AT Boiziau sent me up here to give you a full tour of the team facilities.” He peered into the room over Ilya’s shoulder, probably eyeing the cardboard boxes he’d yet to break down. “But I can always come back if you could use more time to get settled.”

“A tour sounds great, Dr. Price,” Ilya replied easily, finding himself in need of a break. Plus, it would be helpful to get a handle on the space and the equipment available to him on-site before he began ordering in supplies.

“Right this way, then,” Dr. Price replied, his smile just as timid as his tone.

After a short walk, they stood in front of the elevators again, the down arrow lit up to call the lift to their floor. Intrigued by the premise as much as he loathed it, Ilya couldn’t help but fish for more so-called building rules.

“They tell me you have to press 2 first to get to 4,” he said, “Does that work the same way but reverse to go down?”

Dr. Price chuckled softly. “Oh no. Only on the way up.” He bent down a bit to select ‘LL-1’ on the panel as they stepped inside, the button lighting up on cue. “The lower levels never have that problem either. I like to think it’s because the spirits spend the most time down there, maybe wanting us to visit even.”

Ilya tried to hide his disappointment at the casual mention of ghosts. Pity. Another scientist lost to this place and its silly, ‘haunted’ lore.

Taking in Dr. Price’s calm demeanor, he replied, “You do not seem… scared. Like the others.”

“Well, I’m not really,” Dr. Price said, his expression warm, “I find it sort of comforting to have seen evidence of some kind of life after death.” His brows furrowed. “Not that I’d want to live in a university sports complex for all eternity, but you know, just the general concept of there being… more is… nice.”

Ilya frowned, appreciating the perspective but finding that he was not at all comforted by the possibility. The gold crucifix nestled in the hollow of his throat probably seemed inconsistent with his lack of belief in any organized religion and its afterlife, though he remained broadly spiritual for sentimental reasons. Still, he found the idea of an earth-bound life after death — and even more so, various unknown layers of it — to be… unsettling. The idea that his mother and father might have at any point shared the same sort of ghostly purgatory was a sickening thought.

“I take it you don’t believe yet,” Dr. Price remarked, eyeing him closely. 

Yet. It was said without a hint of judgment, in the easy objective way that one might comment on the weather.

Even so, Ilya bristled. “No. I do not.”

“Well,” Dr. Price replied, looking almost amused by Ilya’s firm denial, “If you ever do encounter something strange and need to process it, my door is always open. Talking through feelings is kind of my specialty.”

Ilya tried not to physically recoil at the suggestion. His on-and-off again therapy sessions in adulthood had been an exercise in grinning and bearing it just long enough to renew his antidepressant prescription. Feelings were not his forte.

“Okay, thank you,” he said neutrally instead.

They exited the elevator together, wandering back into the arena’s labyrinthian lower levels. Dr. Price was a helpful tour guide, pointing out the main areas of use — locker room, gym, several tunnels leading to the main rink, and finally, the medical facilities.

Ilya nodded in approval at the set of clean, well-stocked exam rooms, a basic radiography set up (though more complex imaging would have to be done at the University Medical Centre down the road), and the additional resources he would share with the university’s other team physicians on site. It was… unorthodox to have just one team of athletes to care for, a more typical workload involving several different sports at least (his good friend Cliff, at a tiny liberal arts school outside Boston, handled six, for example), but Ilya had been assured during his interviews that men’s hockey alone would give him plenty of clinical experience.

That promise, though strange, had been very appealing for a year-long sports medicine fellowship, now in the final stretch of his academic career after completing his residency in internal medicine at Vancouver General. Alongside his team responsibilities, Ilya would also be expected to maintain a clinical workload in the teaching hospital, already paired up with orthopedic surgeon Dr. Zane Boodram given the overlap in their specialties. If he was lucky, handling a group of just 26 young men on top of his hospital patients would leave him some actual free time for research and other personal pursuits. Maybe he could pick up a hobby. Dust off his pads and join a beer league even… Ha.

His musings were interrupted as Dr. Price cleared his throat, gesturing with his phone in hand and announcing that Head Coach Theriault had wrapped up practice and was interested in meeting Ilya face to face.

“Serious,” Dr. Price replied carefully when Ilya asked what the coach was like, “Very glued to his own ways and conservative with his choices. But the Theriault family… well, they’ve given a lot to the men’s hockey program over the decades.” Dr. Price leaned closer, voice dropping to a near-whisper. “To be frank, they were furious when Yuna Hollander made a last second donation to the university during the arena’s refurbishment. Coach Theriault seems to carry a chip on his shoulder from that. Always trying to prove himself, but always, erm… losing.”

Ilya nodded and quietly filed that information away. He’d experienced all manner of coaches and leadership styles growing up in competitive play, and while a few had seemed at least somewhat as committed to player development and locker room culture as they were to the Art of Winning, those coaches had been an uncommonly bright spot in an otherwise toxic environment. By and large, it was ego that fueled the sport, and the vicarious feeling of victory through another man’s body when your own had given out. Loving hockey for its own sake was a rarer thing than wringing every possible dollar and accolade from it.

But Ilya wasn’t a hockey player anymore. And so the opinions of the coaching staff here mattered only in so far as they kept him employed.

Ilya wandered alongside his tour guide back through the maze of the lower level, Dr. Price navigating confidently down the dimly-lit hallways without any of the nerves of the other Loons Athletics employees. Ilya thought back to AT Boiziau’s panic when Coach Pike had offered the tour instead, and glanced up warily at the ceiling tiles above him, almost willing one to appear particularly loose so he could dismiss another ‘spooky’ occurrence then and there.

Go ahead, he thought, even more boldly, Drop one on my head. Make me believe.

Instead, there was only the usual hum of the overhead lights, brightening their walk with a sterile white glow.

Back at their starting point, Dr. Price left Ilya at the elevator bank with instructions for him to make his way to the third floor, before excusing himself for an appointment with a cheery goodbye; no such rules around the number three, Ilya noted, as the elevator rose without protest. For all that it pained him to acknowledge the building’s… quirks, his inner researcher had naturally begun to catalogue them. After this next meeting, he was planning on making a physical list to keep track.

Maybe I will make disproving this nonsense my next journal submission instead, he thought, chuckling at the idea of being dually published in sports medicine and ‘paranormal’ investigation.

Refocusing on the task at hand, Ilya reached his destination at the end of the hall, smoothed out his button-up shirt and slacks, and swallowed back the hint of nerves on his tongue. The mysterious Scott Hunter of Hockey Operations might be his boss on paper, but impressing the head coach via competent care of his players was obviously key to survival here.

Ilya knocked on the door frame of the massive corner office, watching as Coach Theriault spun around in his desk chair to face him. Flashing a veneered smile in recognition, Theriault stood, waving Ilya inside before thrusting out a thick-fingered hand in greeting.

This Theriault, Pierre-Luc, was nearly an exact photocopy of his father, the former men’s hockey head coach for more than a decade, both short in stature, barrel-chested, and clean shaven with a head of wiry salt and pepper hair. He’d all but inherited the head coaching position after his father’s untimely death three years ago — heart attack, just 55, according to the memorial to Marc Theriault in one of the trophy cases they’d passed on the tour — and had since done (in Ilya’s humble former hockey player opinion) essentially nothing to revitalize the failing program. Not like the beaming photo of Shane Hollander in the next case over at least, whose name was on the building and for good reason: the youngest ever head coach in North American collegiate hockey when he’d taken the reins at just twenty-seven, leading Saint Luke’s to an undefeated 1993 season and back-to-back Canadian championships.

He had died too, and tragically young apparently, along with two student athletes and a history professor in the 1995 flood that had swept across the region and engulfed the campus in its wake. (“His parents refused to hold a funeral,” Dr. Price had explained solemnly, “Unlike the others, the search teams never recovered a body.”)

“Dr. Ilya Rozanov,” Theriault was saying, the emphasis all wrong in his thick Quebec French accent, “A pleasure to meet you. Welcome to Saint Luke’s.” He gestured at one of the chairs in front of his desk, adding, “Please, take a seat.”

“Thank you,” Ilya replied mildly, lowering himself into the chair, “I look forward to supporting the team.”

Theriault smiled and, in a way that Ilya immediately clocked as condescending, remarked, “Ah, your English is quite good. I am impressed.”

Ilya held back an eye roll and refrained from commenting that Theriault had an accent nearly as thick as his own. “Yes, well, I have been in Canada for more than a decade. And my courses were all conducted in English, so it was… sink or swim, really.”

Theriault seemed unconcerned with the backstory, asking, “And this is your first job after medical school?”

Ilya nodded, shifting in his chair. “Yes, though not a real job yet, exactly. I am on a fellowship for sports medicine for a year through the University Hospital System. Hoping for the option to extend if I have the chance to join a local practice here.” He smiled back, trying for charming. “Dr. Boodram, who I understand has worked with the team before, will be supervising any complex surgical cases.”

Theriault looked disinterested in the explanation, though he nodded back. “Right, okay. Well, your resume was impressive enough anyway. And I looked you up too, of course.” He eyed Ilya carefully. “Quite the hockey player yourself, hm? You put up some record stats in the KHL, attracted attention from NHL scouts even. But you only played one full season in Russia? And left partway through the next?”

Ilya fought off a wince, realizing that for whatever reason Theriault was intent at keeping him on his toes. “Ah, yes. There were… complications. For personal reasons, I decided to come to Canada to study instead.”

‘Personal reasons’ was maybe underselling it a bit, but Ilya wasn’t about to explain to his sort-of boss that he’d been caught sleeping with his KHL coach’s son and that his father, a high-ranking military policeman, had arranged to have him leave the country instead of being branded as a political extremist. It was maybe the one sign that his father had harbored any love for him at all… but then again, the exile had also been a clear-cut way of avoiding the family shame and embarrassment that would come from a faggot for a son on public record.

“I see,” Theriault said, “Well, we’re not all blessed with the mental fortitude to make it as a pro.”

It was this little jab that had Ilya’s hackles raising, offended by the implication of weakness and the hypocrisy of that coming from a man who had been languishing in the AHL before his fortuitous, nepotistic university coaching appointment. Yes, Ilya had looked Pierre-Luc Theriault up too, of course, and he had not been impressed.

Ilya sharpened his metaphorical blade, lobbing back a slick, “Well, you know, ah… what is the English phrase? Those who cannot do, teach?”

A shadow crossed over Theriault’s face for the briefest of moments before he rearranged it into something eerily pleasant instead. Glancing at the expensive-looking watch on his wrist, he abruptly rose from his seat and said, “I’m afraid I have a meeting with the Trustees I should not be late for. Keep my players healthy, Dr. Rozanov.” His eyes darkened once more, as he added, “As I am sure you know, this place is prone to… accidents.”

Ilya frowned, both at the ominous wording and at the sudden, violently unsettling sensation that someone else had entered the room… had passed right beside him in fact, with a mass solid enough to shift the air between them and chill it by several degrees. It was a feeling so human in shape that it made Ilya look to his left, expectant. His mouth, open in greeting, slammed shut with the realization that there was… inexplicably… no one there.

As if in challenge, a gold-tipped fountain pen chose that moment to roll off the edge of Theriault’s desk and embed itself, point down, in the carpet at his feet. One centimeter to the right and it might have stuck in the top of the coach’s big toe. Both men jumped, though Theriault rolled his eyes immediately after, seemingly more annoyed than frightened. He muttered something in clipped French and made no move to retrieve the pen from the floor, stepping around it and reaching for his coat on the nearby stand instead.

Ilya stood and slowly backed out of the room when it became clear that Theriault would not be acknowledging him again, mind reeling. He took the stairs from the third floor to the fourth, not wanting to deal with any more ridiculous elevator rules, and made his way down the long hallway to his own office with slow, methodical steps, still trying to parse what he’d witnessed.

He shook his head sharply. It was madness to let this place and its bizarre cast of characters get to him so quickly. Hollander Arena wasn’t haunted. That remained a preposterous notion without a lick of evidence to back it up.

Except, well… the pen.

It hadn’t just gently fallen from the desk, had it? The movement had been sharp, quick, the angle a little too precise… A man rising from his seat was hardly enough force to cause the entire desk — a heavy, solid wood construction, just like Ilya’s — to shift intensely enough to send its items airborne.

And so, if Ilya allowed the memory to settle in his mind, and if he consulted it through the objectively scientific lens he did most things, he knew that what he’d really seen was much stranger than what he was willing to accept as truth.

The pen hadn’t rolled off by pure accident. Not really. Not if his own eyes were to be believed.

Something had thrown it.

*⚕️*

Two weeks into the season and it was clear why the university considered men’s hockey to be a perfectly appropriate caseload for one Team Physician.

In spite of the warnings, Ilya was baffled.

While yes, he had prescribed treatment for one typical on-ice injury (the Loons’ starting goaltender had lingering pain from a labral tear to his left hip), the rest of his eight visits so far had involved an impossible laundry list of barely sports-related afflictions. Reviewing a handful of the files now before his next appointment, he shook his head again in disbelief:

• T. Walker, D, #13: A contusion to the forehead from the locker room door opening into his face, severe enough to require a full concussion evaluation. He claimed no other players had been inside the room yet. “I’m always first to practice, Dr. Rozanov,” his patient notes now read, “but maybe I pulled it open harder than I thought?”

• M. Matthews, C, #57: Avulsion fracture to the fifth metatarsal, acute trauma from — Ilya sighed audibly — “A stick falling off the rack in front of me, Doc. Like, seriously, right in my path. I tripped on my skates and kinda rolled my ankle and then…”

• B. Nguyen, RW, #82: Superficial thermal burn to the top of the right hand, minimal swelling but observing closely for risk of compartment syndrome. “I turned the shower on and it was like someone grabbed the hot water knob at the same time? It came out totally scalding! I’m just glad my whole body wasn’t under the spray.”

• H. Pike, Coach: Scalp laceration, brought in by a very exasperated AT Boiziau who’d simply said, “Ceiling tile.” A trickle of blood running down his face, Coach Pike had added with a sheepish grin, “Sometimes I like to try my luck.”

Ilya clicked out of that last tab in the patient portal with his loudest sigh yet.

So.

This was either the clumsiest, most unlucky hockey team in sports history, or…

There was a shuffling sound and Ilya glanced up from his rolling stool as a baby-faced blond limped into the exam room. Still fully dressed from practice sans skates, he winced with each step, one of the student ATs hovering at his side.

“Room for a walk-in, Dr. Rozanov?” she asked, moving to help get the player situated comfortably when Ilya nodded his assent.

Dismissing the therapist with a quiet thanks, Ilya turned his attention back to his patient, quickly assessing that there wasn’t an immediate emergency at hand. He had the young man provide verbal confirmation of his name and date of birth in the system and then gently asked what brought him in.

In a light, German-sounding accent, the patient — Luca Haas, LW, #11 — explained, “My tailbone, I think.”

Ilya fought an inappropriate smile, thrilled by what had to be another actual hockey injury. It was harder to bust your backside on the ice given the padding they wore, but not entirely uncommon. He motioned for Luca to continue.

“They put our names and numbers on a plaque above our lockers for the season, but mine… fell? I tried to dodge it by jumping back and landed hard on the floor, right on my…” Luca gestured downward with a grimace, “… you know.”

You’ve got to be kidding.

Ilya tried not to visibly deflate, dismayed at yet another strange accident being the reason for a player’s visit. He was meant to be getting specific clinical experience in sports medicine and yet the majority of his patients so far seemed to be injured simply from existing near the rink as opposed to doing any activity on it. He felt more like a family pediatrician treating chaotic toddlers’ boo-boos than a medical consultant for highly-trained athletes, many of them with years of CHL play behind them before opting for a scholarship degree in their twenties. It was absurd; ninety-kilo grown men wracked with nerves, running into doors and tripping over their own feet, when their opponents (and the ice itself) should be the real cause for fear. The Loons hadn’t won a damn thing since the nineties, after all.

But speaking of grown men—

“You can say ass in front of me,” Ilya joked, trying to make Luca a bit more comfortable as he maneuvered him into an unfortunate bottoms-up position, “I used to do this sport too, you know? I have heard much worse.”

The forward smiled shyly at that, though his face contorted into something pained as Ilya slid a gloved hand past his hockey pants’ spine protector to prod at the soft tissue at the base of his vertebrae. Bruised but unlikely to be fractured, Ilya concluded, not that it mattered much when it came to treatment; like ribs, the coccyx wasn’t something that could be stabilized for healing.

“What position did you play?” Luca asked as he shifted awkwardly back to an upright seat, eyes round with curiosity.

“Center.”

Those bright eyes widened further. “Were you any good?”

Ilya’s reply was rough, a little shaky even, as he said, “Yes. I was.”

Refusing to linger on the memories, he sat back on his stool and slid over to the terminal, adding some notes in the patient portal. With a few more clicks, he also put in an order for a donut cushion so that Luca would be able to sit more comfortably in classes for the next few weeks. Ilya hoped he was the type of student athlete that actually went to classes anyway; with the way CIS rarely produced NHLers these days, a degree was a much safer option.

“Does anyone from the facilities team know about the loose sign yet?” Ilya asked once he’d finished, “It is dangerous to have such poor construction standards.”

Luca shook his head, shaggy blond bangs falling in his eyes. “Eh no, but it’s not like it would matter.” At Ilya’s questioning glance, he elaborated, “I lost rock, paper, scissors against the other first years, so I have the cursed locker this season. This is, ah…” he paused, appearing to chew around the English idiom, “… par for course.”

With a long sigh, Ilya turned back from the screen, hating himself for the way he couldn’t help but ask, “Cursed locker?”

Luca shrugged. “Yeah, it’s… odd. Your things go missing — last week it was my glove, and my sock the week before that. And any stored equipment falls down or gets damaged. Some players even claim they can see a man in the locker’s mirror, always out of the corner of their eye before he disappears.”

He frowned, picking at the seam of his hockey pants, his legs swinging almost childishly off the edge of the exam table. “I thought the older guys were messing with me at first. Playing pranks, you know?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “But then I heard him.”

Ilya raised an eyebrow. “Him?”

Eyes gone distant, Luca appeared to fight off a shiver. “Yeah,” he said, “There’s like… a voice. They say he only speaks to you if you have real potential.” He shivered again. “Last Tuesday, I stayed out late on the ice to work on my wrist shot, so I was the only one in the locker room. Suddenly, there was this feeling of like… someone over my shoulder. And then a whisper, telling me I needed to focus on transferring my weight more smoothly. I thought it was a coach, so I turned around and…” He made a star-shaped motion with his hands. “Poof! No one. I ran out of there so fast.”

Ilya felt a little bad about the scoff that left his lips before he could stop it. “So this ghost? He is coaching now?”

Luca appeared to miss the derision in his tone, answering earnestly, “Maybe? I haven’t heard the voice since though.” He smiled again, adding, “But whoever it was, they were right. I worked on the weight distribution from my back foot and my power improved, like, immediately.”

Ilya pasted on a smile in return, though internally he wondered if a referral to Dr. Price might be in order.

“That is great, Luca. And you are cleared to skate, by the way, though you should tell the coaches that I say ‘the more time off, the better’ since your tailbone will be sore for a while.” He added that last part in optimistically, knowing all too well the severity of pain that most hockey players were happy to grit their teeth through to avoid the injury lists. “Rest, ice and less pressure when sitting will help too. I sent in an order for a special cushion, which you can pick up tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Dr. Rozanov!” Luca replied cheerily, that huge smile doing something strange to the frostier outer layers of Ilya’s heart. He hopped down from the exam table with another ugly grimace, turning toward Ilya to say, “I really do hope you stay with us. The older guys told me most staff get too scared and leave, especially the doctors. But you’ve been so nice.”

Ilya’s smile was at least fifty-percent more genuine this time. “I think you will find I am harder to scare off than most.”

In hindsight, the timing was as impeccable as ever. The moment Luca hobbled out of the exam room, there was a sparking sound, the hair on Ilya’s arms standing on end with the intensity of the static. With an electrical-sounding pop, the big overhead light shorted out, bathing the exam room in pitch black darkness.

“Ha ha, very funny,” Ilya muttered up at the ceiling tiles. Then froze.

He blinked at himself in confusion, realizing that for the second time since the Pen Incident on day one, he’d genuinely considered a paranormal rationale for the event.

Stepping into the hallway — still brightly lit, so not a full-scale power outage then — he blinked again at a flash of dark hair and the shape of a man disappearing around the corner. Very much not Luca Haas, who glanced back from the completely opposite direction with concern.

“Everything okay, Dr. Rozanov? You look a little…”

“Did you see someone else walk by just now?” Ilya interjected, swallowing around a heavy sensation in his throat.

“No?” Luca frowned. He swiveled his head as if Ilya’s presumed hallucination might reappear before them.

Ilya blew out a short breath, heart beating a little harder in his chest. He was just tired, that was all. Working too hard to impress his supervisors and colleagues between Saint Luke’s and shifts at the teaching hospital, and not resting enough in between. The irony of being a doctor and knowing all too well the physical and cognitive effects of sleep deprivation. Mix in the power of suggestion from this cult-like group of curse believers and it was no wonder he was feeling… unsettled.

He swallowed again, carding his hand through his curls to hide the way it was shaking. “Never mind then, Luca. Let me know how you feel in a few days, okay?”

Luca shifted his weight, looking uneasy, but managed a smile and a wave anyway. “Okay, thanks, Doctor! Will do!”

Ilya ducked back into the exam room, stomach flipping when he noticed that the switch on the wall was flicked to its ‘OFF’ setting. Aha. Surely Luca had brushed against it on his way out. Yes, that was it. Occam’s razor, fewest possible assumptions; ghost be damned.

Collapsing back on his stool, Ilya pawed at his face and released a long, tremulous exhale. He fished for his phone in his lab coat pocket, tapping on the Pet Cam icon on the first page of apps and sighing in fatherly adoration at the live feed of Anya curled up in the middle of his bed in peaceful slumber. Smiling, he flipped his phone over to reread the ‘I work hard so my dog can have a better life’ sticker that Cliff had mailed him upon news of his fellowship at SLU.

This job was a good thing. Really. Flying pens and cursed lockers and electrical problems notwithstanding. And tomorrow he’d join Dr. Boodram in the OR for a total knee replacement, what a thrill. He was not going to mess this up; not when he’d worked this hard, leaving his home country and sport behind, suffering through — he shuddered at the memory — the pre-med woes of Ochem and revising for the MCAT and the torment nexus that was actual medical school, all while contorting his tongue around ugly English vowels just to be constantly underestimated because of it. This job was a good thing and he was good at it. Logical, competent, and with a bedside manner that more than proved his cultural assimilation. There was so much unnecessary smiling and apologizing and sugarcoating in this country, he probably deserved a diplomatic award for singlehandedly improving Russian-Canadian public relations in the healthcare sector.

All that aside, Saint Luke’s, with its eerie shores and even eerier people, was obviously a stark change from the modern urban hustle of his residency at Vancouver General. Two weeks was hardly enough time to adjust to the oddities here, supernatural or not.

Tonight, Ilya vowed, I will get some proper sleep.

*⚕️*

“Need a goalie?”

There was a dramatic spray of ice as Ilya skidded to a stop, chest still heaving with the effort of his sprint. Wyatt Hayes, the men’s and women’s goaltending coach, stared back at him, lips curled into a friendly smile under his thick blond mustache.

Ilya huffed, gesturing to the net littered with pucks. “You would not have blocked those.”

Coach Hayes quirked a brow, laughing good-naturedly at the chirp. “Ouch,” he said, though he skated closer anyhow, adding, “Didn’t know you still played, Doctor.”

Flinching, Ilya bit down on instinct, molars colliding over the place where a mouth guard would be. He’d booked a late night free skate slot at the rink with the specific hope of avoiding this line of questioning. “I don’t play, Coach. Not anymore.”

“Call me Wyatt,” Coach Hayes instructed, sticking out a hand. Ilya, his own hand still gloved, drifted closer and shook it reluctantly. Wyatt looked him up and down, gestured at his stick and skates and said, “And this sure looks like playing hockey to me.”

Ilya pretended to turn up his nose. “Ah, so this is why they hired you last season? For these deep goalie insights?”

Wyatt snorted. “You have a Wikipedia page, you know. In Russian but—”

“A short one,” Ilya cut in.

Though he appeared poised to banter back, Wyatt froze mid-word, his gaze locking onto a fixed point over Ilya’s left shoulder. “Huh, never seen him smile before,” he murmured, entirely to himself, “That’s new.”

Ilya sighed so deeply he imagined he could feel the rattle in his floating ribs.

Nearly a month into the season now and he had committed to a new and deeply unscientific approach to coping with the Not-Haunt: pure, passive observation, with his curiosity dial turned all the way down. It was simply not his business to know why the coffee machine produced a singular latte style on alternating days, as Rose Landry in HR continually bemoaned; or why the scoreboard flickered wildly, showing nonsensical game clocks half the time in defiance of the capable guys in the booth; or why Scott Hunter refused to step foot in the arena at all, despite literally being in charge of the university’s hockey programs, scheduling a check-in with Ilya at a nearby campus smoothie spot instead. And that was barely half his list of suspicious observations from the last six days alone.

It was a little bit his business that the string of bizarre injuries had also continued and the Loons’ losing streak along with it, but only in the sense that Ilya was expected to keep patching up lacerations and prescribing functional exercises and advising on how long a player should be out (advice which Theriault liked to ignore, much to Ilya’s indignation as the actual medical professional on site). And while Loons Athletics had a generous budget, it wasn’t quite enough to cover Ilya traveling to away games with the team, at least during the regular season, so they made do with AT Boiziau’s reporting and basic care while Ilya remained on-call at a distance. Oddly, or maybe not that oddly at all, the players seemed much less injury prone on enemy ice than on their own.

“You have your equipment?” Ilya prompted, watching Wyatt’s face brighten at the invitation, “I am not shooting on you without it.”

“Safety first, Doc,” Wyatt agreed, “I’d booked some time to just skate in circles a bit, but I’m happy to throw on my pads for you. Been craving a real challenge.” He drifted toward the gate, calling back, “Gimme five!”

Ilya nodded, knocking another puck stack off the boards as he waited. He flitted across the rink, stick handling still as sharp as in his youth, and began to fire each one at the net with a practiced variation of shot type, speed, and angle. Top shelf, left and right corners, bar down, and then a five hole that he couldn’t wait to annoy Wyatt with when the goalie returned.

An errant puck came sliding back his way, Ilya setting up for the one-timer on instinct and finding the back of the net with one powerful swing. He looked up, expecting to see Wyatt at the boards, more pucks in hand.

Instead, he locked eyes with… with… Well, it was hard to say exactly. A young man with a tall, athletic build, pale skin and dark hair. Hovering just meters away on the ice, he was present but not, like the clipped frame of a video game. Partial. The man’s almond eyes widened, so strikingly human in his fear of being perceived, and then he was gone.

Like, into thin air, gone. No other way to frame it.

Ilya’s grip on his stick was so tight he was surprised the carbon fiber didn’t splinter into his hand.

Impossible.

His logical resolve wavered for a moment, not wanting to give Dr. Price the satisfaction of booking an appointment to discuss… whatever the hell that was. The timely onset of a legitimate hallucinatory psychiatric disorder? Ilya winced, imagining the explanation:

Good morning, Dr. Price. I think I played hockey with a man I made up?

“You…” Ilya murmured, every cell in his body protesting the acknowledgment of the Unreal, “you can come back, you know? All these tricks are getting old.”

“What tricks?” Wyatt’s voice echoed across the rink, making Ilya jump, “You mean the sick goaltending moves I’m about to show you?”

Ilya blew out a shaky breath, meeting Wyatt’s gaze through the cage of the goalie mask as he slid into the crease. With a centering nod, he mustered up a little more enthusiasm and chirped, “Let’s see you get back up from your butterfly, old man.”

“Two creaky retired players in their thirties. What could go wrong?” Wyatt called back, eyes already expertly tracking Ilya’s movements at the blue line. “At least we have a doctor present.”

Ilya laughed, feeling the anxious prickling on his skin start to ease as he pushed off, the icy air of the rink cutting across his cheeks.

At Wyatt’s ‘Ready!’ stick tap, Ilya fired away, the flex of old muscle fibers allowing him to sink into a gently competitive headspace, ghosts mostly forgotten.

Valiantly, he ignored the way that — if you squinted just beyond the left post — there was the half-formed silhouette of someone in the stands.

Chapter End Notes

Hello again! After a break on long fic to write a few fun oneshots and participate in some fests (more to come from me soon, including a Spidey!Shane), I was able to get the creative juices flowing again for this plot-heavy, spooky mystery beast of a fic. No promises on update schedule just yet, but I've pre-written several more chapters so I hope to keep a more sensible cadence here going forward.

If you know my work, you also know that the notes are coming ;)

• I am very much not a doctor (much to the chagrin of my family of All Doctors), but I've based as much of Ilya's medical education and current role at Saint Luke's on the real-life pathways toward becoming a Team Physician, which requires well past a decade of experience. More on Team Physicians and their work with collegiate, professional, and Olympic teams here, with the disclaimer that these are DOs (Doctors of Osteopathic Medicine) so there are some differences in practice from Ilya’s MD. Importantly, Team Physician is typically a volunteer role, with most of these doctors maintaining a full-time clinical practice.
• AT or "Athletic Therapist" is an interesting Canadianism for me as an American, where we refer to the role as an Athletic Trainer.
• Ilya's little dig at the weak CIS/U Sports to NHL pipeline is a real phenomenon. Barring a few standout exceptions (my Best Boy goalie Logan Thompson being one!), playing for a Canadian university is often seen as an extreme last resort — bordering on hockey career death knell — for guys who failed to get drafted out of major juniors (and carries significantly less prestige with scouts than NCAA hockey), though there is indeed a nice scholarship deal that provides a year of free tuition for every season you played in the CHL.
• Many Canadian universities actually don't require the MCAT for admissions, or else focus very heavily on the score for the CARS (Critical Analysis and Reasoning Skills) section of the test. Unfortunately for Ilya, UBC is not one of them. If I wanted to make Ilya a real fancy pants here, I would have sent him to McMaster; however, they have about a 4% acceptance rate and have not taken a single international applicant in their recent admissions cycles, so I gave him slightly more realistic and humble beginnings.

See ya'll soon for Ch. 3, where Ghost!Shane makes his true, semi-corporeal debut.

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

TW for a brief mention of passive suicidal ideation and some genre-typical horror elements (no gore!)

The Loons were back at home again.

And surprisingly free of new injuries, pre-game at least, as they took on a top-ranked UNB squad.

Ilya looked on from his secluded perch in one of the arena’s last rows, taking note of how the players currently on treatment plans moved across the ice. Harrison was slow on the lane change, crossovers still awkward on a half-healed stress fracture, and Thomas was avoiding checks to an almost cartoonish degree, clearly feeling the sharp pain of two cracked ribs under his chesty. Ilya sighed in relief when Luca Haas cleared the boards for his shift, his play markedly improved after two weeks off for the bruised tailbone — fast and precise on his skates in spite of what Ilya knew must be a persistent, teeth-gritting ache. Tough kid.

For a moment, Ilya imagined a universe where Luca was his rookie, accepting passes on the wing with a chemistry bordering on telepathic, and then winced at the ridiculous fantasy of it all. At just twenty, Luca still had a shot at a full-time career: NL or Liiga, maybe, if he planned to play back home in Europe after graduation, and perhaps the faintest chance of catching a North American scout’s eye at an away game (given that, for good reason, the NHL had zero vested interest in Saint Luke’s as a prospective talent pipeline). In contrast, hockey was obviously over for Ilya, a long dead dream, and so he tried to be grateful that he’d managed to claw back some proximity to it in the end. Now he could work on keeping that dream alive for this next generation instead. That was a prettier thought than dwelling on his own failures, at least.

Seconds later, he found himself jumping to his feet to whoop loudly when Luca connected with a pass from Matthews for a top shelf beauty, putting the Loons ahead 2-1 in the third. The sea of fans in the student section, who were Canadian enough to turn out in modest numbers for even Cursed men’s hockey, swayed in a coordinated chant of ‘Red, Black, Win!’

As Ilya sat back down, he immediately froze, a sickly, primordial sense of fear creeping up his spine. Another week or so had gone by since he’d last felt it — the human-shaped presence, the space next to him warped by unseen mass and chilled by several degrees.

“A good game,” he said offhandedly, to no one at all, “They might win this one.”

There was the mere suggestion of a breath, barely audible over the din of the arena and only then because Ilya had been — like an idiot — actively listening for a reply. Wincing, he shook his head at the instinctive self-judgment. Being skeptical didn’t mean not believing in ghosts, he reminded himself, it just meant that he was unlikely to accept their existence without irrefutable evidence. And this ghost, or whatever it was, seemed hellbent on providing exactly that.

‘He’ll make his presence known to you soon, I’m sure,’ he recalled Coach Vetrova warning on his first day. And as uncomfortable as it made him, maybe the only way through this… this insanity… was to acknowledge that presence back.

“I, ah, heard you helped Haas with his shot,” he continued, swallowing around the sense of wrongness in his throat, “That was kind. He is a strong player, good fundamentals, just… needs some guidance. And confidence.”

There was another huff and the palpable feeling of a body shifting in the seat next to him, as if the person had turned toward him in interest, leaned forward a little even. Down on the ice, UNB tied it up after a preventable defensive flub, though Ilya hardly reacted. He sucked in a breath, knuckles gone white as he gripped the armrest of the stadium-style seat like it might tether him to reality.

“And you saw me play, I think?” Ilya added, laughing sheepishly, “I am embarrassed by that. If you know puck like I think you do.”

He must have lost his mind, the way the energy next to him projected disagreement with a vehemence that he immediately understood.

“Okay, yes, I am still very good, you are right,” he teased, choosing for the moment to believe that this was an intelligent, two-sided conversation, “but I cannot let ten years of medical education go to waste, you know?”

There was a collective groan from the crowd and scattered booing as UNB made it 3-2 with just two minutes left in the period.

“Spoke too soon,” Ilya murmured, and felt the unmistakable sensation of laughter from one seat over.

As the game clock ticked down to zero, he could equally feel the moment that the presence disappeared, not with a sudden pop but with a slow fade out like a drained battery, as if staying in place or form became overly difficult to maintain. Ilya found himself frowning as he realized that the phenomenon was sort of to be expected? From what his preliminary research had shown at least.

(Most of the pseudo-scientific arguments he’d found online tended to portray ghostly apparitions as having an indeterminate relationship to energy, especially electrical, and argued that this energy was required both to manifest in the mortal plane and to manipulate temperature and sound and even physical objects. The use of electricity would explain, perhaps, some of the things that the ghost liked to mess with: elevators and coffee machines and the arena scoreboard… Yet other incidents, like the bizarre locker room injuries and Coach Pike’s specific beef with the basement ceiling tile, did not fit the pattern. So, in many ways, the mystery continued. And the lingering question of Ilya’s sanity along with it.)

Tugging on his Loons team jacket — the ROZANOV printed across the back being just a little too reminiscent of his former career to not draw a wince from him — Ilya made his way down the stairs and took the second-level mezzanine exit out to the elevator banks. He returned to his chosen floor with an approved press of the ‘4’ button and ducked into his office to change for the late night workout he’d planned, ignoring the fact that he’d favored the presumed safety of this room to the lower level lockers (which were obviously closer to the team gym where he was headed).

Ilya was believing more and more, subconsciously following rules and patterns without question, exactly as Coach Pike had warned. How… discomfiting.

It was just as he was slipping his undershirt over his head that he felt it return. The Presence. A human intruder was impossible, given the way he’d obviously checked for lingering visitors and staff before he’d tugged the frosted glass door shut and flicked the lock on the handle. Shirtless and clutching the fabric to his chest, he sunk back into his office chair, feeling exhausted by the constant onslaught to his nerves for more than a month now. This could not continue as it was. He had to do something to relieve the tension, even if it made him feel once again like a bit of an idiot for it.

Enough.

“Look, I know you’re there,” he spoke gently, proud when his voice sounded nearly confident in spite of the way his hands were shaking under his desk, “I’ve seen you.”

The air in front of him seemed to shimmer in a way that was almost corporeal, the shape of the spirit more visible than under the too-bright lights of the main rink. Ilya shivered and felt the palpable buzz of static in the room increase tenfold, noting that the hairs on his arms were now standing on end. The energy reached a fever pitch, his heart thrumming hard in his chest, and then—

Suddenly, so softly that it could hardly be called a whisper, a man’s voice answered, “So what if I am here? What would it matter anyway?”

Ilya jolted in such violent surprise that he nearly tipped out of his seat, hands reaching out to claw at the edge of his desk in a mad scramble for balance. Just as suddenly, the backward motion of his chair was stopped by a sturdy, opposing force and he found himself returned to an upright position, all four wheels touching the floor once more.

“Oh,” the same voice said, sounding curious, “I’ve never managed to do that before.”

Head jerking toward the sound, Ilya glanced over his shoulder and gasped.

Clear as day, or clearer than he’d been on the ice anyway, was the familiar face of—

“Hollander?”

The man in question winced and shrunk back several steps, eyes wide with the same fear they’d worn in the rink a week ago. His visage flickered a bit, surging in time with the lights above them and the lamp on Ilya’s desk (which, Ilya noted, had not been plugged in).

“You can see me? Really?” Hollander — Shane Hollander, the presumed dead for decades former coach — asked in that same haunting whisper, looking impossibly young for a man who should have been well into his fifties by now.

If he was alive, Ilya considered with a grimace. He swallowed, taking in the man’s swooping dark hair and pretty features set atop the broad-shouldered build of a former athlete. There wasn’t any doubt: this Hollander was an exact match to his photo in the memorial case in the atrium, right down to the smattering of freckles across the bridge of his strong nose. Ilya briefly ran through a mental rolodex of other non-ghostly explanations, but every alternative — outside of active hallucination — just sounded like the monologue one might deliver when unmasking a Scooby Doo villain.

“Well, yes. Apparently,” Ilya relented, looking right at Hollander as he answered, “Though I feel uncomfortable about it too, to be clear. I technically do not believe you are real.”

“Am I… am I wearing clothes?” Hollander blurted, his eyes going comically wide.

Ilya burst into incredulous, borderline hysterical laughter at the question. “Yes, Coach,” he coughed out after a moment, “Polo and slacks. Very sexy.”

He bit his lip immediately after, fearful that the joking quip, delivered in his typical sardonic drawl, was a little too, er, fruity for a hockey coach from the nineties. Hollander, to his credit, appeared nonplussed. His expression shifted only when Ilya — realizing he was still conversing with a ghost while his nipples were out for Christ’s sake — reached for his forgotten gym bag on the desk and pulled a dri-fit tee over his head with a murmured apology.

“Nothing I, um, haven’t seen before,” Hollander remarked in neutral tones, though he looked distinctly pinker than he had moments prior.

Ilya hesitated. “You, ah… you don’t appear to the others like this, do you? Otherwise they would say for certain that Shane Hollander haunts his own arena, yes?”

“Haunts?” Hollander asked, looking startled. His brows furrowed and his lower lip began to tremble. “I’m… dead?”

Ilya froze. “Пиздец — I mean…”

Drifting closer, Hollander started to laugh. “Shit, sorry, that was a terrible joke. Of course I know I’m no longer… fully alive, or whatever.” He frowned. “Though I’m not sure when I figured that out. Time is kind of strange to me now.”

Ilya spluttered indignantly at the prank, an unprofessional half second away from shoving at Hollander’s solid-looking form before realizing that his hand would probably just pass right through.

“But to answer your question,” Hollander continued, leaning against the edge of Ilya’s desk until he was perched just above the far corner, floating idly, “No, I can’t really just… show up and converse like this. It’s always been one or the other: a brief appearance or a few words, depending on the energy I have that day and how sensitive the person seems to be to… to the spooky stuff, I guess.” He shrugged, meeting Ilya’s eyes. “Until you. And this might not last either. I definitely couldn’t be as present in the arena earlier as I am in here, for whatever reason.”

Ilya sagged in relief, grateful for the confirmation that he hadn’t imagined Hollander sat beside him in the stands, conversing with more than dead air — no pun intended. But that hardly explained why the ghost had taken a particular interest in Ilya over the other staff members.

“So you followed me back to my office? To what? Steal my gym clothes?”

Hollander was definitely blushing now, a sudden and very human shyness to him that Ilya found terribly charming. “You have a good energy, Dr. Rozanov. Powerful and… sort of prickly? But easier for me to exist around than others. I’ve been drawn to it since you got here.”

There was a tiny smile on Hollander’s face as he said it, something which Wyatt had once claimed to be rare, and which made Ilya feel… special in a way he did not have time to interrogate in the moment. Or ever. The last fucking thing he needed was to find a literal ghost endearing.

Ilya took several steady breaths, his pulse going haywire despite the outward calm he projected; a sometimes useful byproduct of both his emergency medicine rotation and a childhood where displays of emotion were discouraged, if not actively punished. What the hell was he meant to make of this entire conversation though? Sure, the ghost of Shane Hollander seemed friendly enough, for an amorphous idea that Ilya hadn’t fully believed in until a few minutes ago, but that wasn’t to say the spirit didn’t harbor malicious intent. In fact…

“Are you hurting my players on purpose?”

Smile falling, Hollander looked irritated by the accusation. “I’m a coach, Dr. Rozanov. Or… was, I guess. Why would I do that?”

“Jealousy, maybe,” Ilya argued back, skin prickling, “or some sort of vendetta against a team that’s not yours to control anymore.”

“Jealousy,” Hollander huffed, expression incredulous as he crossed his arms over his chest, “My teams won championships. Why would I be jealous of this ragtag bunch? They can’t even—”

“You have not really answered my question,” Ilya cut in, feeling defensive of his loser squad.

Maybe it was ill-advised to challenge a paranormal entity whose scope of powers he didn’t yet understand, but his protective nature battled against the risk and won.

He narrowed his eyes, voice low and deathly serious as he prompted, “Are. You. Hurting them?”

Hollander, for all his initial bravado, seemed to deflate under Ilya’s scrutiny. Casting his gaze away, he muttered, “Not on purpose.”

At Ilya’s cold look, he hurried to add, “It’s hard to explain, but I’m not… always here, clear-headed like this. I come in and out, I think, as much as I can remember. Sometimes I blip in and I’m in the middle of my old routine —taking something off a shelf, moving around the locker room or the rink, opening a door… and well, sometimes other people happen to be there too, before I realize that the old reality isn’t the current one.” Hollander shrugged, gesturing with a hand around Ilya’s office. “And they changed the arena layout in the rebuild, you know, so it’s easy for me to end up in places I shouldn’t be.”

Ilya raised an eyebrow. “So the injuries? They are all true accidents?”

Hollander hesitated. “The ones I recall, yes. But I don’t… I don’t think it’s always me?”

“Then who?”

“I… don’t know,” he replied, expression contemplative and a little frustrated too, “I just… sometimes when I’m more loose energy than person, I can feel a darkness there. Something angrier. Like I’m not alone?”

“Ah, great,” Ilya deadpanned, “More mysterious, unexplained ghosty things. Thank you for your help.”

Hollander seemed to laugh in spite of himself. “Listen, asshole, I obviously wouldn’t still be here if I knew what the hell was going on.”

“Probably you have unfinished business, as they say?” Ilya prompted, thinking back to more of his paranormal research, “Something keeping you here? Do you, ah… remember when you—”

“Died?” Hollander asked, in his own deadpan delivery. He shook his head. “I know the reason the newspapers say, from the display downstairs. But when I try to recall the details myself, I can’t…” His voice cracked on the words, floating form blinking in and out for a moment, before he whispered, “No. No. I don’t want to leave yet.”

“You can, if you need,” Ilya said, confused by the response but piecing together that something about Hollander’s energy source was going haywire.

“It’s not—”

Easy smile gone again, Hollander went quiet and so, so still, his gaze vacant and his shoulders pulled back with inhuman rigidity. As if possessed by something unseen, his dark pupils began to shrink and shrink until they were eclipsed by the whites of his eyes entirely. His voice rang out hollow, seeming to echo across the space between them, as he intoned, “There was so much water. Enough to swim in. And the voices above me were—”

Ilya watched in growing horror as Hollander was wracked with full body tremors, the beginning symptoms of a panic attack that he recognized all too well. The lights above and around them were flickering now, electricity building beyond the maximum voltage with an audible hum. Ilya, as much as he’d been ignoring the ghostly nature of his new companion, could admit now that he believed — wholeheartedly and in a way that fucking terrified him.

“Hollander, don’t— I am sorry,” he bravely cut in, hoping to distract the tortured spirit from the memory, “I should not have asked.”

It was all in vain. Hollander was floating higher now, halfway to the ceiling, eyes pure white, jaw forced open in a gulping motion, and hands clawing at his ears as if to block out a noise that Ilya was grateful not to hear.

“I think I needed help,” Hollander whispered, voice cracking on the final few syllables. His form began to glitch badly, raw at the edges like the sketchy lines of a Basquiat painting. Ilya felt physically ill, fear chilling him down to his bones, the moment Hollander uttered his next words: “I think they heard me scream.”

BOOM.

There was the explosive sound of an electrical surge, so powerful it might as well have been a direct lightning strike. And then the man, the ghost, was gone.

Momentarily stunned, Ilya gasped out several shuddering breaths before leaping into action, grabbing at his things with the same blinding, primal desire for escape as a horror movie protagonist.

He was down the several flights of stairs and out the front door within minutes, turning around just in time to watch every level of Hollander Arena go completely…

… totally

… dark.

*⚕️*

“You hear about the power outage on this side of campus last night?” Wyatt asked.

He was sat next to Ilya on the bench, sipping on an Iced Capp with what had to be twice the standard amount of whipped topping. They’d both been summoned by Theriault to a painfully early morning practice in order to evaluate the Loons’ starting goaltender, plagued as Jake Vega still was by chronic hip problems. Not because the head coach was worried for his player’s future, of course, but so he could decide whether it was possible to push the inevitable surgery off until the second, less-competitive half of their season. Ilya had half a mind to tell Theriault that Canadian university-level hockey wasn’t worth the permanent joint damage, but it wasn’t as if his argument would resonate. Stubborn bastard.

“You alright, Doc?” Wyatt’s voice came again.

Ilya blinked. “Ah, yes, sorry. Just… did not sleep so well last night.” He rolled his shoulders back. “Actually, I was here late after the game. Left right when the power issues started.”

Wyatt sat up a bit. “Really!? I heard the transformers for the entire sports complex all blew, like, spontaneously.”

Ilya nodded, a hand rubbing nervously over his thigh through his slacks. “There was definitely a big noise, yes.”

Out on the ice, Vega moved awkwardly across the crease after making a shaky glove save, one leg pad lifting noticeably slower than the other. Both Ilya and Wyatt scribbled on their clipboards, Wyatt’s face pulling into the same frown that was mirrored on his own. Quietly, Ilya knew an immediate referral to Dr. Boodram was in order.

“That must have been scary,” Wyatt murmured, pen still moving on the page, “I’m glad you're alright though. We’d prefer to keep our doctor around for more than a season this time.”

“Scary, yes, a little,” Ilya echoed distractedly, eyes now tracking the power play drill.

Assistant Coach Barrett, back from his honeymoon (‘to a man’ Wyatt had explained earlier, eyeing Ilya sharply, ‘which we are very okay with’) blew on the red plastic whistle clenched between his teeth. With an experienced grip on his stick, he demonstrated the envisioned passing through the 1-3-1 setup, the forwards nearest to him nodding in understanding before skating back into position.

“Troy couldn’t believe the extent of the injury list when I caught him up this morning,” Wyatt remarked, clipboard back on his lap, “He’s been here almost three seasons and still refuses to admit that there’s freaky shit going on. As one of the skeptical holdouts, he’ll probably have questions for you.”

Ilya found he couldn’t meet Wyatt’s eyes as he cautiously replied, “I will not have more answers than anyone else.”

Internally, he fought a shudder at the memory of Shane Hollander’s hollow voice, the whites of his eyes glowing as he choked out: I think they heard me scream.

Wyatt clapped him on the shoulder, making him startle. “Whoa, a little jumpy still, huh?” he said with a chuckle, “But listen, don’t worry about Troy. Our running joke is that the ghost doesn’t bother him because he's already haunted enough.”

Ilya considered the dark circles under Barrett’s eyes and the sort of perpetual frown he’d worn since practice started and could see how that might be true. “Surely he is happier after the wedding though?”

Wyatt nodded. “Oh yeah, this is him at his least emo, actually. His husband Harris, who’s a Comms prof here, is like a literal ray of sunshine. Apparently Troy was a mess when they met though.” Wyatt ducked in closer, lowering his voice. “He used to coach NCAA D1, but his head coach tried to cover up a star player’s sexual assault right before playoffs. Troy spoke out, refused to bury the evidence, and basically got blacklisted in the States.”

Ilya’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “That is… brave.”

“In some ways,” Wyatt hummed, “But apparently that whole locker room was a cesspit. Another former player leaked part of a post-game speech from Troy where he used some… choice words to describe the opposing team. Shocker, Theriault couldn’t care less, but when I arrived a year ago, some of the staff and players were still pretty wary of him.”

Wyatt shifted in his seat, turning toward Ilya with a stern look in his eye. “We won’t have to worry about that with you, will we, Doc?”

Ilya swallowed, debating just how much he was willing to share among this new group of colleagues. Although Wyatt seemed trustworthy, Ilya remained quietly convinced that Theriault was scheming for a reason to get him reassigned to a different sport. The head coach seemed paranoid enough about the job to have spies lurking everywhere.

“I left Russia many years ago for a reason,” Ilya said carefully, “And I believe hockey is for everyone.”

“And in your medical practice?” Wyatt probed.

That was an easier answer at least. “Well, there is known bias in our field,” he replied honestly, “but I try not to, ah, perpetuate it, and to listen and learn from all of my patients.”

For a moment, Ilya felt the familiar chill of another presence, so faint it might have been his imagination. Still, he wondered if Coach Hollander had been listening. And then further wondered if the ghost was okay at all after essentially blowing an arena-sized fuse in his panic. Ilya frowned. It had been his fault, pushing a dead man to recall his own demise, as if that alone was the straightforward secret to getting the spirit to move on.

When he met Wyatt’s shrewd goalie gaze again, there was a knowing look there.

“He must like you,” Wyatt said, almost offhandedly, “He usually puts the new hires through hell.”

“Who? Coach Theriault?” Ilya questioned, feigning ignorance.

“Hilarious,” Wyatt said, with perfect deadpan delivery, “as if Coach likes anyone. I’m talking about the ghost, obviously.” He raised his voice a little, as if to address a wider audience, “A ghost who definitely picks favorites.”

Ilya looked away, packing the memory of Shane Hollander smiling at him into a vacuum-sealed container and sliding that out of sight.

“I know you and the others think you are seeing certain things,” he murmured, “But there are many less spooky explanations for the occurrences around here.”

From the ice, there were a few collective whoops as the power play converted, Wyatt scribbling another note on Vega’s weak form after the missed save.

“I don’t think you believe that,” Wyatt said, unperturbed by Ilya’s denial, “If the way you froze when he was here just now is any indication.”

Fucking goalies and their powers of perception.

“Just… got a chill,” Ilya replied, though the lie came out stilted.

“Sure, Doc,” Wyatt allowed, sipping at his coffee again, “I’ll send Troy your way after practice so you can ‘get the chills’ together, how’s that?”

Later, after they’d both delivered their recommendations on Vega (no more games, immediate surgical intervention) to an irritated Theriault, Coach Barrett did indeed sidle up next to Ilya as the team departed the ice.

“Sounds like I should be thanking you, Dr. Rozanov,” he said, an awkward smile painting his admittedly handsome Sad Boy features as he thrust out a hand. “Wyatt tells me I wouldn’t have had a hockey team to return to without your care.”

Ilya completed the handshake, cracking a small smile of his own. “Just doing my job, Coach. Congratulations, by the way.”

Troy ducked his head shyly, right hand moving immediately to rub at the ring on his left. “Thank you.” Almost instantly, his smile reversed into a deep frown, shoulders hunching a bit as they walked together. “And look, you’ll hear some shit about me, if you haven’t already. It’s mostly all true. But I’ve worked really hard to become the coach our guys deserve.”

Ilya waved him off. “I am not interested in your back story, Barrett. The closet can make people mean. It is not an excuse, you know this, but sometimes the act of survival is… messy.”

The instant the words left his lips, Ilya winced, realizing how transparently personal they might read to the right queer audience.

Barrett staggered to a halt. “Oh,” he whispered, eyeing Ilya closely, “The KHL. Is that why you—”

“Another time, Barrett,” Ilya cut in, going for flippant but certain the discomfort showed on his face.

Barrett seemed to visibly deflate. “I— yeah, okay.”

Unable to ignore the hurt puppy look Barrett was wearing — curse Ilya’s big, stupid heart — he turned back and said, “I am serious. Send me one of those calendar invite things in the university portal.” He waved his clipboard for emphasis. “I will buy you a coffee or something stronger and tell you all the things I hate about the power play right now.”

Barrett’s face brightened like the sun had come out, melting Ilya’s exterior in the same way that Luca Haas’ adoration often did, and he nodded excitedly. “You got it, Doc.”

In the empty space over Barrett’s shoulder, Ilya watched the air shimmer.

*⚕️*

The arena was quiet for once.

Back on the ice while the Loons played out west for the week, Ilya carved a wide meandering loop, letting the filtered air of the indoor rink chill his lungs.

He was blessedly alone this time, free to skate beyond regular hours after begging a rink key off Coach Pike with the bullshit excuse that physically mapping out injuries on the ice was part of his diagnostic process. Pike, who struck Ilya as friendly but perhaps two posts short of a goal after a middling professional career with Winnipeg (and several ceiling tiles to the head), hadn’t called him on his obvious bluff.

So Ilya was here, skating off the stress of a half-day spent in the OR with Dr. Boodram, observing an ORIF surgery on a volleyball player’s severe elbow fracture, followed by several non-surgical cases of his own. It was the sort of hard but rewarding type of work that had left him some adrenaline to burn.

With a kick of his skates, Ilya tore down the ice on an imaginary breakaway, deking the other team’s remaining defenseman and setting up for a showy trick shot.

“You really are a good player, you know?”

“Fuck,” Ilya cursed in surprise, releasing the puck at an ugly angle and watching as it sailed high over the bar and straight through the grinning teeth of one Shane Hollander, who had appeared standing behind the goal.

“Ouch,” Hollander joked, making Ilya snort out a laugh in spite of the lingering shock, “Watch where you put that thing.”

Ilya skidded to a halt, breathing hard. “Hey. You are back.”

“I’m back,” Hollander affirmed and then, without preamble, “Why did you quit?”

With a wince, Ilya drifted backward on his skates, stick clenched tighter in hand.

“I didn’t,” he said testily, “I played four years at UBC, got my Bachelor’s of Science, and then the hockey was over. No time for sports in med school. Natural conclusion.”

“But the KHL before that?” Hollander pressed, looking sheepish when Ilya startled again, “Sorry. I’ve been eavesdropping a lot this week. Couldn’t really muster up the energy to come see you after, um… you know.”

Yes, Ilya did know. It was hard to forget the vision of Hollander floating up to the ceiling, spine at a horrible angle and mouth parted in silent screams, like something out of his worst nightmares.

Still, a younger, less tightly wound Ilya Rozanov would have thrown back a flirty ‘Oh, you wanted to see me again, hmm?’ The older, grumpier doctor who was irritated by discussions of his former hockey career simply asked, “Who else was talking about me?”

“Ryan Price and JJ Boiziau,” Hollander answered obediently, quick to clarify, “Nothing bad though! Just speculation on why you left Russia. You were a star there, they said. Won championships with the national team. An Olympian even?”

“Things changed,” Ilya said tiredly, “This Russia you speak of, who I gave my all to, was not feeling very welcoming to me anymore.”

Hollander’s eyes widened. “Did you leave by choice? I remember things being a mess after 1991 and—”

Ilya sighed, reminded again that he was speaking to an entity old enough to have read quotes from Gorbachev in the newspaper. “No, it was not… political, Hollander. Or, well, not really. But it was my fault for being reckless.”

Hollander drifted in front of the net and then upwards, perching atop the crossbar with his legs dangling in a strange approximation of a seated position. “Reckless?” he asked, nose scrunching in a way that Ilya refused to acknowledge as cute, “About what?”

Ilya frowned, realizing that he’d made the uncharacteristic mistake of oversharing and had dug himself into a hole because of it. Stupid, friendly ghost.

From his admission of eavesdropping, it was likely that Hollander had pieced together more about current events and changing sociopolitical views since his death, but he was still a male hockey coach, and one from an even less inclusive era than Ilya’s own. Not that the bar for tolerance was high even now, of course.

“Can we talk about this another time?” Ilya asked, wary of Hollander’s reaction to his sexuality-based exile. He frowned, warier then of the way a dead man’s opinion on who he fucked apparently mattered to him enough to conceal it. “We can both have our secrets, yes?”

“I don’t have any secrets!” Hollander blurted, while looking like the most suspicious person not-quite-alive, “Open book here.”

“O-kay,” Ilya said slowly, “Should we talk about last week then? I am sorry for… pushing you. That was disrespectful of me, treating your death like a simple story and not something terrible that happened to you.” He tried for a gentle, humble smile. “I do not have much experience talking to ghosts, if you can imagine.”

To his surprise, Hollander just waved him off, a little flippantly even. “Let’s not dwell on it,” he said, floating down to the ice again and moving toward Ilya’s puck stack, “Just a weird energy flux thing, but I’m feeling a lot better now. Should we see if I can slide passes your way again?”

Ilya frowned at the dismissal, but decided to take the diversion in stride. “Fine, but can you explain to me what you are doing metaphysically when you move one?”

“Nope, no idea,” Hollander replied, performing some hand wavy thing over the puck that made his nose wrinkle up bunny-like again in concentration, freckles scrunching into the lines there. Ilya cursed at the way his eyes lingered at the sight. Damn it. “Now go out wide and pretend I’m your center.”

“My center?” Ilya questioned, aghast as he snapped out of his ‘cute ghost’ induced insanity.

“Who’s running the drills here, Rozanov?” Hollander teased, that bright smile returning as Ilya’s traitorous skates had him drifting obediently to the left.

“You know you are wasting time here, yes? Training me for nothing?” Ilya complained, even as he actively assumed the winger position, blade angled to receive the pass.

“Famously, I have nothing but time, Doctor,” Hollander chirped back, “Dead person privilege.”

Ilya spluttered at the dark humor, nearly tripping on his skates. “Is that… you don’t think it is wrong to joke about?”

Hollander shrugged, smile growing when he managed to grip a puck between his thumb and forefinger, though his hand was shaking with the effort. “I’m trapped here, aren’t I? Have to cope somehow.” He tossed the puck in the air and then froze it above his head, eyes crossing. “And you've given me something to do besides float around bored all day. You’re like the most interesting thing to happen to Loons hockey in decades.”

“Coach Vetrova would probably disagree,” Ilya argued, even as his face warmed at the compliment, “She is coming for all your records, you know.”

Hollander made a noise of acquiescence, slinging the puck Ilya’s way with a push of his wrist. “You’re right. I’d love to talk hockey with her too, if I could. At least someone is winning on this rink.”

Ilya connected for the one-timer again, a gorgeous shot to the top right corner, before spinning back to say, “There must be a reason it is only me you can speak to like this. What is unique?” He winked, a little smarmy as he added, “Besides how handsome and funny and talented I am, of course.”

Hollander rolled his eyes, then sobered. “I really don’t know. Around you, I can just… exist. Like I said.” Ilya watched then as his face lit up with an idea. “Oh! But maybe I’m meant to help you with something. Like the Christmas story.”

“You are calling me a scrooge?” Ilya joked.

“No, but…” Hollander began, then hesitated, “You’re very serious. With the others. But I have a feeling you weren’t always like that?”

Ilya scoffed at the pointed observation, chest squeezing at the way this virtual stranger had read him so easily. “Here, I am at work.”

Hollander frowned. “And what do you do when you’re not working?”

Prepare for more work, Ilya thought on instinct, but aloud he said, “This. Mainly.”

That frown only deepened. “So work is hockey? And fun is more hockey?”

“I have a dog,” Ilya said, feeling defensive, “And… friend.”

He cringed. Maybe Hollander would chalk the use of the singular noun up to Ilya’s imperfect English. And so what if said friend Cliff Marlow lived in Boston and their long-distance interactions post-med school mainly consisted of texts exchanging hockey memes and links to articles on rare diseases? It still counted.

“You just seem… closed off?” Hollander murmured, “Lonely, maybe? Enough to spend an evening entertaining a ghost, anyway.”

Fully irritated now, Ilya slid to a stop and snapped, “And what is your point, Hollander? I seem to remember in all your biographies you are described as ‘living and breathing puck to the point of obsession’ hmm? God forbid a man spend his free time how he likes.”

Hollander’s brow arched in challenge. “How nice of you to study up on me, Dr. Rozanov,” he said drolly, “And yes, hockey was the only thing I cared about. To the detriment of everything else. In fact, on the night I died, I was here late, still working and—”

He froze, another puck falling from his fingertips and drifting aimlessly across the ice. Those full lips parted in an ‘oh’ shape before he stilled completely, hazy outline glitching at the edges.

At the awestruck, slightly panicked look on Hollander’s face, Ilya felt the heat in his veins cool a bit. He skated closer, hand outstretched for a moment, like he might touch the man’s form in… comfort? Ridiculous.

“Are you alright?” he questioned, both hands back on his stick to be safe from temptation, “It is not like last time, is it?”

Hollander blinked back into himself, expression wondrous. “I— no? I’ve just never remembered that detail before.”

“Ah,” Ilya replied, relaxing, “That is… good then?” There was a strange, bittersweet taste on his tongue, as he added, “Maybe once you remember it all, you will be free to go?”

Hollander nodded, though his face was pinched at the thought. “Free to go where, though?” His eyes widened. “Shit, I’m an atheist. Am I doomed after this? Or, fuck, maybe I’m already in hell or being punished with purgatory or—”

“Hollander, hey,” Ilya soothed, watching the ghost suck in a [probably unnecessary] series of sharp inhales, “Why don’t we save theology crisis for another time, yes?”

“Right, okay,” Hollander replied after a moment, breaths slowing, “And I’ve been fine here anyway. At peace with this place and all my routines for eternity. I’d never really considered moving on as like… a goal, until you asked anyway.”

Despite the reassurance, Ilya felt his scientific brain begin to whir. Sure, Hollander might be content to ‘live’ in ignorance of the reasons behind his arrested existence, but Ilya wasn’t about to give up so easily. If he was forced to reckon with a new belief in the paranormal, and a tentative friendship(?) with an actual ghost, he might as well go all in. His staff-issued library card was about to see some bizarre requests.

“How is your energy?” Ilya asked, eyes tracing Hollander’s still-clear shape from feet to forehead, as if he might uncover some lingering secret there. Though a little brighter now, the ghost appeared otherwise unchanged from Ilya’s office, fit and decently tall and clad in white New Balance sneakers, gray slacks and a black Loons polo embroidered with a retired logo design.

“Good,” Hollander replied, looking pinker again under the scrutiny, “With you? Really good.”

Ilya fought his own blush at the words. If he didn’t know better, he might think…

“Want another pass?” Hollander prompted, a puck hovering a centimeter or so above his outstretched palm.

“You have to tell me how you are doing that,” Ilya complained, even as he tapped his blade twice and took off full sprint toward the goal.

“You’ll know as soon as I do,” Hollander called back as he launched the puck down the ice with all the velocity of a proper wrist shot.

Ilya caught up to the perfectly-placed pass with ease, grin wild as he realized that he was, for the first time in ages, having real, mindless fun. Thoughts of Russia and hospitals and ghostly mysteries all behind him for the moment, he juggled the puck (just to show off, really) before flicking it bar-down for a surgical finish.

He spun back, ready to celebrate as he took in Hollander’s beaming smile, heart warming stupidly in his chest. It was strange, then, when that smile started to fade, replaced with a dawning horror.

Hollander’s mouth opened wide, as if to yell across the rink, but no sound came out. Fading energy, maybe, Ilya thought, though curiously the shape of the ghost held its form. Hollander was mouthing something repeatedly, waving frantically now as he signaled for Ilya to look behind him, his eyes wide with palpable fear.

Swallowing in confusion and growing concern, Ilya pivoted on one skate, turning back toward the net as instructed just in time for the cold to seize him.

Oh, he thought, Ouch.

It was immobilizing. This sickly, petrifying feeling. Like death itself had stabbed him through a gap in his ribs, his heartbeat slowing to a crawl.

Frozen, Ilya knew, in intimate ways, what it was like to want this. To crave an end. The passive ideation that hovered over his shoulder, whispering on his worst days that there was an option for relief. The pain was blinding for a moment, beckoning him to lean in, to give himself over to…

No.

He cleared his head of that fantasy with a practiced grimace, fully conscious now and fighting like hell against the icy agony of the sensation that gripped him. Yes, Ilya was a selfish, grumpy bastard whose life had turned out less rosy than he’d imagined, but stubbornly, he did not want to die. Not yet. Not like this.

With inhuman force, he wrenched himself back around and shouted, “Hollander, run!”

The words were a surprise to him, and to Hollander too it seemed, whose eyes widened from where he was pressed against the boards, wrestling desperately against the binding of something unseen. Ilya's yell must have been distraction enough for the opposing force too, as Hollander sprung free and came barrelling down the ice toward him, arms outstretched.

“T h a t ’ s enough, D oc to r,” a sound that could hardly be called a voice hissed out, emanating from somewhere in the center of the freezing black fog that had enveloped him.

Distantly, Ilya felt his stick clatter to the ground.

And then absolutely nothing at all.

Chapter End Notes

Ah, the spook continues.

As usual, I am terrible about getting to all but a handful of comments before I'm distracted by the call of Writing Land again, but I do read every one and I've been very excited to see some of the clue gathering and speculation about the ongoing mysteries happening in your replies!

A few quick notes from the text today:

• If you've read my tattoo fic, you'll recognize the mention of UNB. The men's hockey team at the University of New Brunswick is regarded as being a modern powerhouse of the sport with 10 Canadian titles, although the University of Alberta has them beat for total all-time championship wins at 16. Since the hockey *gasp* isn't the main point of this particular fic, I've kept the details around the Loons' opponents and full schedule pretty fast and loose, but just know they're sitting right at the bottom of the OUA (Ontario University Athletics) conference.
• NL refers to the National League in Switzerland and Liiga to the Finnish Elite League.
• Some of the references I've consulted for hand wavy ghost magic that I imagine Ilya might encounter in his initial searches: The Physics of Ghosts, the Danny Phantom wiki entry on ghost energy, a compilation of electronic 'signs' from spirits, and a starter guide to Ghost Hunting 101 from the Historical Society of Pottawattamie County, Iowa, who include amongst their general tips to "tie back long hair" lmao.
• A summary of power play setups in the 1-3-1 formation mentioned. Not plot relevant, but fun for my hockey learners in the house.
• ORIF = Open Reduction and Internal Fixation surgery.
• A compilation of puck juggling moments, to explain how Ilya is showing off, which begins with the delightful announcer quote: "Look at Crosby, flipping pancakes!"
• And finally, the scary/goofy balance I hope to strike in this fic is inspired by the campiness of Ghost Adventures (a fabulous compilation of the funniest moments of the show, which takes itself very seriously here) and the sitcom Ghosts on the BBC.
Like Ghost!Shane, I'll reappear in your inboxes soon!

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

Ilya jolted awake with a ragged gasp, clawing at his chest.

“Hol—” he started, panicked, before the name caught in his too-dry throat.

Vision swimming, he blinked rapidly until the room began to come back into focus. It was apparent, with the soft cushioning pressed to his back, that he was no longer out on the ice. The ceiling above him was plain white and nondescript, almost clinical, and there was the scratch of a thin blanket against his skin, where his now pad-less arms had flopped down heavy at his sides. He braced, waiting for the gentle beep of a monitor that might indicate he’d been admitted, but the familiar sounds of the hospital were absent around him.

“Ah, Dr. Rozanov, you’re awake.”

Turning onto his side with a wince, Ilya exhaled in a blend of relief and confusion, the kind eyes of Dr. Price gazing back at him. Right, he was on the psych’s couch then. How nostalgic.

“Time ‘s it?” Ilya mumbled, the words like marbles in his mouth, spilling out awkwardly.

Across the room, Dr. Price spun in his desk chair to face Ilya head on. Despite his imposing size, he looked impossibly soft, wearing a fluffy red sweater that Ilya — still half out of his mind — looked at longingly with the urge to burrow.

“Just past ten. You’ve been out almost two hours,” Dr. Price explained, “Since we found you at least.”

Ilya startled, his recollection of the evening still hazy and fragmented; the only clear memory was the touch of cold, colder than anything he’d ever felt in his life, Russian winters included.

“Found me?”

Dr. Price looked at him oddly.

“Yes, in the hallway, collapsed just outside your office door. One of the volleyball ATs and I were coming back from a committee meeting and saw you there, responsive but very… disoriented.” He cleared his throat. “We thought you might’ve been drunk, to be frank, but you’d clearly just come from the rink. The AT took your vitals, which were normal, and then recommended we get you comfortable and let you sleep it off.” Dr. Price flicked a hand toward his computer screen, explaining, “I had some more work to do anyhow, so I, um, offered to supervise you in here.”

Pushing himself up to a seated position, Ilya rolled his shoulders back, head swimming as he remembered more of the moment at the rink: the sensation of something — housed in a shapeless, disembodied black fog, its tendrils emanating icy dread — overtaking him, and then the sight of Hollander rushing forward, abject horror on his face as Ilya spiraled into the void alone. It made Dr. Price’s claim feel even more improbable, the idea that he’d most definitely passed out on the ice and yet been found five floors up from the lower levels. Had he walked there himself in some sort of fugue state and simply forgotten? Or… Ilya shuddered. Had he been… moved?

“Not drunk,” he confirmed, “I had some solo ice time booked. Was running shooting drills. Maybe I… overdid it?”

Dr. Price performed a slow nod, looking hesitant as he noted, “Look, Dr. Rozanov, I won’t pretend to know what med school and after is like, but I do understand you’ve been under a lot of pressure. Overworking yourself to the point of exhaustion is dangerous, both physically and mentally, and the elevated stress conditions we operate under at the arena… well, I’m sure they aren’t helping.” Expression pinched, he added, “And if you might be using any sort of substances to, er, cope, as it were—”

Ilya choked out a sound of disbelief. “What? No. I’m not—”

“There’s no judgment,” Dr. Price interjected mildly, his cadence clinical, “I have personal experience with dependency myself. So if you’d like some resources—”

“Dr. Price, that is enough, thank you,” Ilya said, with real bite, his hackles raised. He stood, wobbly on his feet, and sloppily folded the loaned blanket before tossing it on the cushion behind him. “I… appreciate your help tonight and your concern.” He frowned, feeling sensitive and raw, and still compelled to prove his innocence. “Not that it is your business, but we have… a history of addiction in my family. A fate I would like to avoid. I can promise you the only substance I am on, and have ever been on, is a safely prescribed 50 milligrams of sertraline.”

There was an awkward beat of silence.

“Ah, I’m… sorry,” Dr. Price replied haltingly, fingers worrying into the ginger scruff at his chin, “That was presumptuous.”

“Yes, it was,” Ilya said, frown deepening as he moved toward the door. He swallowed, still loathe to admit fear in the face of his dwindling paranormal skepticism and yet… “I do not like to give any credit to the haunting of this place, you know this. But something strange happened to me tonight, to get me from the rink to my office. I cannot explain it.” At Dr. Price’s raised eyebrow of interest, Ilya appended his words with a sharp, “And do not ask me to try. The memory is… not yet there.”

“There’s no shame in changing your mind about ghosts,” Dr. Price said, leaning back in the chair and crossing his arms over his broad chest, “You’re not the first person to be made a believer here.” His brows furrowed in thought as he continued, “There have been accidents, of course, but I’ve never heard of anyone waking up somewhere else entirely. If you did encounter something harmful tonight, I’m glad you’re okay.”

‘Okay,’ Ilya thought with a snort, that was… a highly subjective measure.

“And if you decide there’s anything you want to talk about,” Dr. Price said, expression gentle, “ghosts included, my door continues to be open.”

Ilya bit his lip, fighting back a groan. The last thing he needed was more therapy. But still, Dr. Price had helped him out tonight (god forbid he’d been found sprawled out and seemingly under the influence by someone on Loons Athletics staff with firing power over him). And he seemed a trustworthy enough ‘true believer’ to take Ilya’s tentative admission of phantom experiences at face value. That deserved his gratitude, at least.

“Thank you, again, for sharing your office,” Ilya said politely, easing himself out the doorway at the same time with a few awkward steps.

“Have a good night, Dr. Rozanov,” Dr. Price replied, even-toned, “Get some rest. I’ll see you around.”

With an abbreviated wave, Ilya scurried back to his own office, breaths coming quicker, and finally allowed the panic to sink in as the frosted glass panel swung shut behind him.

Chest heaving, he glanced at the corner of the room and sucked in another ragged breath. What the— Those were his pads. Arranged in a neat pile atop his folded jersey, his skates on the floor next to them, laces tucked in.

“Hollander?” he whispered, eyes darting around wildly for the familiar disturbance in the air.

No answer came.

Properly frightened now, Ilya collapsed into his chair, and wondered not for the first time what the fuck he’d gotten himself into. Accepting that he had some sort of… energy-based connection with the ghost of a long dead hockey coach was one thing, and that already made him feel insane enough. But the possibility of actual danger being involved? Of darker entities in the arena wanting to cause harm, to… to keep him away from something? That was so far into legitimate horror movie territory it was unbelievable. Ghostly attacks didn’t happen to boring Russian doctors at boring Canadian universities. Ilya was here for clinical experience and to feel the quiet joy in being around hockey again, not to be faced with a mystery that ran much deeper than a simple flood.

Dr. Price was right in the sense that this place, Saint Luke’s, was doing Ilya no favors in terms of stress management. But what choice did he have? Shane Hollander was real, as real as the requirement to complete his sports medicine fellowship; as long as Ilya remained in this position, those two truths — ghosts and responsibility — had to coexist. Quitting meant giving up his work sponsorship and any future he might have as a full time Team Physician, and it also meant returning to Russia in impossibly more disgrace than he’d left it. And Ilya had heard the rumors, hadn’t he? Of Loons Hockey being truly cursed. And he’d ignored them all in favor of the overall prestige of the athletics program, and then ignored them further when it turned out at least one of the ghosts was nice. He scoffed, imagining telling himself when he’d applied over a year ago that acknowledging the reality of Hollander Arena’s haunting might also mean staking his life on it.

But maybe the arena’s namesake knew more than he was saying, about not being entirely alone. Maybe he knew exactly what had threatened Ilya out on the ice, and how to stop it. Or maybe, Ilya cringed, Shane Hollander had tricked him — drawn him in with hockey talk and cutesy smiles, while harboring eviler intentions all along.

Ilya would have to demand a proper explanation…

If and when the ghost reappeared.

*⚕️*

A week passed, and then two, the end of term creeping closer, and the Loons fought heartily to remain out of last place in their conference.

Just like the last time that Shane Hollander’s ghost had blipped from existence, the locker room accidents ceased, leaving only sports-based injuries for Ilya to contend with. The easy rhythm of rolled ankles, swollen knees and bruised ribs was a much needed break, though it was hard to ignore the low hum of worry in his chest. And the way he was jumpier than ever too, flinching at the lightest of touches from the coaching staff and creeping around corners like he might run head first into a kidnapping cloud of evil again. It didn’t help that Coach Hayes kept peering over Ilya’s shoulder, frowning deeply, as if he could visualize the imbalance in the universe that playing hockey with a ghost had apparently caused.

Ilya had been in even worse shape at the teaching hospital, bumbling through a series of terrible, distracted twelve hour rotations after that night in Dr. Price’s office, before Dr. Boodram was pulling him aside and suggesting that a personal day or several might be in order. Ilya’s cheeks had burned the entire drive home, not used to disappointing his mentors, with how he’d spent a single-minded decade clinging to academic perfection. Failure meant going home. And home no longer existed.

I am definitely, he thought, wincing at the pun, on thin fucking ice.

There was a light knock at the door of the exam room, Ilya shaking away the thoughts as a sheepish Luca Haas wandered in, still half-dressed from practice.

“Fingers again?” he asked, already spinning on his stool to pull up Luca’s chart.

“Yeah,” Luca affirmed, waving his glove-less left hand, his pinky and ring finger swollen at the joints. The pinky had never healed correctly, after one too many breaks in his younger years, and hooked right at an awkward angle. It was purpler and more inflamed now than it had been a week ago though, when Luca had jammed it during a board battle, second knuckle bulging from the irritation of overuse.

“Have a seat,” Ilya instructed, waving behind him at the exam table, “You are probably okay with AT Boiziau’s tape job still, no splint needed, but it is good to check.”

There was the rustling of the paper liner as Luca assumed his perch, and then his voice saying, “You know, I saw you on the ice a few weeks ago. You were not kidding, Doc. You are really good.”

Ilya flinched. With a slow spin, he met Luca’s eyes, wide and curious as usual, and replied lightly, “Well, as you know, I played through university. I am not so old I’ve lost it just yet.”

Luca swallowed, one hand kneading awkwardly at his thigh. “You weren’t… alone though.”

Ilya froze, recovering quickly enough to offer, “Ah, yes, I practice with Coaches Hayes and Barrett a lot these days. Sometimes we are talking strategy.” He winked, reaching out to gently bend Luca’s stiff fingers, checking the range of motion. “Though, of course, Theriault does not listen to us.”

Luca winced at the manipulations, before shaking his head. “No, I mean, I know you work out with the training staff. I just… I was here late, clearing some stuff out of my locker, and I heard you talking. Like you were practicing with someone. But when I glanced out…”

“Sometimes I am guiding myself through plays,” Ilya said tersely, “A little motivation, part discipline too. Now copy this.”

Luca stared, frown growing. He flexed his fingers, replicating Ilya’s instructed motion. While Ilya jotted down a few notes, Luca said, voice dipping low, “You were laughing. I just… hadn’t heard you do that before.”

Heart in his throat, Ilya turned back and re-taped Luca’s fingers, quicker and more perfunctory in his treatment than usual. Job done, he asked, “Will that be all, Mr. Haas?”

Sliding off the table, Luca nodded slowly, sensing the clear dismissal. “Um yes, thanks. And for fitting me in last minute,” he said, making his way to leave, “I have a whole block of classes until late tonight so.”

Gaze returning to his screen, Ilya called after him, “Come back in a few days if swelling does not go down.”

There was a moment of silence and then—

“For what it’s worth, I think it’s nice,” Luca rushed to say, head poking back through the doorway, “if, um… if he talks to you too.”

Ilya fought another flinch, tone firmer than intended as he snapped, “Get to class, Luca.”

“Right, sorry.”

Without another word, the door swung shut and Ilya let out a long sigh. He would apologize to Luca the next time he saw him, maybe. Say he was tired at the end of a full day of appointments. Still, he couldn’t coast by on poor excuses forever. He knew he was coming across as a real grump lately, worried as he was all the time about the strange and inexplicable happenings all around him. Ilya understood now why the other physicians had not lasted the school year, between the workload and the threat of the haunt always looming. And surely they’d barely scratched the surface of the mystery unfolding itself before him.

“Any day now, Hollander,” Ilya whispered under his breath, rolling his eyes when the overhead light flickered on cue, “I am somehow going crazier here without a ghost to talk to.”

*⚕️*

Wrapped in his puffer coat and thick scarf, braced against the lakeside winter chill, Ilya watched from his bench as Anya’s blurry form went streaking across the quad. She returned a moment later, panting, as the tennis ball was obediently deposited at his feet. He didn’t bring her to campus often, as she wasn’t allowed in the sports complex itself, but the Loons were on a three day break and his schedule was clearer than it had been in weeks, so… A treat for both of them was in order.

“Hey, Doc!” a familiar voice greeted from behind, and Coach Barrett sidled up a moment later, wrapped in his own warm coat with an apple red toque over his dark hair and matching red convertible mittens on his hands. His under-eye circles were as prominent as ever, but he wore a smile at least. “Oh, who’s this cutie?”

“This is Anya,” Ilya said, fighting the urge to gush and failing, “The best dog in the world.”

“Bold claim,” Barrett joked, his smile brightening as Anya placed the ball ever so gently atop his boots and nosed at it with clear insistence. “Can I take her picture? My husband’s family runs a local dog rescue back home and we love to send each other dogs we meet while out. He’ll be so obsessed.”

“Ah, yes, of course,” Ilya said, and then told Anya to sit in Russian, just to show off her bilingual education.

She cocked her head, posing extra cutely, as if she knew her photo was being taken to impress. Ilya made a noise of approval and told her in indulgent Russian tones what a very good girl she was, Barrett adding his own complimentary cooing noises. Noting the praise, Anya did a happy spin, butt wagging, and yipped once in New Friend excitement.

“Look here,” Barrett said, wiggling his fingers, his smile growing as Anya complied.

Camera roll now full of Ilya’s precious pup, Barrett slipped his phone back into his coat pocket, buttoned his mitten over his reddened glove-less fingers and then retrieved Anya’s ball from the bench behind him. He glanced at Ilya for approval before launching the ball in a long arc across the grass, much to her delight.

“Can I, um, talk to you about something actually?” Barrett asked, patting Anya’s head and pausing to make a few more exuberant noises once she returned with her prize.

Ilya nodded slowly, motioning for Barrett to take a seat beside him. “Everything okay?”

Barrett nodded back jerkily and then began, “So, I know you’re not a big believer in the ghost stuff. And neither am I. To be honest, the entire Loons Athletics staff freak me out still. But… I noticed something really weird the other day and I kind of need to gut check it with a fellow skeptic. I’m feeling a little crazy.”

Ilya motioned at Barrett to continue, though internally the guilt gnawed at him a bit, knowing he remained a stubborn skeptic by reputation, all while he communed with the very same ghost he denied. He thought back for a moment to the note he’d discovered the day before, the word ‘D R A I N E D’ in shaky lettering scrawled across one of his prescription pads, and the feeling of Hollander shimmering just out of reach.

“Okay, so you know that one hallway in the lower levels? The one with the ceiling tile that always comes loose?”

Ilya nodded. He’d twice now bandaged Coach Pike as a result.

Barrett swallowed. “Well, I was leaving practice and spotted Coach Pike in a rush. Something about a last minute school pickup for the kids. He took off down that hallway and sure enough, the ceiling tile dropped right after, barely missing him. Which like, whatever, right? Probably just a vibrational spot on the floor that knocks it out of place with the wrong step. Except I followed along after, to slide the tile out of the way and call maintenance. I just… also happened to look up this time. And… I don’t know… I think there’s something in there?”

Fishing out his phone again, Barrett opened his photo album and scrolled past the new rows of Anya photos to show Ilya a picture of the basement ceiling. Indeed, it did seem that just beyond the open hole, there was the glint of something metallic, though it was too dark in the space to see properly.

“Could be the pipes?” he offered.

Barrett shrugged. “Yeah, I thought that too. But I asked maintenance over the phone if there were pipes there and they said no. Just wrapped electrical wiring for the lights, and HVAC vents on one side, but that tile doesn’t have either behind it.”

Ilya frowned.

“But here’s the spooky part. They told me that they’ve reinforced that tile before. It shouldn’t be able to fall.”

At that, Ilya smiled a little. “Well, that does seem to be a theme with arena repair. The elevators should take me direct to fourth floor no problem, and yet…”

Troy nodded again. “Right, you’re so right. Fuck, ah, I mean… thank you for restoring my sanity a bit. I am still curious about what might be up there though. I had a faculty dinner with Harris and his Comms department colleagues to get to, otherwise I would have stuck around to see. The operations guys said they’d text me about what they found, but I haven’t heard anything yet.”

“That is curious,” Ilya said, “Maybe it was loose electrical or some other part. An actual hazard, causing the tile to come loose. And now they cannot admit to it in a report without consequence.” He winked. “Coach Pike is definitely owed a lawsuit by now.”

“Yeah,” Troy agreed, hand still stroking Anya behind the ears, “That could be it. I’ll, um, update you though, if I hear anything. And thank you, again. It helps me to like, talk this stuff out. I don’t believe in…” He waved his hands in a nebulous circle. “… all the Unseen or whatever. But man, this place is creepy regardless. It’s easy to let it get to you.”

Now that Ilya could very much agree on.

“I still believe there is explanation for most things here,” Ilya said, swallowing around the guilt again, “We cannot say in, ah, definitive way, of course. That would not be so scientific. But there is a saying among scientists — ‘give us one free miracle’ — everything else is method. It has reason.”

Like, there was a reason that Ilya had been attacked. And a reason that Shane Hollander was able to haunt him of all people. And a reason that a seemingly innocuous hockey coach spirit with an explainable death was trapped at the arena in the first place. Just because ghosts were apparently real, to some degree, didn’t mean there weren’t ghostly rules of physics to be followed too. Method and reason. Ilya would find it if it killed him.

Barrett hummed, accepting Ilya’s rationale without further comment, and then launched Anya’s ball across the quad once more.

Ilya smiled fondly, watching his dog take off like a rocket, tongue lolling.

Still, as he and Barrett continued to chat, he found himself unable to stop thinking about the mystery of the tile. And the nagging feeling that Barrett was right to suspect there was more to it than a simple act of gravity.

Hours later, back home on the couch with Anya curled up at his feet, his phone buzzed with a text.

Coach Barrett: nothing up there apparently :/ maintenance said I probably just caught a reflection

Ilya read the message once more and frowned, resolving to investigate for himself when he could.

If Hollander’s routine movements through the building could cause patterns of disruption, it wasn’t a huge leap to assume the tile ran on a similar principle. Time of day? Or the ceiling being in an older, more trafficked part of the arena in its original layout? Or even in response to certain people’s energy? Could Coach Pike be tied directly to it? Ilya would have to speak to him. And the maintenance crew too, if he could find a passable excuse. And maybe he could dig up some of the arena’s blueprints to compare… all in his ample free time, of course.

More than anything, he needed Hollander back.

Not just for his ghostly insights either. It was becoming a little embarrassing — the loneliness that Ilya felt out on the ice without the coach’s company, and the way he lingered in his office each day, waiting for the sparkle in the air that would announce the ghost’s return.

‘Drained,’ Hollander had told him, probably expending even more precious energy to leave the message in the first place. It was… bizarrely considerate, given they’d only sort of recently connected (as bizarre, maybe, as the growing attachment Ilya felt to a ghost he hardly knew). But it relieved him all the same, that Hollander was worried about him too.

Sighing, Ilya opened another tab on his phone, and tried not to groan at the terribly unscientific claims of the next article — entitled ‘Ghosts, Demons, and Radio Wave Manipulation’ — that was meant to aid in his research.

Still, if he was going to slowly lose his mind in the Loons’ labyrinth, he might as well be productive while it happened. He scrolled, rolled his eyes, and swallowed down the skepticism. Ghosts were real, apparently, so maybe all the rest of this was too.

Either way, there were mysteries to solve.

*⚕️*

Two days after Barrett’s ceiling tile conundrum, Ilya found himself storming into Theriault’s office, fists clenched at his sides.

“Dr. Rozanov,” Theriault greeted, tone mild, though his brows furrowed in clear irritation at the unscheduled arrival.

“Why was Larsson at practice this morning?” Ilya asked, not bothering with his own ‘hello’ in return.

Theriault sighed, leaning back in his desk chair. “Because he is playing tonight.”

Ilya fumed at being undermined. Just yesterday he had sent the coaches a decisive update, not clearing the concussed left winger for anything beyond dryland drills. “That is not your call to make.”

It would have been madness for a head coach as professional and in control as Theriault to roll his eyes, but it was a near thing.

“I think you’ll find, Doctor,” Theriault said, in that same infuriating, even-keeled manner, “that it is precisely my call to make. I ask you for recommendations, but I am not bound to them.”

“There is a concussion protocol to follow,” Ilya argued, face aflame, “Larsson needs physician clearance. Which I am not giving.”

Theriault shrugged, his smile twisting into smug victory. “I found a second opinion.”

Ilya gaped, his hands coming down on the edge of the coach’s desk as he spluttered, “You will kill someone.”

For a brief moment, Theriault’s face contorted into something darker and uglier than Ilya had yet seen. “Careful, Doctor,” he said lowly, “If you want that job recommendation at the end of the year, you will perform your little exams for us. Quietly. Without overstepping.”

Ilya opened his mouth to argue, ill-advisedly probably, but felt his words drift away as his eyes locked onto the corner of the desk. Glinting in the light was a metal whistle, no cord or lanyard. The material immediately struck him as unusual — the Loons coaches all used black plastic whistles, or at least those that opted for them. And yet, there was something about the shape and color of this one that felt… familiar almost?

“Is that yours?” Ilya asked, gesturing to the whistle. And then, subtly fishing for more detail, he added, “I have an extra lanyard in my office, if you need it replaced.”

Theriault froze for a moment, eyes on the whistle as he choked out, “Oh, um, yes. An old gift from my father. I’d thought I lost it but… the cleaners found it recently. I won’t use it though, more of a… vintage collector’s item. So no need to go out of your way.”

Ilya raised an eyebrow. “Where?”

“What?”

“Where did they find it?”

Theriault’s eyes flicked away again, up and to the left. A lie. “Just… behind the bookshelf.”

“Oh,” Ilya said, remaining neutral to the point it pained him, “That is lucky you got it back. Might have been lost forever.”

“Yes,” Theriault replied slowly, looking visibly uncomfortable now. He reached for the whistle, grimacing the moment his fingers made contact, before shoving it unceremoniously into his desk drawer. “Lucky me.”

“Well,” Ilya said, smoothing his white coat where it had been rumpled by his ranting, “I cannot stop you from playing Larsson. But I would like it on record that I did not clear him myself.”

Theriault waved him off. “He will be fine. But yes, your… objection is well-noted, I assure you.” Frowning, he prompted, “Now is that all, Doctor?”

Ilya bit back a scoff, stalking out of the head coach’s office without dignifying a response. As he made his way to his own office, he felt a growing sense of dread overtake him, and the thick shimmer of Hollander’s muddied energy over his left shoulder, tailing him in interest.

Plopping down in front of his computer, Ilya followed a hunch, using his staff library access to search the university’s digitized archives for old sports clippings. Sure enough, in every one, both active game photos and posed headshots, Shane Hollander had a silver whistle on a plain black cord around his neck. Starting in the late eighties, all the other hockey staff and, as he dug deeper, even other coaches across sports, wore what appeared to be the standard red university-issued lanyard, and black plastic whistles. Not metal.

Swallowing, Ilya considered the fact that — despite the weeks since he’d last seen the ghostly apparition of the man perpetually dressed in coaching uniform — he knew with sickening near-certainty that Hollander’s throat was bare.

*⚕️*

Ilya slid into the booth of the hole in the wall Russian restaurant off Elm Street, admiring the homey decor and inhaling the nostalgic, savory scents in the air. It was less than a week until winter break and Lake Erie’s harsh winds were doing their damndest to chill the campus to the bone, light snow beginning to blanket the sidewalks. He inhaled again and grinned; it had been a long time since he’d craved the meaty richness of solyanka to warm his stomach.

From her place opposite in the booth, Coach Vetrova greeted him with a smile, then turned immediately to the approaching server and fired off a long order in crisp Russian, voice pitched higher with a bit of sweetness.

“Dr. Rozanov,” she said, still in Russian, turning back as Ilya got settled, “I hope you don’t mind me ordering for us. There is a little of everything I think you should try. And the head chef here always sneaks me caviar for the blini, on the house.”

Ilya waved her off, noting with a smile that she’d used the formal ‘you’ to address him. “No, please, go ahead. I trust your taste.” He switched to English, adding, “And Ilya is fine. We are peers and sharing two languages, no need to be so formal.”

“Ilya,” she affirmed, her pronunciation a balm against the odd, short ‘i’ sound his Canadian colleagues tended to favor, “and you must call me Svetlana then.”

“Svetlana,” he replied agreeably, unfolding a napkin onto his lap, “I’m sorry it took so long for us to meet for dinner like this.”

It was Svetlana’s turn to wave him off. “We are busy people. And the hockey schedule is demanding. Don’t worry about it.” She leaned forward, dark eyes bright with interest, as she asked, “But, speaking of, one term at Saint Luke’s nearly done for you, hmm? How is the team physician life treating you?”

Ilya suppressed a grimace. “Well… it is never boring. I am busier with the team than I anticipated.”

Svetlana nodded. “And what do you think of the coaching?” At Ilya’s widened eyes, she continued, “And please, don’t bore me. Be honest.”

Ilya tried not to scowl, thinking back to Theriault’s repeated neglect of injured players’ well-being, all in some reckless, bloodthirsty desire for victory. “Ah, well… Head Coach Theriault is… exacting.”

“A controlling asshole, more like,” Svetlana said plainly, making Ilya snort, “He is determined to erase any legacy the men’s team once had. Just like his father before him.”

“Bold words,” Ilya appraised, “but, ah, yes… I know the sport pretty well, and I’ve spent time with the other members of the coaching staff. There is a lot of potential being wasted.”

“Exactly,” Svetlana affirmed, stabbing her fork in the air for emphasis. She leaned forward, voice pitched to a whisper as she asked, “And have you seen Him yet?”

Ilya blinked, doing what he thought was a passable job at playing coy. “Who?”

Svetlana rolled her eyes. “Oh, c’mon, let’s not play games. I know you know who I mean. I told you on the first day we met, remember?”

Ilya swallowed, unrelenting. “I… I haven’t been sleeping well these days. I see a lot of things.”

Svetlana scoffed. “Fine, stay mysterious. But the Ghost loves good hockey. Can’t resist it. And I’ve seen your name in the rink reservation app.”

“It’s true that I’ve been playing, a little,” Ilya relented, softening as a gorgeous spread of classic Slavic dishes was placed on the table between them. “I don’t have time for a real league, with the team and the hospital patients to attend to, but I don’t like to get rusty. Next time, feel free to come if you’re not busy. I’m sure you will have opinions.”

“Snarky way of saying you’d like someone to play with,” Svetlana teased, copper curls framing her face prettily in the low light. In another, younger life, Ilya might have— “But yes. I'll come bother you for sure now, with permission granted. I’ve been nosy about what a former KHL player is up to on my ice anyhow.”

Ilya nodded, unsurprised that his reputation had spread, but quickly pivoted. “The women’s team looks fantastic by the way. With Blazy as your 1C...” He whistled.

Svetlana took the bait, preening. “Yes, I think we have another championship in us.”

And with that, she was off to the races.

Around mouthfuls of hearty dishes (which did have the tiniest bit of yearning for home creeping into Ilya’s heart via his stomach), Svetlana detailed the women’s team strategy, nodding in approval at Ilya’s observations of their late season line changes, and the way that Jameson’s move to PP1 had significantly opened up their scoring chances. It was nice to talk hockey like this, Ilya thought, fashioning himself a pancake with a healthy portion of smetana and a spoonful of the complimentary caviar that Svetlana had teased at the start. While the Loons’ coaching staff on the men’s side were obviously experts in their field, Ilya was still cautious to speak ill of the team, lest any gossip find its way back to Theriault (especially given he was now firmly on the coach’s bad side). Bitching about the man and his losing record with the winning-er women’s head coach was a welcome reprieve.

Ilya was halfway through describing a unique approach to drilling tip-in’s when Svetlana’s intrigued expression morphed into one of shock. Her eyes, locked over Ilya’s shoulder, widened in recognition.

“Pickup for Yuna?” the sole server asked, addressing a customer at the host stand.

Oh.

Ilya gulped, turning to glance behind him, and was met with a near photocopy of a young Shane Hollander, albeit aged well into her senior years. She was hunched, a little, but the sheer power in her presence was undeniable. Gaze prideful and sleek hair turned salt and pepper, it wasn’t hard to see how this woman had stared down endless interviewers asking about her missing son, elegant and stubborn in her denial of his death. Nor was it hard to imagine her strong-arming a university into naming an arena after the late coach, a clearly designer handbag grasped in her other hand and a chain of white diamonds at her neck. Ilya was hit, suddenly, with the intense urge to speak to her, to gasp out a foolish confession like: “I think I’ve been talking to your son? Or something claiming to be him? And I have questions about his death too.”

He found himself standing before his mind caught up to the action, wandering toward where Yuna Hollander awaited her order. He heard the hiss of Svetlana behind him, asking, “Ilya? What do you think you’re doing?”

Waving her off, he murmured, “I… I don’t know. I just need to…”

He reached the front of the restaurant in just a few long strides, fighting a shiver as the Hollander matriarch’s sharp eyes met his own. He watched as those eyes dipped, taking in the ‘Loons Hockey’ embroidered on his pullover, and hardened in response. Ilya blushed, knowing he must look a bit shabby having come to dinner directly from the arena, and worse, that he likely wasn’t a reminder of anything good to her.

“Ah, Mrs. Hollander?” he prompted.

She sniffed, adjusting the bag on her shoulder. “Yes? Sorry, do I know you?”

He shifted his weight, the awkwardness setting in. “I, ah, I’m Dr. Ilya Rozanov, the new team physician at Saint Luke’s. I just wanted to thank you, for your donations. It… means a lot to the school and to the team. It has given me this opportunity to work in hockey as well.”

“Oh,” she said, smile patient, “Well, that’s very nice. I wish you luck in your career, Doctor.”

The server returned, handing Yuna a paper bag, the receipt stapled to the front.

“Um, sorry, just one more thing,” Ilya hurried to say, intercepting her path to the exit in a way that he knew was bordering on rude. “This is an odd question but. I… I also played hockey and I respect your son’s coaching style a lot. I was wondering, ah, did he ever use a whistle at practices?”

Yuna froze in her tracks, her grip on the bag tightening enough to audibly crinkle the paper.

“Yes,” she said slowly, eyeing him, “A real brass one, silver-plated with a custom engraving. It was a silly gift from me when he first got the job. He never took it off after his first season.” A nostalgic look warmed her features for just a moment as she continued, “He’s so superstitious, my Shane. He must have been wearing it the night that— anyway. It wasn’t in his office, or at least not among what they could recover afterward.”

She shook her head, face pinched in a way that deepened the wrinkles around her eyes, glistening now with emotion. “But why do you ask?”

Ilya flinched, not having thought that far ahead. “Ah, I just… saw some photos in some old team records. And noticed he was always wearing it, like you said. My, um, my mother died when I was young and I still wear her necklace so. I don’t know, sorry. I felt… connected to him in that way.”

“I am sorry about your mother,” Yuna said, sounding genuine, though her tone went cool again as she continued, “And I do wish you the best in your work with Saint Luke’s. But, and don’t take this the wrong way, please do not approach me about my son again.”

“Yes, of course, I am sorry to bother,” Ilya rushed out, “Have a nice evening. I hope you got blini. I recommend.”

Cheeks warm, he didn’t wait for any further reply. He pivoted on his heel, returning to Svetlana’s table just as the little bell above the front door signaled Yuna’s departure.

“What the hell was that about?” Svetlana demanded.

Ilya shrugged. “I… I just had a question for her. Something I read about Coach Hollander.”

“She looked angry, at the end.”

His gaze drifted downward, tracing patterns on the floral tablecloth. “Yes, she was. But I learned something important.”

Svetlana raised an eyebrow. “And that is?”

‘An old gift from my father,’ echoed in Ilya’s mind, and he felt the first sharp pangs of a headache burst at his temples. No one had reported seeing Shane Hollander the night he died, supposedly in the sports complex all alone, perhaps working late as he was known to do. Except—

I think they heard me scream.

“People get sloppy with their lies, after a while,” Ilya answered, “When they think all is forgotten.”

“You’re scheming,” Svetlana said, approving, though she seemed to sense it was not the time to press for more information just yet.

Popping another pancake in his mouth, Ilya nodded, chewing thoughtfully. “I am,” he said around his bite, “And I might need your help.”

Svetlana nodded, grin vicious, her hand already in the air to flag down their server. “I’ll order the tea.”

*⚕️*

Fuck, finally.

Ilya knew, even before the apparition returned in full, that Shane Hollander was in his office.

“Hi,” Hollander said, looking cautious as he hovered over the spare chair in the corner, “Um, long time, no see. I assume?”

Ilya frowned, eyes not leaving his computer screen as he sorted through the patient portal, updating prescriptions. His attempt to be stern was weak at best, with the way his heart sang in his chest at hearing Hollander’s voice for the first time in nearly a month.

He clicked to another tab, lingering, when—

“Are you mad at me?” Hollander asked, a little pitifully, and fuck, Ilya was not strong enough for this.

“Well,” he said, eyes flicking up to meet Hollander’s own, “being attacked and then abandoned for weeks does put some strain on things.”

Hollander deflated, in an almost comical way, sinking low enough that he was halfway through the chair. “Shit, yeah, that was awful. I have no clue what happened. I’ve… I’ve felt that dark energy, like I told you. But I’ve never seen it harm someone. Never seen it take any shape at all, actually. And, fuck, Rozanov, I thought you were—”

“Dead?” Ilya said dryly, “Yes, me too, for a moment. It really wanted me to be.”

As if sensing Ilya’s suspicions, Hollander blurted, “I promise I tried to save you. And that I didn’t have anything to do with the attack in the first place. I don’t know what it wants, but I think me remembering things is a problem. After it let you go, it drained almost everything from me. I tried to guide you to your office, maybe? But since then, I’ve been… barely conscious, just… floating.”

“Where did you go?” Ilya asked, barely biting back the ‘I missed you’ that wanted to follow.

“Away,” Hollander replied, expression darkening, and he did not elaborate.

Ilya let his eyes drift up Hollander’s body, standard coaching uniform in place; that tanned neck as bare as he’d remembered.

“Listen, I think I found a clue,” Ilya said, “but… last time I poked at your memory, all those things happened, the floating and the power outage and… the attack. Let me tell you some other news first and, if you are feeling okay, we will save this for the end. In case you blink out again.”

Hollander nodded. “Okay.”

“So, I talked to your mom at a local restaurant,” Ilya said, cutting to the chase, “Yuna. She was… intense. But nice, mostly. I thanked her for donating the money to the university. It made it possible for me to be here.”

He watched Hollander’s expression cycle through joy and dismay in turn. “Oh, wow. I… I didn’t know if my parents were even still alive. They must be so sad.”

“They never gave up on finding you,” Ilya explained, “No body. So no funeral.”

Hollander froze, or as much as someone hovering a meter above the ground could freeze. “Do you think I’m… my corpse… it’s still here?”

Ilya swallowed. “That is usually how the stories go, yes? Trapped in one place and cannot move on, until they find the body. Though with the flooding, and then the construction here after, it is hard to say where you may have ended up. Or why they did not find you, even later.”

He shrugged, trying not to visibly wince at the thought of Hollander’s bones beneath their feet.

“Or else, you complete what they call ‘unfinished business’? We talked about this the first time, just before you…” His eyes flicked up to the ceiling. “…you know. I have been meaning to ask this. Was there anything you meant to do while alive?”

“Win another championship,” Hollander said immediately, and then, with less certainty, “Find a… um, a wife. Start a family. Normal stuff.”

“A wife?” Ilya questioned, eyebrow raised, “You did not have anyone back then? A girlfriend? A lover?”

“A lov— no, ugh,” Hollander said, ghostly skin turning pink, “And we already had this argument, remember? How we’re both too obsessed with our jobs at the expense of everything else? That included romance for me.” He crossed his arms over his chest, nearly pouting as he added, “Though I’m sure you’re more… experienced, anyway.”

Ilya snorted. “Oh? And why is that?”

“Please, you must attract plenty of women,” Hollander argued, motioning to Ilya’s body with a loose, up-and-down gesture, “Looking like—”

“Like?”

“Like… that. Y-you,” he spluttered, “you know how you look.”

Ilya felt a little thrill shoot up his spine, smirk deepening. “Do I?”

“Oh my god,” Hollander coughed out, nearly wheezing as his gaze cut away. His ears had gone red to the point of looking painful.

“I have had my fun, sure,” Ilya agreed, taking mercy, “though still no wives for me.” He took in Hollander’s pink complexion, swallowed his doubts, and chanced, “And no husbands either.”

The admission had the exact effect he’d anticipated, or well, in the sense that he thought it would shock the other man into flustered surprise — the way that the ghost of Shane Hollander groaned and immediately became one with the armchair was a comical bonus.

Emerging from the cushions a moment later, his shape a little hazy, Hollander said, “You… What.” His dark eyebrows furrowed cutely, nose crinkling his freckles. “That’s not funny.”

“What? Being bisexual?” Ilya asked, voice pitched in innocence, “I would not joke about this." He scrubbed a hand through his curls. “Though I cannot believe I am confirming it to a ghost before most of my actual alive colleagues.”

Hollander looked stricken. “You’d tell them? You can just… say that here?”

Ilya nodded, though a nervous chuckle still slipped out. “You have been lurking around the Loons for years. I am sure you have overheard how the new staff is more… inclusive. It’s not really a secret for me, I just do not talk about my personal life at work.” He shrugged, adding, “And you can be queer now, yes, in most places. Not everywhere, and some have gone, ah, backward in beliefs. But it is legal here in Canada, protected. And we can get married. Coach Barrett did.”

Hollander was staring at him, mouth slightly agape, the gears visibly whirring behind his eyes.

“Does not matter to you though, does it? Mr. Wife Guy,” Ilya teased, still chasing the hunch he’d had since they’d met.

“Maybe not a wife,” Hollander blurted, then clasped a hand over his mouth in cartoonish self-admonishment.

He watched, amused, as Hollander attempted to shove himself through the wall to his right, getting stuck halfway.

“Hollander, come back,” Ilya said gently, ignoring the way his heart fluttered as his suspicions were confirmed, “If your unfinished business was having a gay awakening, that is okay. I am only going to make fun of you a little.”

“The nineties were different, asshole,” Hollander hissed from the wall, then froze, probably realizing that was as good an admission as any. “Oh god, imagine I’m trapped because I never sucked dick like I wanted to. That’s so depressing.”

Ilya was not proud of the way he burst into laughter. “Sorry, sorry,” he said, noticing Hollander’s real pout, “You, ah, never experimented? Not even in secret?”

“Obviously not,” Hollander deadpanned, tugging at the collar of his polo, “Do I seem the type?”

Ilya shrugged. “I was.”

Realization dawned on Hollander’s features, likely recalling Ilya’s deflections in their earlier conversation. “Oh. Russia. It’s… not good?”

Ilya closed his eyes for a moment and breathed out. “No, not good.”

Hollander drifted closer, expression open now, and curiosity growing in those round brown eyes. “But it’s better here? For you? Even though your hockey career is—”

“I’m fine,” Ilya cut in, sharper than intended. He sighed, softening, “It was a long time ago, when I was caught. But no more KHL, so…” He gestured down at his scrubs. “This was the pivot.”

“You would’ve been a beautiful player to watch,” Hollander said, perching on the corner of Ilya’s desk now. His brows furrowed again, mouth pinching at the corners. “It doesn’t seem fair.”

Ilya felt a pang in his chest at the thought, so many nights spent thinking the same, a futile exercise of ‘what if’ on repeat. Still, he was lucky to be alive, in a way that felt even more poignant now knowing that death was not as final as it seemed. A suicidal adolescent Ilya would have found proof of ghosts to be viciously demotivating. The idea of haunting the Rozanov estate in Moscow for eternity… or else some random apartment building in Vancouver? Still in his scrubs from his first (and worst) rotation in pediatric oncology? God, what a miserable fate.

“Well,” he replied eventually, “I do not think I can compete when it comes to unfair. You were a great player, from all I have read, and a legend of a coach.” He frowned, tone sobering. “You should still be here, you know. Happy, in your fifties. And in Theriault’s place.”

Hollander sniffed, blinking rapidly, though no moisture grew at his lash line. “I mean, I am still here, right? That’s what we’re trying to figure out.” He cracked a wobbly smile. “And hey, being basically thirty forever isn’t so bad?”

“Wow, no need to brag,” Ilya said, feeling the growing ache of his early thirties every morning. He smiled in triumph when the deadpan joke made Hollander laugh.

“Besides, we couldn’t have been weird, paranormally tethered pals if I were your head coach,” Hollander offered, “Obviously I was meant to meet you somehow, in less… professional circumstances.”

Ilya bit his lip, and politely refrained from commenting on what he and his horny authority complex might have actually done with a living, silver fox version of the man before him.

“All that being said, do you… have, ah, related regrets? From your time alive?” he questioned, steering them back toward the mystery. “A crush that was not mutual maybe?”

Hollander shook his head, still pink. “No, nothing like that. I just… I looked sometimes, you know? But I never did anything about it. I just thought it was something I could ignore, forever, ideally.” He paused, hesitating. “I guess, if anything, I did resent coaching, at first. I would have liked a longer pro career, but with the concussion protocols at the time… I don’t know. I could have healed, I think, if I were playing now.”

Ilya frowned, having obviously read up on Hollander’s career in his research. Drafted first round by the Voyageurs, a place on the top line by his second season, a Stanley Cup in his fourth, and then a series of bad hits that he recovered from more slowly each time. Balance issues, dizziness, headaches, brain fog… He was a perfect case study for post-concussion syndrome if Ilya had ever seen one. An early retirement and a place assistant coaching for Saint Luke’s came soon after, though he was AC for just a season before the vacancy for head coach was presented as his to fill. Ilya wondered then, if there had been any real competition.

“All the winning probably helped,” he ventured.

Hollander smiled wide, chest puffing up. “Yes, it did.”

“So not true love,” Ilya reasoned, “and not hockey-related. That leaves us with the missing body problem, I think.”

Nodding, Hollander pinched at the skin of his forearm, as if confirming he still embodied a ghostly form at least. “You said you had a clue?”

“Oh,” Ilya started, sliding open his desk drawer, “Yes. Is this yours?”

In his palm, he held out the whistle, with all the glee of a toddler presenting a handful of pebbles. In truth, it had cost him a lot to get it, including: a white lie to Svetlana that Theriault, in a bid for a winning streak, had swiped a piece of memorabilia out of the display case — ‘Coach Hollander’s lucky whistle, surely you’ve heard of it?’ — and her cooperation in luring Theriault into distracted conversation down the hall while Ilya snuck into his office, jimmied the lock on his desk drawer, and retrieved the whistle from its resting place. It wasn’t his most elegant heist, no, but thank god that a childhood spent with his troublemaking older brother had left him with some choice skills in petty crime. He was counting on the fact that Theriault wouldn't report the theft anyway, given he had basically stolen it in the first place.

“Oh,” Hollander said, awed, and Ilya watched as his hand came up to touch at his neck.

He reached out, fingers grazing the mouthpiece, before — with physics Ilya still salivated to understand — he managed to flip the whistle over, eyes tracing the inscription at the top.

“Do you know what it says?” Ilya asked, curious about the engraving. He’d briefly considered typing in the character himself, but felt it was almost sacrilege to treat the ghost’s property and any secrets it might possess as his own.

“It’s Japanese. The kanji for victory, or triumph,” Hollander explained, voice hushed, “My mom got me this when I was hired at Saint Luke’s. I never wanted to take it off, once we started winning.” He glanced up at Ilya, murmuring, “Where did you find it?”

“If I said in the basement ceiling, would that make any sense to you?”

Hollander frowned. “No. Not at all. And the lower levels, outside of the locker room, are hardest for me to manifest in.” He shuddered. “Feels… wrong, down there. Bad energy.”

Ilya opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off when — with a real brush of Hollander’s fingers against the silver engraving — the room tilted away completely.

*⚕️*

The water was rushing in, rough as river rapids, and up to his knees now.

“I’m coming!” he shouted, as if in response to another’s cry, though the echo of his voice was not his own. “Just hold on!”

Ilya grasped the railing, taking careful steps, the stairs now obscured so completely by dark water and mud they might as well have been a waterfall. He jolted as a deafening crack exploded across the space — a lightning strike to the building, maybe — his hands scrabbling for purchase on the slick metal.

With another electric boom, the scene skipped forward, and Ilya was deeper in the basement, water to his chest now as his palms pressed to the ceiling above, movement and navigation painfully slow as the panicked cries continued.

cR A C k.

His vision fractured once more.

A hand reaching out. A tension against the back of his neck.

And then a RIP, like his heart being pulled from his chest, as the memory shredded into ribbons, catapulting him back to—

*⚕️*

Twin gasps filled the room and for one brief moment, Ilya could’ve sworn he felt the sensation of a man in his arms.

Blinking from his haze, he staggered back, ass hitting the edge of his desk.

Hollander stared back at him, seemingly in a backward fall of his own, and wearing an equally shellshocked expression.

“What the fuck was that?” Ilya blurted, chest heaving.

Hollander’s mouth opened and then closed, his form wavering in that glitchy way it did just before a power surge. Raising a shaky hand, he pointed to the space at Ilya’s feet.

The nausea hit him like a rogue wave.

There, between them, was his mother’s necklace, golden crucifix jammed point down into the carpet. Its chain spilled across the floor in two golden rivulets.

Ilya reached for the back of his neck, gasping at the burning sensation there, as if rubbed raw by friction.

He knew then, bending down to scoop the necklace up, that the clasp would be broken.

Chapter End Notes

Hello, I say, waving sheepishly.

My apologies for falling into the void for a bit, Ilya-style, between ao3 author curses of illness and misfortune and some fest sign-ups that had deadlines more real than my indulgent haunted hockey rink WIP. But hey, Dr. Rozanov is like... mostly okay, right? And me too. You should get another update of this before the end of the month, to keep things appropriately spooky.

As usual, a few brief notes from this chapter for ya:

• Like the NHL, there are university hockey concussion protocols. As a Canadian school, Saint Luke's would follow the Canadian Guideline on Concussion in Sport. Also like the NHL, these protocols are often… loosely followed, to say the least.
• No spoilers for Tough Guy, if you haven't read it, but Ryan Price fans should recognize a nod to his backstory here.
• The quotation Ilya cites — Modern science is based on the principle: ‘Give us one free miracle and we’ll explain the rest.’ — is in reference to the Big Bang, and other theories of the universe’s creation, and was coined by Terence Kemp McKenna. I came across it more than a decade ago in possibly the angstiest Johnlock fic of all time, ifykyk.
• This is how I picture Coach Hollander's whistle, with the engraving on the top side as shown.
• The interior of the Russian restaurant Ilya and Svetlana eat at is based on Mari Vanna which is a chain worth trying in my opinion, if you live near one of their big city locations. Sadly, the one in my own city closed a few years ago. I also did a silly amount of research on Russian dining for this chapter, but if you have any Slavic qualms, please let me know. Here is a lovely article on Russians drinking more tea than vodka, which informs Svetlana's post-dinner suggestion for their scheming.
• Some hockey jargon in this chapter as well. PP1 = power play 1, or the first power play unit. More on PP units here. And a tip-in is a type of goal, that is essentially a deflection. Here are several video examples to 'give you goosebumps' !

Thank you for your infinite patience, dear readers. Back for more haunting soon!