Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Svetlana Vetrova, John Tortorella, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, shane hollander gets the jeff carter treatment, content warning: florida, shane gets outed to his team, fuck you montreal i still haven't forgiven you for 1993, Social Media, Angst with a Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, in regards to shitbag dallas kent, athletes bodies as their value and livelihood, reverse brad marchand shane hollander, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Player Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander is Traded, we'll get to boston but shane must suffer first, ilya can suffer a little too, as a treat, Homophobic Language

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-05-21 Updated: 2026-10-25 Words: 15,860 Chapters: 6/10

break my heart and start again

Summary

Shane is tempted to blame Hayden. Hayden had mentioned Boston Lily, poking and prodding Shane for details. Shane had done his best impression of an oyster. To keep his mouth shut and deny that secret hope that the grain of sand stuck on the roof of his oyster-mouth that is his and Rozanov’s situationship might turn into a pearl. A relationship. Fuck.

Shane, tired of Hayden’s questions, agreed to head out to the bar with the team. Mistake two. As it turned out, Hayden hadn’t given up. He’d waited until Shane’s anxiety about fitting in found him nursing a beer. It went to his head like bubbles in a fresh popped bottle of champagne. A bottle of champagne that Shane shook too hard, annoyed by the endless questions, and, well, the cork blew. However, instead of a cork, “I’m gay” shot out of Shane’s mouth. It changed everything as much as he feared it would.

or: Shane gets traded Boston by way of Florida.

Notes

GET LOVED, IDIOT

thanks jordan for taking a look at this and jen for continuing to egg me on and letting me bully her

Chapter 1: i want you to miss me

Chapter Summary

Shane gets traded.

Chapter Notes

this fic was born from a love of boston shane au's and also asking the question: "what if shane hollander got the jeff carter treatment" and now here we are. sorry carts, love you, still have your jersery

[HF Boards]

VALUE OF: Shane Hollander (C), MTL

fishkite (MOD): While this is not confirmed there have been some Hollander trade rumors.  we’ve stickied this thread so that there aren’t 30 duplicates. speculate away

RUMOR: Montreal wants to sell high on Shane Hollander

Murdergeneration: okay so i didn’t want to post this because it seems like speculation but now that a couple different sources have mentioned a hollander trade my hand has been forced. EYE do not think something like this would happen, one simply does not trade a captain the year after they win you a stanley cup but what do EYE know??  share you best offers below.

//

VIDEO: Deke Stevens - The Voyageurs trading Shane Hollander is their game 7 collapse

Transcript: I can’t believe the Toronto Guardians of this season are already the Voyageurs and Toronto hasn’t even been mathematically eliminated from the playoffs yet! That’s impressive! Even the Guardians usually take double this amount of time to fuck things up this badly [... continued]

Comments:

Murdergeneration: time to write the shayden goodbye sex fic i guess. maybe a locker room gangbang...thoughts?

      cocoioco: yes!!! Let the worms flow through you

           murdergeneration: please stopping wishing the worms on me

           familiarstranger: i’m not sure that’s the best health decision

           jorcaforprez: embrace the worms!! Freedom for the worms!!

                 jeff7710: what the fuck is wrong with all of you

                 murdergeneration: if i knew i wouldn’t be like this

                     jeff7710: seek help

//

BREAKING: Montreal Voyageur’s Captain Traded to Florida Jaguars in Blockbuster Trade

Wednesday October 24, 2015

Montreal, Quebec — In a move that’s sure to shock fans, the Montreal Voyageurs have decided to part ways with captain and star center Shane Hollander. Hollander is in the second year of an eight year contract and carries a $9 million dollar cap hit with $25 million in signing bonuses. 

Montreal’s move comes as a shock to fans but perhaps less of a surprise to those who are in the know. There have been whispers since training camp that all was not well in the Voyageurs’ locker room. Sources say that Hollander lost the room and there’s been a rift between certain groups of players since then. Contrary to Hollander’s public image, the Montreal front office implied that the 24 year old center was the cause of the rift. You don’t trade your franchise center without a reason. 

When asked to comment we received an email from Hollander’s agent Farah Jalali with a prepared statement. “Shane is grateful to the Montreal Voyageurs for their support until now. While Shane thought he would end his career as a Voyageur, he is excited to join the Jaguars and help them reach the Stanley Cup Finals for the first time in franchise history.”

One source, who spoke to us on the condition of anonymity, told us that Hollander lost the room and that the other players had concerns about Hollander’s off ice behavior. In an age of twenty four hour news cycles and social media influencers, Hollander is a notoriously private person. Some in the hockey world are now questioning if there’s a more sinister reason for Hollander’s reclusive behavior. The hockey world is waiting to see how things shake out in Florida. 

Meanwhile, around the league… [read more after the paywall]

Greight8: this article is so fucking stupid and it doesn’t tell us shit.

hollzysgirl: this is the same nothing burger statement that shane posted on his instagram, journalism is dead

drawmelikeurmontrealgrls: shane bby they could never make me hate u and there are going to be fucking riots. It’s me, i’m riots. Vancouver ain’t got shit on upset Voyageurs fans. 

davidmconnersslut97: COME TO EDMONTON HOLLANDER AND END OUR DECADE OF DARKNESS

oilspill @davidmconnersslut97: i’d take hollander but ain’t no way we’re fucking up the tank this year. We’re going to win the mcconnors sweepstakes

//

Shane has been on a lot of planes in his life. Public, chartered, private. That one time Hayden forced him to get in a propeller plane for an aerial tour of New York to see if Jackie would like it for their anniversary. Never again. That unfortuate incident aside, it usually falls into one of those three categories. It helps to sit and categorize. Shane likes categories; the last forty eight hours have defied every category he’s ever read about or invented. 

Shane is tempted to blame Hayden. Hayden had mentioned Boston Lily, poking and prodding Shane for details. Shane had done his best impression of an oyster. To keep his mouth shut and deny that secret hope that the grain of sand stuck on the roof of his oyster-mouth that is his and Rozanov’s situationship might turn into a pearl. A relationship. Fuck. 

If Shane is honest with himself, and lord knows he’s spent a lot of energy trying to be honest with everyone but himself, he wants something more. He wants to be greedy, even if he doesn’t know where that hunger leads. 

Maybe that’s the whole problem of this whatever it is with Ilya. He’s too hungry. He wants too much. Shane’s been able to get most of what he wants in life through hard work but Ilya Rozanov isn’t most things. 

He’s been poking at that thought for days, like a sore tooth he can’t bring himself to do anything about. Annoyed and pleased by the pain all at once.

Shane, tired of Hayden’s questions, agreed to head out to the bar with the team. Mistake two. As it turned out, Hayden hadn’t given up. He’d waited until Shane’s anxiety about fitting in found him nursing a beer. It went to his head like bubbles in a fresh popped bottle of champagne. A bottle of champagne that Shane shook too hard, annoyed by the endless questions, and, well, the cork blew. However, instead of a cork, “I’m gay” shot out of Shane’s mouth. It changed everything as much as he feared it would. The discomfort. The disgust. Both felt awful. 

Forty eight hours later, Shane was on his way to Florida a mere week before his no trade clause kicked in. Way to kick a guy on the way out.

Shane had spent all of last night packing and repacking a moderately sized suitcase. That had turned into going through his closet (ha!) and throwing all of his  Voyageurs branded clothing into a pile. Shane wasn’t going to keep the clothes when the Voyageurs didn’t want him. 

An involuntary part of Shane thought about six months of silence. He wasn’t sure which one was worse. Rozanov wanted him and then he’d gotten what he wanted and hadn’t wanted Shane anymore. Shane’s body, his value, hadn’t been enough. So Shane had stuck to the rules after that. No extended time together after orgasms. That had kept him safe, and as long as both of them played by the rules then both of them would be fine. 

Even if people in his life hadn’t wanted him, well, that didn’t matter. Hockey wanted him, and hockey was all Shane cared about. Could be allowed to care about. Hockey had rules and feelings played by none of them.

It was well within their rights for the Voyageurs to trade Shane. He knew that. It’s part of the game, it’s how teams get better, how they stay cap compliant, how they get rid of “locker room issues”. 

Maybe some part of Shane had thought he’d be the exception to the rule – in a positive way, for once, his otherness a boon rather than a black mark. Turns out that the thing Shane loved most about rules, the concrete certainty, had turned into a double edged blade. 

The life of a professional hockey player means sacrificing your body for the first twenty to thirty years of your life and then the rest of your life dealing with whatever physical ailments fall out of the blind box of fate after that. The Voyageurs had demanded his blood, his heart, his soul. They’d drained Shane and thrown the husk aside. Shane had been prepared to pay that price, he just thought he had a little longer until someone came to collect on it. 

Shane shifts in his seat. He’s too aware of where his clothes meet his skin. It all feels too tight, the hum of the plane's engine too loud, the cabin smells like they put too many new car scent air fresheners in the air circulation system. Every foot of elevation feels like Shane’s being ripped away from his recognizable reality. 

Even if Shane doesn’t like the current shape of his reality, he’s not sure that this new version is any better. But maybe that also means it’s not any worse. Montreal traded him to Florida. A fact in five words that hurts more than it ought to for a professional athlete. Perils of the sport, of course. Of a chance to live out his dreams even at the cost of wearing down his heart and body. Shane had hoped, just like he had with a lot of other things, that being good enough at the game meant that these particular problems would never apply to him.  

He pulls out his iPad to watch tape. Not the tape for Florida, his new team, which is what he should be watching. No. Instead, he watches tape from the last time he played against the Bears with the Voyageurs. Shane’s watched this video an embarrassing number of times. Rozanov strips the puck from Girard, the Voyageur’s second pairing defenceman who got caught on a line change after icing the puck. It’s embarrassing really, how easy it was. Shane would say that Girard should be ashamed but for one, that’s an inside thought, and two Rozanov is just that good. Even Shane loses to the best. One of the best. 

Shane spends the rest of the flight ignoring the messages on his phone he’s been refusing to read, including a couple from “Lily”. He watches tape of the most recent Jaguars games. They use a different system than Montreal. The Jaguars rely on speed and picking off neutral zone turnovers for an odd man rush. The third and fourth lines add some skill but mostly chippy play. The bitchy part of Shane couldn’t help but think of them as off brand Rozanovs, but ones that would barely pass a health inspection. Definitely a D grade at most in those restaurant windows. 

Florida, big and mean, relied on strong puck possession, volume of shots, and playing the body to force turn overs since they lacked skill. They also lacked the ability to finish. There’s a twenty point gap between their leading scorer and the next top point producer. Even more alarming – their leading scorer doesn’t even make it into the top one hundred scorers in the MLH so far this season and even the player at one hundred is only on pace for a fifty point season. Bleak. 

He knows he’s not the best at reading social cues but surely he would have picked up on some part of it. Maybe he had and just thought he could use his play to outmaneuver his critics. Apparently, like the human body, that strategy had its limits. Shane lives and dies by strategy so it’s not surprising the real world logistics of being traded from Montreal to Florida feel more than a little like a slow, painful death. Maybe that one where they would remove your skin a little bit at a time? Lingchi? He thinks that was in one of Rose Landry’s movies, once. 

Between thinking about Lingchi and fretting about his new team, this is the longest two hour flight of Shane’s life and it’s still over too soon. He forces himself to check his messages, avoiding the ones where the five word preview makes his hands go clammy. Which, truthfully, is all of them. He makes a strategy, that's what he’s best at. He’s his mothers son, after all. If he strategies for a little longer than is necessary to avoid reading the messages for an extra twenty minutes then that’s between him and his fucked up head. 

First, any messages from his parents. Just a note to check in with his agent Farah and then, a few messages down, a message from Farah herself. 

Shane, I heard from the Jaguars, someone from the team will be picking you up at the airport. Let me know when you get it and if anything comes up. Farah 

And a variation on the theme from his mom: they weren’t sure who would be available but the front office said whoever they sent would text you by the time you plane lands. Sorry honey, I wish we’d been able to come with you. We’ll be down in a couple days with your car and some of your things. We love you Shane and we’re so proud of you. 

Shane is so glad he’s on a chartered flight alone so no one can see him cry.  Each message is like one stroke of lingchi, taking a little more of the thick skin he’s cultivated over the years to keep himself safe.

He gets off the plane on the tarmac and they give him his bag, singular. It’s overwhelming to think of how many things are still left in his Montreal apartment. They’d traded him in the middle of a west coast road trip swing, two weeks on the road, looking forward to sleeping in his own bed and then getting off the plane and being told to get on another one. Forget the bed, the franchise he’d made his home was telling him to find a new bed, a new home.

Chapter End Notes

comments always appreciated, they fuel me <3

anyways on to hockey things!!

some cameos from friends here! also shane's contract is based on P.K. Subbans' contract with the Habs.

hf boards is a hockey forum and the debates on there range from thoughtful to ragebait

deke stevens is OBVIOUSLY steve dangle. i mean...the leafs...i mean guardians

jeff carter and mike richards were traded to the columbus blue jackets and la kings respectively right after they signed HUGE long term contracts with the Flyers. Richards was the captain. they had just gone to the stanley cup final and lost to chicago in 2010.

Chapter 2: when i'm not around

Chapter Summary

In the summer of 2015, Ilya and Hollander text more than they ever have before. It’s something that sneaks up on them. Ilya can’t stop himself from smiling every time he sees a message from Jane on his phone. He knows that his face is doing something stupid, but in the oppressive atmosphere that hangs over Moscow like a fog he can’t really bring himself to care. Not when being here is so awful in the first place.

Sometimes, Ilya feels like the fog of malaise that hangs over Moscow like emotional pollution seeps between his ears and settles into his brain, warping his view of the world around him. Maybe that’s what his mother felt like, too.

Chapter Notes

finished writing/editing this while watching carolina vs. montreal in the ECF, spent all the intermissions staring at how wayne gretzky's face no longer moves. as usual the chapter count is an illusion!!!

A few months earlier...

In the summer of 2015, Ilya and Hollander text more than they ever have before. It’s something that sneaks up on them. Ilya can’t stop himself from smiling every time he sees a message from Jane on his phone. He knows that his face is doing something stupid, but in the oppressive atmosphere that hangs over Moscow like a fog he can’t really bring himself to care. Not when being here is so awful in the first place. Sometimes, Ilya feels like the fog of malaise that hangs over Moscow like emotional pollution seeps between his ears and settles into his brain, warping his view of the world around him. Maybe that’s what his mother felt like, too. 

Moscow hasn’t felt like home in a while–hasn’t been home for a while–yet he feels obligated to come back here every summer. 

Jane: [photo of a lake, it’s pretty artistic and the sun is setting over the water]

Ilya smiles without realizing it. Hollander had mentioned his cottage a few weeks ago. Right after Ilya had sent a salty yet still technically congratulatory text when Hollander won the cup. He wished he’d been the one hoisting it, that he’d been the first captain to lead his team to back to back cups since late 90’s Detroit. Every year someone else won the cup left a bitter taste in his mouth. Still, it would have been harder if it were anyone other than Hollander. Not that he’d ever tell Hollander that. At least not in English. Besides, Hollander had sent Ilya a congratulations text when Ilya won last year and Ilya’s not going to let Hollander beat him at anything. Not even sportsmanship. 

It’ll be a while until he can beat Hollander on the ice again, anyway. Ilya has already looked at this season’s schedule so many times he’s already got the dates of Boston’s games versus Montreal memorized.

They don’t have any of their preseason games against Montreal this year, either–unfortunately for Ilya’s cock and dirty fantasies. Perfect partners in crime, those two. Ilya’s been a happy participant in some of their best work. 

It would still be better if Hollander were here. If Montreal had been on their preseason schedule…

Ilya stops that train of thought before it leaves the station. He knows better than to go down those tracks. In the year since that coldly passionate performance Ilya had drawn out of Hollander. No shield of alcohol for Hollander, no blanket plausible deniability of his own participation in putting on the exact show that Ilya wanted. All and only for Ilya. Ilya had felt less high after snorting several lines of coke. Even now the memory of Hollander’s hands running over his body, seeking his own pleasure but only for Ilya’s benefit, it’s enough to set the blood humming under Ilya’s skin. 

“Ilyusha?” Svetlana is looking at him like she knows exactly what he’s doing, who he’s thinking of, the phantom presence that’s taken up so much of his attention. 

“Yes, Sveta?” he musters up in his most innocent tone. It’s not going to work, Svetlana can see through him no matter what kind of deflection Ilya attempts–and even Ilya’s ego can admit this isn’t his best effort. 

“Looks like you have somewhere more interesting to be.” She glances at his phone screen and Ilya locks it without thinking. Mistake. Ilya doesn’t think he’s ever seen Svetlana's eyebrows go that high before, not even that time in high school she’d been a little too enthusiastic with the tweezers and had looked permanently surprised for a month. 

“With you here, impossible,” Ilya flutters his eyelashes at her. He glances over her shoulder in the direction he’d seen her coming from while half paying attention. There’s a man in a fishnet shirt waiting at the bar with two drinks in hand looking between llya and Svetlana. If Ilya were in a more typical state of mind, he’d consider taking both of them home. For whatever reason, he’s not in the mood tonight. Well, if he’s not going to get lucky, at least Svetlana can. “Besides, it looks like you’re the one who has somewhere more interesting to be. Or at least there’s a drink with your name on it already waiting at the bar.”

“I know when I’m not wanted,” Svetlana sniffs. She waits like she’s expecting Iya to put up a token protest but he’s already pressed the side button on his phone, lighting up the lock screen. He opens up his texts with Jane as she walks away. There’s nothing new, of course. It’s afternoon in Ottawa so Hollander’s probably training, or reading, or making dinner with his parents. Something just as boring as he is. 

If he’s so boring, why do you keep reading his texts? Asks a little voice in Ilya’s head. It sounds a little like Svetlana. Ilya ignores it, shoves his phone back in his pocket, and makes his way to the bar for another shot. Maybe he needs some company tonight, after all.

//

what the puck @imoscowyouaquestion 

[image: a blurry Ilya Rozanov at a bar wedged between a man in a sheer white shirt and a tall, slender woman with brown curly hair. They’re all standing extremely close together]

rozanov pegger @slavicslut god i wish that were me

//

Four weeks earlier

A week before Ilya leaves Russia he comes across a couple of interesting comments on Twitter. Mostly from anonymous accounts, but ones that have a history of breaking some pretty big stories over the years. They’re not rumors he can dismiss out of hand. 

MLH Insider @lockerroomwhispers hearing that FLA is looking to beef up their lineup down the middle

Not particularly surprising when Ilya considers that they missed the playoffs last year. And the last five years prior to that. They’ve overcommitted to peppering “gritty” and “good in the room” guys throughout their lineup and their skill level has suffered accordingly. It’s the next tweet that takes Ilya off guard. 

MLH Insider @locckerroomwhispers 

FLA in talks with MTL to make some big moves at the beginning of the season. Some players people thought were off limits might be coming off the books as MTL looks to manage the glut of pending restricted free agents who will be coming off their ELCs. Hearing Hollander might be on the table.

irl muppet @callmeelmo @lockkerroomwhispers okay so we’re just making shit up now, got it got it

d*ck me down like a domino @cuckooforcocka @lockkerroomwhispers these anonymous """insider””” accounts get more ridiculous every day

Allez allez! @leshabitants @lockkerroomwhispers of all the names to throw out there you pick our franchise center??? If you’re going to start shit at least make it believable. 

Ilya hates to agree with a Montreal fan but maybe this account only got the other news right in the past via sheer dumb luck. There’s no way Montreal would trade fucking Hollander of all players. They have 23 other roster players who are all worse than him, surely any sane General Manager would start there. 

//

Wednesday October 24, 2015

CONFIRMED with Link: Shane Hollander traded to FLA for C Brian Daniels, prospects Hal Taylor, Jakub Nikushkin, 2016 1st, 2nd, and 3rd round picks, and a 2017 1st round pick

Posted by fishkite (MOD)

raider?raidher:  that’s a fucking kings ransom, but even with that the habs are built to win NOW, not seeing how trading hollander makes sense for them

hollzyhoe24: god do i have to become a florida fan now? Shane, my son, what have they done to you

jeff7710: is this another dry island situation?

        richierich1077: i’m having war flashbacks, give a man a trigger warning next time

hauntedlegggg: anyone else think that torts is going to hate coaching hollander? I give it less than two games before he calls hollzy “soft” or otherwise acts like a geriatric baby

             Murdergeneration: isn’t he the coach of your team?

                   Hauntedlegggg: and? He’s still a geriatric baby. The man is approaching 60 and still throws a hissy fit when a reporter asks him a question he doesn’t like

                         Murdergeneration: and that’s why he’s an #icon

//

Ilya hears about the trade when his phone starts buzzing non stop while he’s driving to the rink. He’s not always the best about road safety but this isn’t something that can be solved by a quick glance at his screen. Even though he can’t read them fast enough to feel mostly okay about semi-distracted driving, he sees the name Hollander show up once. Then twice. Then the messages start coming in so fast they’re basically a blur, too hard to read when shifting his eyes between the road and his phone.

It doesn’t get any better and Ilya finds that he desperately wishes he had one of those stupid Popsocket things for his car that Connors always mentions when he’s the designated carpool driver for team dinner. The ones that always make Ilya ask Connors when he’ll be trading his Mercedes convertible in for a minivan. 

There’s a moment where Ilya considers pulling over just to check whatever the fuck is going on. Ilya being Ilya, he’s also ready to put just a bit more pressure on his gas pedal so he can get to the rink as fast as possible and finally learn why everyone he’s ever met is blowing up his phone. 

In the end, like most things with hockey and hockey trades, Ilya has no choice at all in the matter. His phone starts ringing. He curses and accepts the call. 

“Rozy, you’re never going to fucking believe this,” Marleau says. He sounds like he’s been running. At least, Ilya hopes that Marleau has been running and not jacking off. Several times over the last several years, lIya had returned to their shared hotel room to find Marlow out of breath, face flushed, and pants sitting suspiciously low on his hips. Ilya had always said “Marly I’ve seen your cock before, is nothing special,” which is true considering they share a locker room and have had more than one threesome together, but if Ilya had a choice of which dick he’d most like to come home to it wouldn’t be Marleau’s. It wouldn’t be any of the dicks in Boston’s locker room. 

What’s he even supposed to do with the realization that the dick he’d most like to come home to is Hollander’s? It’s not like Montreal and Boston are particularly close but Florida is even worse. And not just because of the distance, but because of some of the things Ilya has heard about their dressing room and their team culture. 

If he’d wanted to, Ilya could – theoretically, of course– deal with a drive to Montreal.  If wanted to go to fucking Florida there’s no other acceptable option besides flying. Like hell Ilya is going to drive almost a full day to get his dick wet. There are plenty of options in Boston, not to mention the buffet of willing partners he can find on a road swing if he’s willing to flout curfew. He’s almost always been willing to flout curfew – it’s part of his charm.

At least that’s what he tells himself, even though it’s been months since he’s left a club with anyone else. Sometimes he’ll make out with a hot girl against a wall and finger her. Maybe get a blowjob in the bathroom. But he hasn’t been interested in more than that. He certainly hasn’t taken anyone home. Hollander has cast a shadow over his brain, making everyone Ilya might find on a random night in a random club pale in comparison. 

“ –seriously, can’t fucking believe it, Roz.” Oh, right, Marleau is still talking over the speakers. 

“Yes, yes, your brain is small, cannot handle many options.” 

“Oh fuck off, you’re telling me you knew Hollander would get traded?” 

Ilya almost swerves onto the other side of the road. Maybe Sveta is right and he does need a dash cam. “What the fuck are you talking about?” 

He finally checks his phone and all the messages are a variation on a theme, but the melody is clear: Shane Hollander has been traded to Florida. What the fucking fuck. 

Fucking Montreal, Ilya thinks, scowling.

He swipes to his messages with Hollander immediately. His fingers hover above the keyboard. They keep hovering.

Ilya: guess we must cancel next week

No. Fuck. He deletes that immediately. 

Ilya: sorry to hear about montreal

Absolutely not. Much too sincere. Hollander will probably think Ilya is making fun of him. What Ilya actually wants right now is to comfort him. Ilya hates that he wants that. Double fucking fuck. 

Ilya: montreal are idiots. almost as dumb as pike. makes sense he still plays there

His finger almost presses the send button but he stops himself. He’s never exercises so much restraint in his life. Something is wrong with him. It fucking sucks he won’t get to fuck Hollander as often now. That’s the only reason. 

He deletes the message. Doesn’t send anything. He has time. He can figure out what to send later.

//

Beantown Boyssss

Cap (Rozanov): we’re going out i need to get laid

Connors: o captain my captain

Marly: hell fucking yes!!!

Carmichael: pussy patrolllll

Cap (Rozanov): carmichael is not invited

Marly: lol but fair

Carmichael: et tu, marly?

Marly: bro i don’t speak spanish

Cap (Rozanov): nevermind you are all uninvited i will never get laid with you idiots tagging along

Cap (Rozanov): [location shared] see you later

Marly: hell yeah!

Connors: hell yeahhhhh

Carmichael: wait so am i invited again

Marly: for fucks sake carmichael we’ll see you in an hour

//

Ilya finally gets home later that night. He’s still a little drunk from clubbing after tonight's game and there’s a tacky film of dry sweat coating his body. He showered after practice, put on his sluttiest sheer shirt and leather pants and then made his way to the North End in search of a distraction. 

He found one, at least for a little. A pretty freckled brunette placed soft touches on his arm like each one was a kiss, then let Ilya buy her a drink and fingerbanging her in one of the bathroom stalls. She’d implied she wouldn’t mind taking this back to one of their places. Somewhere with a bed, she’d said in a tone of voice Ilya is sure usually worked for her. He’d kissed her cheek and disengaged. Told her to have a good night and then went home, alone. 

Alone to his apartment with a text thread that mocks him to say something. Anything. 

As long as it’s the right thing, he thinks. Ilya’s good at reading people, but somehow he always manages to make a misstep when it comes to Hollander. Telling himself to think of the right thing to text just means he can’t think of anything at all. 

Once he’s home he sits on his stylish but uncomfortable couch and stares at his phone again. Ilya’s not sure how long he stares at the cursor blinking in the empty text box before he takes out his nice bottle of vodka and a double shot glass. He fills it to the top before swallowing it down like it will fix the ache in his chest. The one he doesn’t think he’s brave enough to name. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, feeling the alcohol burn as it makes its way down his throat. He types out a message and sends it before he can stop himself.

Ilya: fuck montreal

//

Hollander never replies.

Chapter End Notes

comments always appreciated, they fuel me <3

 

up next: 2011 DRY ISLAND FLYERS (if you know what that means....heheheheh). ilya would NOT get along with peter laviolette. getting a player like shane is a huge deal. i'd say comparable to boston trading tyler seguin to the stars after they won the cup with him.

:)

Chapter 3: just a flicker in your head

Chapter Summary

Shane strips, desperate to get the smell and feel of the plane off his skin. He takes the time to fold his clothes. Put them in the laundry bag the hotel provided in the closet. Takes them out again when he realizes the hotel probably uses the wrong detergent and that if he lets them wash his clothes he probably won’t want to ever wear them again.

Then again, if clothes absorb memories the way the jerseys of his youth did, Shane will never want to wear these sweats again. He’ll want to burn them and let the smoke from the fire curl toward the heavens like some kind of wordless prayer. That’s how he knows things are desperate – he’s praying to a god he doesn’t even believe in.

Chapter Notes

tw: reference to a past sexual assault committed by an off screen character (dallas kent)

Landing in Florida feels like being flayed alive. Shane has experienced humidity before but this is something else. He gets a text that there's a car waiting for him at the airport to take him to the hotel. 

Everything is green in a way that makes the whole world feel unreal. There’s only a slight hint of fall, some of the leaves on the trees changing to red and gold like they’re trying to shake themselves loose from their branches and escape perpetual summer. Ever since he got the call from Farah that he was getting traded Shane’s whole life has felt like he’s viewing the world through a thick pane of glass. Well, actually, ever since he’d had one beer too many and blown up his own life.

The air around the car shimmers. Shane swears he can feel the heat trying to pry the windows open just to get to him. How anyone is supposed to play hockey in conditions like this, Shane has no idea. Guess he’ll find out. 

Apparently the league has even considered hosting a Stadium Series game here. Madness. At least they’re not trying to call it a Winter Classic–there’s nothing winter about Florida. Shane hates it already. Hates the way the very air makes him feel ill at ease and out of place.

//

r/shanehollander

u/throwaway1221: [Photo of Shane Hollander getting into a car at the airport]

Hollzyheaux24: my poor son looks like he’s going to melt

realhockeyfan89: good riddance, the voyageurs have been too soft ever since hollander became captain

   hollzyheaux24: you do realize he just won you a cup right??? the first cup a canadian team to win a cup in more than 20 years???

       realhockeyfan89: and? the voyageurs need to be harder to play against. hollander is softer than baby shit

             hollzyheaux24: you know what’s also hard to play against? a player way more skilled than you.  come back when you can score a goal like this and then i’ll take your opinion seriously. until then log the fuck off 

                 realhockeyfan89:[comment removed for violating subreddit guidelines]

//

Later, Shane vaguely remembers the driver trying to make conversation. Shane reeled off rote responses like he was one of those childrens dolls with a string coming out of the back, only allowed to recite a set number of phrases. His media training came in handy, his mind already full of scripts to use when someone pulled the string. 

Shane, divorced from the context of his own life, is up shits creek without a paddle. Caught swimming against the current and no way back home. If that home ever existed in the first place. The more time he sits with his new reality, the more he thinks it was an illusion all along. 

He checks his phone and regrets it. More messages. Some news articles that he reads just to make himself feel worse. So much of Shane’s career has been controlling his image, his public narrative, and now that’s falling apart as he’s being punished for who he is. Looking at his phone is like touching a hot stove with his bare hands. 

Amazing how every news article seems to have exclusive details about how Shane feels when he doesn’t even know himself. When he doesn’t even want to feel anything. At least not when he’s off the ice. If he can only get on the ice maybe everything will be fine. Maybe everything will make sense–everything will follow the familiar rules. 

The car pulls up to an offensively bland hotel. The kind of place that you could plunk down in half of North America and still be nonethewiser as to the actual location. But Shane’s here, in real life, where the oppressive atmosphere never lets him forget where he is: Florida Florida Florida. The word drums through his head like an ancient curse. 

Exiled. Cursed. It’s all the same, really.

//

[Photo description: Shane Hollander exiting a nondescript Courtyard Marriott. He has a hat on and a pair of sunglasses in hand. His arm is raised halfway up his body, the photographer has clearly caught him in the middle of putting on his sunglasses. His face is carefully blank but he’s squinting from the lighting change.]

shaneHOLEander: look at my poor son, banished to florida and still a smoke show. be so hot they regret trading you!!! that’s the hollander way!!! that’s my husband!!! that’s my boy!!!

       voystheboys: is he your husband or your son?? are you hitting on your son??? hollander fans are so fucking weird 

           shaneHOLEander: have you never been on the internet in your life?? 

               voystheboys: ??? my account is older than yours. if hollander is anything like his fans im glad the voyageurs traded him 

                   shaneHOLEander: oh so you’re a crone.  here’s a lesson in internet slang for you: kys

hollanovvvv8124: he’s so sad that he’s far away from his boyfriend

   hole4roz: you know they’re not actually dating right? that they’re real people? it’s important to me that you know that. 

      hollanovvvv8124: let ze without a slutty username not throw the first stone

journalishtype: no one else is going to comment how much this is an invasion of privacy and really fucking creepy. no? just me? 

      pegmemonmothma: THANK YOU SOMEONE FINALLY SAID IT 

          journalishtype: *looks at username* you have taste so of course you get it 

              pegmemon: 😘

//

[Youtube Transcript of TSN's Elliot Friedman's interview with John Tortorella]

Elliot Friedman: We’ve got a special treat for you today. Florida Jaguars coach John Tortorella has kindly given us some of his time to discuss his team’s recent roster changes. Click below to listen to the whole interview.

Elliot Friedman: It’s been a while since you coached a team, do you think this time will be different?

John Tortorella: Well every time you come into a new team it’s different. I’m keeping it simple. Don’t want to change too much. But we need to be tougher to play against.

Elliot Friedman: The Jaguars recently made a big splash when they traded for Shane Hollander. Have you thought about how he’ll fit in with the current roster. 

John Tortorella: I think that’s always up to the player, Elliot. If a guy is soft on the forecheck and easy to knock off the puck there’s only so much a good system can make up for. Now Hollander has led the league in points. He’s also a Lady Byng trophy winner. We’ll see if he can bring the kind of game that the Jaguars need. We’ve set up a good dynamic in the room here and it’s up to him to accept our system and become part of that. 

[to read the rest of the Interview please sign in to your TSN account]

shanesbae: i’m sorry did mister whiney old man call my boy soft?? mister shane abs like steel hollander. torts i. KNOW you’ve seen that calvin klein ad. there’s one right across the street from that moldy crypt they let you out of whenever a team decides to believe you’ve “changed” or whatever. EYE know. EYE see. sure, torts has changed like i’m the first person to voluntarily r get rid of their asshole and shit out of their mouth instead

comments: 

   jaguarjoe: let’s forget the language for a second, the team has had a winning record ever since torts took over. can’t argue with results

    shanesbae: can’t argue with results? has someone tried telling that to the voyageurs? fuck you and your shitty team and fuck MY shitty team for trading the best player in the league 

        rozyroz81: you mean second best player in league

            shanesbae: rozanov fan picking a fight in the comments, torts being an asshole forks found in kitchen 

//

Shane hates his hotel room from the moment he walks in. He drags his suitcase behind him and one of the wheels clips the back of his leg. Great. Just fucking perfect. 

Shane strips, desperate to get the smell and feel of the plane off his skin. He takes the time to fold his clothes. Put them in the laundry bag the hotel provided in the closet. Takes them out again when he realizes the hotel probably uses the wrong detergent and that if he lets them wash his clothes he probably won’t want to ever wear them again. Then again, if clothes absorb memories the way the jerseys of his youth did, Shane will never want to wear these sweats again. He’ll want to burn them and let the smoke from the fire curl toward the heavens like some kind of wordless prayer. That’s how he knows things are desperate – he’s praying to a god he doesn’t even believe in.

Everything about, well, everything  feels wrong and Shane can’t complain because all he’s learned in the last forty eight hours is that his feelings don’t matter.

He doesn’t even have time to break down about it. The imminent panic attack has to be scheduled for later. He has a meeting to get to.

//

r/nhlrumors

u/throwaway2481

[Excerpt from linked audio files allegedly containing private details about Shane Hollander’s trade]

“…he’s been a problem since we drafted him. Some of the more ehm, conservative sponsors are concerned we’re deviating a bit from the traditional Canadian image…”

qweencarly: “traditional canadian image” just say he’s not white and go

     HABitants: you people have to bring race into everything 

        qweencarly: “you people” and you’re just continuing to prove my point 

voyageurism: if they really traded hollander because they’re racist they should all be fired but i still think there’s more going on there. no way you trade your cup winning captain unless he’s  the problem

guardians4dacup: i feel like hollander has to be a locker room cancer the way things went down. thank gif 

        qweencarly: did you even listen to the audio? also i guess you would know locker room cancer since dallas kent plays for your team 🤮

               guardians4dacup: those allegations were never proven. those girls were just pissed he never called them again

                     qweencarly: oh you can fuck right off. in this house we believe women and not RAPISTS

mtlmetroarea6978: this shit should stay behind closed doors. whoever leaked this needs to be fired. and if hollander can’t handle himself he should think about a different career

shootthepuck: if hollander is soft enough to sue then maybe he shouldn’t be in the league 

       qweencarly: “i know we heard them skirting around the edges of a hate crime but let’s victim blame” change your fucking username to the scarecrow cause you’ve got NO brain

//

Shane’s new coach, John Tortorella reminds him a bit of a muppet. He’s a singular entity. An alien in human skin. He likes dogs, though. 

Shane makes it a point to study interviews. His mom sent him a few; none of them made Shane feel better. The replies are worse, they’re filled with gif of Tortorella standing behind the bench and saying “I’ll choke you”. When the comments start telling Tortorella exactly how they want to be choked Shane calls it quits. Maybe he’s still got some optimism left in him; there’s no other excuse for turning to the internet for help. 

He’s better off with game day tape. That's something he can understand. He’ll be alright if he just focuses on playing his best. He ignores the voice that says that didn’t matter for the Voyageurs but it still echoes in the back of his mind.

He puts his head in his hand and takes as many deep breaths as he can manage there in that anonymous hotel. He could be anywhere, be anyone. He’s not himself; he’s not sure he even wants to feel like himself. Who is Shane Hollander meant to be these days? What about just Shane? He feels replaceable–he is replaceable; has already been replaced. Just another player on the roster, just like he’s just another fuck on Rozanov’s list of hookups. 

Fuck. He promised himself he wouldn’t think about that, either. 

The second alarm on his phone rings. He’s set aside time to panic before he has to leave for the meeting. Only two alarms left.

Part of Shane is tempted to wait until the last alarm but he knows that’s just putting off the inevitable. He gets to his feet, takes a deep breath, and makes his way out of his room. Elevator, lobby, and then through the door to wait for his driver. Out of the hotel and into the swamp. 

//

SBNation

Signals from the Swamp

Hollander is here, so what should Jaguars fans expect?

//

The car arrives. It's a different driver this time. He doesn’t bother with a “hello”. The ride goes too fast anyway.

Shane meets with Tortorella at the Eggspectations next to the gas station across from the Costco with the other gas station. There are a lot of gas stations in Florida. The eggs have the wrong texture and Shane picks at his food. He’s already been labeled a “problem in the room”, he can’t seem rude, too. Part of him is not even sure why he’s bothering. 

The reality is that this entire situation is rude. Shane’s seen. how Tortorella handles the media. Rude is exactly the pitch he’s singing at.

Every bit of research Shane has done on the guys calls him old fashioned. Known for his between periods speeches. Won the cup in 2004 with the Other Florida Team the Tampa Bay Thunder.

The meeting, as a whole, is fine. It probably helps that there’s a third person there. The assistant GM, Roy Patricks does his best to smooth over any awkward pauses in the conversation. Patricks navigates the conversation when things get awkward.

Shane is glad they’re in public. He has vivid shards of memories of his last days as a Voyageur. Of being alone with Thériault, the GM Jean-Marc Beliveau, and Marcel the Voyageurs PR person, all of them whisper yelling in two languages about how Shane had fucked things up. For himself, sure—but more importantly for the Voyageurs. 

How the Voyageurs had taken a risk drafting someone “from his background.” And from the message Shane’s mom sent him apparently the rest of the world had heard about it, too. The responsibilities of being the captain of an original six franchise with the most wins in MLH history. Never mind that Shane had just added another win to the tally. Another ring on the cups with their names on it. His name on it. 

Unimportant. The Voyageurs and their legacy would continue on and they sent a clear message that Shane would no longer be a part of it. They sent him on that roadie, arranged a trade, and then kicked his ass out the door. 

His phone buzzes and even though he knows it’s rude, he checks. He’s sort of hoping it’s Rozanov, hoping he’ll reach out again even though Shane still hasn’t answered his texts. But it’s not Rozanov, it’s Shane’s mom already trying to spin the leaked audio. Shane hasn’t listened to it. He already lived it.

Mom: this is good, Shane. Now everyone knows who the problem really was. Call us tonight? Your dad and I love you. 

Shane’s not sure if she’s trying to convince him or herself.

Shane gets up to shake Tortorella’s hand and a fan comes over to take a picture with them. The fan tells them his name is Dale. He’s wearing a Jaguars shirt with visible pit stains. Shane’s sure he’s got matching ones under his suit jacket. God he looks like an idiot wearing a suit to get brunch but putting an outfit together took too much energy. With a suit it was already decided. 

He smiles as Patricks takes the picture even though it hurts. Shane’s just playing through injury, like a hockey player always does except unlike a broken bone, there’s no timeline for recovery. Maybe he never will.

//

NESN: Opinion - With Hollander out of the Atlantic, Bears can claim 2016 Division Title

Comments:

Murdergeneration: disrespectfully - who the fuck cares about divison titles WE WANT THE CUP!!!!

kitefish: ah the opinion articles where any douche with a keyboard can say whatever 🤢

//

Shane tries not to count the days until the next time they play Boston. He doesn’t let himself think about the unanswered messages from Rozanov. Doesn't let himself think about how he wishes Rozanov would send more. He’s already pathetic enough, he doesn’t need to seek comfort from another person who only sees him as a body, a body that wasn’t good enough. A body inconsequential enough to be traded.

Stop. Breathe. Shane breathes and leaves the texts alone.

He thumbs over to his text thread with Hayden, instead. He’s not sure how he feels about Hayden right now. Hayden who is still in Montreal with his family and his grocery store cookie life; his three kids, his loving wife, a house in the suburbs. He has no pressure to carry a team on his back or to be a role model for kids who don’t usually see themselves on the ice. 

There are at least ten messages Shane marked as read but hasn’t looked at. All some variation of apology that Shane doesn’t have the emotional bandwidth to deal with right now. He’s struggling to regulate his own emotions; he can’t be responsible for Hayden’s too. He puts his phone down and stares at the ceiling for a while.

Shane wishes he’d never had that second beer. He wishes he hadn’t given so much of himself to a room full of men who called themselves his brothers before Shane pushed their tolerance masked as acceptance just a little too far. Wishing he hadn’t had that second beer is a lot easier. Cleaner. 

He can’t avoid this forever, but it's hard to know where he should start.

The reality is that Hayden may have enabled him but the words still came out of Shane's mouth, were still Shane’s truth to own. He hadn’t spoken a new reality into existence, he’d merely uncovered what was already there. Maybe that’s what hurt the most. He opens a thread. Time to get it over with.

Shane: We’ll talk soon. 

Chapter End Notes

comments always appreciated, they fuel me <3

finally torts appears in #tortsfic

hockey things! torts is a bit infamous as a coach. he's abrupt with the media and always says he's changed when he starts coaching a new team. and then we find out he has not, in fact, changed.

some torts links!!!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UPGtxTL-0X4 a remix of torts saying "next question"

torts yelling at his team. as one does
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=biZlEtaXbw8

Elliot Friedman is a very well known hockey insider/reporter. if you want a good podcast covering news around the league check out 32 thoughts! not always the best but a decent place to start if you want to learn more about how the league and teams work.

Shane going to Eggspectations is based on a meeting Mike Babcock had with a player and his agent where they went to a restaurant called Eggspectations. that restaurant is not in florida but this is my fic so i will take my creative liberties with that and focus on making the hockey part good.

next up: shane in florida, ilya counting down the days till he plays florida. sigh. these boys.

Chapter 4: didn't mean to say what i said

Chapter Summary

Ilya obsesses over Shane in Florida and is totally normal about it.

Chapter Notes

Ilya is exceptionally good at lying, especially to himself. It’s how he justifies his new habit of skipping team night outs to watch Hollander’s games. Sometimes he also watches a noticeably Hollander-less Montreal.

It’s captain stuff, he tells himself. Ilya’s growing up, at least a little. He’s being responsible and preparing to win Boston another cup. That’s all it is. Well, that and taking a little bit of pleasure from Montreal’s pain. 

That part is easier to admit.

Ilya has watched (more than) a few of Montreal’s games since they traded Hollander to Florida and it’s laughable how much their team strategy was just “pass to Hollander”.  Isn’t Thériault a Jack Adams winner? God that award is such a fucking joke. John Cooper still hasn’t won one and here’s this idiot who can’t even make basic line adjustments with two in his personal trophy cabinet.

The anger hits Ilya again when #37 makes another pass that none of their current forward corps could receive. The guy is just sending the puck into open ice, not a blue jersey in sight. New Jersey’s defenseman intercepts the puck and sends off a stretch pass to his center that just came off the bench. It’s a clean play in transition that leaves Montreal flat footed and their goalie facing yet another odd man rush. Ilya might feel bad for the guy if he didn’t know for fact he’s an asshole. 

Still, it’s clear that Montreal’s players are lost. They’re passing to a player that’s no longer there, muscle memory winning out over whatever locker room bullshit enabled this clusterfuck.

Even the biased play by play announcers notice that something’s off. Matthew Stone, TSN’s latest talking head chimes in with a disproportionately mild comment that “Montreal is struggling with New Jersey’s transition game tonight.”

No mention of Hollander. His absence hasn’t stopped them from bringing him up every time Montreal makes a decent play, but if the team is struggling then it’s just that they’re “still adjusting”. None of them mention Hollander’s Selke nominated 200 foot game even though Montreal’s new “first line” can’t backcheck for shit. 

For fucks sake, Hayden Pike got a promotion from Montreal’s fifteenth best forward to fourteenth thanks to the immovable reality of subtraction. His defensive game is okay but he can only do so much from the wing, and it’s clear that his minutes have decreased since the Voyageurs sent Hollander to Florida. For everyone else, a couple weeks of playing without Hollander hasn’t made them any more cohesive. Ilya’s sure they’ll find a way to make that Hollander’s fault, too. Somehow. Even his absence is a distraction. 

Unfortunately, on that point, Ilya can relate.

Still, Montreal shitting the bed might be a shame if it weren’t a perfect example of karma at work. Ilya would bet money on Montreal missing the playoffs this year. It would only be what they deserve and Ilya's going to make sure it happens.

For no particular reason.

The broadcast cuts to an ad break as the second period comes to an end. Montreal is down 3 to 0 and Ilya can’t see it going much better in the third. There are commercials for various body washes, erectile dysfunction pills, and prescription car insurance. Eventually the broadcast returns to the panel of talking heads TSN uses to fill up every intermission. 

They’re clearly players from a different time. Ossified in the era they played the game, persistently unable to see the way things have changed. Dinosaurs older than Scott Hunter. Ilya is already tired. The voices from the TV feel sharp and accusatory in a way that brings Ilya back to Moscow. 

He’s indulging the sick part of him that needs to know what they’re saying about Hollander. The part that whispers, insidious and soft, that what’s happening to Hollander could happen to him too. He turns the volume off. The remote is a little stuck. Ilya ignores it. If the button gets stuck like that he can always buy a new one. He’d rather read the subtitles anyway.

Bill Boucher: Now the whole hockey world has been talking about Montreal trading Shane Hollander. 

EJ Smith: Well it was a pretty sudden trade. Hollander just led them to a Stanley Cup, winning the Conn Smythe in the process. Then he’s getting traded a few months later just as the new season is about to start? It’s hard to make sense of that. 

Bill Boucher: If we can’t make sense of it from the outside I think we need to assume Montreal has information we don’t. 

EJ Smith: That’s true, Bill. Reports from our sources in Montreal’s front office suggested that it wasn’t Hollander’s play that they had a problem with. There’s off ice issues, at work here. And we all know if someone’s personal life becomes a distraction that can mess with team chemistry—

Ilya turns the tv off. 

Ilya couldn’t give a shit about his own press. If Grigori Rozanov prepared Ilya for anything it was being an eternal disappointment and having someone say mean shit about him. He’d learned quick and he’d learned early the cost of vulnerability. It was the final lesson his mama ever taught him. If he cut himself down to the size of the hockey worlds’ expectations it was easier for everyone to ignore the pieces of Ilya that didn’t fit. Easier for Ilya to do it, too. It gave him useful camouflage until it became hard to remember that wasn’t his original pattern. That there was a soft underbelly hiding below uncounted layers of calculated confidence.

It’s been a week and he still hasn’t heard back from Hollander. He doesn’t like to think he’s looked through that text thread. Scrolled all the way to the top and took note of the dates where neither of them said anything at all. This past week feels longer than all of those months, those years. 

Fuck this, Ilya thinks with all the weight of the feelings he’s still avoiding. 

//

Signals from the Swamp

What Jaguars Fans Can Take From Shane Hollander’s First Week?

In case you missed it (and we’re not sure how you could have, given all the press attention it’s gotten, the Jaguars completed a blockbuster trade with the Montreal Voyageurs for star center Shane Hollander. Jaguars fans have had little to celebrate in recent years.

After a Cinderella run to the Eastern Conference Finals almost fifteen years ago, the Jags haven’t been on a deep playoff run since. In fact, they’ve only made the playoffs in two of the last thirteen seasons. There were reasons for the team to feel positive. Years of top five draft picks have ensured the Jags have a deep prospect pool, the real issue is if they can stall their desperation for roster players and let the young guys develop as they need to. 

The Jags coach, John Tortorella is always a factor […]

Comments:

familiarstranger: so basically this article can be summed up with one sentence. Hollander traded to Jags, results may vary.

hollzyheaux24: god do i have to become a florida fan for hollzy? Is this my life now? This really is the worst timeline. 

jaguarjoe: always thought that hollander was soft, not physical enough. Not sure i like this trade for the jags. Unless he shows up on the ice ready to take the body i don’t think it’s worth what we gave up to get him. Not sure what Bowman was thinking. 

//

Watching Hollander play is like a prize from a cereal box—nice but unnecessary and a little useless. It pales in comparison to sharing the ice with Hollander. Still, Ilya watches the games. 

Ilya wants to see how Hollander fits in with his new team. He hasn’t been impressed with Florida in recent years (meaning any years, ever) but acquiring Shane Hollander might be enough to change their fortunes. 

It certainly worked for Montreal. He doesn’t think about what it would cost for Boston to acquire Hollander. 

Ilya tells himself all of this. Ilya adds all of the Jaguars games to his personal calendar. Ilya sets alerts on his phone. He watches the games. He thinks about deleting that fucking text thread. He doesn’t delete it.

Ilya tells himself all of this and continues to insist that it means nothing.

//

Watching feels like a shameful lifeline through the silence of unanswered texts in a thread he promised himself he’d delete but hasn’t. Ilya does not care to examine that feeling. He has games to play, a team to captain. 

Tonight, they’re playing at the same time. The MLH didn’t even have the decency to stagger the puck drops. Ilya will have to take it up with the MLHPA for no other reason than the fact that his feelings have already inconvenienced him enough.

If Ilya sneaks a look at his phone between periods then that’s his own business. Scouting the competition. Reviewing tape. That sort of thing. 

Ilya has never particularly cared to watch the Jaguars. First time for everything, he supposes. So many of his own firsts are buried back in the murky Moscow days of adolescence; the firsts he’s shared with Hollander feel bright and sharp. Close enough to cut, and still close enough to hurt. 

Florida hadn’t even given Hollander an A. In a press conference earlier that week, Florida’s GM mentioned not wanting to “mess with the chemistry in the room." All those opaque and meaningless phrases that form the food pyramid of North American media training. 

Ilya’s peek at the stats sheet shows that Hollander has taken a bunch of shots but none have gone in with no assists on the night, either. It happens to every player. Everyone’s allowed an off game but Hollander has more eyes on him than usual. 

So Ilya half listens to LeClaire’s relatively calm between period adjustments and doesn’t think about how it would serve Montreal right if Hollander came second in the scoring race. Ilya will still beat him, of course.

//

BearsUpdatesMLH: [clip from the Boston vs. Carolina game. A few good chances but the final score is 4-2 with a win for Carolina.]

findurselforwhatevr: so did Roz seem off tonight to anyone worse? He seemed quiet 

      whoreofthesvn: no i saw it too. didn’t even bother chirping hunter on the last face off.

               cocoioco: maybe the wherms got him

                     whoreofthesvn: what is it with u and worms (?)

                          cocoioco: we all return to the earth eventually 

                            whoreofthesvn: that didn’t answer my question 

                                cocioco: some questions should stay questions 

//

Another day, another game. Playing Montreal without Hollander feels anti-climactic. Hollow. It’s still a hard game but there are plenty of teams around the league that are hard to play against. 

Boston wins the game, but Ilya loses—he gets put on press duty. He has two assists but it’s not a particularly impressive game by his standards. He knows that the press just wants him out there to ask about Hollander. That’s all they’ve been asking about for the past few games. It seems like reporters only want to talk about The Trade 2.0. Ilya wonders if Gretzky had to deal with the same level of circus Hollander has to. Probably not. Easier to insulate a star when you’re not facing any idiot with an iPhone playing investigative journalist. 

“Rozanov, we’ve got a two parter for you: first, how was it facing Montreal last week without Shane Hollander and second what do you think of his play with the Jaguars so far?” 

For fucks sake, they played Carolina tonight. “I wish Hollander had been on the ice. Can say that for both questions.” Ilya says with a shrug. He says it as casually as he can, anything to distract from the fact he’s baring a bleeding heart on televison. It feels like he’s holding up his text message thread with Jane to the camera and scrolling back endlessly through messages Hollander still hasn't replied to. 

And alright, Ilya wants to see Hollander sweat. He wants to see Hollander take the bait and rise to the challenge like he always has in the past. He wants to make sure Hollander has to watch him, too. He wants Hollander to stop fucking ignoring him. 

//

TSN: Rozanov issues challenge to Hollander in Fiery Post Game Presser “Wish Hollander had Been On the Ice

3 December 2015 

Jeremy Sumpter

BOSTON- The post game scrum following last nights’ Bears vs Nomads game proved a worthwhile watch. The Hollander Trade, or as some have started calling it The Trade 2.0, has been the news on everyone’s lips for the past several weeks. 

Of course, everyone wanted to know Ilya Rozanov’s opinion on the trade and how Shane Hollander’s been playing in Florida. Rozanov issued Hollander a challenge – show up. Insider reports from the Jaguar’s front office have indicated some regret for the Hollander trade. Others have said it’s too soon to tell. What remains to be seen is whether Hollander steps up to meet Rozanov’s challenge. 

[subscribe to read more]

hollzyheaux24: i swear the press has it out for hollzy. Hit piece after hit piece. Journalism is dead

kenterd38: ur fave is washed, accept it

hollzyheaux24: accepting criticism from a dallas kent shooter? I think the fuck not 

//

Ilya goes out with the team. It feels like he’s watching his own body go through the familiar motions at the bar. The things that used to make him feel present only make him feel farther away from himself. 

Marly claps him on the shoulder. Connors makes jokes about how their new rookie is trying to grow a mustache that looks like a caterpillar made a home above his upper lip. Carmichael’s talking about his wife’s sister who just had a baby and how he may start a family. Ilya stops listening to that one. He drifts closer to the pool table. There’s a group of people clustered around. None of them have started a game. It’s like they’re waiting for permission. Fuck that. 

Ilya grabs a pool cue. Forces a smile. The weight of the cue in his hands is solid. It reminds him of a hockey stick. He digs deep within himself for that well of endless charm he’s substituted for genuine connection and loses himself in the company of strangers. 

He wishes he were back at his house. Then he could watch the whole Jaguars game instead of just highlights from the MLH website. 

When he finally slinks home he pours himself a glass of imported vodka in hand and sits on his elegant but uncomfortable couch. Frustration simmers underneath his skin but he feels more present than he has all night. 

He tries to think without getting lost in the forest of thought that always lurks in his peripheral awareness. It helps that the room is chilly. It’s winter and he hasn’t bothered to turn up the heat. He wants to feel the cold settle into his bones; wants the cold to settle him.

//

HFBoards

Game Day Thread 

Game #32: Florida Jaguars vs. Columbus Red Coats

15 December 20215

Kitefish (Mod): please read the forum rules before posting. I have a life, i did not sign up to run an online daycare

Murdergeneration: respectfully, i think modding this forum means you signed up for exactly that

Kitefish (Mod): glad the toddler in chief has registered their opinion

Murdergeneration: anything for you babe 😘

Verucasalty: over under on whether hollander scores this game

Murdergeneration: shut up this is a nonsense only zone

Verucasalty: this is a game day thread

Murdergeneration: i said what i said

//

It’s a few days later that it hits him, like the cold finally did the trick. An idea like an itch he can’t ignore, triggered by who else but Shane fucking Hollander. 

The Florida vs. Columbus game is about to start. Unfortunately, it hasn’t yet so he catches the tail end of ESPN’s sports “news” program.  Which is to say, more speculation about Hollander’s personal life and all the potential reasons to call him a distraction rather than generational talent. Anything to waive the stench of blame away from Montreal’s front office. Cowards. 

Ilya turns the volume down and gets up to pour himself a glass of vodka. It’s sipping vodka but he throws it back like it’s the shitty American stuff, like a college student timing themselves on how fast they could get drunk. It’s shameful but he’s the only one who will know. It’s still unclear to him if that’s supposed to be a comfort or not.

Ilya moves back towards the couch. He expects to see the familiar number 24 in the face off circle, with Hollander written across broad shoulders. Ilya has licked and bitten almost every inch of those shoulders; he’s felt Hollander quiver beneath him with barely restrained cries. He has seen the involuntary smile on Hollander’s face when he checks Ilya into the boards, the way he knows that Ilya will make him pay for it later. 

But it’s not Hollander out there for the opening face off. It’s their “franchise” center, Koslov. Ilya knew him from Juniors; he’s always had an inflated opinion of his own abilities. Apparently Florida’s coach agrees with Koslov and maybe that’s why they’ve been awful since forever. 

Koslov loses the draw and Carter Jeffries, the Columbus Red Coats’ center, sends it back to Lewis. Lewis won a Norris the year before and once again Ilya has to ask why Tortorella hasn’t put Hollander out there. Florida’s so-called first line struggles to get it out of their zone so the guys can go for a line change. Struggle is generous – they look like beer league players. When they finally get the puck out of their zone without icing it, they head back to the bench. 

When Hollander takes the ice he’s beautiful, as always. It doesn’t matter when the guys on his line don’t seem to know how to play with him–either that or they just don’t want to. In any case, it’s not going to do much for the media narrative of Hollander being a problem in the room.Theriault in Montreal would sometimes run a full on line blender. Even if one of his wingers was a recent AHL call up, Hollander never missed a beat.

The more Ilya watches, the more he sees how much Florida avoids passing to Hollander, even when he’s in the exact piece of open ice Ilya would have chosen for himself. The rest of the game isn’t much better, and between periods the panel of know it all idiots hammer home how much Hollander’s performance is a disappointment. 

Not for the first time, Ilya thinks it’s hockey that’s disappointed Hollander instead of the other way around. I would never disappoint him, Ilya thinks, ignoring the ways in which he already has. If Hollander has someone like Ilya on his team instead of these idiot who ignore open ice for no fucking reason–

It’s a shock of cold water to the face, a familiar room emptied of all the furniture. It's the stark clarity of an everyday space turned unfamiliar; it’s a sucker punch to the gut on the ice and there’s no referee to call a penalty on his emotions. 

I want to play with Hollander, Ilya thinks. He’ll do anything to make it happen. Now he just has to get Hollander on board–which means he needs to make sure Hollander can’t avoid him.

Good thing they’re playing Florida next week. 

Chapter End Notes

comments always appreciated, they fuel me

hockey things:

- the jack adams is the coach of the year award. john cooper is an actual nhl coach for the tampa bay lighting who is widely regarded as an excellent coach but only won his FIRST jack adams this year.
-signals from the swamp is an homage to the formerly sb nation la kings fan news site, jewels from the crown.
-The Trade was Gretzky being traded from the oilers to the la kings. there were actual protests in edmonton. it's a whole thing
-Carter Jeffries is a reference to Jeff Carter who inspired this fic, and i put him in columbus (where he was actually traded) i made them the red coats instead of the blue jackets lol.

Chapter 5: tried not to feel it

Chapter Summary

Bad times and bad decisions.

Chapter Notes

psych! we're staying with ilya pov babeyyyy. tw for homophobic language

Ilya lets himself do something dumb: he starts to hope, he starts to make plans. Not immediately, of course. He wakes up the next morning sans hangover but full of regret. 

He thinks of watching Hollander on the TV, the lightning strike realization that Hollander belongs in Boston. Florida clearly doesn’t know how to play with him. Not the way Ilya does.

Ilya ignores the fact that they’ve never played on the same team before, it’s enough that the league has kept the two of them on opposite sides of the All Star game since their first year in the league. It’s in the MLH’s best interest to have them on opposing sides and fuck the MLH. 

Ilya’s not sure he wants that anymore, and he’s not sure what to do about the fact that what he wants has changed. Wanting is dangerous, especially if it involves someone else. Sveta is the exception to an unfortunately well proven rule. With Hollander, it’s always been a push and pull between desire and distance. 

He stares at the ceiling for a while as he tries to make himself get out of bed. His body feels heavy in a way that’s both humiliating and humiliatingly familiar. Especially in the winters when the days grow darker and his thoughts with them. It’s hard not to think about his mother during this time of year. The anniversary of her death is a date that continues to occupy an undeniable place in Ilya’s yearly calendar. There’s some part of him that’s been counting down the years until he’s older than she ever got to be.

Maybe running towards the hope of Hollander is just as much about running away from the dread of that date. Eventually Ilya’s body will get too battered for hockey, and maybe he’ll fade right along with it. 

Eventually he gets out of bed. There’s a premade meal in his fridge but he ignores it. The light in his house feels wrong. The world looks sharp and too close all at once. 

Ilya gets into his most obnoxious sports car despite the fact that the roads are starting to get slick this time of year. The girls at the Mcdonald’s drive-thru, Emma and Jen, recognize him more for his frequent flyer miles in this exact drive through than for his performance on the ice. Today it’s Jen, which is unusual for a Tuesday. Ilya hates that he knows that. 

Jen constantly has new stories about Emma and how they’re never allowed to sit together in class. From the way they talk about one another, Ilya isn’t sure if they’re best friends or worst enemies. Or just worst friends. Maybe they’re just the only ones who can truly match one another’s energy. Sounds familiar. 

“Four McGriddles and a large sweetened iced coffee,” Jen says. She rings it up before Ilya even has to say anything. Ilya’s not sure how it feels to be a regular at McDonalds. What that says about his mental health. He’ll ignore it, there are games to play. 

The drive to the Bears practice rink is the same as it ever was. Ilya parks across two spots. He’s sloppy with his parking job but he also knows that no one is going to say anything. No one is going to make a big deal about it. Part of Ilya wishes someone would say something. That they’d make him into a problem that could be fixed by something as simple as moving his car. He pushes that away, they have a game tonight.

Marly and St Simon are already in the locker room when Ilya gets there. They’re arguing about some arcane bet they’ve had with one another that stretches back before Ilya was drafted. Before this became his team. It’s moments like this where he realizes how arbitrary calling the Bears his team is. He can almost hear his father’s voice telling him that he’s too weak to handle the weight. In his most private thoughts Ilya can admit he wants Hollander to help carry the team with him. To share the burden. To stop feeling so alone.

To add to the shit show, Ilya gets a text from his brother. 

Alexei: send money you fucking faggot 

No other messages. Not even a hello, or an update about their father, which is what Ilya is ostensibly paying for. Ilya’s pretty sure Alexei just copied and pasted the last message he’d sent. But sure, Ilya's the lazy one.

By the time Ilya tunes back into his surroundings, Marly and St Simon have moved on to their new favorite argument.

“I’m just saying that pizza place was absolutely a front for the mob,” Marly says. He’s pulling tape out of his bag, even though he’s got two rolls already in his stall. One of Marly’s superstitions— he has to have no less than three rolls of stick tape in his stall at a time but no more than five. When he’d made the show, one of the vets had called him Goldilocks, because while Marly was hard to phase off the ice, he needed, as he put it “his affairs in order” before he could go out onto the rink and skate his heart out for Boston. Ilya had said hope you left me something good in the will. The rest of the room had laughed and folded Ilya into their conversations just like acceptance was that easy. 

“You think that everything is a front for the mob,” St. Simone says. He’s scrolling on his phone. St. Simone loves gossip. If a man could subsist on gossip alone then St. Simone would be extremely well fed.

“That’s because everything is a front for the mob,” Marly says. “I’ve got a fifth sense for these things.”

“Oh, okay, Mr. Worldly Knowledge.” St. Simone rolls his eyes, “First of all, you should go through concussion protocol because it’s sixth sense—“ 

Marly tries to interrupt but St. Simon isn’t having any of it. “We’re going to go there for the next team dinner and I’m going to show you it’s a perfectly normal pizza joint.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Marly says.“You’re from Quebec.”

“That doesn’t mean shit. Ever heard of the Rizzuto crime family?” St Simone isn’t even looking at Marleau while he says this. His thumbs are moving furiously over his phone’s touch screen. He pulls up a Wikipedia page and brandishes it like a sword dealing the deciding blow.

“Roz what do you think?” St. Simon waves the phone under Ilya’s nose. “How do they compare to the Bratva?” 

“Is offensive Russian stereotype.” Ilya’s father and brother are police. Much worse. 

“Sorry cap.”

“Mmm, no,” Ilya says. 

“What do you mean, no?”

“Means apology not accepted. I do not come cheap.” 

“That’s not what half the girls in Boston would say.” 

St Simon laughs and cuffs Ilya on the shoulder, “he’s got you there Roz.” 

Ilya taps his index finger to his chin. Taps it like he really has to think about it even if the decision was already made. “Have fun with extra round of bag skates. Optional practice is not optional for you two.” 

Marly spends the rest of the walk from the locker room to the gym at the practice rink wheedling Ilya for a less severe punishment. Hardly behavior becoming of an A. Ilya makes sure to tell Marly so. He sees some of the rookies giggle; good–now they’ll have an inside joke. Teambuilding. Ilya treats it like evidence at a trial of him versus himself: see your honor, I’m not broken. 

Various levels of mock outrage as they get on the bikes.

St Simon turns on Sports Center because he’s a nosy bitch and proud of it. Ilya usually enjoys gossiping about the various things going on around the league with St Simon. It’s fun and it passes the workout better. Ilya has been listening to the same mix all season. He hasn’t made a new one, hasn’t been able to with all sucked into the black hold vortex whirlpool of thought that is Shane Hollander. And, yet, despite that, Ilya is afraid to think of what his days would look like without Hollander to fixate on. Ilya can feel his mood (his head?) grow darker with the days. 

Last year he’d caved to the darkness and bought a seasonal affective disorder lamp. He sat at the uncomfortably geometric desk he thought looked cool on the showroom floor but was absolutely horrible for his ass. A hockey player is only as good as his ass. 

(A hockey player is only as good as his hockey. Ilya may lack many things but skill on the ice has never been one of them.)

Like they’ve heard him, Carmichael and Connors have hopped off the bikes to “compare glutes” which is just a thinly legitimized excuse to cup and compare one another’s asses. 

Partridge, a recent addition to the roster via a trade with St. Louis rides the bike on the far side of the gym, near the mirrors that are flecked with sweat from errant towels. Some idiot gave him the remote. Partridge, lacking any ounce of creativity, defaulted to SportsCentre the way hockey players default to interview answers like “getting pucks in deep.”

Ilya can't tear his eyes away from the captions as they scroll across the bottom of the screen, the two talking heads getting paid to yap about nothing are just background noise.

[EJ Lewis: and now we turn to the topic that’s been on everyone’s lips—The Hollander Trade. 

Liam Bizette: That’s right EJ. All eyes are on the Jags right now, which may be the first time the franchise can say that aside from when they’ve, pardon my language, I believe the technical term is “shit the bed”. 

EJ Lewis: Good thing we’re a cable news channel, Liam. But I can’t say you’re wrong. Hollander arrived in Florida a few weeks ago and there’s already been talk of tension between him and management. Insiders tell us that although Hollander consented to the required team physical, his personal physician flew down from Canada after a closed team practice that had a few of our anonymous sources wondering—off the record, of course—if the Jaguars paid too steep a price for a player who is struggling to gel with his teammates.

Liam Bizette: It’s early days, but management asking questions about a trade this early after the player arrives, well..

EJ Lewis: It’s not a good look for Hollander—]

“Turn that shit off,” Ilya scowls and stalks across the room. He grabs the remote and changes the channel at random. HGTV. 

Mr. Real Estate 

Ilya can’t escape. It’s like Ilya’s on a plane with Hollander Hollander Hollander playing in the background instead of the white noise drone of an engine, and that plane never lands.

Fucking Christ. 

Ilya changes the channel again. He changes All My Children and lets the voices of his teammates arguing about the real father of Vanessa’s baby wash over him. 

But he can still hear the plane engine: Hollander Hollander Hollander.

//

[Deke Stevens Video: What the Hollander Trade means for the Guardians]

murdergeneration: everything is about the toronto guardians except when it’s also about the the toronto guardians 

    pensionplanpuppets: zero days since making everything about the guardians

Cocoioco: BUT WHAT DOES THIS MEAN FOR THE TORONTO GUARDIANS????

//

It’s too soon; it’s too slow; it’s the start of their roadie through the south eastern teams. 

They go to play in Tampa first. The flight isn’t as bad as a west coast swing but it’s long enough that if they take off at a particular time of day Ilya has to deal with whatever plane food the team’s nutritionists have packed on board for the players. It’s annoying. Whenever Ilya flies, nothing makes him feel so grounded and settled as a disgustingly greasy and slightly disappointing order from McDonalds. 

Ilya finds himself tapping his foot, even though he literally told off one of the Bears’ rookies last week for doing the exact same thing. Ilya can see the kid just across the aisle, shooting Ilya a concerned look. Ilya shoots him a feral smile that he knows will do nothing to soothe the kid’s anxiety. Good. If Ilya is suffering he is going to take it as his captainly duties to make the rest of his team suffer too. Or at least the ones where his mystique hasn’t worn off yet. He limits the time he spends around them. Best to make the mystery last. 

He’s learned that lesson the hard way yet again.

He spends a lot of time and energy both thinking about how he could get Shane on the Bears and trying to forget how much he’s thinking about Shane. It doesn’t help that he’s on an actual fucking plane and the low drone of the engine isn’t doing anything to drown out the Hollander still drumming through his head. He just needs it to stop. 

//

It disappears for a little bit on the ice, a clean 4-1 win for the Bears. But as soon as Ilya gets in the shower it starts. 

Again and again and again; Hollander Hollander Hollander. 

He’ll make it stop. 

“We’re fucking going out tonight.” 

//

It’s a familiar recipe: the smell of salt, skin, and some people who probably haven’t applied as much deodorant as they should. People who have danced for a long time and who would probably keep dancing forever if the club never closed The humidity inside of the club from all the bodies and breath and the fucking Florida of it all makes Ilya feel like he could dissipate if only he sweats enough. To dissolve himself and everything he's feeling and just let go.

It’s still not enough to forget. He needs more.

//

[Instagram post:  Ilya Rozanov at a Tampa Bay Nightclub. He’s surrounding by beautiful men and women. He’s facing a tall woman with long dark brown hair, one of his hands cupping the back of her neck as though he’s about to lean in for a kiss.]

rozyswhore: god really does have favorites

marleauslefnut:  our bisexual king 🗣️

       kentstateofmind: stop making everything gay

           marleauslefnut:  ***bisexual 

//

The incessant drone in his head is making him stupid and restless. After making out with a few partners while dancing, Ilya ends up going home with a man. It’s safe pick up a man so long as Ilya’s team mates see him dancing and making out with a woman first.  They won’t question who the marks on his neck came from too busy trying to make their own conquests and poor decisions. So Ilya follows the man back to his cramped Tampa apartment. 

Ilya can’t remember much about him except for the vague ways he’d resembled Hollander. His dark hair is longer than Hollander’s but it’s close enough to sustain the illusion through the haze of alcohol and endorphins. Ilya insists on fucking him from behind calling him “baby” “sweetheart” and “dirty slut” instead of a name he didn’t care enough to remember.  He seems up like the last one the most. 

Every time the ghost of Hollander hovers in Ilya’s peripheral awareness, he just fucks the anonymous man harder. It will work, eventually. It has to.

Ilya takes perverse pleasure in the sounds of their skin slapping together. Maybe the man’s name was Sean? 

“Oh fuck,” Simon (?) says from underneath him. Ilya can see his hand stroking his own cock. If it was Shane he'd come hands free. If it were Sha—

Even in his own head, calling Hollander by his first name is dumb and dangerous and deseperate. It's the shot of adrenaline Ilya needs. He comes, makes vague but charming comments as he gets dressed and gets the fuck out of there.

(He could pretend it was Hollander; it could never be Hollander).

//

There’s still an itch under his skin as he walks back to the hotel, because as fucked up as tonight was it's still not enough. Ilya needs a bit of fire that burns enough to leave charred flesh in its wake. He needs a reminder that part of him might be dead but the rest is still alive. He’s felt like this before, back in the dark, sticky corners of Moscow clubs where red and blue lighting flickered over bare skin like an ever changing bruise. 

He needs to fucking get a hold of himself.

When he gets back to the hotel room he waves off a sleepy hello from Marly and makes right for the shower. He’s desperate to get rid of the tacky feel of his sweat on his skin. It’s as quick as he can make it. Out of habit he reaches to check his phone before he stumbles into bed. 

He can see as though it’s real. He’ll light up the screen and see a notification: new message from Jane.

The desperation and pity war with one another before he puts his phone on the nightstand. Hollander can wait—he’s certainly made Ilya wait. 

So. Hollander can wait. Ilya will look in the morning. If there’s anything to look at at all. 

Chapter End Notes

all i can say is thank god vegas lost. that etsy witch i paid was TOTALLY WORTH IT

ETA: been working on my novel pretty aggressively but i am working on the next chapter :)

Chapter 6: the spot where we met

Chapter Summary

Shane struggles.

Chapter Notes

and we're back!

Shane wakes up in an ugly hotel room. He needs to find his own place but it will have to wait—he has a team physical. Shane is, unfortunately, familiar with some of the Jags doctors. Thank you Hockey Canada.  One in particular is known for handing out narcotics like he’s a Pez dispenser. 

In the mess of it all, Shane is grateful for his personal care routine, something he has control over that hasn’t changed. There are clear instructions and all he has to do is follow them.

There’s another car waiting for him to be picked up. He can’t even see the driver. Everything feels sterile and impersonal.

The ride to the rink is a blur of green palm trees, blue water, and cream colored sand. Shane stares at his surroundings like if he looks long enough he can figure out enough to make himself fit. After all, that’s what he’s been doing his entire life . Cutting himself down to size, amputating parts of himself to fit into hockey culture’s narrow idea of excellence.

Today the team doctors will do a fitness check. It standard procedure after a trade. Shane’s not worried about his fitness. He’s worried about the team doctors. He’d worked with one of them at the IIHF World Championship a couple of years ago. Shane saw Dr. Stevens send the guy back out on the ice with little more than a narcotics prescription and a prayer despite the fact that they were all playing in Worlds because their teams had been eliminated in the playoffs.

But Shane can’t play unless the team doctor clears him.

//

The physical goes fine but Shane struggles to conceal his discomfort. . He wonders if the gossip from Montreal has reached his new teammates already. Probably. Hockey players love to chirp, it’s no wonder none of them can keep their mouths shut. If they’d even want to. Shane doesn’t like to think about the answer to that question. The area of his brain dedicated to compartmentalization is experiencing severe overpopulation.

//

Practice is…not great. The ice in Florida is absolute shit. Shane has noticed it in some of the southern states, especially the ones that are multi-use facilities. The Jaguars practice rink is one of six within a five hundred mile radius.

Shane has to adjust. Shane doesn’t want to adjust.

//

The night, Shane thinks about a song that’s followed him over the years. The elite junior hockey camp he went to at 14. The comments that were just jokes, lighten up Hollander. Parents of Timbits teammates who complained about Shane getting more ice time than their kids, then complained when the team didn’t win.

Shane understands what it meant to be resented for taking up space.

“You just have to be undeniable on the ice,” his mom had said. And Shane was. He let himself be a symbolic token of tolerance. To commit to the team. To fucking buy in. She’d said it again tonight.

Shane owned two buildings in Montreal. It hadn’t made management pause when they decided to trade him.

//

Shane’s favorite people in Florida are the rink staff. Some of the players have been okay but Shane doesn’t know how  long that will last. People like having Shane Hollander on their team; they don’t care about Shane the person.

The rink staff say hi to him when he comes in early. They have the tape he likes and extra sticks with the right curve and it helps just a little that all the props are the same even if Shane feels the whole experience has made him into a different person.

//

From yuna.hollander@shh.com

to: shane.hollander@shh.com

cc: fjalali@mtltalent.com

Re: re: Partnership updates

Shane, we’ve talked with all your partners after the trade and they’ve all assured us that they’ll keep your contracts. A few even mentioned that the warmer markets could open up some new opportunities. Take a look at the real estate packet I put together for you. Dad and I can drive the car down this weekend and we can check out some of the listings while we’re there.

//

Signals from the Swamp

The Shane Hollander Era: An Existential Audit

by Hal Incandenza

Welcome back to the Swamp, sailors. It is I, Hal Incandenza, the Swamps’ resident statistician. Today we’re here to take a look a Shane Hollander’s underlying numbers over the course of his career as well as during his tenure with the Jags.

Let’s get into it.

[click to read more]

TheManHimself: So what you’re saying is that Hollander is good but he’s not making the Jags any better

HJIncandenza: yes

TheManHimself: pretty sure you didn’t need all the fancy numbers to say that, could have just used the eye test.

HJIncandenza: but fenwick and corsi are sexy

PGOAT:….Hal are you okay?

HJIncandenza: no and i haven’t been okay for a long time

PGOAT: yeah that tracks

//

Mom: Good luck Shanebug! Just do what you’ve always done; be undeniable.

//

Signals from the Swamp

By Spike Buffington

Game 24: Bears @ Jags 7pm ET

What to expect ahead of tonight’s matchup. 

Hello to all my swamp dwellers, swamp things, if you will. It’s a match up we’ve all been looking forward to since we first got wind of the Hollander trade. 

While fans and analysts on both sides have mixed opinions on the results, there’s no doubt that Hollander has already had his moments in a Jags’ sweater. Look no further than last week’s insane deke around last year’s Norris winning defenseman, Nashville’s Webb Shea. Shea tried using his reach to poke the puck away from Hollander just for Hollander’s precise edge control to make Shea look like he was moving in slow motion. And then when the TSN panel did put it in slow motion, it only made the whole sequence more embarrassing. 

I can’t remember the last time the Jaguars were the embarassers rather than the embarasee. The reason I can’t remember? Because last time was never!

That said, even a blind nun could see that the team has cohesion issues. Some of that can put put down to roster changes — and there have been plenty. Still, an elite player should make those around him better. Montreal’s return haul is certainly the price a franchise pays to get a first line center. Now it’s on Hollander to justify the cost. 

JagJagoff: yeah i was skeptical of the hollander trade as soon as it was announced. Always thought Rozanov is the better player, plays a much more physical game and you can’t afford to get pushed off the puck in a tough eastern conference 

LesHabitants: please take care of my boy i miss him so much. He looks lost out there without his husband (hayden)

BlackLodge: oh god, Hollander brought the shippers with him

TheBronze: Hollander has a lot to live up to, and with how things are playing out he’s looking more like alexander daigle than joe thornton. 

JagJagoff: that’s not a good comparison because thornton is massive and at least four inches taller than hollander is

//

Shane wakes up and ignores the messages he sent the night before. If he tells himself that he never sent them, maybe he’ll be able to make it true through sheer force of will.

Outside, an oppressive layer of wet heat clings to Shane’s skin as he starts his run and it’s only going to get worse. That’s what the last few weeks have taught him, it always gets worse. 

Shane’s learning the streets here. No one stops him like they did in Montreal, sometimes haranguing him about a missed shot the week before. Like Shane didn’t spend extra ice time running the scenario over and over again, figuring out the right way to pay it until, next time, his shot would be undeniable. 

By the time Shane gets back to his new apartment, he’s ready for a shower. It took too long to get out of that fucking hotel, but getting out of there and finding something more permanent felt like its own kind of giving up. 

Don’t be fucking ungrateful, Shane tells himself as he strips out of his sweat drenched clothes, throwing them in the otherwise empty hamper. Laundry was one of the first things Shane did when he finally brought his things here. That was what had really pushed him out of the hotel’s sterile corporate embrace into a sterile, corporate embrace of a month by month apartment decorated by one of the three or so staging companies in the Sunrise Florida area. At least, that’s what it had looked like when Shane went through the options his mom sent him. She’d highlighted a couple of buildings, place where he might put down roots. Putting down roots in a swamp felt like skating in quicksand. Probably. Shane has no interest in trying either. 

Shane tries not to think about Rozanov’s lips. Another kind of quicksand.

//

Jane: Courtyard Marriot, 2418

//

Hollander goes straight from a bruising kiss to sucking Ilya’s dick. It’s hot, so Ilya doesn’t complain. Doesn’t let himself think twice about, even though he enjoys making out with Hollander, even though he loves taking his time getting Hollander so worked up he’s desperate for it. Tonight, Hollander already seems desperate for it. Hollander gets on the bed, pulls off his clothes, and folds them. He gets on his hands and knees. Ilya stalks over. Hollander’s hole is already shiny and a little open in a way it usually isn’t when they’ve just gotten started.

“I’m ready, just fuck me already.” 

He must have prepped himself beforehand. Fuck. Ilya’s not sure how he feels about that. Ilya wanted to see Hollander squirm on his fingers. To make him loud enough that they’d get noise complaints. Ilya still grabs the lube, smears some on his cock. There’s still some of Hollander’s spit on Ilya’s dick, too. Ilya can return the favor. He spits on Hollander’s hole before he slides in. Hollander jolts like he’s been electrocuted but Ilya’s already sliding inside.

This is good, too, he tells himself. Hot. Hollander was so desperate for his cock that he couldn’t wait for Ilya to prep him. Next time I’ll tell him not to prep before hand. Next time I’ll make him come from just my tongue and my fingers.

Hollander makes his usual noises; his almost words. Ilya wonders what they would sound like if they made it all the way out of his mouth.

After they’re done fucking, Ilya feels like some of the Florida heat seeps through the hotel room and into the window. Hollander had been strangely quiet. Not while Ilya fucked him – Hollander never seemed to be able to control his mouth when they were fucking unless it was stretched around Ilya’s cock. Hollander’s in the shower but after he’s out they could go for another round, they could—

“You can stay if you want,” Hollander says. He comes out of the bathroom wearing his clothes already. And then Hollander fucking leaves.

Chapter End Notes

i've been calling this my to the lighthouse time passes chapter so here we are. i struggled a bit with this one but the last scene is actually one of the first things i wrote for this fic, a reverse vegas. we're getting to the more prewritten parts of this (finally). and now i scurry back to my cave to work on my novel. thanks for reading!

oh and if you notice the easter eggs from the social media bits, sound off in the comments :)