cracked plexiglass

Shane didn’t remember his first time skating, but he knew the story. David had been nervous, worried about Shane’s three-year-old body falling on the hard ice of their local arena; he watched nervously from behind the glass as Yuna carried Shane onto the ice and gently placed down his skates. By the end of the hour-long public skate, Shane was making his way around the rink, little feet doing marching steps more than actually gliding. He fell, of course, but he didn’t cry until it was time to get off the ice. A picture of him in Yuna’s arms had sat on a shelf in the Hollander living room ever since, his face clearly distraught under his helmet and his padded arms flailing above his head as Yuna carried him off the ice. 

Shane remembered playing minor hockey - he didn't remember a time before he was playing hockey. He remembered the joy of rushing after the puck, putting as much strength into a shot as his small arms would let him, and celebrating with his friends. Yuna remembered it differently, or maybe she remembered different parts: Shane was clearly talented from a young age, able to understand the rules of the game and start to see strategy on the ice. David often brought up the time Shane had hat tricks in three games in a row, or what David called his hat trick of hat tricks. Shane didn’t remember being better, or how many hat tricks he scored. He had just wanted to play, to try and imitate his favourite NHL players with his friends, to have fun. 

Shane remembered being eleven years old when hockey started to feel different. He left the dressing room after a game, rolling his hockey bag behind him with one hand and carrying his stick in the other. He looked around the arena lobby until he saw Yuna and David, who were talking to an unfamiliar man in a long coat and shiny shoes. He didn’t fit in with the parents in the crowd, bundled up in puffy coats and hats to beat the chill of the arena and the outside winter air. 

As Shane approached his parents, he heard the man talking: “I think your son has great potential. I don’t normally take on players this young, but I can’t imagine how far he could go if he gets the proper development now.”

David made eye contact with Yuna and said, “We’ll have to think it over.”

Yuna put her arm around Shane’s shoulders as he came to a stop beside her. He watched as she accepted a card from the man before he walked away. 

“Who was that?” Shane asked, but his parents just ushered him towards the door. 

He would get his answer two weeks later, when his parents sat him down at the dinner table and asked him if he really wanted to be a hockey player when he grew up. It was a silly question, he thought. All he wanted to do was play hockey, now and in the future. David warned him that it would be a lot of work, and Yuna told him that it wasn’t guaranteed, that a lot of little boys wanted to be hockey players when they grew up and most of them would never get close. It didn’t matter what they said: Shane wanted to play in the NHL. 

Shane met that man from the arena lobby again, now introduced as his agent. At first, having an agent just meant more hockey. In the summer, instead of waiting for autumn to get back on the ice, Shane went to skills development camps. In September, Yuna drove Shane past the public elementary school he’d been attending since kindergarten and instead dropped him off at a private school specializing in sports. He didn’t like being taken away from his friends; at twelve, his new classmates were already aware of which brands meant luxury, which cars meant wealth, and which surnames meant power. But at least he got to play more hockey, and hockey became his lifeline. Shane didn’t have wealth or power, but he soon established himself as the best player in school, and that meant something. 

It quickly became common to see strangers with clipboards and notebooks in the stands. Shane’s agent would give Yuna an overview of the scouts expected to be in attendance, and she would rattle off the names of each scout and what organization they represented to Shane before the game. There were too many scouts to remember, but Shane remembered the first time a junior league scout came to watch. 

One evening before a game, the Hollanders were eating dinner when the landline rang. Yuna jumped up and answered the phone, scrambling for a piece of scrap paper to take notes with. Shane continued eating, already used to the pre-game calls from his agent, except this time, Yuna seemed shocked when she hung up the phone. 

“What is it?” David asked as she sat back down at the table. Shane looked between the two of them, still chewing on a piece of broccoli. 

“Joe Rowland will be at the game,” Yuna said in disbelief. 

“Who’s that?” David asked. He looked at Shane, who just shrugged. 

“He’s the head scout for the 67s,” she replied, as if it should be obvious. 

That made Shane pause, looking up at his mother with a forkful of food hovering in front of his mouth. The Ottawa 67s were the local Ontario Hockey League team, a league that was only a few steps away from the NHL. An OHL scout had never attended one of his games before; Shane played AAA, the highest level of minor hockey, but he was only thirteen. Junior hockey scouts usually focused on the fifteen year olds who were eligible to be drafted in the next year. Suddenly, Shane’s appetite was gone. He listened as Yuna went over the game tonight: Shane needed to focus on showing his own skills more than passing to teammates, and he couldn’t forget to backcheck when the other team was heading for the goalie. Scouts were looking for skills, but they also wanted a complete player who put in effort. 

When Shane stepped onto the ice that night to take the opening faceoff, he resolutely kept his eyes focused on the puck. He couldn’t mess up in front of this scout, and he knew he would get distracted if he tried to search for him in the stands. Shane scored the opening goal halfway through the first period, but his teammates became undisciplined in the second and their opponent scored on two power play opportunities. The game ended 3-1, with Shane scoring the lone goal for his team. 

He walked back to the dressing room with his team and pulled his helmet off as the coach slammed the door open. 

“What the fuck was that?” the coach yelled. “A junior level scout is watching, and you play like shit. Why am I wasting my time with any of you if you don’t even want to make it to junior?”

Shane fiddled with the bottom of his jersey and stayed silent. He didn’t speak until he was sitting in the backseat of the car on the way home. 

“I’m sorry,” he said weakly. 

“What are you apologizing for, kiddo?” David asked, turning around in the passenger seat to look at Shane. 

“We lost.”

“But you played great,” David insisted. “You were the best player out there!”

“Your wrist shot on that goal was amazing, and you were solid defensively all night,” Yuna added. 

“But we lost,” Shane said repeated. 

“That’s okay,” Yuna said. “It’s probably for the best, really. You really stood out compared to your teammates. There’s no way the scout didn’t notice you.”

Shane stayed quiet. It didn’t feel like it was a good outcome. Hockey was a team sport, and his team lost. If he couldn’t lead his team to victory, he wasn’t good enough yet. He would have to get better. 

When Yuna and David came to watch the year-end game hosted by his school, Shane was excited. He wanted his parents to be proud, so he practiced harder and longer than everyone else, and when he scored the opening goal, he looked into the crowd to see his parents. David and Yuna were clapping and smiling, but something was off. They looked different somehow - they were wearing the same clothes he had seen them in this morning, but they were holding themselves smaller, standing close together as if there was a barrier between them and the other parents. Shane didn’t understand it, so he played harder and scored another goal in the third period. When he stepped into the arena lobby after the game, his parents weren’t talking with the other parents like they used to, and they didn’t linger to say goodbye to anyone on their way to the car. 

Shane picked at his nails in the backseat during the ride home. Yuna was chatting happily about the game now, but he couldn’t get the image of them in the crowd out of his head. 

In a lull in conversation, Shane asked meekly, “Did I do okay?”

“You were amazing, sweetie,” Yuna said sincerely. 

“Best kid on the ice, as always,” David added. 

Shane nodded and relaxed a bit in his seat. 

The following weekend, Yuna brought him to a sports store in downtown Ottawa. Shane looked around at the wall of skates at the back, the row of sticks, the collection of shin pads and neck guards and everything in between. Yuna guided him towards the skates first. 

“Let me see if I can find someone who works here,” Yuna said, mostly to herself. 

“My skates still fit, Mom,” Shane said. 

“I know,” Yuna said, still looking around for a sales representative. “Let’s just see if we can find anything better.”

Eventually, they made it to the cashier with a new pair of skates, three new sticks, and a variety of equipment. Shane rambled excitedly about the stick in his hands: Easton Synergy, the same stick that Daniel Andersson used in the playoffs for the Ottawa Centaurs the year before. If he had watched his mother carefully, he might have noticed Yuna’s hand pause for a moment too long before entering her credit card into the machine. 

It was three weeks later that Shane realized. He got out of bed to get a drink of water but paused at the top of the stairs. 

“Will we have enough?” Yuna asked nervously. 

“I think so,” David sighed. “How much was the new equipment again?”

“One thousand for the skates, one-fifty each for the sticks…” Yuna listed. “Let me get the receipt for the rest.”

At the sound of her chair scraping against the ground, Shane rushed back into his room and closed the door quietly. He laid in bed, his heart pounding. Were they in trouble? Was it Shane’s fault? It took him a long time to fall asleep that night. 

The next morning, Shane felt his stomach twist as he climbed into the backseat to drive to school. His mind had been racing since he woke up, and he spent the first half of the car ride trying to work up the courage to speak. 

“Mom,” Shane began quietly and paused. 

“What is it, Shane?” Yuna asked, looking at him briefly in the rearview mirror. 

“I think I like my old equipment better,” he said in a rush. 

“What? You said it all felt great!”

“I, um… I changed my mind. We can take the new stuff back.” 

Shane could see Yuna’s eyes flickering between the road and the rearview mirror, but he kept looking out the window. Yuna turned on the indicator to turn into the school parking lot and remained silent. Once she parked, she got out of the car and slid into the backseat beside Shane. 

“Shane, honey,” she said softly. “Did you hear us talking last night?”

He kept his gaze focused on the field behind the school and nodded once. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Yuna said and grabbed Shane’s hand. “We didn’t want to worry you, Dad and I just wanted to make sure we’re organized. Everything’s okay, we’re all okay. You don’t need to worry about anything.”

Shane nodded again, and Yuna grabbed his hand. 

“We’ll do anything to make your dreams come true,” Yuna said. “You’re so, so talented, and I’m so proud of you.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Shane said quietly. His stomach didn’t untwist as he walked into class that day. His parents had told him that it wouldn’t be easy, but Shane always knew that his dream was to make it to the NHL. He hadn’t understood until then that it was his parents’ dream, too. 

Shane remembered the first time he went to a dietitian at age fourteen. His skills were unmatched, his agent had told Yuna, but he wasn’t growing as fast as his peers. Shane picked at the skin around his nails as he sat in the waiting room with Yuna. 

“Shane Hollander,” the receptionist called out. 

He trailed behind Yuna to an office where the receptionist measured his height and weight before directing them to sit across from a large white desk. Soon, a man strode into the room and introduced himself. He sat behind the desk and shook Yuna’s hand, then stuck his hand out to Shane, who paused before shaking his hand once and pulling his hand back to shove it in his hoodie pocket. Yuna took notes as the dietitian spoke: calcium to help his bones resist fractures, iron to help oxygen flow, lots of protein for muscle growth, low-fat meals with carbohydrates before games, more carbs and protein after the game to repair muscle. Shane bit the cuticles of his thumb as he thought about the sweet dorayaki he ate when his grandparents were visiting from Quebec City last weekend. That wasn’t anywhere on the dietitian’s list. 

At fifteen, Shane remembered having his first significant injury. He had been bumped and bruised before, that had been unavoidable since checking became a part of the sport at thirteen, but this time he had hit the boards at an awkward angle and felt sharp pain shoot through his shoulder. He played another shift before telling the trainer that he couldn’t handle the puck properly without pain. The trainer began examining his shoulder on the bench as a teammate was sent out to cover Shane’s next shift. 

“Shane!” He heard Yuna call, and embarrassment heated his cheeks. She had walked around the perimeter of the rink from the stands to make it to the bench, and Shane was sure all of his teammates had noticed her presence. 

“I’m fine,” Shane said. “You can go sit with Dad.”

His effort was futile. Shane was sent to the dressing room to get undressed while his team played on, Yuna insisting on coming in with him to help him get his jersey and shoulder pads off. 

“I’ll just turn around while you change, in case you need me,” Yuna said. 

“It’s fine, Mom,” Shane said. “You can wait outside.”

“I don’t want you to make your shoulder any worse,” she said, turning to face the wall. 

“It doesn’t even hurt that much,” Shane muttered. He pulled his track pants and jacket over his athletic tights and shirt. He would change and shower at home, he decided. 

They didn’t go home. Yuna called his agent for a sports clinic recommendation as David drove. Shane shifted in the backseat, taking off his athletic shirt and grabbing the t-shirt he had worn to the rink. 

“Shane!” Yuna scolded when she saw him pulling the shirt over his head. “You’re going to make your shoulder worse!”

He didn’t reply. He was too distracted by scratching and rubbing at his legs; the feeling of the damp, clingy fabric of his tights under the track pants was almost unbearable. He rushed to the clinic bathroom when they arrived, shoving his pants and tights off as soon as he locked the door. He pulled the track pants back on, ignoring the twinge in his shoulder and grimacing as he grabbed his tights off the bathroom floor and tried his best to shove them in his pocket. Everything would need to be washed, he decided. 

He exited the bathroom to see David reading a newspaper in the waiting room and Yuna tapping her foot impatiently with her arms folded over her chest. The doctor called them in a few minutes later and began examining Shane’s shoulder. 

“It’s not dislocated,” the doctor said, “and it doesn’t seem to be separated from the AC joint either. Does it hurt?”

“A little, when I move it,” Shane replied. 

“Will he be able to play?” Yuna asked before the doctor could reply. 

“He should take a week or two off to let it heal properly,” the doctor said. And then to Shane: “Try not to put a lot of weight on it, and ice it for the next few days.”

Shane nodded, and Yuna jumped in, “Will it heal properly on its own? I don’t want him to have a weak shoulder for the rest of his career.”

“It should be fine,” the doctor said, “but you could take him to a physical therapist to help with recovery and restoring his full range of motion.”

“Okay, physical therapist,” Yuna mumbled to herself as she wrote in her notebook. 

“A massage therapist could help too,” the doctor added. “That will help loosen up his muscles.”

Yuna added it to her notebook. Fifteen then became the age Shane began routinely visiting sports clinics. 

May 5, 2007 - 8:45 AM

Shane sat nervously in the living room as David fiddled with the computer. Yuna got up from her seat beside Shane and looked at the computer over David’s shoulder. 

“Maybe it’s not on yet?” David wondered aloud. 

“Do you have the right website?” Yuna asked. 

Shane fidgeted with the hem of his t-shirt. The majority of the projected draft picks for this year’s OHL priority selection had Shane going first overall, but he was still worried. He would be drafted, that he was sure - a player didn’t go from being the projected number one pick to not being picked at all over fifteen rounds - but he needed to go first. Everyone expected greatness from him, and anything less would be a failure. 

“There it is,” Yuna said triumphantly as the computer began playing the livestream. 

“I still don’t know why they decided to have the priority selection on the Internet,” David said as he sat down in an armchair. 

“They’ve been doing it this way for years now,” Yuna said. David replied, but Shane stopped listening as the panelists began explaining the rules of the priority selection. He already knew the rules, but he didn’t want to miss anything. 

“Last year’s winner of the Fergie was Steven Spiridakos, the number one pick of the Sarnia Sting,” a panelist said. 

“That’ll be you,” Yuna said excitedly. “Winner of the Jack Ferguson award as the number one pick.”

“You don’t know that,” Shane replied, not taking his eyes off the computer screen. 

“She knows,” David said. “Your mom’s never wrong about hockey.”

“Shh!” Yuna said, pointing to the computer. 

The host was talking: “We are thrilled to begin the 2007 OHL Priority Selection with Commissioner Dan Bosch now ready to announce the first overall choice.”

The screen changed to the commissioner standing behind a podium. 

“Welcome to the 2007 OHL Priority Selection,” the commissioner began. “This is always an exciting time for players, families, and teams, and I’m pleased to announce the selections for the first round.”

Yuna grabbed Shane’s hand tightly, and David sat up in his chair. Shane’s heart felt like it would pound out of his chest, his palm sweaty against Yuna’s. 

“For the first overall pick in the 2007 OHL Priority Selection, the Owen Sound Strike select forward Shane Hollander from the Ottawa Valley Titans.”

Shane slumped back against the couch in relief as Yuna jumped to her feet and David threw his hands in the air. They were cheering loudly, throwing their arms around Shane and each other, and David rushed out of the room to rummage in the kitchen. Shane remained seated, watching as a picture of him came on screen alongside his height, weight, and playing statistics from the past season. He tore his gaze away as David placed a cake in front of him; Congratulations on being #1 was written in frosting across the top. 

The summer he turned sixteen was defined by media attention and preparation. He was asked about how excited he was almost daily by media, neighbours, family, and friends, and he was excited. He wanted to play hockey, and the OHL was the next step towards the NHL, but more than excitement, he felt relief. Relief that everything his parents had done for him hadn’t gone to waste, at least not yet. 

August 25, 2007 - 3:30 PM

Shane stepped onto the tarmac of Owen Sound Billy Bishop Regional Airport with his backpack and looked up at the clear blue sky. His parents had wanted to travel with him, but he had convinced them to let him fly alone. It was going to be a lot to meet his billet family for the first time, and Shane didn’t want his parents to create any extra fanfare. 

He walked into the airport, a one-room building with a small restaurant off the side. He waited as the airport staff unloaded the plane’s cargo until his suitcase, equipment bag, and sticks were piled beside him. Hoisting the equipment bag over his shoulder and grabbing his sticks with the same hand, then stacking his backpack on his suitcase and rolling it behind him, he exited the building and came face-to-face with a middle-aged couple and a young boy standing beside a modest car in the parking lot. He watched as they looked at his equipment before looking back at him. 

The man walked forward and asked, “Are you… Shane Hollander?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, no need for that! Call me Mike,” the man exclaimed. “We just weren’t expecting you to look like that, considering your name.”

“Right,” Shane said flatly as Mike guided him to the car. 

“Hi Shane,” the woman said. “I’m Lucy, and this is Aiden.”

“Nice to meet you,” Shane said and waved at the little boy at her feet. 

They drove to the house, while Shane did his best to engage in their small talk. It was never something he excelled at, but he wanted to make a good impression. He would be living with them for the entire season, after all. 

The house was a quaint, one-storey bungalow on a quiet road not far from the main street. Shane was shown to his room at the back of the house, which was big enough for a bed, wardrobe, and desk but not much else. He left his suitcase in the doorway and sat at his desk, pulling out his flip phone and calling Yuna. 

Yuna picked up after the first ring, “Shane, honey, have you arrived?”

“Yeah, I’m at the house now,” he said, frowning and wiping a finger through the thin layer of dust on the desk. 

“How is everything? Are your billets nice?”

They were friendly enough. It wasn’t the first time someone had been surprised to see an Asian kid as a star hockey player. He probably should’ve expected that reaction, he told himself. 

“They’re good,” was what Shane settled on and changed the subject. “I’m in my room right now, at my desk.”

“Keep your room tidy,” Yuna said, “and don’t leave any messes around the house.”

“I won’t,” Shane said. He wasn’t messy at home in Ottawa, and he certainly wasn’t going to start at his billets’ house. “I should go unpack.”

“That’s a good idea. Call me tomorrow after you meet the team, okay?”

“Okay. Bye, Mom,” Shane said and hung up. He looked at his suitcase and sighed. The next hour was spent unpacking his suitcase and refolding his clothes as he put them away. Five minutes after his suitcase was empty and shoved under his bed, he heard Lucy call him for dinner. 

Shane took a deep breath and headed for the kitchen. The table was full of food, from pork tenderloin to salad and a bowl of potatoes. He hesitated, unsure where to sit. 

“Make yourself at home, Shane,” Lucy said as she set out a child’s plastic plate and fork. 

He nodded and sat in the chair across from Aiden, who avoided looking at him. 

“He’s shy,” Lucy said by way of explanation, and then as Mike walked into the room, she turned to him. “Can you bring the bowl from the microwave please?”

Mike placed a covered bowl in the middle of the table and poured himself a glass of water. “Help yourself, kiddo.”

“Oh,” Shane said, “thanks.”

He carefully speared a piece of pork on his fork and put it on his plate, trying to subtly watch how much Mike and Lucy took. 

“That bowl there is also for you, Shane,” Lucy said. 

“Thank you,” Shane said, lifting the cover off to see a steaming bowl of plain jasmine rice. He stared for a moment, the hand holding the lid still hovering in the air. 

“I didn’t know what to make you,” Lucy said, “but luckily I had some rice in the cupboard. I hope that’s okay.”

“Oh, I mean, yeah, that’s fine. Thanks,” Shane said, scooping rice onto his plate. “I’m happy to eat whatever you usually eat, I’m not picky.”

“Attaboy,” Mike said, clapping him on the back. 

Shane gave him a tight-lipped smile as he put a spoonful of rice in his mouth. He would have to go for a run this evening. White rice wasn’t part of his meal plan if he didn’t have hockey after to burn the carbs. 

The next day was better: Shane walked into the Bayshore Arena with his hockey bag and was met with staff from the Owen Sound Strike organization. They showed him to the dressing room, the ice surface, the gym, and the coaches’ offices. Then he was outfitted with a hockey bag and tracksuit with team branding, and sent to get ready for training camp. Finally, Shane was putting on his equipment. He came here to play hockey, and there was a lot to get used to, but hockey wasn’t new to Shane. That was his safe space. 

The mood in the dressing room was strange, with returning players confident about making the roster and rookies nervous about what to expect. All players would start together in a practice, but the next two days would be rookies playing against other in scrimmages to earn a spot at the main camp. Shane snuck a look at the veteran players on the other side of the room; he recognized some of them from studying last season’s roster, but they seemed like men, with facial hair and muscles. He looked away from them abruptly. It was time for Shane to focus. 

The rookie camp went well: the atmosphere was still competitive but lighter once the veterans had split into their own camp. Shane knew how to play against the other rookies, who were also exiting minor hockey for the first time. His team won every scrimmage, but Shane wouldn’t be satisfied until he made the roster.

He collapsed into his bed on the last night of rookie camp and sighed. Had he done enough? Expectations were higher for him as the first overall pick. Did he show anything new? Were the coaches impressed now that they had seen him play in person, or did he seem underwhelming compared to how he’d been advertised by the media over the summer? His body was exhausted, and yet his mind wouldn’t quiet. He pushed himself out of bed and began doing pushups on the floor with shaky arms. If he wasn’t able to sleep, then he hadn’t worked hard enough yet. 

August 29, 2007 - 9:15 AM

Shane picked at his nails as he walked to Bayshore Arena. He opted not to wait for Strike staff to pick him up, needing to release some nervous energy. There’s no way he didn’t make it to the main camp, he told himself. Except… the standards were probably different at the OHL level. Maybe they were looking for something Shane hadn’t even considered. He walked into the arena and saw a group of rookies standing where the main camp roster was to be posted. A few of them glanced at him, but they didn’t say anything. A moment later, an assistant coach came walking across the lobby with a sheet of paper and tape dispenser in hand. 

Shane felt his stomach clench as the main camp roster was taped to the wall and the coach left without a word. The rookies rushed closer, Shane left to try and peek over their heads, eyes trailing down the page until - Shane Hollander, his name was listed as part of the main camp. He let out a breath and stepped back from the wall to allow himself a minute of relief before heading to the dressing room to get ready. 

That evening, as he walked in the door of his billet house, Mike called out to him. 

“Shane, that you?” 

“Yes,” he said, leaning back against the front door and closing his eyes. After the rookies in the morning, joining practice with the veterans in the afternoon, and now coming home to his billet family, all he wanted was a minute to himself. 

He pushed that thought away - he was being ungrateful, really - and entered the kitchen. 

Mike was sitting at the table while Lucy stirred a pot on the stove. 

“So?” Mike prompted. “Don’t tell me we ended up with the kid who couldn’t even make the main camp.”

“Mike,” Lucy said sternly, but she also turned to look at Shane expectantly. 

“I, uh- Yeah, I made it to the main camp,” Shane said. 

“Good on you, kid,” Mike said. “Can you set the table?”

“Yeah, of course,” Shane said, and began taking plates out of the cupboard as Lucy turned off the stove and left to get Aiden. 

“Feeling nervous about making the starting roster?” Mike asked. 

“A little, yeah,” Shane replied, putting a plate and cutlery on the table in front of Mike before moving on to Lucy’s seat. 

“There are a lot of good, strong Canadian boys on that team,” Mike said, “but people say you’re pretty good.”

I’m Canadian, I’m strong, Shane wanted to say, but he bit his tongue. 

“I try my best,” Shane said instead. 

Lucy came back into the room and sat Aiden down at the table across from Shane. The young boy had gotten used to Shane’s presence, but he still seemed wary of him.

As they all began eating, Aiden spoke up: “Are you adopted? Daddy says you’re adopted.”

“Aiden!” Lucy said, glancing sheepishly at Shane. “We don’t ask people that.”

Shane gave a small smile at Aiden and avoided meeting Mike’s eyes, which were trained on the side of his face. 

“I’m not adopted,” Shane said quietly. “My mom is Japanese, and my dad is Dutch.” 

“Your dad must be a big hockey fan,” Mike said, clapping Shane on the back. “Who does he cheer for?”

“Ottawa,” Shane said, staring at his plate, “but my mom is the real hockey fan. She loves Montreal.”

“Oh,” Mike said. “Well, that’s great. I love when… um, foreigners? What’s the word?”

“New Canadians?” Lucy offered tentatively. 

“Right, I love when new Canadians embrace hockey.”

Shane just nodded and forced himself to finish the food on his plate. 

September 3, 2007 - 7:45 PM

“Hi, Mom,” Shane said as he held his phone to his ear, staring at the ceiling of his bedroom. 

“Shane, honey!” Yuna exclaimed. “Did you make the roster?”

“Yeah, I did,” he said. 

“I knew you would,” Yuna said. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Thanks,” Shane said. “I’m excited.”

“I wish I could be there to see your first game. I could take a short leave from work. If I fly through Toronto, it’ll be, what, six hours?” 

“It’s okay, Mom. You already used most of your vacation time, didn’t you? Don’t take unpaid leave.”

“It’s just a few days,” Yuna insisted. 

“It’s fine,” Shane said. “I’ll be in Ottawa in a few months to play the 67s.”

“Okay, honey,” she sighed. “Tell me about your teammates.”

“They’re good. There’s one other rookie that-“

Shane was interrupted by a knock on his door. 

“Shane, your friends are here to see you,” Lucy called. 

“Okay, one second please,” Shane called back. 

“Shane?” Yuna asked through the phone. 

“Sorry, Mom, someone’s at the door for me. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“I’m glad you’re making friends,” Yuna said. “Go have fun, we’ll talk later.”

Shane hung up and sat for a minute on his bed. Who would be here to see him, all the way out in Owen Sound? He opened his door and walked to the front hallway, where three veteran Strike players were standing. 

“Hollander, there you are,” said Jason Roy, a twenty-year old over-ager who had yet to be drafted to the NHL. 

“Yeah,” Shane said hesitantly, not sure what was happening. 

Roy turned to Lucy and said, “We’re going to take Shane here to Kelso Beach to welcome him to the team, if that’s alright, ma’am.”

“At Nawash Park? That’s lovely,” Lucy gushed. “Shane has his first day at school tomorrow, so you boys don’t keep him out late, okay?”

“Of course not, ma’am,” Roy said, leading Shane out the door. 

Once the door was closed behind them and they were making their way down the sidewalk, one of the other veterans, Nick Campbell, shoved Shane’s shoulder. 

“What the fuck took you so long, Hollander?” the third veteran, Lucas Gagnon said. 

“Sorry,” Shane replied. I was talking to my mom, he thought but chose not to say. 

“He was probably jerking off,” Roy snickered.

“I wasn’t,” Shane protested. 

“His billet mom is pretty hot.”

Shane kept his eyes on the sidewalk in front of him. He had no idea what his teammates wanted, and he didn’t know how to ask. They finally stopped at a beach and Shane looked around nervously. It was empty, the cool September evening air not enticing anyone else to visit. 

“That water there is Owen Sound Harbour,” Gagnon said. 

“Okay,” Shane said, still not sure why he was there. 

“Strip,” Roy said. 

“What? No!” Shane said, a spike of anxiety shooting through him and into his stomach. 

“Don’t you want to be on the team, Hollander? We’ve all done it.”

“I can’t take my clothes off out here, we’re in public,” Shane said, hating the way his voice trembled. This was ridiculous. Insane. They couldn’t seriously be asking him to get naked on a random beach downtown. 

“You’d love to take your clothes off for us in private then?” Campbell laughed. “Fucking gay.”

“No, that’s not what I-“

“Christ, Hollander,” Roy interrupted. “We’ll turn around, and you’re going to strip everything while we’re still being nice.”

Shane watched in disbelief as the three men turned to face the road. He felt frozen in place, his mind spinning without being able to land on any concrete action or escape plan. Gagnon looked over his shoulder and rolled his eyes. 

“Fuck, Hollander. I knew you’d be a pussy,” he said and walked towards him. Shane stumbled back as Gagnon’s hand reached towards him 

“Okay, okay,” he said, “sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll… I’ll do it now.”

Gagnon raised an eyebrow and waited. He wasn’t going to turn around, Shane realized with dread. He just needed this to be over, to go back to his small room at his billet house and pretend it never happened. With shaking hands, Shane pulled his t-shirt over his head and angled his body away from the veterans, trying to avoid Gagnon’s gaze. 

He folded his t-shirt and placed it in the sand beside him, toed off his shoes and placed his socks inside, and then his shaking hands paused at the waistband of his athletic shorts. Were they really going to make him strip? He closed his eyes and tried to breathe in. They’re going to say it was all a joke, he told himself. 

“What a bitch,” Gagnon muttered, grabbed the hem of Shane’s shorts, and pulled them down with his underwear. 

“Fuck!” Shane yelled, but Gagnon shoved him towards the water. He tripped over his shorts and kicked them off his ankles, stumbling into the water of the harbour. At this point, all that mattered was getting in the water where no one could see his naked body. He was used to changing and showering in the dressing room, but this was different. This was humiliating. 

He turned when the water reached his navel and stood there shaking as his teammates laughed. He felt his chin quiver and bit his lip. He couldn’t cry in front of them, he wouldn’t give them any more satisfaction. 

“Welcome to the team, Hollander!” Campbell yelled. 

Shane watched in horror as Roy picked up his clothes and walked towards the road with the other players. 

“Wait!” Shane yelled. “Stop!”

Campbell and Gagnon laughed as Roy tossed his clothes over the branch of a tree. 

“See you at practice!” Campbell called to Shane as they walked down the sidewalk without looking back. 

Naked and alone in the harbour, a tear fell down Shane’s cheek. He wiped it away angrily, his wet hand leaving more water in its wake. After a few minutes, when it was clear that no one was coming back to help him, Shane crept to the edge of the water and then rushed to where his running shoes still sat, grabbing his socks and shoving his shoes on his feet before running to the tree where his clothes hung. He grabbed the lowest branch and pulled himself up, ignoring the sharp pain of bark digging into his palms and knees. He reached up and tugged his clothes down, hurriedly dropping back to the ground and pulling everything on. 

He sat against the tree, out of breath and still shaking, trying to process everything that had just happened. He stared at his feet. His shoes were wet. 

Shane hated the feeling of wet shoes. 

The thought made him want to cry again, so he stood, wiped his stinging palms on his shorts, and walked home. 

September 4, 2007 - 7:15 AM

Shane opened his eyes the next day, but he couldn’t tell if he had been asleep when his alarm went off. It felt like he spent the night in a liminal space between wakefulness and sleep. He got dressed for school in a daze, going through the motions and stumbling out the door to catch the bus. He sat in an empty row and rested his forehead against the window. It was going to be a long day. 

He shuffled between classes, unclear whether he was glad that no one seemed interested in talking to him. Shane certainly wasn’t in the right headspace to carry a conversation, but he knew that if he didn’t make an effort now, it would only be harder to find friends later. He was in grade eleven, and it was obvious that all the other students knew each other from years together in the same high school. 

At lunch, Shane walked outside and took a deep breath of fresh air. He turned the corner around the back of the school, looking for somewhere to sit, when he came across a group of students huddled around the brick wall. He paused, about to turn around to find a quiet space instead, when he heard a voice plead “stop” from within the huddle. 

Shane felt his shoulders tense and anxiety clench in his stomach. He took another few steps forward, and a girl in the crowd spotted Shane. 

“Fuck, there’s a new one,” she said. The students all turned to look at Shane, and he saw a younger boy sitting in the middle of the crowd, trying to collect his belongings from where they were scattered across the asphalt. 

“An Asian is coming to rescue the Native now?” another student said. 

“What’s going on?” Shane asked the boy, ignoring the other students. He must’ve only been in his first year of high school. 

“None of your fucking business,” the same student said. 

“Wait,” the girl said, “he’s the new Strike player.”

“Jesus, do they accept anyone?”

“Let’s go. You know the school lets the hockey players get away with everything.”

Shane bent to help the younger student collect his stuff, picking up a notebook and a few pens as the other students left. 

“Are you okay?” Shane asked. 

“Yeah, thanks,” the boy replied, not looking at him. 

Shane nodded and stood once everything was put back in the boy’s backpack. 

“Are you really playing for the Strike?”

“Yeah,” Shane said, and then unsure of what else to say, he added: “I’m Shane.”

“Thanks for the help,” the student began tentatively, “I, uh… don’t really want to be associated with the hockey players. You seem nice, but… you know. I’m just gonna head inside.”

Shane nodded silently. He had heard that before in Ottawa, back before he switched to a private sports school. He would always argue that hockey was about teamwork, hard work, responsibility, and determination. This time, as he watched the younger student walk around the corner towards the school doors, he didn’t feel like arguing about it. 

He was too much of a coward to defend himself. What did he think he could do for someone else? He leaned against the brick wall and slid down until he was sitting on the asphalt. He tried to focus on the feeling of fresh air filling up his lungs. 

September 21, 2007 - 3:00 PM

The Owen Sound Strike’s first game of the season fell on a Friday. They were travelling to play the Barrie Colts, and Shane felt excitement bubbling under his skin as he shoved his equipment into the cargo compartment. Hockey was always a constant in his life. Now that the season was starting, he could get back to what he was best at. 

He straightened his mandated suit jacket and slacks before climbing onto the bus and looking for an empty seat. The coaches and trainers occupied the first three rows, so Shane walked further in, but he froze at the sound of Campbell’s voice. 

“Back the fuck up, Hollander!” He yelled from the back of the bus. “Rookies sit at the front.”

Shane looked behind him - he had barely made it a third of the way down the aisle, but when he looked back at Campbell, Roy, and Gagnon, he just went quietly to the fourth row and sat behind the assistant coaches. It was fine. It was quieter at the front anyway, and Shane needed to focus. 

Later, Shane sat on the bench as the Strike’s first line prepared for the opening faceoff. It was strange, watching the first period begin from the bench. He couldn’t remember the last time he wasn’t on the first line, but he felt anticipation prickling under his skin anyway.  Five minutes into the game, Shane got a tap on the shoulder from the head coach and he was flying over the boards. He skated into the Colts’ zone, intercepting their breakout pass and sending the puck around the boards to the Owen Sound defenceman on the other side. As the defenceman pulled the puck back and took a shot, Shane went to the front of the net and tipped the puck. 

“Fuck,” Shane whispered under his breath as the goalie covered the puck and the referee blew the whistle. He skated back to the bench, where the coach was watching him.  

“Good read on the intercept, Hollander,” the coach said. “This goalie is good down low. Try shooting high.”

Shane nodded. He watched as the Strike defenceman pinched along the boards and let the puck past him, two Colts players rushing by to face the Strike’s only defenceman left. 

The team let out a groan as the Colts scored, and the coach yelled at the players returning to the bench: “What happened to the fucking backcheck?!”

In the second period, the coach tugged on Shane’s jersey. 

“Hollander, you’re centring the second line,” the coach said, and Shane hopped over the boards. 

A few shifts later on his new line, Shane won the faceoff in the neutral zone and entered the Colts’ zone with possession of the puck. At the top of the circle, Shane turned his head to look at his winger but fired a wrist shot at the net instead, the puck flying over the goalie’s shoulder. 

“Fuck yeah!” He cheered as his teammates wrapped their arms around him. 

When he got back on the bench after fist bumping his teammates, the coach patted him on the helmet. 

“That’s how you play!” The coach yelled to the other players. Then, to Shane, he said, “We fuckin’ picked right with you.”

The game remained tied 1-1 until the end of regulation, and the Strike huddled around the boards as the coach discussed their strategy for three-on-three overtime. 

“Hollander, you start at centre,” the coach said. 

As Shane bent to take the faceoff, he looked at the Colts player across from him. He couldn’t have been more than four years older than Shane, but he was tall and muscled, with facial hair and a confident smirk. 

Shane lost the faceoff but was able to intercept a pass and gain control of the puck. He passed it to the winger and entered the offensive zone, but the winger dropped it back to the defenceman, not realizing he had gone to the bench to change. Shane skated as fast as he could down the ice after the two Colts players advancing towards the Owen Sound goalie. As one of the Colts passed the puck to his teammate across the slot, Shane slid onto his stomach, reaching his stick out and knocking the puck into the corner as he slid into the boards after it. From his knees, he passed the puck up to the Strike player alone at centre ice, then climbed to his feet and made his way to the bench. When the Strike player scored on the breakaway, Shane immediately hopped back over the boards to jump into his teammates’ arms and celebrate. 

In the dressing room after the game, Shane was still trying to catch his breath as the trainer handed him a puck with a piece of hockey tape around the outside that said “09-21-07 - #24 S. Hollander - First OHL Goal”. He looked at the puck in his hands before putting it carefully into his suit jacket pocket and getting undressed. The room was loud and excited as teammates cheered and chatted about the game, but Shane didn’t join in. It was one game of sixty-eight; he wouldn’t let himself get carried away. 

Climbing onto the bus that night, Shane went to sit at the front when Gagnon called his name. 

“Hollander! Come sit with us.”

Shane looked at the veteran players at the back of the bus. 

“I thought rookies sat at the front,” Shane said flatly. 

“Not when they play well,” Campbell said. 

“Come take a goddamn seat,” Gagnon said. “We don’t offer every day.”

Shane hesitantly made his way to the back of the bus and stood in the aisle. 

“Fucking hell. Sit, Hollander,” said Roy. 

He sat slowly in an empty spot, looking between his teammates. He stayed sitting up, unable to let himself fully relax back against the seat or take a deep breath. The other players were talking animatedly, reaching over seats and swatting at each other as the bus began the two-hour drive back to Owen Sound. Fifteen minutes into the drive, Shane jumped at the feeling of a hand landing heavily on his shoulder. 

“You know there’s a washroom on this bus?” Campbell asked. 

“Cool, I guess,” Shane offered. It felt like his stomach twisted every time the veteran players paid attention to him. 

“Come take a look,” Campbell said, standing to tug on Shane’s suit jacket. 

“I’m okay,” Shane said, trying to keep his voice firm. 

“Get up, Hollander,” Campbell said, pulling harder. 

Shane reluctantly stood from his seat and shuffled behind Campbell as he was tugged to the very back of the bus. Campbell opened the door, and Shane felt hands on his back shoving him into the cramped washroom. He turned in time to see the washroom door slam shut in his face. 

“Hey!” Shane yelled, banging his fist on the door. “Open the fucking door!”

“Wow, he does have balls,” Gagnon snickered. 

Shane shoved at the door, but he barely got it open before the combined strength of the three veterans on the other side slammed it closed again. 

“Give it up, Hollander!”

Shane shoved at the door once more, but it didn’t budge. He closed his eyes and curled his hands into fists at his side. This was nothing, he told himself. It was dumb hazing from his teammates. His parents put everything into his hockey career: money, time, energy. He wouldn’t ruin their dream - his dream - of playing in the NHL because he had shitty teammates. The bus rumbled beneath his feet, and he tried to focus on recounting the view he had seen on the way here. The highway curved along Georgian Bay’s rocky shores and its wide expanse of water flowing in from Lake Huron. It reminded Shane of his family cottage in Lanaudière, even though it sat on a small lake, insignificant in comparison to the waters of the Great Lakes. 

He missed Lanaudière. He hadn’t spent much time there since he started attending hockey camps in the summers, not like the long weeks he would spend swimming and hiking as a young child. 

Shane was pulled out of his thoughts by the sound of a new voice: one of the trainers had approached the washroom. 

“Who’s in there? I need to piss.”

“Come on,” Roy complained. “We’re only half an hour away from the arena.”

“Let him out,” the trainer sighed. “You’ve had your fun.”

The door opened, and Shane looked up to see the trainer’s unamused face. 

“Back to your seat, Hollander,” the trainer said tiredly. 

Shane nodded and slid past the trainer. He kept his eyes focused on his feet as he walked down the aisle, ignoring the snickering of the veteran players, and slumped into an empty seat at the front of the bus. His knees protested after being locked in place for so long, but he ignored that too. 

It was a victory. The team won; Shane scored the tying goal and assisted on the game winner. That was all that mattered. 

November 17th, 2007 - 5:00 PM

Shane sat at the desk in his bedroom. The sun went down earlier each day, his lamp providing most of the light in the room. A piece of paper lay on the desk in front of him, and he picked at the skin around his nails as he looked at it. A large, red 27% was scrawled across the top, and red pen strokes circled errors across the front page and onto the back. A failed math test, and then in the next class, his French teacher had reminded him that he had yet to hand in two of his assignments. 

He used to be a good student. Now, when he wasn’t playing hockey, he was training: skating treadmill, lifting weights, agility exercises. When he wasn’t playing hockey or training, he was avoiding the veteran players on the team. His body was pulled tight with anxiety whenever he was in their proximity, muscles tense and mind whirring. And when he was at school or home, where he didn’t have to worry about running into them, he was too exhausted to put much effort into anything else. As soon as he was somewhere his body could finally relax, he had trouble focusing. 

It was too bad he couldn’t have his hockey statistics count for his grades. He was first on the team in goals and points, and second in assists, and first in the league in points. Despite his efforts, the Strike weren’t doing well in the standings. Their defence was weak, and the forwards had little depth to support Shane’s offence. Losing was frustrating, even when he was individually successful.  

“Come set the table, kid,” Mike said, opening the door without knocking. It was a habit that Shane hated; he didn’t feel like he had his own space anywhere in Owen Sound. 

“Whatcha got there?” Mike asked when he saw the paper on his desk. 

“Nothing,” Shane said, trying to fold the paper before he saw. 

“Uh-uh,” Mike scolded, “you’re in my house. No secrets.”

He grabbed the paper from Shane’s hands, and Shane cringed as his fingers crinkled the edges.

“I’ve been busy with hockey,” Shane said weakly. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be good at math?” Mike asked, putting the test back down on his desk. 

“I guess,” Shane said, folding the paper carefully and putting it in his desk drawer. 

“At least you have hockey going for you,” Mike said and patted him on the back. 

December 21, 2007 - 2:15 PM

Shane stepped into the arrivals hall of the Ottawa airport with his backpack at the start of the OHL’s week-long Christmas break. Yuna’s hand shot up over the heads in the crowd, and Shane smiled. 

“Shane, I missed you so much,” Yuna said as she pulled him into a hug. 

“I missed you too,” Shane said, smiling at David over her shoulder. 

“Let’s go home,” David said, throwing an arm around Shane’s shoulders as they walked to the car. 

Yuna turned around to face him from the passenger seat. 

“You’ve gotten so much taller, and it’s only been a few months,” she said. 

David started the car and said, “He’s basically a man now.”

“He’ll always be my boy,” Yuna said. “Have you been eating well?”

“Yeah, Lucy is a great cook,” Shane said. 

“There’s enough protein? And vegetables?” 

“Yes, Mom,” Shane sighed. 

Yuna raised her hands. “Sorry, sorry. Tell me about hockey instead.”

“She keeps up with every game,” David said. 

Shane smiled briefly. If it’s just hockey, he could handle that. He had a fleeting thought on the plane that he could tell his parents about the racism and harassment, the constant anxiety and resulting exhaustion. He had quickly decided against it. They didn’t need to be worrying about him while he was across the province. It would be pointless to ask them not to act if they knew, but that would be the end of hockey. It didn’t matter that Yuna had poured her life into Shane’s future; if she refused to send him back, he’d never find another path to the NHL, and if she came to Owen Sound to put a stop to the harassment, the hockey world would exile them both. His presence was enough of a disruption, it wouldn’t take long for word to spread that he was difficult to coach, or not suited for professional hockey, or whatever coded language would isolate him the quickest. 

“Did you see my penalty shot last week?” Shane said instead. 

February 4th, 2008 - 12:05 PM

Shane knocked on his home room teacher’s door during lunch. 

“Come in,” she called. 

He opened the door and stepped inside, closing the door behind him and standing awkwardly beside the teacher’s desk. 

“You wanted to see me?” he asked. 

She nodded and pulled out an envelope. “You’ve been doing so well with the Strike this year.”

“Thank you,” Shane replied, rubbing his eyebrow. 

“I have your report card for last semester,” she said as she pulled out the report from the envelope. “I talked to your French and math teachers, and we agreed that we didn’t want anything to jeopardize your season.”

Shane accepted the report card from her and blinked at the final mark of 70% in both math and French, a final mark that he certainly didn’t earn. 

“The team means a lot to the community,” she continued, “so let’s keep this between us, and try your best to keep up with your schoolwork this semester, okay?” 

“Okay,” Shane said, sliding the report card into his backpack. “Thanks.”

February 17th, 2008 - 1:00 AM

Shane followed three of his teammates out of the apartment building where one of the nineteen year olds on the team lived. The nineteen and twenty year olds had bought alcohol for the younger players to celebrate the Strike’s first win after a four-game losing streak. Shane had refused any alcohol, but his teammates hadn’t done the same. It wasn’t easy to say no to the older players; they were insistent, cursing at Shane when he refused and trying to sneak alcohol into his water when he wasn’t looking. His teammates stumbled across the parking lot, hooting and cheering as Shane tried to keep them all upright. 

“One of you is going to break a fucking ankle,” Shane muttered.

They made it to the sidewalk and began walking towards the nearby neighbourhood when a car skidded to a stop beside them. 

“Get in, motherfuckers,” Campbell yelled from the driver’s seat. 

Shane felt the familiar twist in his stomach at the sight of him, but his teammates were already clambering into the front and back seats. 

“Hurry up, Hollsy!” One of them yelled. 

Shane took a deep breath and squished himself into the backseat. Struggling to put his seatbelt on in the cramped car, Shane’s body jerked backwards as Campbell accelerated away from the curb. 

“Where’re we goin’, boys?” Campbell yelled. 

“Twelfth street,” Shane said over the jumbled nonsense of his teammates. 

“Naw, c’mon,” Campbell groaned as he swerved into the left lane. 

“We’re already past curfew, and-,” Shane cut himself off. “Wait, are you drunk?”

“No,” Campbell dragged out the word, turning to look at Shane over his shoulder. “‘M always drivin’ like this.”

“Okay, you need to pull over,” Shane said, panic rushing through his body. “Campbell, I’m not fucking joking. Pull over.”

“You’re such a pussy, Hollander,” said Campbell as he accelerated through downtown Owen Sound. 

Before Shane could reply, a police siren sounded behind them. 

“Fuck,” Shane whispered as Campbell jerked the car towards the curb and skidded to a stop. His heart was beating rapidly against his rib cage; he couldn’t be arrested. He couldn’t lose everything because of fucking Campbell. 

“Hollander, you gotta do the talkin’,” Campbell hissed loudly.  

Shane ignored him, mind too busy racing to try and figure out what to do. The cop approached the car and knocked on Campbell’s window. 

“License,” the cop said, holding his palm out to Campbell. When he received it, he looked at it for a moment before bending over to look at the boys in the car. “You play for the Strike, don’t you?”

“Yessir,” Campbell slurred. 

“Have you all been drinking?” The cop asked. 

“Not Hollander,” a teammate piped up from beside Shane. 

“Hollander!” The cop exclaimed. “You’re quite the young phenom out there.” 

“Thank you, sir,” he replied stiffly. 

“You haven’t been drinking?”

“No, sir,” Shane confirmed. “I didn’t realize Campbell was intoxicated when he picked us up, and-“

“Never mind all that,” the cop interrupted. “You have your license?”

“Just my G1. I haven’t done the road test yet, only the written one.”

“But you’ve driven before, right?”

“A few times,” Shane said warily, picking at his nails. 

“Well, get on over here, then! And you,” the cop said to Campbell, “get in the backseat.”

Once Shane was sitting in the driver’s seat, the cop leaned back in the window and tapped his hand on the roof of the car.

“Drive safe, and I expect to see more wins after tonight,” the cop said. 

“Yes, sir,” Shane replied quietly. He started the car once Campbell finally managed to get his seatbelt buckled and whispered to himself, “What the fuck just happened?” 

He slowly drove towards his teammates’ neighbourhood with a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. He dropped one teammate off and then parked at his other teammate’s house on the street over, shuffling Campbell onto their couch. He sighed as he closed the front door behind him, and then let out a short laugh when he saw how crookedly he had parked the car. He walked down the sidewalk towards his billet house, showered, and brushed his teeth. It wasn’t until he was lying in bed that he fully processed what had happened. 

“Holy shit,” he said into the darkness of his bedroom. “I could’ve died.”

He felt the familiar feeling of anxiety creeping through his body, the only sound he heard was his breathing picking up its pace. Campbell could’ve killed them, with how fast and erratically he was driving. He could’ve killed someone else. David and Yuna would’ve woken up to find out that their only son was dead, or in a coma, or paralyzed, or in the car that killed a pedestrian, maybe a child, or an elderly woman, or a whole family. Shane hadn’t even made his parents proud yet, he hadn’t given back anything he’d taken. And he almost didn’t have the chance to, because he was such a fucking idiot that he didn’t notice Campbell was drunk before they got in the car. He didn’t even think to check, even though he knew the team was celebrating the win, and that always involved alcohol, and then Campbell was driving and Shane realized he was drunk and he still didn’t fucking do anything. No, that’s not true. Then he got in the driver’s seat, with basically no driving experience, at one in the morning, after being exhausted from the game and trying to fit in at the party and miserably failing because he didn’t want to take a single sip of alcohol. So much for that righteousness; fuck Campbell, Shane could’ve been the one to kill someone. And wasn’t that a selfish thought. What, did it not matter if someone died as long as it was Campbell running them over and not Shane?

“Such a piece of shit,” Shane whispered to himself. 

The next morning, Shane stood outside the head coach’s office, looking at the wooden door in front of him. He took a deep breath and ran through what he wanted to say in his head. Someone could’ve been injured or killed, Campbell said it was a regular occurrence, Shane just wanted to make sure everyone was safe. It wasn’t snitching. Well, it kind of was, but it wasn’t the petty kind, and he would take responsibility for his mistakes too. He knocked on the door before he could talk himself out of it. 

“Come in,” the coach called. 

“Hi, Coach,” Shane said, closing the door behind him and sitting rigidly in the chair across from the coach’s desk. 

“Hollander,” the coach acknowledged, shuffling some papers. 

“I wanted to talk to you about, um…” Shane trailed off, his throat dry. 

“Spit it out,” the coach said, looking up from his paperwork. 

“I ran into Campbell last night. He had been drinking, and-“

“He’s legal age,” the coach interrupted. 

“Yes, but he was driving, and he said he did it often,” Shane said. “Driving drunk, that is.”

“And you coincidentally weren’t drinking last night?” 

“I didn’t have any alcohol,” Shane insisted. 

“Right,” the coach said, leaning back in his chair and observing Shane. 

“It’s not about the alcohol,” Shane said. “I’m just worried about everyone’s safety if he’s driving drunk.”

This wasn’t what Shane had expected. He sat stiffly in the chair as the coach just looked at him. Was he crazy for bringing this up? 

“I should’ve known better,” Shane continued when the coach remained silent. “I should’ve stopped him from driving. I’ll take responsibility for that, and I don’t want anyone punished. I’m just worried.”

“Alright, get off your fucking high horse, Hollander,” the coach sighed. 

“I didn’t mean-“ Shane began but was quickly cut off. 

“I’ll deal with it,” the coach said sharply, and Shane’s mouth snapped shut. “Now maybe you should go worry about the fact that we’re four spots out of the playoffs.”

“Yes, sir,” Shane said quietly and hurried out of the office. He didn’t stop until he reached the gym. 

February 19th, 2008 - 8:45 PM

Shane tried to catch his breath as he stepped off the ice after practice. The coach had been in a horrible mood, making them bag skate every time a player made a mistake on a drill, or didn’t skate hard enough, or glanced up at the scoreboard to check the time. Shane had stayed an extra fifteen minutes to practice his shot, and he let out a sigh in relief when he entered the dressing room and saw that the veterans had already left. He pulled his equipment off and showered, but when he got back to his spot, he realized his clothes weren’t where he had left them before practice. He checked under the bench in case they had fallen, and then rifled through his equipment to see if his stuff had gotten mixed up. Dread filled his stomach as he searched. 

“Sorry, Hollsy,” his linemate said quietly. “If we got in the way, they’d go after us next.”

Shane turned to see his linemate pointing towards the washroom before shuffling out the door, head hung low. Shane walked slowly towards the washroom. Nothing in the showers, nothing in the urinals, but then, as he pushed the stall door open, he saw his team tracksuit scrunched up in a pool of piss in the toilet bowl. 

“Fuck,” Shane said. 

February 20th, 2008 - 6:25 PM

The Kitchener Rangers were in town tonight, but Shane couldn’t focus on anything other than Campbell sitting on the other side of the dressing room. He hadn’t said anything to Shane, he hadn’t interacted with him at all, but there was no one else who would’ve done it. It was easier when he was on the ice, where Campbell wouldn’t dare sabotage the team just to see Shane fail. 

Shane pulled on his helmet to head out for warmup before the game, but when he put on his first glove, his hand sunk into a cold clump of slimy lotion. He pulled his hand back out quickly and stared at the thick liquid stretching between his fingers and dripping in between his skates. 

“Looks like Hollander got a little too excited,” Gagnon crowed loudly. 

“Probably had too much fun in the coach’s office,” said Campbell. 

“Nah,” Roy said, “we all know the GM is the real creep, but Hollander probably likes it.”

Shane left the room silently, walking towards the trainer. He felt numb, like it was all happening to someone else. 

“I need new gloves,” Shane said flatly to the trainer, who looked at the lotion dripping out of his glove and covering his hand. 

“What’d you do to piss them off this time?” The trainer sighed. 

“I snitched,” was all Shane said. 

“That’ll do it,” the trainer said as he pulled out a new pair of gloves. “Let’s hope you’ve learned your lesson this time.”

February 21st, 2008 - 9:30 AM

Shane was walking across the parking lot to Bayshore Arena when a hand grabbed the back of his track jacket. His back was suddenly slammed into the side of a car and Campbell stood in front of him, bracing his forearm against Shane’s chest. On the ice, Shane’s skilled erased any gaps between him and the experienced players, but looking up at Campbell’s angry face, he was reminded that the gap between sixteen and twenty was quite large after all. 

“You fucking bitch,” Campbell snarled. “Did you think I wouldn’t know you were the fucking piece of shit snitch?”

“I-,” Shane wheezed, feeling the dull echo of pain across his back where he had hit the car. 

“Shut your fucking face,” Campbell said and pushed his arm harder into Shane’s chest. “Coach told me it was you. Did you want him to suspend me? Huh?”

Shane shook his head rapidly, still trying to get a full breath. 

“Well, he didn’t,” Campbell continued. “He told me to watch the fuck out. But I knew from the start that your kind doesn’t belong in hockey.”

Campbell gave Shane one last shove and stormed off towards the arena. Shane didn’t move, still leaning back against the car, heart pounding and breathing irregularly. He felt tears sting his eyes. Shaking his head, he slapped his cheeks roughly. This is your own fault, he told himself, you don’t get to cry. 

He was silent as he got ready for practice. It was easy - no one made an effort to speak to him anyway. The decision had been made: Shane was an outsider, and no one wanted to leave the inner circle to join him.

He waited on the bench instead of the dressing room as the zamboni finished flooding the ice and stepped out with a puck as soon as the zamboni doors closed. His teammates trickled onto the ice until eventually the coach arrived and started drills. They began with a breakout drill that Shane could do in his sleep, except when he looked to the winger on the boards for a pass, it was Campbell who looked back at him and shot the puck behind him. Shane tried to collect the puck from where it ricocheted off the boards, but the flow of the drill was already disrupted. 

“Wake up, Hollander!” The coach yelled from centre ice, already in a bad mood. “Run it again!”

The practice continued that way. With every pass aimed out of his reach and the veterans checking him harder than practice called for, Shane felt his nerves fray even further as the coach screamed his name. They moved on to work on the power play, and as a puck was passed by Roy into Shane’s skates, he stumbled and fell as he tried to kick the puck up to the blade of his stick at the last minute. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, Hollander!” The coach screamed. He skated over as Shane climbed to his feet. “Have you turned into a complete shit show?”

“I’m sorry,” Shane said, looking down at his skates. His stick was suddenly ripped out of his hands by the coach, and Shane flinched as the coach smashed it in half against the boards. 

“Go get a new fucking stick, and find a new attitude while you’re at it,” the coach shouted. 

The coach wasn’t just in a bad mood, Shane realized as he skated to the bench. The coach had turned on him too. No one liked a snitch. 

June 30th, 2008 - 9:00 AM

“Thank you for everything this year,” Shane said, as he stood outside the airport with Mike and Lucy. 

“Too bad you boys didn’t make the playoffs,” Mike said. “Maybe next year.”

“I hope so,” Shane replied. He accepted a hug from Lucy and gave Mike a tight smile before walking into the airport to catch his flight to Ottawa. 

He wouldn’t be back, but he didn’t have the energy to explain that to his billets. They’d find out once the trade was finalized. When the Strike’s season ended with the regular season in the end of March, the coach had called Shane into his office and asked if he was open to being traded. The Strike needed a glue guy in the room, they needed more depth instead of one star player, they needed to rebuild with a focus on teamwork, they needed someone who was strong and physical. Shane said he understood, that he would be willing to be traded over the summer. He spent April, May, and June dragging his feet through school and putting everything he had left into training. His hockey ability was the only thing keeping him hanging on to his NHL dream, so he had to get better. Nothing that happened off the ice would matter if he was perfect on the ice. 

It would be big news, trading the number one pick after one season when Shane led the league in points. The media would speculate, but there wasn’t any question about how the situation would be framed behind the scenes: Shane’s skills weren’t worth the disruption he caused in the room. He knew his best choice was to leave Owen Sound and rehabilitate his reputation elsewhere in the league before it was too late. He wouldn’t make the same mistakes again. 

August 23rd, 2008 - 1:45 PM

“I still can’t believe it,” Yuna muttered as she watched Shane sort through his belongings as he packed. 

Shane hummed in response as he folded his Owen Sound tracksuit and placed it on his discard pile. 

“Why are you getting rid of that?” Yuna asked, picking up the track pants and jacket. 

“I’m not going to wear an old team’s gear,” Shane replied, folding a t-shirt and placing it in his suitcase. 

“You don’t have to get rid of it, though. I’ll keep it,” Yuna said and left his bedroom to put the tracksuit away.  

“Not everything has to go into the museum,” Shane muttered. 

“I heard that!” Yuna called, before returning to his room. “It’s not a museum, I just want to keep a record of your career.”

“Sounds like a museum,” Shane said as he placed his athletic wear into his suitcase.

“I can’t believe they traded you,” Yuna said, ignoring his comment. 

“I told you, Mom,” Shane sighed, “they needed depth and could get a lot by trading me."

“And now they have some draft picks next year, and three new mediocre players,” Yuna said. 

“One of them was second in points on their team last year,” Shane said, zipping up his suitcase. 

“And you were first in the league!”

“The Lightning are a more competitive team, and Guelph isn’t as far from Ottawa,” Shane said. “Isn’t that better?”

Yuna was clearly still bothered by the trade, but she changed the subject. Shane felt guilty, both for lying and for fucking up his rookie season, but he couldn’t tell her the real reason he was traded to the Lightning. 

September 26th, 2008 - 7:00 PM

Things were off to a better start in Guelph. His new billet family seemed more interested in their monthly stipend than Shane himself, which meant he avoided the scrutiny he felt in Owen Sound. He bypassed the stress of the rookie camp now that he had a season in the OHL under his belt, and Shane’s effort in the off-season paid off during the main training camp. The Lightning had won their first three games, and Shane already had a goal and two assists. He went along with whatever bullshit his teammates were up to: when they broke out alcohol after a win, Shane accepted a glass and sipped it all night; when his linemate teased him for missing a pass by telling him he should try opening his eyes wider, Shane just forced himself to laugh. It wasn’t a comfortable existence, but it was a bearable one. Anyway, comfort wouldn’t bring him to the NHL. 

Tonight, they were playing the Erie Otters, and the first period started well. Shane received a pass at the top of the left circle in the Otters’ zone, but before he could get a shot away, he felt a sharp smack to his hand and the puck slid into the corner instead. As the Erie defenceman touched the puck, the ref blew the whistle. 

“Erie number seventy-two,” the referee said at centre ice. “Two minutes for slashing.”

Shane shook his hand to reduce the stinging and went to line up for the faceoff, but he saw the coach signal for him to return to the bench. 

“Friesen’s taking centre,” the coach called as he approached. “Hollander, you take the wing.”

Shane scrunched his eyebrows but lined up along the boards as he was told. This wasn’t how they had practiced the power play, nor was it how they had run it last game. Friesen lost the face off and the Erie winger shot the puck down the ice. Shane retreated to get back on side, but Friesen bobbled the puck in the neutral zone and Guelph had to collect the puck from their zone again. Forty seconds had gone by in the penalty, and Guelph had nothing to show for it. The second power play unit came on the ice, and Shane sat on the bench, frustrated. It was early in the season, and now they knew that set up didn’t work, Shane told himself. 

Except, in the third period when Guelph was down a goal and had pulled the goalie for an extra attacker, the coach sent Friesen out to take the offensive zone faceoff. Shane leaned over the bench as he watched Friesen lose the faceoff, Erie take control of the puck, and it was sent into the empty net. 

“Shit,” Shane groaned and sat down on the bench. With only fifteen seconds left in the game, it was quickly over, and Guelph lost. 

Shane felt his frustration only grow over the next three games, as Friesen was repeatedly given opportunities that he squandered. 

October 9th, 2008 - 3:30 PM

Shane walked into the arena and hesitated at the stairs, eventually going down to the dressing room instead of up to the coaches’ offices. He wouldn’t fuck this season up by talking to the coach again, he would just keep working harder until it became impossible for the coach to send anyone on the ice instead of him. 

It was an optional practice today, and Friesen didn’t show up. Shane ran through the drills with as much strength and speed as he could, breathing heavily at each water break. When the coaches filed off the ice at the end of practice, Shane gathered a few pylons and set them up on the ice. 

“Staying late, Hollsy?” A teammate asked as Shane dropped the extra pylons off at the bench. 

“Yeah, I want to work on my edges,” he replied. 

His teammate watched him for a moment and said, “It won’t change anything, you know.”

“What?” Shane frowned. Of course practice would improve his skating.

“Friesen,” his teammate said. “His family is one of our biggest sponsors. It doesn’t matter what you do, he’s getting ice time.”

Shane watched as his teammate walked towards the dressing room. He was lost in thought as he skated over to the pylons, curving sharply around each one until the arena was full of nothing but the crisp sound of his skate blades cutting into the ice. 

You can only control yourself, he thought. You have to be perfect, no matter what. No excuses.

November 22nd, 2008 - 10:30 PM

“Shane!” Yuna called, David waving behind her as they walked through the empty lobby of the arena.  

“Hey, Mom, Dad,” Shane replied. Yuna put her hands on his elbows and took in his outfit. 

“This suit looks great,” Yuna mused, straightening out his lapels.

“You’re outdoing us,” David said. 

“It’s just my game day suit,” Shane said. “It’s mandatory, you know that.”

The Lightning had just won against the 67s in Ottawa, and even though Shane had seen his parents before the game, they insisted on saying goodbye to him before the bus took him back to Guelph with the team. 

“What I want to know is why you were on the second power play unit,” Yuna said. 

“Mom,” Shane groaned. 

“What?” she asked. “Honestly, who does Friesen think he is? He’s only seventeen, he shouldn’t be running the power play.”

“I’m only seventeen,” Shane muttered. 

“Yes, well, you’re a seventeen year old with the best shot in the league,” Yuna said. “Friesen couldn’t score if the goalie moved out of the way for him.”

Shane looked at David for help, but he just shrugged and said, “You’re the only player on the team to be invited to the World Juniors selection camp.” 

“Exactly!” Yuna said. “It’s ridiculous that they’re not using you to your full potential!”

“Mom, not so loud, please,” Shane rubbed his forehead and looked around the lobby. 

“Is your coach on the bus yet?” Yuna continued. “I’d like to talk to him.”

“No!” Shane said. “No, please don’t. I’ll take care of it, okay?”

This was far from the worst he had faced, and he’d learned to deal with it. He was coping, and it would be enough. 

December 12th, 2008 - 4:00 PM

“Shane, the phone,” his billet host called up to him. 

Shane lifted his head out of his hands from where he was slumped over his desk. He knew what the call was about, he had been waiting all day. Team Canada’s selection camp for the World Juniors concluded a few days ago, and Shane had to be on the team. He had clawed his way to most goals in the league again this season, but he felt a consistent, low level of anxiety that wouldn’t let his muscles fully relax. Friesen’s unshakable hold on the Lightning organization limited his opportunities; he needed to be able to prove himself on an international stage. 

He walked into the kitchen and took a deep breath, picking up the landline and walking into the empty living room for some privacy. 

“Hello?”

“Is this Shane Hollander?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“It’s Richard Quick, head coach for Team Canada at the World Juniors this year,” the coach said, “and I’m happy to congratulate you on being a part of the team.”

Shane sank into the couch, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. He kept the phone to his ear but barely registered what the coach was saying. Finally, something had gone right for him. The anxiety he felt throughout the season slowly receded, his body felt light for the first time in months. It would be back, he was certain, but for now he just felt relief. 

“Do you have any questions for me?” The coach asked. 

“No, sir,” Shane said, sitting up. “Thank you so much for the opportunity, it’s an honour. I won’t let you down.”

“Alright,” the coach laughed, “see you in Regina.”

December 26th, 2008 - 1:00 PM

Shane leaned forward in his seat in the press box on the first day of the tournament as players for Russia and Slovakia ran onto the ice. Canada didn’t play until seven o’clock that night, and Shane wanted to scope out the teams in the other group before he met them in the elimination rounds. The puck dropped, and Team Russia won the faceoff, cycling it back to their defence before crossing the red line and dumping the puck in to the Slovak zone. The Russian centre chased after the puck, laying the Slovak defenceman out in a heavy hit. 

“Jesus, that Russian centre is fucking crazy,” said Luke Bracci, one of Shane’s teammates. 

“Number eighty-one? Who’s that?” Asked Tyler Baker, another teammate. 

“It has to be Ilya Rozanov,” Shane said. 

Sitting beside him, Baker scanned the game sheet and looked up in surprise at Shane, who hadn’t taken his eyes off the ice. 

“How’d you know that?” 

“He’s their best player. He’s probably the best in the tournament,” said Shane. “Did you not learn about the other teams at all?”

“No goddamn Russian is better than us,” Bracci said, and Shane shrugged. 

Five minutes later, Rozanov lifted the stick of a Slovak player and stole the puck, deked past both defencemen, and shot the puck bar-down into the back of the net. 

“How did he handle the puck like that with so little space?” Shane said in awe. He knew that Rozanov was skilled from what he could find on his billet family’s computer back in Guelph, but short, blurry clips couldn’t compare to seeing him in person.  

“Guess he’s not just a heavy hitter,” Bracci said. 

“The power on his shot was crazy,” Shane watched as Rozanov slid down the ice on one knee in celebration before hugging his teammates. 

“He’s celebrating like a douchebag,” Baker said. 

“I wonder what stick he uses to get that much flex,” Shane mused aloud, biting his hoodie string.

“Damn, Hollsy,” Bracci said, “why don’t you just go suck his dick? You’re already halfway there.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Shane said, ignoring the flicker of panic in his stomach. There was no reason for him to be nervous; it wasn’t like it was true, his teammates were just talking shit. 

“He’s Russian, he’d probably kill you if you tried,” Baker laughed. 

Shane rolled his eyes and focused on the game. He kept his mouth shut about Rozanov for the rest of the game, but he couldn’t stop watching him as he led Russia to a 5-2 victory. This was the kind of competition he was looking for in this tournament. Shane had competed against prejudice and hazing, against teammates and himself, all to establish himself as a top junior hockey player, but here was someone who could compete with Shane’s skill. He felt a burning motivation to face him on the ice, to play against Rozanov and win. It was a feeling he had almost forgotten. 

January 3rd, 2009 - 12:30 PM

Shane pulled on his toque and coat as he prepared to leave the arena’s gym after his light workout. Team Canada was playing the USA that evening in the semifinals, so he wanted to stay moving without overexerting himself. He stepped out into the hallway to the sound of raucous laughter as the Russian team passed by; they were playing Sweden at 3:30 this afternoon, and Shane wanted to catch the beginning before he had to prepare for his own game. His eyes caught on golden curls poking out from under a toque as Rozanov waved off his teammates and left through the arena’s backdoor. 

Shane’s feet were taking him out the same door before he realized what he was doing. Rozanov’s play had only improved throughout the tournament, and his game winning goal in the quarterfinals had pushed him into the lead for most goals in the tournament. Shane was counting on the Swedish defence to keep him at bay so Shane could overtake him this evening, but a bigger part of him was hoping Russia would advance to the finals where Shane was determined to face Rozanov directly and win. 

Stepping into the cold winter air, Shane shoved his hands into his coat pockets as he looked around. And there Rozanov was, standing against the arena wall and blowing into his hands to warm them. Shane hesitated a moment - was it weird to go talk to him? No, he shook his head slightly and began walking over; Shane was approaching a competitor at the arena they both were playing in, nothing weird. 

“Ilya Rozanov?” he asked tentatively. “Shane Hollander, I wanted to introduce myself.”

He offered his hand in the frigid air for Rozanov to shake, fighting the urge to cringe at himself. He didn’t know if Rozanov would recognize his name. He didn’t even know if Rozanov spoke English, but when his eyes flickered up to meet Shane’s and a warm hand grabbed his, there weren’t many thoughts left in his head. Rozanov had a strong grip, for the brief moment that his hand was in Shane’s, which was a ridiculous thought because he was a hockey player, of course he did. Shane had a strong grip too, for that matter, though he was never sure how hard he was supposed to shake someone’s hand. 

Shane’s eyes continued to take in Rozanov’s face, now that he could see him up close, and- wait, Rozanov wasn’t blowing into his hands to warm them, he was lighting a cigarette. How had Shane missed that?

“Oh, I’m not sure you’re supposed to smoke here,” Shane said, though it sounded more like a question. It wasn’t a question; the no smoking sign was visible right behind Rozanov, but Shane didn’t know how to say that without seeming confrontational. 

“Okay,” was all Rozanov said, blowing out smoke. 

His voice was deeper than Shane expected, and he seemed to understand what was being said. There was something in his gaze that felt like it knew too much. 

“You’re an awesome player to watch,” Shane said honestly. Rozanov was a different type of player than Shane, one that thrived in the spontaneity of creating breakaways out of simple plays and using his opponents’ unregulated emotions against them. It was fascinating for Shane, who excelled at reading the ice and taking advantage of weaknesses in the other team’s structure. 

“Yes,” Rozanov said, glancing at him. 

Shane let out a laugh and moved to stand with his back to the arena. It was a cocky response, and he thought back to his teammate’s comment about his goal celebration. Shane disagreed, now that he had met Rozanov in person; it was almost charming. 

When it was clear that Rozanov wasn’t going to contribute anything else, Shane shuffled his feet. 

“Anyway, I should go. They’re waiting for me,” he said. “Good luck in the tournament.”

September 22nd, 2010 - 9:00 AM

It was five days into training camp, and Shane was still in awe as he walked into the Metros’ practice facility and saw Gilbert Comeau and Patrice Drapeau walk by with coffee in their hands, chatting casually as they walked towards the dressing room. Shane was jealous of their ease and confidence. Transition periods between leagues and teams were uncomfortable, trying to understand the team dynamics, routines, and superstitions. Shane would rather go straight to playing hockey, but instead he was putting his equipment on for a media day. He pulled on his Metros jersey and sighed. It was the first time he was skating in his NHL jersey, and it was only so he could have overly dramatic footage of himself staring down the camera. Hopefully it would be like the CCM shoot from the summer.

He looked at himself in the dressing room mirror and sighed again, running a hand through his hair to try and get it to stop sticking out in strange directions. It wasn’t clear whether he had made it better or worse, but it was as good as it was going to get, so he walked out of the room and onto the ice. The lights were dimmed, with blue and red lights set up on the ice behind the camera to match the team colours. He stopped beside Comeau and watched as Hayden Pike skated towards the camera and stopped with a spray of snow and a serious expression on his face. Rozanov would be good at this, Shane thought. He would probably have fun with it, and he had the face and charisma to pull it off. The Raiders would be filming their own promo material, maybe if Shane watched their home opener, he would see some of it on the broadcast. Suddenly, Comeau’s loud voice pulled him out of his thoughts.

“Is that the look you give your girl when she refuses to put out?” Comeau called out to Pike. “It’s a fucking miracle that you have a kid!”

“Hey, fuck you! I don’t force Jackie to do anything,” Pike called back, skating over to them once his shoot was done. When he got closer, he wiggled his eyebrows and said, “She’s more than willing.”

“Just wait until you’ve been married a more few years,” Comeau said. Then he turned to Shane: “Alright, rookie, you’re up next.”

Shane skated nervously in front of the camera, stopping and standing there with his arms at his sides. He took a deep breath as Pike left the ice, but then Drapeau and JJ Boizeau came out of the dressing room and stood beside Comeau to watch. Fuck, it was bad enough that the Metros staff was watching him, and now more of his teammates were there too.

“Alright, Shane,” Marcel, the PR manager, called out. “Do you have any poses you want to try?”

“Uh,” Shane stalled, but his brain went blank. Poses? He didn’t even know if he remembered how to skate right now.

“Let’s try one with your hands on your hips,” Marcel offered.

Shane did as he was told, with his stick awkwardly hanging in his left hand, and felt like he was taking class pictures for kindergarten.

“Come on, Marcel,” Comeau shouted. “Don’t make the rookie do gay shit!”

“You suggest something, then,” Marcel said, exasperated.

“Hold your hands together and kick one of your legs out behind you,” Drapeau chimed in.

Shane hesitated. Hands together, kicking his leg out behind him? He turned slightly to the side, trying to picture it, when he heard a burst of laughter.

“Holy shit, he’s actually going to do it,” Drapeau cackled.

Shane felt heat rush to his cheeks, looking between his teammates and the staff. He rubbed at his eyebrow with his glove, fidgeting in place as the laughter died down. It didn’t feel like the CCM shoot.

“Hey, lighten up,” Comeau said when he looked back at Shane. “We’re just having fun, don’t give me that bitchy look.”

Shane shook his head, panicked. “No, I didn’t mean-“

“Okay,” Marcel said loudly, clapping his hands. “I need to get this done. Shane, just try skating towards the camera.”

Shane nodded, doing his best to look into the camera and seem more relaxed than he felt. When he skated off the ice after Marcel dismissed him, JJ grabbed the sleeve of his jersey and pulled him aside.

“Listen, Hollander,” JJ began quietly. “Just laugh it off, okay?”

“Okay,” Shane said, pulling off his gloves and avoiding JJ’s eyes. “I really didn’t mean to look bitchy. I just… I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.”

“Ça m’est égal,” JJ said with a pat to his shoulder. “You and me, we’re always going to stand out. So when you have the choice to fit in, take it.”

October 15th, 2010 - 3:30 PM

Shane sat at the counter in his apartment and stared at his phone. He sighed and began typing Rozanov’s name into the search bar. No point in postponing the inevitable. There were hundreds of videos and articles about Rozanov now, some discussed his fiery start with the Raiders, others were interviews with Rozanov himself. Shane clicked on his post-game media availability from Boston’s last game, and Rozanov appeared shirtless on his small phone screen. Shane had touched that bare chest, felt it under his hands and against his body. It felt hard to believe, most of the time.

Of course, it wasn’t long before Shane’s name came up. They were constantly tied together, unable to escape each other’s orbit. The first Montreal-Boston matchup of the season was set to be explosive, another defining moment in the Rozanov-versus-Hollander saga. It was a game Shane had to win. No one would remember their second or third games against each other, but they would remember the first. 

And yet, when Rozanov answered the media’s question about playing Shane, all he said was, “He is goalie now, yes?”

“What an asshole,” Shane muttered as Rozanov moved on to teasing the media about how many goals he would score, but a small smile crept onto his face anyway. Rozanov was charismatic, as much as Shane didn’t want to admit it, but the smile didn’t last long.

It didn’t feel fair, how easily Rozanov could be himself even with cameras and microphones shoved in his face. What happened in Shane’s hotel room in Toronto would ruin them both if anyone found out, but while Rozanov charmed his way through Boston, Shane was barely staying afloat in Montreal. It felt like every pair of eyes that landed on him might see his secrets if they looked closely enough, see that he didn’t actually belong in this sport, not when their benevolence was already stretched thin to tolerate whatever differences they identified as non-Canadian - non-hockey. Maybe it was acceptable when they could reassure themselves that, even if Shane looked different, he was still the same as them on the inside. Shane would make himself be the same as them. If he couldn’t do what Rozanov was doing, if he couldn’t be himself and be accepted, he would do what he had to.

He placed his phone face-down on the counter and ran his hands over his face. A plain black journal sitting on the other end of the counter caught his eye. Coach Thériault had instructed the Metros to keep notes in a journal to help their development this season, and Shane had been skeptical. Emotions were never his forte; it was easier if he could shove them away and not think about them, but whatever swirled in his chest when he thought about Rozanov was clearly not easy to shake.

He stood and grabbed the journal and pen, opening up the first page and staring at the blank paper. Sighing, Shane began writing: “Rozanov is always getting under my skin.”

November 6th, 2010 - 6:55 PM

Shane was full of restless energy as he stood in the tunnel with the Metros. He shuffled from side to side, trying to stay moving and ready to go as his teammates bumped and smacked at each other. A loud smack against the numbers on the back of Shane’s jersey announced JJ’s presence, his voice calling out to hype up the team as he walked to the front of the lineup. Shane just tapped his stick against JJ’s shin pads as he went by. His intensity had always been a quiet one, something that built up from inside him more than something he gathered from his teammates.

“Nervous?” Hayden asked, coming to a stop beside Shane.

Shane shrugged, “Just another hockey game.”

“Good answer,” Hayden said with a laugh. “I’m tired of hearing about fucking Ilya Rozanov.”

“Tell me about it,” Shane muttered. It was all the media had talked about for the last two weeks. He was used to monitoring Rozanov, but where it used to be highlight reel goals and statistics, now it was speculation about their rivalry. No matter what Shane said, it was twisted into a headline that ignited the frenzy even further. It was exhausting. Shane just wanted to play hockey.

“Hollander!” A new voice called as Comeau dodged around other Metros to reach Shane. “On the opening faceoff, shield the puck with your body. I’ll move in from the wing and win it back for you.”

Shane frowned. The Raiders weren’t afraid to use their strength; it didn’t make sense to try to try to beat them at their own speciality when the Metros could have the advantage with their speed. There was no one on either team with a better win percentage on the draw than Shane, anyway.

“I think I can win it back clean,” Shane said, “and then JJ will have more options to pass for the zone entry if we’re not tied up.”

“That right?” Comeau said, but it didn’t sound like he wanted an answer. Instead he looked at Shane with a measured expression.

“Sounds solid to me,” Hayden said, but Comeau didn’t look away from Shane. His gaze was unnerving.

“Alright, rookie,” Comeau said eventually. “Can’t wait to see you win that draw.”

As he walked further down the tunnel to bump shoulders with Drapeau, Hayden nudged Shane with his elbow.

“Ignore him,” he said. “He’ll like whatever you say if you keep carrying this team.”

“Right. Sorry, I forgot that… Yeah. Sorry,” Shane trailed off. I forgot that it’s not just about the best strategy, that there’s an invisible hierarchy that divides us and unspoken rules that I never remember in time.

The booing from the crowd drowned out the announcer’s bored voice as he introduced the Raiders to the ice, and then the spotlight hit the end of the tunnel as the tone changed to cheering with the introduction of the Metros. Shane ran onto the ice, skating a few laps and stopping on the blue line to take off his helmet for the national anthems. He didn’t look up, he didn’t scan across the Raiders players to see if Rozanov was out for the starting lineup, or to see if he was looking back. Because it didn’t matter. It was just another hockey game. His rookie season was nothing but firsts, and he had already achieved many: his first major league goal, first assist, first penalty, first overtime goal, first time with a man- except, no. That wasn’t tied to hockey. That couldn’t be tied to hockey. 

He pulled his helmet back on and snapped the strap into place as the singer left the ice after the anthems. He watched as Comeau took his spot on the wing, and then Shane was face to face with Rozanov. The teenager he met in Regina was still recognizable, even though they had experienced more, lived more. When he looked at Rozanov like this, crouched over the face off dot, it was easy to remember how much he wanted to compete. 

“Is good thing Montreal fans are used to losing,” Rozanov said with a smirk. 

“Not this season,” Shane said firmly. 

“Is okay, I will remind them,” Rozanov said, and then the whistle blew. 

Shane knocked the puck back to JJ, and then they were skating into the Boston zone. Hayden took a shot on net from along the boards that was deflected into the corner, and the Raiders exited the zone as Shane headed to the bench to change. He squirted water into his mouth as he sat on the bench, and then a hand patted his helmet. Shane looked over to see Comeau nod at him briefly before looking back out at the play on the ice. 

By the halfway point of the third period, Montreal was winning 3-2, and the Raiders were getting more and more desperate as the clock wound down. It was amazing to see what Rozanov could do to create chances, how he could turn a simple play into an opportunity to score. Watching him play was the only time Shane didn’t feel guilty for searching his name online or tracking his games. Whether or not someone wanted to admit it, Rozanov was a skilled player. 

With a minute left in the game, Shane panted on the bench as he got off the ice. All he could do was watch as Rozanov ripped a shot towards the net from above the left circle, and Cliff Marlow tipped it over Drapeau’s shoulder and into the back of the net to tie the game. 

“Fuck,” Hayden groaned beside him. “Can’t he miss the fucking net just this once?”

Shane nodded, eyes trained on Rozanov as he celebrated with his teammates, but he disagreed. There was no point in winning when he was doing so off Rozanov’s mistake, or because Rozanov was injured or interfered with. Shane wanted to compete against Rozanov when they were both at their best, when it meant something. 

Shane hopped over the boards and headed for centre ice. Forty seconds left, tied game. The Montreal fans cheered, trying to rally their team, but it was all background noise in Shane’s mind. Rozanov waited for him at the faceoff, out of breath and sweaty and high on adrenaline. He was too much for Shane to look at. 

“Shane Hollander,” Rozanov said once they were inches apart. “Will you disappoint them?”

Shane flickered his eyes up to meet Rozanov’s quickly before returning to the ice in between them. Did Rozanov know? Did he feel the weight of the city and his team and his family, the pressure of the spotlight shining on them both as the future of hockey? Surely he knew that it’ll never be over, that no one would ever be content to say that they’re both talented players with their own strengths. It would always be Hollander or Rozanov, and one of them would always be disappointed, one of them would always be the one to disappoint others. Did Rozanov feel that burden too?

“Nope,” was all Shane said in the end. He won the faceoff back to the defenceman and skated towards the Boston zone. 

“Here!” He called, tapping his stick on the ice. The defenceman passed to Comeau instead, who sent it over to Shane. It was just muscle memory after that. He cut into the middle of the ice and around the Boston player, who was caught flat footed compared to Shane’s rush of speed, and then he deked to the left and slid the puck under the goalie’s pads. He looked up at the clock on the jumbotron as Hayden, Comeau, and the two Metros defencemen crashed against him. four seconds left. It wouldn’t be enough time for Boston to tie it again. Montreal had won. 

The puck was dropped again, Rozanov winning it this time, but the final buzzer sounded before anything else could happen. The Metros took turns knocking their helmets against Shane’s before they saluted the fans. Shane removed his helmet and gloves, but the trainer stopped him from pulling off his jersey. 

“You’re going back out. First star,” he said, pointing towards the ice surface. Shane nodded and waited in the tunnel. It was nice to be named the first star of the game, even though it was an informal thing, something that the home team’s organization decided. Drapeau walked down the tunnel after being named the third star, nodding at Shane. 

“Fucking beauty of a goal, Hollsy,” he said with a pat to Shane’s shoulder as he passed by. 

“Thanks. Great saves to keep us in it all game,” he offered back. Shane always felt uncomfortable giving compliments, either feeling like he came across as a kiss-ass if he was too enthusiastic or he sounded sarcastic if he was not enthusiastic enough. But Drapeau seemed pleased well enough, so Shane considered it a success. 

He leaned against the white brick of the tunnel wall as the announcer’s voice echoed through the arena. 

“And the second star of the night, Ilya Rozanov,” the announcement came, along with some mild applause and a few scattered boos. 

The sound of blades scraping against the ice took Shane by surprise; the visiting team’s stars of the game rarely came back out onto the ice. He peered down the tunnel to see Rozanov toss his stick over the boards to a young Raiders fan before blowing a kiss to a Metros fan who was banging against the glass. As Rozanov skated back to the Boston bench, the announcer’s voice came back over the speakers. 

“And now, from your Montreal Metros, the first star of the game: Shane Hollander!”

Shane walked down the tunnel and onto the ice, raising his stick in the air to salute the fans. He spotted the young Raiders fan: a boy, no older than ten, clutching onto Rozanov’s stick with teary eyes and a massive grin. Shane felt a small smile of his own tug at his lips. He skated a bit further and turned back to the bench, where he handed his stick to a child in a #24 jersey who sat along the railing alongside the tunnel. 

He walked towards the dressing room, slight smile still on his face. He remembered the thrill of going to Centaurs games when he was young, how fast and skilled and strong the players were. Shane never sat near the glass, not in the seats that costed hundreds of dollars each, but it hadn’t mattered, the excitement of the game reached him anyway. And now Shane was walking the same path that his favourite players walked a decade ago. It was easy to forget, sometimes, that he was living his childhood dream. They all were, really. Who was Rozanov’s favourite player growing up, Shane wondered. Did he watch North American leagues or just the Russian one? Maybe Rozanov could tell him about it, someday. When they retired, maybe, and no one cared if Rozanov and Hollander stopped to chat, when Shane no longer felt like his career could be derailed by a single misstep. If Shane no longer felt like that. 

He was pulled by his thoughts by the sound of his teammates cheering as he entered the dressing room. 

“There he is! That goal was a beauty,” one teammate called. 

“Saved us from overtime, kid,” a veteran said. 

Comeau spoke next as Shane pulled off his jersey and shoulder pads: “First star, too. It’s fucking annoying to have to give your stick away.”

Shane glanced at him, trying to see if he was being sarcastic or not, but Comeau just continued untying his skates. 

“Yeah,” Shane said, “I don’t really mind, if it’s for the fans.”

Comeau just shrugged and said, “You’ll get used to it.”

Shane nodded. He hoped he wouldn’t become desensitized to it, not after everything he went through to get here. 

“Hollander!” Marcel called as he poked his head in the dressing room. “They want you for post-game interviews.”

Shane pulled off the rest of his equipment and grimaced as he pulled a hoodie over his head. He couldn’t wait to shower. 

The questions were normal, mostly. What Shane thought about the game (they played well), what he thought about his goal (glad he could help the team win), what he felt about playing Rozanov (everything but nothing he could say to the media). Then he was shuffled to speak to a French reporter. He didn’t love doing French interviews; he was aware that his accent wasn’t perfect, and he sometimes did direct English-to-French translations in his head that made him sound a bit clunky, but he was fluent enough that they kept sending him out for interviews. 

Of course, the first question was how he felt about scoring a goal against Rozanov. Shane expected it, honestly. They had to get their headlines now since Boston and Montreal wouldn’t play again until early January, but Shane was admittedly quite pleased with his ability to deflect their questions: he was happy with any goal, he wanted to win for the fans, it was a team effort. 

Until the reporter asked him in French, “Do you think you share the same difficulties as Tiger Woods and Serena Williams?”

Shane felt panic bubbling under his skin, prickling at his fingertips. 

“Je pense pas à des choses comme ça. Je suis super heureux de jouer au hockey pour les Métros,” he said, and shuffled out of the room soon after, thanking the reporters as he went. 

He walked back to the quiet dressing room to shower and change, most of his teammates already having left while he was giving interviews. It wasn’t a lie - he didn’t think about those things, or maybe it was better to say he didn’t let himself think about those things. It was easier this way. If he thought about every comment, every double take, he might drown in it, and reality would stay the same. He almost let it ruin him in Owen Sound, and he wouldn’t let the same thing happen here. 

When he arrived at his apartment, he sat at the kitchen counter with a glass of water. The apartment was quiet, the kind of quiet Shane would appreciate if he wasn’t trying to escape his own thoughts. His journal caught his eye, and he sighed. Flipping it open to the next blank page, he clicked his pen a few times before writing. 

I don’t want to represent everyone. I just want to play hockey. Does the media see ME, or do they see a blurry outline of something foreign? Something they don’t want to get close enough to identify as anything other than non-white, so why do they care so much? Is this progress? Giving me the rope to hang myself with by speaking out in a sport that would punish me for it? Leave me the fuck alone! 

Shane dropped his pen on the notebook and buried his face in his palms. This is why he couldn’t let himself think about this shit. He needed to walk into the dressing room tomorrow and be thankful for it. 

His words stared back at him from the journal. Shane picked up the pen and scratched it all out with rough strokes until none of it was visible. Below the mess of blue ink, he simply wrote, “Fuck off.” He would let himself have those words, and that was all. 

November 20th, 2010 - 9:00 PM

Shane stared at the nondescript box on the counter in front of him, his name and address printed on the shipping label. He had considered using a fake name, just in case anyone at the company recognized his name and location in Montreal, but then he was worried that he might be accused of credit card fraud if his name didn’t match. His next thought had been leaving a note in the order to say that it was for a prank, but he quickly abandoned that thought too. It would only draw more attention to his order. On the slim chance that somehow someone found out, he would say it was a prank then. And then he would have to find a way to prank his teammates with it, just to be thorough with his lie, even though Shane was not known to be a prankster. 

Sighing, he peeled off the tape and opened the box. A medium-sized dildo and a bottle of lube sat at the bottom. At least, Shane hoped it was medium-sized. He didn’t have much of a frame of reference. 

Shane folded the box back up and closed his eyes. It was fine. It was tame. His teammates were obsessed with some of the freakiest shit, and then he cringed at the fact that he knew that. They could really stand to talk less about sex in the dressing room. But still, the point still remained that it was fine. He carried the box to his bedroom. 

And just like he had told himself, it was fine. He got himself off quicker than normal; it was different than just using his fingers, fuller and deeper. But he also felt a bit embarrassed, alone in his apartment with a sex toy, the wet sound from the lube and his own heavy breathing all he could hear. It wasn’t bad, it wasn’t exceptional. It did what he needed it to do. 

It was fine.

November 23rd, 2010 - 10:30 AM

Shane walked into the meeting room where some of his teammates were already waiting around a long conference table that was scattered with notebooks. He sighed as he looked for somewhere to sit. This was why he always came early, so he could be seated and let his teammates choose where to sit around him, but he got caught up talking to an assistant coach about their power play set up. 

“Shane!” Hayden called out from a seat near the front of the room. “Over here.”

Shane walked over, decision made for him. He didn’t mind, Hayden was one of the teammates he could actually hold a decent conversation with. 

“The coach isn’t here yet?” Shane asked as he sat down, pulling his bag onto his lap. 

“Thériault? Nah, he’s never early,” Hayden replied, sitting back in his chair. “But don’t be late yourself, or you’ll be bag skating.”

“Got it,” Shane said. 

He glanced to his side as Michael Torres sat beside him. Torres was an older player with a scruffy beard, an enforcer that still hung around even as the role was disappearing across the league. Shane remembered seeing him play against the Centaurs and get into a fight with one of Ottawa’s enforcers, back when everyone told stories about his trash talking on the ice, partying on the road, and infamous pranks. He wasn't like that now, or maybe it was always an act for the cameras, but Shane found Torres to be a quiet presence. 

“Alright,” Thériault said with a sharp clap of his hands as he walked into the room and stood at the end of the table near Shane. “At the start of the season, I told you to keep a journal, and I asked you to bring them here today. Pull them out.”

Shane opened his bag and grabbed his journal, then placed it on the table in front of him. He had done a decent job of writing in it, not every game but usually once a week. 

“Torres,” Thériault said, “get out your fucking journal.”

“Sorry, Coach,” Torres said, slumped back in his chair with his legs spread out in front of him. “I didn’t write anything.”

Thériault observed him for a moment, neither breaking eye contact. Eventually, he said, “Then give me your phone.”

Torres didn’t move for a moment, and then he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, leaving it on the table in front of him instead of handing it over. Thériault grabbed it and began looking through it in silence. No one in the room spoke. 

“To Julia Torres,” Thériault said suddenly, breaking the silence. “‘I’m sorry, babe. I didn’t pick up groceries. I’m feeling drained and forgot.’”

Torres clenched his fists on the table, and Shane could see his knuckles growing white from the seat beside him. He didn’t dare look at his face. 

“Again to his wife: ‘I fell asleep and had a hard time waking up. I’ll be there in ten,’” Thériault continued. “I guess you’re not just lazy on the ice, eh, Torres?”

Torres didn’t reply; he just snatched his phone back once Thériault held it out and crossed his arms. Shane sat up straighter in his seat as Thériault’s eyes landed on him next. 

“Let’s see if our hotshot rookie wrote anything,” Thériault said as he grabbed Shane’s notebook. 

Shane sat there, feeling all of his muscles tense across his body as Thériault flipped through the pages. His mind raced as he tried to remember what he wrote, what parts of himself he left exposed on those pages. He wouldn’t have written any of his deepest secrets, that he was sure of, but it still felt like Thériault was holding a knife to his underbelly. 

“October 15th, ‘Rozanov is always getting under my skin,’” Thériault began, and Shane felt his heart palpitate. “‘Even his nonchalance is irritating. I can’t let him have control over me.’”

Shane avoided everyone’s eyes. It was fine, no one would be able to put the pieces together, not with that vague information. 

It didn’t feel fine, though. 

Thériault flipped through a couple pages and began reading again: “November 17th. ‘Why are they still asking me about Rozanov? I have a lot to say, but nothing I can tell the media. I just need to win.’”

Okay, fuck. That was a bit more damning, but he was still fine. It was fine. He just needed to breathe. 

“Alright, Hollander,” Thériault said, dropping the journal on the table in front of him. “Glad you’re focused on winning, but Rozanov isn’t your only opponent.”

Shane nodded as Thériault moved on to Hayden. He spent the rest of the meeting trying to regulate his breathing, to build back the shell that would protect him from the nauseating feeling of being exposed. The darkest parts of himself were still safe. He would recover. 

Once Thériault made it around the room, reading journals or the odd phone, he sighed and looked around the table at the players. 

“We’re too distracted, as a team,” Thériault said. “You’re writing about shit that doesn’t impact whether we win or lose. I won’t have a soft fucking team. And for you three who didn’t write anything, enjoy the view from the press box next game.”

As soon as the door closed behind Thériault, Torres slammed his fist on the table and stormed out of the room. 

“I don’t think anyone could hate Rozanov more than you, Shane,” Hayden said from beside him. 

“Yeah, guess not,” Shane said. Hatred was okay, he could work with that. 

“He’s a fucking bastard, I hate him too,” JJ chimed in. 

January 9th, 2011 - 8:00 PM

Shane frowned as he lined up for the faceoff to start the second period. He had one of the highest win percentages in the league, and he had yet to win a single draw against Rozanov tonight. The Boston crowd was loving it. He had asked Hayden to practice with him briefly in the intermission, but his faceoff skills, especially as a winger, were no comparison to Rozanov. 

“You have favourite tonight, yes?” Rozanov said. 

Shane looked up, but Rozanov wasn’t talking to him, he was looking at the ref. 

“You better not be coming to complain, with the way you’ve been winning the draw,” the ref said.

“No, no,” Rozanov said with an air of faux innocence. “Is me, I am the favourite, I know. But you should be nice to Hollander, too. I will put my stick down first, okay? Drop puck close to him.”

“I don’t play favourites, Roz,” the ref sighed. “And you know the rules, visiting player starts the centre ice faceoff with his stick down first.”

Shane shot Rozanov a stern look, who was now watching him with amusement in his eyes. It seemed no one was safe from Rozanov’s teasing, not even the ref. Shane took a deep breath; he couldn’t let Rozanov see any trace of a smile. He bent down and put his stick on the faceoff dot, and Rozanov followed him into position. 

“I don’t need your help,” Shane muttered.

“No?”

“No,” Shane said firmly. Once the puck was dropped, he gritted his teeth and eventually knocked it back, where Hayden picked it up. 

“Fuck yeah,” Shane said to himself as he skated away from the faceoff dot. He felt a rush of energy after finally winning the draw, accepting a pass from Hayden and dumping the puck into the Raiders’ zone. There were a few seconds as he skated along the boards to retrieve the puck, and then he was checked into the boards. Rozanov’s smirk was all Shane could see for a moment before he skated away as the Raiders defenceman collected the puck and passed it to Cliff Marlow.  Shane looked over at the ref. No penalty. He skated past the ref as he went to the bench to change. 

“That was a late hit by Rozanov,” Shane said as he climbed over the boards. 

“Don’t you start now,” the ref sighed. 

“I’m serious, that was interference!”

The ref skated away from the bench and muttered, “You two are exhausting.”

Shane sat onto the bench with a huff. The puck was nowhere near him when Rozanov hit him. It definitely was a penalty. 

February 7th, 2011 - 3:00 PM

Shane adjusted his suit jacket as he stood in the dressing room before the press conference. The room was air conditioned, but he still felt hot. He stared at the giant logo of the Nashville team on the carpet of the dressing room until shiny black dress shoes appeared in his vision. 

He looked up to see Rozanov standing with his hands in his pockets. It was harder to stay focused like this, when he didn’t have the quick pace of the game to keep his mind occupied. The outline of Rozanov’s body was visible, now that he wasn’t wearing twenty pounds of equipment. His hair wasn’t restrained to the inside of his helmet, and the blue of his eyes wasn’t interrupted by the reflection of arena lights on his visor. Shane needed to keep him safely categorized with the other players in the league, somewhere closer to colleagues than anything else, but seeing him like this brought Shane back to winter in Regina, the hotel gym in LA, his hotel room in Toronto. All places he shouldn’t be revisiting. 

“You’re not supposed to step on the logo,” Shane said, even though Rozanov surely knew the superstition. 

Rozanov looked down and then back at Shane. 

“Not my team,” he said with a shrug.

Shane didn’t say anything. It wasn’t his team either, so he didn’t feel the need to argue. The upcoming press conference was more concerning: it was uncommon for the league to organize the All-Star teams by nationality, especially considering Canada and the USA combined had by far the most players. Shane wasn’t stupid, it didn’t take much to figure out it was just a ploy to keep the rivalry between him and Rozanov going. 

“You are excited?” Rozanov asked. 

“I guess. It’s my first All-Star game,” Shane replied. “It should be fun.”

“Yes, fun.”

Shane studied his face for a moment. It was hard to tell if Rozanov was being sincere or not when he always seemed unaffected by everything. 

“I wish we didn’t have to talk to the media,” Shane said. It was safer to change the subject if he was unsure. 

“There is this Boston guy, he is shit reporter,” Rozanov said. “He has been here since beginning of the league.”

“The league is almost a hundred years old.”

“Yes, Hollander. I know.”

Shane nodded, and silence fell between them again. It wasn’t as uncomfortable as it should’ve been, considering Shane couldn’t help but remember the last time they were alone together. From all the gossip between players and the tabloid publications, Rozanov certainly didn’t have trouble finding women to hook up with. Talking casually with a hookup was probably a regular occurrence for him.

“Okay, boys, we’re ready for you,” a staff member said, poking her head into the dressing room.

Shane fixed his suit jacket again as they walked down the hallway to the media room. There were more reporters than he was used to, but the All-Star game was low stakes. All he needed to do was get out without fucking up any questions about him and Rozanov.

“Shane, a question over here,” an older reporter with white hair and a Boston accent said. “There’s a lot of talk about your hockey IQ. What is it you’re seeing when you’re out on the ice?”

Shane blinked a few times. What did he see? Did the reporter expect him to say that he saw some sort of overlay on his vision that highlighted who to pass to and where to shoot? Rozanov’s shoe tapped against the side of his, and Shane could see the slightest upturn of his lips from his seat beside him.

“I’m seeing the puck and where the other players are, I guess. Just trying to read where the play is going,” Shane offered, and the reporter nodded thoughtfully as he wrote hurriedly in his notebook.

“And would you say that helps improve your game?” The reporter asked next.

“I mean, yeah,” Shane said, giving the reporter a tight smile. “It’s good to know what’s happening on the ice.”

The reporter seemed pleased with his responses, though Shane wasn’t sure what new information he had provided. The next questions were expected: how they were feeling about their first All-Star game, what players they were excited to be on a team with, their thoughts on the Europe versus North America format. One reporter tried to bait Shane into predicting how many goals he would score this season after Rozanov confidently confirmed he was still aiming for fifty goals, but there was no way Shane was going to give a number or even a slight prediction that could jinx him. Anyway, Rozanov made confidence work, but Shane wasn’t sure that he could do the same, not without being seen as arrogant.

“Question for Ilya first, but it’ll be the same for Shane,” the next reporter began. “Boston is an original six, legendary team that has struggled to get to the playoffs for the past three seasons. How much pressure do you feel from the fans, from the hockey world in general, to restore Boston to its former glory, and how much of that do you take on personally?”

Shane let out a breath. Hockey media really only knew how to ask the simplest, most obvious questions or questions that needed two minutes of introduction to get to the point.

“Uh,” Rozanov said, and Shane saw him adjust the collar of his shirt as he stalled. The discomfort was familiar to Shane, and before he could think it through, he started talking.

“Uh, sorry, not to jump the gun here, but with Rozanov’s permission…” Shane paused, tapping his shoe against Rozanov’s and looking at him briefly until he gave him a slight nod. “I know it’s only been two seasons since Montreal has made the playoffs, but I think I get the idea. Uh, so look, my mom is the world’s biggest Metros fan. She’s obsessed. And like all Metros fans, she wants us to be back in the playoffs regularly, and she wants us to win some Cups. I want the same thing. I want to be in the playoffs, and I want to win some Cups. I feel pretty aligned with the fans because we want the same thing. And at this point, it’s my job to take that personally.”

Shane took a breath as he leaned back from the microphone. It was a bit of a rambling answer, but at least it matched the style of the question. 

“Ilya?” The reporter prompted.

Ilya leaned in towards his microphone and simply replied, “What he said.”

Shane felt himself smile before he could control his expression, and then he felt Rozanov’s shoe press against his. He moved his foot closer in response, and the smile was harder to hide then.

After a few more questions, the league staff ushered them out, sending Shane towards where Team North America was meeting before the Skills Competition that evening. He looked over his shoulder to see Rozanov lightly stretching his arms behind his back as he headed in the opposite direction. Maybe things weren’t as easy for Rozanov as it seemed. They both had to put on a performance, and Rozanov’s role was different than his, but it was still a role he had to play to fit in. To be the cocky Russian, the antithesis to the hardworking and humble North Americans who outnumbered him and got to write the narrative.

I wonder if it exhausts him, too, Shane thought. 

He didn’t see Rozanov again until the Skills Competition began. They were only directly competing against each other in shooting accuracy, and Shane was confident. He wouldn’t want to go against Rozanov’s flashy stick handling in the breakaway challenge, but in pure shooting, he wasn’t nervous. 

Until Rozanov stood in front of the net, and Shane watched him hit all four targets without missing. He was impressive, and it made Shane want to win even more. 

“Come on, rookie! Let’s fucking go!” One of the Team North America players said as Shane left the bench. 

He passed Rozanov as he went, who winked at him. Shane wouldn’t be distracted though. He positioned himself in front of the net and took a deep breath before firing the first puck at the target. His eyes didn’t leave the targets until all four were broken, and then he looked up at the clock. 

“Let’s go!” Shane cheered once he realized he had beat Rozanov by over a second. It was just the All-Star competition though, he reminded himself as he skated back to the bench. The veteran players, especially those who had been invited multiple times, weren’t that invested in the results, so Shane needed to be the same. 

He received a pat on the head from one of his teammates as he reached the bench and closed the gate behind him. He noticed a jersey with the number eighty-one on the arm move to the end of the bench across from him, but he kept his gaze focused in front of him. Rozanov made emotional regulation impossible. 

It didn’t matter, in the end, once he heard Rozanov say, “Good job.”

Just like that, he was unable to ignore him. 

“Thanks,” Shane replied. Rozanov didn’t seem upset about losing, but it was just the All-Star competition, Shane reminded himself again. 

There was a pause before Rozanov spoke again: “You have fun last night?”

“Last night?”

“With your team,” Rozanov clarified. “Get dinner, get drunk.”

“Oh, yeah,” Shane said. “I mean, I had fun, but I didn’t get drunk.”

He waited to be called a pussy, or for Rozanov to laugh in his face, but he just blew a raspberry and looked back out onto the ice where a Team Europe player was setting up for the hardest shot competition. 

“You?” Shane prompted. It was ridiculous how often he got sucked back into Rozanov after he already told himself not to engage, but he couldn’t let the conversation end. 

“Yeah, was great,” Rozanov shrugged. “No boring Canadians, no stupid Americans, so…”

“So what? A bunch of Finnish guys talking about the cousins they’re in love with?”

Shane tried to tamp down the pleased satisfaction he felt at Rozanov’s slight smile. He didn’t need Rozanov to like him. They weren’t even teammates. 

“Think I’m going to bed early tonight,” Rozanov said after a moment. 

“Oh yeah?” Shane asked as Rozanov stood to get on the ice for the hardest shot competition. 

“1221,” Rozanov leaned in and whispered as he skated by, and Shane’s heartbeat accelerated. That was an invitation, right? Rozanov just invited him to his hotel room. 

His heart almost stopped when he heard Scott Hunter’s voice beside him: “Nice shooting, rook.”

“Thanks,” Shane said, glancing at his face to see if there was any trace of sarcasm. 

“Glad to see Rozanov didn’t hold my record for more than a minute. What did he want, by the way?” Hunter asked, and Shane felt his muscles tense.

“Oh nothing,” Shane replied, hoping his voice came off as casual. “Just shit talking.”

“He’s an asshole, right?”

“I mean, yeah. Basically,” Shane said. That was the easiest conclusion to draw from what Rozanov presented. 

“Lucky me,” Hunter said. “I’m in the room next door to him at the hotel.”

Shane felt panic spike again. He couldn’t go to Rozanov’s room. He shouldn’t even have considered it in the first place, but now he definitely couldn’t go. Veteran players could be chirped and bumped on the ice, but they weren’t to be messed with or given any ammunition off the ice. Shane knew this well. 

The rest of the All-Star competition was a blur. He found himself drifting off into his thoughts on the bench, trying to figure out the safest way to get to Rozanov’s room. And then he would scold himself, force his thoughts somewhere else, because he wasn’t going to Rozanov’s room, but it wouldn’t be long before his thoughts got away from him again. 

That’s how he ended up standing in the stairwell on the twelfth floor, trying to convince himself to turn around. This wasn’t worth his career, his parents’ disappointment. Or maybe he was trying to convince himself to go. It was hard to tell, until it didn’t matter. Voices echoed through the stairwell, and Shane pushed the door open and hurried down the hallway. He knocked on Rozanov’s door and looked over his shoulder, but the door was still closed when he turned back. 

A moment of white-hot panic burned through him. This was the right room, wasn’t it? Rozanov wasn’t cruel, he wouldn’t send Shane to a random player’s room, except Shane knew players that would do that, given the opportunity. He was considering fleeing when the door opened and Rozanov’s face appeared. 

Shane pushed the door open, hurrying inside and firmly closing it behind him. He took a second to breathe before turning around to glare at Rozanov. Fucking asshole, trying to give Shane a heart attack. 

“Is someone chasing you?” Rozanov asked, holding his hands out as if Shane was the crazy one. 

“I’m standing in the hallway like an idiot,” Shane huffed. “Scott Hunter is right next door!”

Rozanov just laughed, and Shane lost whatever anger was fuelling him. Or, it wasn’t lost, it was transformed into overwhelming desire. Whatever thoughts that it might’ve been a fluke in Toronto, that Rozanov didn’t spark anything in him but competition, that Shane could find the same pleasure with a dildo in his apartment, they were all replaced by the heat Shane felt when he looked at Rozanov in his casual t-shirt and pants, low lighting in the room shining through the ends of his hair and softening his edges. 

“Fuck,” Shane whispered unconsciously, and then he toed off his shoes and kissed Rozanov, hands reaching for his face and neck. The act of kissing had never felt so good before Rozanov. Shane had always categorized kissing as either a quick, chaste form of affection or a means to get somewhere much more intimate, but Shane could kiss like this for ages. Rozanov had other ideas. 

“Get on your knees,” he ordered, and Shane was obeying before he could think about it. He was determined to do a better job this time, now that he had more of an idea of what Rozanov liked. He took Rozanov’s dick into his mouth immediately. There was probably an art to teasing and building anticipation, but the past six months was enough buildup. He reached his hand up and across Rozanov’s chest, tracing the path Rozanov’s hands had carved across his skin in that hotel bed in Toronto, massaging the thick muscle of his abs and pecs. 

“Up,” Rozanov groaned, and Shane was pulled into a kiss. He let himself be guided, told what to do without worrying about making the right decision. 

Shane was picked up next, wrapping his legs around Rozanov’s waist as he was kissed and carried to the bed. The feeling of Rozanov’s muscles in between his thighs and under his arms was all the more intoxicating when they were being used to carry him. Shane was over two hundred pounds of muscle, made of years of training every part of his body to be designed for hockey, and somehow Rozanov could still pick him up like it was nothing. 

They wasted no time taking off their clothes, Rozanov shoving his pants all the way down and pulling Shane’s off immediately after. The room was quiet, no words exchanged, nothing but the sound of their breathing and the wet sound of Rozanov kissing down his chest. 

When Rozanov focused his attention on Shane’s cock, he had to hide his face in the crook of his arm. It was too much already, the way the hand on the base of his dick moved up with Rozanov’s mouth, so there was no part of him not being pleasured. The attention was too much, the rhythm only broken for Rozanov to lave his tongue around the head of his dick.

“Fuck, Rozanov,” Shane groaned. 

“Get on your stomach,” Rozanov said. When Shane just looked at him, lost in the sensation of Rozanov’s body pressing on top of him, Rozanov repeated, “On your stomach.”

His weight fell across Shane’s back, pressing him down against the mattress and rubbing Shane’s erection against the sheets. 

“Have you ever?” Rozanov asked as he massaged a hand over Shane’s hip, and Shane shook his head slightly but paused. Did Rozanov mean in general, or with someone else? 

“Do you want to?” Rozanov asked softly, but Shane didn’t know how to reply. He did want to, a scary amount. Should he tell Rozanov what he’s done alone in his apartment? Would he find it weird? It’s one thing to get caught up with another man, but to go out of his way in private…

“You’re scared,” Rozanov said with a note of surprise, which spurred Shane into talking. 

“I’m not scared,” Shane insisted. He wasn’t. At least, not about what Rozanov was offering; he was scared about how much of himself he could show, about what it means for their careers if they keep doing this. And all of his thoughts were too heavy to sort through when Rozanov’s cock was firmly pressed against Shane’s lower back. 

“No, is okay,” Rozanov insisted. 

“I’m not scared,” Shane repeated, and Rozanov seemed to believe him enough this time to shift his weight to the side and trail a hand down Shane’s back to his ass. His thumb pressed against Shane’s hole, and that slight pressure sparked renewed interest in his cock. 

“You ever touch yourself here?” Rozanov asked.

“Jesus Christ,” Shane muttered. Why did Rozanov have to ask him about every little detail? Shane didn’t know what to do with these questions other than brush them off harshly like they were still on the ice. 

“What? Does touching your ass make you gay?” Rozanov asked. 

“Rozanov,” Shane began, but he was still trying to form the words in his head. 

“‘Cause you know what else makes you gay is sucking my dick,” Rozanov leaned in to murmur in his ear. 

“Shut up. Fuck,” Shane said, feeling frustration rise in his chest. “I’m trying to say that I have a… thing, okay?”

“A thing,” Rozanov repeated flatly, his hand stilling. 

“A dildo,” Shane muttered. 

He felt embarrassment and anxiety prickle through his body in the silence until it flushed out of him when Rozanov leaned in and said, “What colour?”

“Fuck you,” Shane said, and that was easier. It was easier to interact with Rozanov through chirping and cursing. 

“Is big?” Rozanov continued. 

“I’m leaving,” Shane replied, just to bother Rozanov. 

“No,” Rozanov groaned. “No, Hollander, I want to fuck you.”

Shane paused, arousal tingling in his stomach before he rolled over. Rozanov really was handsome, with intense eyes and a sharp jawline. 

“Not here,” Shane said quietly. “Not with fucking Scott Hunter next door.”

“He is hot,” Rozanov said contemplatively. “We should let him listen like mating call.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Shane muttered. Rozanov probably had experience with things Shane couldn't even imagine.

“You probably would, too,” Rozanov replied. 

In a different world, maybe he would. In a world where the thought of a veteran player - of anyone - finding out he was having sex with another man didn’t fill him with panic, Shane might like a lot of things. 

“Okay, so next time,” Rozanov said. 

“Next time?” Shane asked. 

“Yeah, we play in Montreal in two weeks.”

“Yeah, but, um…” Shane trailed off. Rozanov talked as if it was a certainty that they would meet again, as if they had already discussed it and agreed. Meanwhile, Shane’s mind was spinning. “Where would we…”

“Where would we what?”

“Meet,” Shane said, his voice rising like it was a question. 

Rozanov just watched him for a moment. “You are homeless?”

“No,” Shane replied. 

“Then we meet at your house.”

“It’s an apartment,” Shane took a stuttering breath, trying to regain his composure. Being with Rozanov always put him off balance, but this felt like he was free-falling. 

Rozanov watched him for a moment more, and Shane couldn’t keep it in any longer. 

“Should we be doing this? People can’t know,” Shane whispered.

Tell me it’s worth it, Shane thought. Tell me it’s not selfish, or greedy, or wrong for me to want this. That I can have this and still play hockey, because I’m nothing if I’m not playing hockey. I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my hockey career, I’ve been belittled and traded and isolated for doing the wrong thing. I need you to tell me that this won’t be my next mistake. Tell me that you understand what’s at stake, that you know that this could ruin us, but it’s worth it anyway. 

“Hollander, you are having panic attack,” Rozanov said. He was probably right. “No one will know. It’s just a plan to fuck.”

Shane nodded; he understood. A plan to fuck. A plan to fuck wasn’t something you threw away your life for. A plan to fuck was an indulgent, careless thing, something he would regret if he let it consume him. Alcohol, drugs, gambling, Ilya Rozanov. A vice that needed to be kept locked far away from Shane, because he was already living on borrowed time in this league. 

He wouldn’t let it consume him. Shane gave up his right to be selfish when he told his parents he wanted to play in the NHL. He would have tonight, he told himself as Rozanov leaned in to kiss him. He would have tonight, and then he would stop this. 

He wanted to enjoy it, to relish every moment of pleasure, a pleasure he didn’t know when he’d feel again, if ever. He clung onto each kiss, following after Rozanov’s mouth as he pulled away just to have a second longer, and to give himself a dedicated farewell. Each kiss down his neck and chest, the firm grip on his waist and thighs, the hot wetness of Rozanov’s mouth around his cock. This time spent with Rozanov was a gift he never expected, and he wanted to acknowledge it before he forced himself to forget. He wanted to bask in the feeling of rightness, a space where Shane was all of himself at once and it didn’t feel contradictory or shameful.

And it was coming to an end too quickly. Shane felt his body coil with heat and he pushed Rozanov off, rolling him over and taking his dick in his hand. This deserved acknowledgement too: how much pleasure Shane felt in giving it to Rozanov, how the hand in his hair and soft moan as he replaced his hand with his mouth made him eager to do more. It was a heady feeling to make Rozanov lose composure, to leave him with no words, to feel him come in his hand as Shane kissed him. Then there was no more delaying it. Rozanov, despite how he presented himself, was attentive. He noticed details Shane never knew about himself, like when to fix his attention on the weeping head of Shane’s cock and when to cup his balls in his hand.

Rozanov was hurtling him towards the climax, and all Shane wanted to do was make it last a second longer. Of course, Rozanov somehow recognized that, too.

“Let go,” he murmured in Shane’s ear, and Shane obeyed, as always. 

It was quiet, after. Shane went through the motions of telling Rozanov to fuck off when he commented on how hard he came, climbing out of bed to shower before he left, collecting his clothes and getting dressed. Shane finished by pulling his shirt over his head as Rozanov exited the washroom with a towel around his waist and sat down on the bed. Shane distantly noted that he should change the sheets before getting back in bed, but there was something more pressing on his mind. 

“Um, I know we talked about Montreal in two weeks, but…” Shane rolled his shoulders as he thought of how to phrase his thoughts. 

“Oh my god, you are so boring,” Rozanov said, pushing himself up from the bed and coming to stand in front of Shane, palm out. “Give me your phone.”

Shane blinked. What did that have to do with anything?

“You have phone,” Rozanov said, and Shane nodded. He had a phone. 

“Give,” Rozanov demanded, and Shane pulled out his phone and handed it to him. He already knew Shane’s deepest secret, there wasn’t anything in his phone that could expose him. 

Rozanov handed him his phone back, and Shane smiled at the new contact in his phone. Lily. It shouldn’t have suited Rozanov - it didn’t, really - but Shane liked it anyway. 

“So what’s my name going to be?” He asked. 

“Jane,” Rozanov replied, looking up at him as a text appeared on Shane’s screen. 

See you in two weeks, it said, and the amusement Shane felt about Lily was gone. There couldn’t be anything in two weeks other than a hockey game. 

“I should go,” Shane said, and Rozanov nodded as he returned to the bed. 

He shoved his phone in his pocket and took a deep breath at the door before cracking it open. He listened for any noise, and when he heard none, he peeked his head out to look both ways. Nothing. 

A short laugh came from the room behind him. Shane threw his middle finger up at Rozanov over his shoulder and hurried down the hallway to the stairwell. 

February 18th, 2011 - 10:00 AM

The trainer walked into the room before the morning skate and announced, “Game’s cancelled, boys. There’s too much snow for the plane to fly.”

Shane opened his phone and looked at Lily’s text from two weeks ago. It was better this way. Now Shane didn’t have to reject Rozanov directly, and they could forget anything ever happened between them. A blip in the craziness and excitement of their rookie seasons. Rozanov had probably already forgotten what he had planned for tonight. 

“Hey,” Hayden said, and Shane looked up from his phone. “You don’t want to come over to my place for dinner tonight, do you?”

“What?” Shane asked, surprised. He hadn’t been to any of the Metros’ houses; he rarely saw them outside of the arena. He was more and more comfortable in the dressing room and with his teammates as time went on, especially with Hayden, but he hadn’t expected an invitation to dinner. 

“Since there’s no game, come for dinner,” Hayden said. “Jackie said it’s cool- Oh, that’s my wife. She could throw on some steaks.”

“Um,” Shane stalled. “I’m on a macrobiotic diet.”

“Buddy, I don’t even know what that means. Jackie can cook anything.” Something must’ve shown on Shane’s face, because Hayden added, “You okay?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Shane said. He was fine, it just wasn’t what he was expecting. Last night had been careful practice of how he would tell Rozanov that they had to stop whatever it was that they were doing, and now he was being invited to Hayden’s house for dinner. 

“If you have other plans, that’s totally cool.”

“No, I want to watch you eat my disgusting food. Let’s do it,” Shane said before he could back out. 

“Fuck yes! Oh my god, Jackie’s going to be so happy. She’s obsessed with being the first WAG to feed you,” Hayden cheered. “I’m going to text her right now, actually: Bird food only.”

After practice, Shane drove carefully through the snowy streets of Montreal towards Hayden’s house. The snowstorm wasn’t set to hit Montreal in full force until this evening, once it had made its way through Boston and northwards. Rozanov must’ve been stuck at home by now, though based on his reputation, maybe he was out partying on his night off. 

He parked in the driveway of a large house in Brossard along the South Shore. It was made of large beige and white bricks, with a large stone staircase leading to double doors under an arched roof. Shane climbed out of his car and knocked on the door, running a finger over the stone bricks of the wall. 

“Shane, great timing,” Hayden said as he pulled the door open. “Jackie is almost done cooking.”

“Great,” Shane said as he knocked the snow off his boots and stepped inside, where he took them off. “I hope she didn’t go to too much trouble.”

“Nah, she’s thrilled you’re here.”

Shane nodded as he followed Hayden into the kitchen, where Jackie stood with a baby in her arms while she stirred a pot. 

“Shane, it’s so nice to meet you,” she exclaimed when she saw him. 

“Thanks for having me,” Shane replied. “Can I help with anything?”

“I like you already,” Jackie said as she directed him to the cupboard where the plates were stacked. 

“Hey, what about me?” Hayden asked, wrapping his arm around her waist. 

“You can take Ruby and go check on Emma.”

Shane smiled as Hayden accepted Ruby with a pout and walked to his other daughter in the high chair. Jackie carried over a pan of pasta and vegetables, and then a bowl of salad. 

She must’ve caught Shane looking closely at the pasta, as she said, “It’s chickpea pasta. No gluten.”

“It looks amazing,” Shane said. “I hope it wasn’t too much trouble.”

Jackie waved his concern away, preparing plastic dishes for the kids as Shane placed cutlery down on the table. It was comfortable, more comfortable than Shane thought it would be. They talked about hockey, because they always talked about hockey, and Shane complimented their house and asked how they came across it. He enjoyed his apartment, walking distance from the arena on de la Gauchetière, but since he was going to be in Montreal for a long time, it might be worth looking into a house. 

When the twins got fussy, Shane couldn’t help but check his phone under the table while Jackie and Hayden were distracted. An email from the Metros staff about the postponed game, a text from Yuna that she and David wouldn’t be driving in this weekend. Shane scrolled down to the text conversation with Lily, his fingers itching to say something, but he pocketed his phone before he could give in. 

April 14th, 2011 - 12:30 PM

Shane’s phone beeped with an incoming text as he put a spoonful of brown rice into his mouth, almost choking when he saw it was from Lily: Long two weeks.

He frowned. He had tried not to think about whether Rozanov would text him or not, and he was mostly successful at ignoring the question as their rescheduled game from February approached. It meant more to the Raiders, who were hanging on to a wildcard spot in the playoffs, while the Metros were six points back with only two games remaining. 

Shane typed out various drafts, his food forgotten, before just settling on “What?” 

Our plan to meet in Montreal in two weeks to go deeper, was Rozanov’s reply, complete with a winking emoji. 

Shane stared at his phone. He told himself he wouldn’t take… whatever it is that him and Rozanov were doing any further. 

We can’t, Shane sent back. Nothing was supposed to be easy for Shane, but he had made it through anyway. Telling Rozanov there was no plan to fuck wasn’t easy, and that’s how Shane knew he was doing the right thing. 

Yes, no time for me to give you what you want, Rozanov sent. 

Shane put his phone down and ran a hand over his face. Rozanov was right - this game had to be squeezed in at the end of the season, with the Raiders flying in the morning of and both teams flying out of Montreal in the evening to different destinations for their next game. There was no time, and Rozanov will have found plenty of people to replace Shane by the time next October rolled around.

June 22nd, 2011 - 8:30 PM

Shane tapped his foot nervously as he sat in the audience between Yuna and David. There was only one chance to win Rookie of the Year, and he knew it would be either him or Rozanov, as always. Shane had more goals by the end of the regular season, but Rozanov wasn’t far behind and had made the playoffs. He watched as the nominees’ faces appeared on the screen and held his breath; he wasn’t feeling confident. Two years ago at the draft, he had been in this same position, sat in between his parents and wishing his name would be called more than anything. 

“And this year’s Rookie of the Year award goes to… Shane Hollander,” the announcement came. 

The first thing that crossed Shane’s mind was that his parents would have something to be proud of when they left Las Vegas. The second thing, as Yuna hugged him and nudged him towards the stage, was that he had to go give a goddamn speech. 

Shane shuffled slightly in front of the microphone as he accepted the trophy. He had prepared a speech, not because he was certain he would win, but because there was no chance he would risk improvising on stage. 

“It’s an honour to win this award, and congratulations to both Rozanov and Lemaire for unbelievable seasons. I want to thank the Metros organization, the coaches and all the staff, as well as my teammates. To my parents, thank you for supporting me in my career from the beginning. I wouldn’t be here without any of you,” Shane took a pause to breathe. He kept his eyes focused on the back of the room where he couldn’t make out anyone’s face. “I also want to thank Metros fans for all the love and strength they give us, and we’ll do everything we can to bring the Cup back to Montreal. Thank you.”

He stepped off the stage, feeling his fingers trembling around the trophy. Finally, he had something concrete to prove himself in this league, something his parents could look at and think their investment in his hockey career was starting to be worth it. Later that evening, as Shane returned the original trophy and received his personalized replica, he handed it to Yuna. 

“For you guys,” Shane said. 

“Shane, honey, it’s your award! You should keep it,” Yuna said, but she was clutching the trophy to her chest. 

“I want you to have it. You can add it to the museum,” Shane said with a smile. 

It wasn’t long before Yuna and David shooed him away to socialize with the other players. Shane tried not to seem like he was looking for anyone, but after Lemaire congratulated him and he was left standing alone at the bar, he couldn’t help but let his eyes wander over the crowd. 

“That better just be ginger ale, rook,” Hunter said as he approached the bar. 

“It is, Mr. Hunter,” Shane stuttered. “I wouldn’t indulge in front of you.”

He glanced over at Hunter, unsure what to do. Shane was used to veterans that wanted to supply him with alcohol; of course, that’s how the conversation with Hunter ended too, but not before he asked Shane where “his boy Rozanov” was. Hunter backpedaled, but the panic was still pulsing through Shane’s body. No one had ever implied anything other than hatred and rivalry between him and Rozanov, and while Rozanov was nothing close to his, it was the first time that Shane had to contend with someone implying that there might be more to their relationship, even accidentally. 

“We’re not friends, or anything,” Shane said. It wasn’t a lie. They weren’t anything, anymore. No, they were never anything. 

“No worries, man,” Hunter said, smiling. It didn’t put Shane at ease, nor did the shots release the tension from his body. The alcohol just lowered his restraint enough to lead him out of the room and into the elevator, where he straightened his suit in the reflection of the metal walls, and up to the rooftop. Rozanov’s silhouette leaned against the railing, smoke trailing upwards as he blew out a breath. A small part of Shane was pleased he guessed Rozanov’s location correctly, the knowledge of his nicotine addiction coming mostly from the taste of smoke on his tongue. 

“I don’t know if it’s worth jumping over,” Shane said as he climbed up the stairs to stand along the railing. He hated the smell of cigarette smoke, and yet he was still moving closer. 

“Party all done?” Rozanov asked. 

“No, I just need some air,” Shane replied. He leaned his forearms against the railing, letting the breeze brush over his heated face. 

“You are drunk,” Rozanov said after a moment, and Shane frowned.

“I’m not,” Shane insisted. What the hell did Rozanov know? He didn’t know Shane. 

“Good for you,” Rozanov smirked. “Big night for you.”

“Yeah, well, it could’ve gone to either one of us,” Shane said, and he meant it. They didn’t give empty platitudes. They didn’t need to.  

“It went to you,” Rozanov said with an exhale of smoke. 

Shane paused for a second to process, and then he was pissed. It was the alcohol and the exhaustion of the day, or it was that he could never gain control of his emotions around Rozanov, but everything came bursting out of him. 

“So what? You’re just up here sulking because, what, you couldn’t take another victory lap around me?” Shane raised his voice. “All you do is beat me. I win one stupid fucking thing and you couldn’t even show your face down there!”

It was hockey, where Rozanov won their first matchup at the World Juniors, then went first in the draft, and then made it to the playoffs first. But it was also more than hockey. Rozanov was better at charming the media, he was better at fitting in with the other players. He beat Shane to understanding his own attraction and desires, first that day in the showers and then in their clandestine hotel hookups. No matter what Shane did, he was always catching up. At best he could tie, he could match what Rozanov had already accomplished, but he had no way to step out in front. Until now, and now Rozanov was sulking alone like a fucking baby, like he had somehow been wronged. Shane always played his part; he was gracious when he lost, he dropped to his knees on command. And tonight, Rozanov was too ashamed to have lost to Shane to face his peers.

Rozanov muttered something in Russian. 

“What was that?” Shane asked impatiently.

“Not everything is about you, Hollander!” Rozanov shouted, his composure suddenly broken.

“So what is it then?” Shane felt some of his anger seep out, leaving frustration and confusion behind. 

“What the fuck do you want?!”

“Nothing!” Shane said defensively. “I just wanted to see the view and get some air, and-“

“And what?” Rozanov interrupted. “Here is fucking view, Hollander. Check it out. Fuck.”

Shane didn’t reply. The Las Vegas skyline was lit by colourful lights as he looked out over the city. It wasn’t what he wanted to see when he came up here. 

“I go home in three days,” Rozanov said finally, his voice losing some of its sharpness. 

“Okay,” Shane said cautiously. “Must be nice.”

Shane hadn’t lived at home permanently since he was sixteen, but he had never lived as far away from his family as Rozanov did to play in North America. He knew what it was like to be in unfamiliar places and to miss home, to feel like an outsider when hockey used to always feel like his safe space. Except Rozanov shot him a stern look and just sighed. 

It was so much easier when it was just their bodies in the four walls of a hotel room. Up here, standing on top of the fancy hotel booked by the league, there was too much space, nothing to keep them close enough to understand each other. 

“And I guess I thought maybe we…” Shane began hesitantly. He thought that maybe they could still be friendly, despite the rivalry and Shane shutting down their hookups. No one could understand what it was like to be them, to be two generational players coming into the league at the same time, to have the weight of expectations magnified by media and franchise rivalries a century in the making. 

Yet Rozanov kept looking forward with a clenched jaw, and Shane said, “Never mind.”

He didn’t blame him. Shane wasn’t someone people wanted around for him, he was there to make his parents proud, to play hockey, or to give a blowjob. When he didn’t have a use, he didn’t like himself much either. 

“Okay, I’m going to…” Shane gestured towards the door, but Rozanov didn’t look at him as he turned and walked down the stairs. He cleared his throat quietly and turned back to Rozanov to stick his hand out and say, “I guess I’ll see you next season.” 

A handshake had worked back in Regina when Shane had tried to draw Rozanov out of his silence, in a time that felt like forever ago. It was a suitable end to what they had, circling back to how it had all started. 

Rozanov walked towards him, and Shane felt his heartbeat thud against his chest as he was slowly pushed against the wall. Then Rozanov’s mouth was against his, and Shane kissed back with every emotion that had run through him since he arrived on the rooftop: confusion, frustration, anger, desire. All emotions he was used to feeling around Rozanov, but only three he was allowed to feel. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Shane panted, pushing Rozanov back with hands against his chest. “We’re in tuxedos out in public.”

“No one is looking,” Rozanov said easily, gaze never leaving Shane’s face. 

“You don’t know that,” Shane snapped. Maybe Rozanov thought he could get away with it, if they were caught, but Shane knew he couldn’t. 

Rozanov leaned forward to kiss Shane again, but Shane used his grip to push him off and turn him around and push Rozanov back against the wall in Shane’s place. Crazily, ridiculously, the feeling of Rozanov beneath his hands and the sight of lights reflecting off the spit dampening his lips made Shane think about kissing him again. 

He stepped back, allowing himself one last look at Rozanov, before turning towards the door. 

“See you next season,” Rozanov called, and when Shane didn’t reply, he added: “Hollander.”

January 24th, 2012 - 8:00 AM

The team was loud as they sat in the airport before their flight to Boston, but Shane sat quietly with his arms folded. The Metros were on a two game losing streak, and the Raiders were playing well in another push for the playoffs. If they wanted to make the playoffs too, Montreal needed to get their act together for the second half of the season. JJ and Comeau were out with injuries, and the Metros were feeling their absence.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he tried not to get his hopes up as he pulled it out.

Want to come while you’re in Boston?, Rozanov sent.

Shane frowned as he looked at the message. Was Rozanov concerned that their flight wouldn’t make it into Boston? There was no snow in the forecast.

Did you use Google translate?, Shane sent back.

Rozanov sent back a simple “no”, and Shane was confused. There was that convoluted question at the All-Star Game in Nashville, but otherwise Shane had never seen him struggle with English, even back before Rozanov lived in the USA. 

What you wrote makes no sense, Shane texted. 

Rozanov’s reply was even more confusing: Oh yes it does. Read it again. 

Shane scrolled back up to the message, and- oh. Right. 

He tucked his phone away and folded his arms back over his chest. It would become necessary to reject Rozanov outright, to tell him that no matter how many suggestive innuendos he sent, Shane couldn’t meet up with him anymore. But it wouldn’t be today, not when Shane had hockey to focus on. 

His focus didn’t pay off in the end. In the third period, Montreal was losing 4-3 with only six seconds left in the game. Their goalie was pulled and Thériault had called a timeout to discuss strategy, but Shane looked around to see only JJ watching what the coach was explaining on his small whiteboard. Hayden was picking at the tape on his stick, Comeau was looking off into the stands, and the other two Metros on the ice were staring at their feet. It made Shane’s frustration reach a boiling point. The chances that they would score to tie the game in only six seconds were slim to none, but crazier things had happened, and it was this impassive attitude that had been plaguing them in every game they lost. 

As the coach moved back behind the bench, Shane turned to JJ and said, “I’ll try to win it back to you so Hayden can go for a tip in front right away.” 

Without letting JJ reply, Comeau said, “Let’s just get this over with, boys.”

“Are you not even going to fucking try?” Shane snapped before he could stop himself. 

“We’re not getting a goal in six seconds,” Comeau said slowly, like Shane was a child. 

“Maybe we won’t,” Shane said, “but I’m not going to just hand fucking Boston a win.” 

He skated away from the bench, avoiding Rozanov’s gaze from where he sat on the bench. 

“I dunno, Hollander, I think it’s time you give up,” a Raiders player called from the bench. “I guess there’s a pretty big difference between the number one and two picks, eh?”

“The difference is my Rookie of the Year award,” Shane shot back. He still avoided meeting Rozanov’s eyes; they hadn’t talked about that night in Vegas since the one time in the summer, and Shane didn’t know what Rozanov’s reaction would be. He couldn’t distract himself by feeling guilty about bringing up a potentially touchy subject when he had a game to play. 

He won the faceoff back to JJ as planned, who ripped a shot at the net that bounced off the goalie’s pads and towards Shane at the side of the net. He reached for the puck and knocked it between the goalie’s skate and the post as the buzzer sounded through the arena. 

“It’s in!” Hayden yelled, grabbing Shane by the shoulders as JJ and the other Metros on the ice rushed over. 

Shane didn’t reply; he watched as the referees deliberated before going to the time keeper to review the video. He looked up at the reply on the jumbotron on his way to the bench to wait. It felt like forever, but it was a quick review before the referees skated away from the monitor. 

“After video review,” the referee began as he spoke into his mic at centre ice, “it was determined that the puck completely crossed the goal line with point-eight seconds left.”

Shane felt his teammates patting him on the head as the Boston crowded booed, but he just turned to get a drink of water. The game wasn’t over, they still had to determine a winner. Rozanov’s gaze was impossible to ignore as Shane lined up at centre ice for the start of overtime. 

“You like it dramatic, Hollander?” Rozanov asked as he leaned forward. 

“Just keeping it interesting,” Shane said with a shrug and placed his stick on the faceoff dot. 

“Must be that Rookie of the Year difference, yes?” Rozanov said with a measured tone, but when Shane looked back up at him, he was smirking. 

Then the puck dropped, and Rozanov gained possession. The five minutes of overtime passed by with the teams trading chances but neither scoring. They would head to a shootout. 

Shane watched as Marlow picked up the puck at centre ice and skated straight down the ice towards Drapeau, firing the puck in the top corner to score for Boston. The Metros bench sighed collectively. Next to shoot was Hayden, whose shot was saved by the Boston goalie, and then it was Rozanov’s turn. He was casual, saying something to the ref who laughed, and Shane found himself wishing he could hear their conversation, but the whistle blew and Rozanov skated in slowly towards Drapeau. He skated along the boards until he hit the top of the circle, where he suddenly picked up speed and cut in towards the middle of the ice. Shane’s eyes followed the puck over Drapeau’s glove and then shifted back to watch Rozanov raise his eyebrows at Shane as he made his way back to the Boston bench. 

Thériault patted Shane’s shoulder, and he hopped over the boards. Two goals for the Raiders and none for the Metros so far in the three-round shootout - Shane had to score to keep the Metros from losing immediately. He stood on the blue line as he waited for the ref’s signal. The sound of the crowd, the shuffling on the benches as players stood to watch, none of it registered to Shane as he stared down the ice at the Boston goalie. At the ref’s whistle, he picked up the puck with speed and skated slightly wide of centre ice until he swung back in front of the net. As soon as he saw a sliver of space between the goalie’s arm and torso, he shot the puck into the net. 

“Hell yeah, Hollsy!” A teammate yelled as Shane approached the bench, tilting his head slightly at Rozanov as he went by. 

“Nice shot,” Hayden said as Shane sat beside him. 

“Thanks,” Shane replied. “The game isn’t over yet though.”

The next Boston player lined up to shoot, and the crowd groaned as Drapeau made the save. Then it was Comeau’s turn, needing to score to tie and head to a fourth round of the shootout, but the puck deflected off the goalie’s blocker and into the corner. The Boston crowd erupted into cheers as the Raiders celebrated and the Metros walked down the tunnel to the dressing room. 

“We’ll get them next time,” Shane said as he walked by Comeau and tapped Drapeau on the pads with his stick. He tried to keep his tone light; getting stuck in a pit of negativity wouldn’t help the team, but he still felt the frustration from earlier lingering in his body. 

On the way to the airport for their flight to Buffalo, Shane was reading Yuna’s many texts analyzing the game when a message from Lily popped up: Want your prize for second place? 

Shane rolled his eyes - second place wasn’t a thing in this league; it was winner or loser, and Rozanov knew it - but he felt a small smile on his face anyway. Rozanov was nothing if not persistent. 

March 16th, 2012 - 6:20 PM

“Hey, Mom,” Shane said into his phone, standing in the hallway in his equipment. “Warmups are about to start.”

“I know, but I wanted to talk about Lasmanis,” Yuna said. 

Shane listened, his eyes trained on the rubber floor beneath his skates, as Yuna launched into an analysis of Boston’s backup goalie, who would be in net tonight: Lasmanis let in a lot of goals on his glove side, he usually took a few minutes to get into the game, and he liked to play the puck behind the net. Shane nodded, even though Yuna couldn’t see him. 

“Put a lot of pressure on him early, okay?” Yuna finished. 

“Yeah, of course,” Shane replied. “I should get going now. I don’t want to be late.”

“This is a must-win for you guys, but you’ll be great out there,” Yuna said. “Don’t forget to get pucks on Lasmanis early, okay?”

“Got it,” Shane said with a sigh. 

He hung up the phone and looked at the wall in front of him, where a mural with the Raiders’ logo and colours was painted. Every game was a must-win at this point in the season. Their division was a tight race, and the Metros were having trouble with consistency. They would start strong and fizzle out by the third period, and Shane couldn’t singlehandedly win every game for his team, even though it felt like it was expected of him. That was probably the difference between the first and second picks after all. 

“Hollsy!” Comeau called down the hallway. “Warmups are starting.”

“Okay, thanks,” Shane said with a small smile. 

Comeau patted him on the back as they walked to the tunnel onto the ice. Things with Comeau had been better, surprisingly, since the last time the Metros were in Boston. Somehow Shane’s outburst gained him some respect, which made little sense in his mind, but it was the only explanation that he could think of. Veterans did typically appreciate shows of aggression, but not normally against them. Whatever. It made the Metros more cohesive, so Shane wouldn’t complain. 

A few minutes into the second period, the Metros were leading 2-0, and Shane was looking for his second goal of the night. It was the last matchup against Boston this season, and a two goal lead didn’t feel secure enough. Shane received the puck along the boards and began skating towards the net when he saw Rozanov moving in his direction. He passed the puck to Comeau and braced himself as Rozanov checked him into the boards. 

“Asshole,” Shane muttered as he saw the smirk on Rozanov’s face. It was a clean hit, nothing that injured Shane, but the enjoyment on Rozanov’s face made him huff anyway. 

In the third period, Shane sat on the bench and looked up at the scoreboard. 3-1 for Montreal with ten minutes left; a respectable lead, but not enough to say the game was over. He hopped onto the ice and skated towards the Boston zone, receiving the puck in the corner and passing it to JJ at the blue line, who shot it at the net. Shane and Hayden moved to the net in hopes of a rebound, and Shane felt a stick cross check against his back, once then twice. He turned in time to see a Raiders defenceman cross check him in the chest. 

“Fuck you, Hollander,” the defenceman growled and shoved at him again. 

“Calm the fuck down,” Shane snapped and shoved him back. 

When the defenceman went to grab Shane, Hayden’s arm wrapped around his shoulders and pulled him off. As both teams got involved in the scrum, Shane felt a hand on the back of his jersey pull him away from the crowd. He spun around to see Rozanov standing behind him. 

“Two on one is not fair, Hollander,” Rozanov said with a smirk. 

“Fuck off,” Shane muttered as he knocked Rozanov’s hand off his jersey. 

“Okay, maybe Pike counts for only half.”

“You’re an asshole,” Shane said as he brushed past him and towards the bench, where Hayden was being escorted by the linesman. 

Hayden sat down with a huff, and Shane grabbed a water bottle and sat beside him as he squirted it into his mouth. 

“Fucking Boston,” Hayden grumbled, and then looked at Shane and asked, “Why are you smiling?”

Shane immediately tried to school his face into something flat. He hadn’t realized he was smiling. 

“Just glad we’re winning,” Shane said and busied himself with wiping his visor. 

April 30th, 2012 - 8:30 PM

Shane got up from the couch and wandered into the kitchen for a glass of water. His apartment seemed quieter than during the season, which didn’t make any sense, because it was the same apartment, same neighbours, same location. He would be going to the family cottage in Lanaudière in a few weeks to spend time with his parents and scope out a lot for sale on the same lake. Shane’s first few paycheques had gone to his apartment, then the next ones went to Yuna and David, who reluctantly accepted the money in form of some much needed renovations to the house, and since then he’d been saving to build himself a new cottage down the road from his parents. For now, he was staying in Montreal where he had access to a rink and fully equipped gym. 

He put his glass into the dish washer as his phone buzzed against the counter where it was plugged in. It had been a day full of messages in the Metros’ group chat after Torres texted earlier in the afternoon: Well I’ve decided that was my last season, boys. 

Shane had sent a message congratulating him on retirement, and then set his phone aside once the constant notifications began irritating him. He picked it up now and headed back to the couch as commercials played during the first intermission of the Raiders’ playoff game, but he paused when he saw the latest text was from Rozanov: Playoffs are fun. How come you aren’t here?

Shane absently bit onto his hoodie string as he typed: Fuck you, “Lily”.

Rozanov should really be focusing on the third period he had to play in ten minutes instead of texting. Shane certainly wouldn’t be on his phone if it was him. Of course, the Metros hadn’t made the playoffs. Next year, it would happen. They were getting closer and closer.

He was pulled out of his thoughts by the kissy-face emoji Rozanov sent. What was he supposed to do with that? Nothing. He needed to bring it back to hockey.

He typed: …and see you next season, asshole.

Shane watched as Rozanov began typing immediately. It was a mystery why Rozanov was so interested in texting him over a year since they last hooked up and almost a year since they last kissed in Vegas. Shane didn’t have anything to give other than hockey - he wasn’t funny or witty, he wasn’t knowledgeable or interesting - and they certainly weren’t on the same team.

Rozanov’s reply came in: Promise? I still want that asshole… and yes, is proper grammar.

Shane stared at the message for a moment. Every message this season from Rozanov had been barely concealed innuendo; Shane was under no delusions that Rozanov wanted anything from him other than sex, but to see him directly say that he wants it, not that he was simply offering it, made Shane feel strange. Surely Rozanov could find other men if he wanted something other than the countless women he was seen with at clubs and parties. Maybe he already had, and that made something ugly brew in Shane’s chest. Jealousy, probably, that Rozanov could party his way through Boston, ignore the pre-set customs for interviews, all while Shane was walking a tightrope in Montreal. And that was stupid, because Shane didn’t want to party, or stand out, or do anything other than play hockey. 

Hockey was all he had ever wanted, and Shane would keep it that way.

He began typing but stopped to stare at the draft message: I think that you should.

I think that you should give up, Shane’s thoughts finished, but he couldn’t bring himself to type it out.

Instead he deleted it and put his phone down. Rozanov would grow tired of him soon and give up on his own. Shane didn’t need to do anything but wait. 

July 29th, 2012 - 2:30 PM

“A little bit to the left, Shane,” the director called out, and Shane shuffled slightly in front of the dark backdrop. He didn’t know why a watch company wanted a hockey player as one of their models, but here he was, wearing a much too expensive watch, a fitted black suit, and makeup that made his skin feel suffocated.

“Can we get someone to fix his hair, please?”

Shane stood still and closed his eyes as the hair stylist and makeup artist rushed over to poke and prod at him. When he opened his eyes again, he made eye contact with Yuna, who was standing behind the cameras. She turned to the side slightly and pointed to her back. Shane straightened his posture and looked away. Even when he stood out as the best player on the team, there were always teammates on the ice with him. Hockey wasn’t an individual sport. When people looked at a hockey player, they should see the team before the individual.

Standing in front of bright lights and cameras and a crowd of staff, Shane felt too much like an individual.

“Okay, Shane,” the director said with a clap of her hands, “let’s try something moody.”

He nodded and did his best to arrange his expression into something serious. It might not have been his choice to do this ad shoot, but he still wanted to do a good job.

In the car on the way to the hotel, Yuna chatted happily about the photoshoot and how well the brand’s sophisticated quality suited Shane. In a moment of pause, Shane spoke up.

“My entry contract is done after this season.”

“Yes, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that,” Yuna said excitedly, turning away from the road to look at him briefly. “I think they’re going to try and undervalue you with their first offer, because they still have some trades they’ll want to make before the team becomes a Cup contender, but they have the cap space to do that and offer you a big deal. And they obviously don’t want to lose you, so if we plan our counteroffer well, I don’t think they’ll want to spend a lot of time negotiating.”

Shane listened quietly as Yuna spoke. He cared about his contract, but he wasn’t particularly worried. He obviously wouldn’t be leaving the Metros, and he was sure Yuna and his agent would get him a fair contract.

“So do you think we’ll keep going with the brand deals?” Shane asked tentatively. “I mean, I’ll be making a lot more money.”

“Of course we’ll keep the brand deals. It’s not just about the money, it’s about getting your brand established early,” Yuna said. “Do you not like the brands you’re partnered with?”

“No, it’s not that,” Shane said, shaking his head. “I just wanted to know the plan.”

Yuna launched into an explanation of the timeline for his next contract with the Metros, which brands are interested in partnering with him, and her thoughts on what image he should aim for. Shane nodded along.

He still didn’t quite know why he needed his own personal brand, but Yuna understood these things better. He just needed to show up and not disappoint her.

October 14th, 2012 - 7:15 PM

Shane pulled his helmet back on after the anthems finished and skated to centre ice for the puck drop.

“Hollander,” Shane heard, and he looked up to see Rozanov’s eyes staring back.

“I forgot you played,” Rozanov continued. “I didn’t see you in the playoffs.”

“Fuck you,” Shane replied. “It’s not like you were around long.”

The Raiders were eliminated in five games in the first round of the playoffs. Rozanov might have made the playoffs before Shane, but he wasn’t that far ahead. The whistle blew and Shane won the faceoff.

That night, after the Metros won 4-2, Shane sat on his bed in the hotel room and caught up on the scores from other games across the league. JJ was leading most of the team to a club, but Shane was happy to sit in comfortable silence with Hayden and go to bed early before their flight the next morning. He was reading an analysis of the teams in the Eastern Conference going into this season when a text from Rozanov popped up on his screen.

Lily: Beacon 2886.

Shane: What’s that?

Lily: A place where you can get what you want…

Shane: What do I want?

Shane slammed his phone down on the bed, heat flushing through his body. He stared ahead at the black TV screen on the wall across from him, but the image of Rozanov’s dick was still visible in his mind. Hayden leaned forward to look at him, and Shane breathed out an awkward laugh and picked up his phone, immediately exiting the conversation and staring at the home screen. Then he went back to the messaging app and deleted the conversation. Rozanov was a public figure, it was insane to send dick pics. What if Shane lost his phone and someone got into it? Well, they’d think it was Lily’s dick, but still. 

“So, who’s the girl?” Hayden asked, and whatever arousal Shane might have been suppressing was gone instantly as anxiety filled its place.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Shane said defensively. 

“Is Jessica bugging you? A lot of girls get nervous when we leave town.”

“That’s- I told you, we’re not dating or anything,” Shane said firmly. He barely interacted with Jessica, and yet the team was convinced they were secretly seeing each other.

“Okay,” Hayden dragged out the word, “but if you don’t like her, don’t string her along.”

“What do you mean?” Shane asked. He never promised Rozanov anything. He told him it was risky, that they couldn’t continue hooking up. He wasn’t stringing him along, or Jessica, for that matter. 

“Replying to her texts and shit,” Hayden said. “You’re giving her hope.”

“I’m not,” Shane said, but his confidence wavered. 

“Okay,” Hayden repeated, and then after a pause: “Jackie has a lot of single friends, you know.”

“Hayden,” Shane groaned, and Hayden held up his hands in surrender. 

Shane wished he hadn’t deleted their text conversation. He wanted to review everything he sent to Rozanov, make sure that he hadn’t given him false hope. Replying to his texts wasn’t leading him on, was it? No, there was no way Shane had any power to hurt Ilya Rozanov, the man who was rarely shaken by anything, who was known throughout the league as a fuck boy and a partier. 

But maybe Shane had been wrong, back in the spring. Maybe it was time to stop engaging with Rozanov’s messages completely. 

December 10th, 2012 - 6:00 PM

Shane stared at the message from Rozanov: Know any hot places in Montreal? 

Seconds later, a winking emoji followed. It felt meaner not to reply, but all Shane could think about was Hayden’s words back in the fall. He put his phone back in his cubby in the dressing room and went to get ready for the game. 

Part of him was nervous that Rozanov would act differently during the game, but nothing changed. He chirped Shane at the faceoff, he irritated other players with a smirk on his face, he played as well as always. 

Shane probably was overthinking how much these texts meant to Rozanov. 

January 3rd, 2013 - 10:30 AM

“Holy shit, Shane!” Hayden called down the hallway as Shane walked towards the door of the Metros’ practice facility after the morning skate. 

“What?” Shane said, pausing with his hand on the door. 

“Did you check your email?” 

“No, not yet,” Shane frowned. Hayden was wide-eyed and pale. 

“Don’t check it before you drive,” Hayden ordered before turning back towards the dressing room. “And call me after!”

Shane considered pulling out his phone to check anyway, but he resisted and drove back to his apartment first. Anxiety was building in his chest as he closed the apartment door behind him and pulled out his phone. In his inbox, an email from the Metros’ general manager waited for him, and Shane read it with shaking hands. 

“We’re saddened to inform you about the death of Michael Torres, a Montreal Metros alumni. He was found dead in his cottage early this morning by family members. A statement will be released later today and more guidance given to players on appropriate comments to the media. Michael will be dearly missed by his family, teammates, and fans. Our thoughts and prayers go out to his wife, children, and the entire Torres family during this difficult time.”

Shane felt numb, the only feeling was icy disbelief shooting through his body. He wasn’t particularly close to Torres, but they had been teammates since Shane joined the league. The fact that he was gone, not just retired but gone from the world, was hard to process. 

An incoming call from Hayden flashed across his screen. 

“Shane?” Hayden asked once he picked up. “You okay?”

“I don’t- He was only in his mid-thirties,” Shane whispered. “What happened?”

“Suicide,” Hayden said plainly. 

Shane closed his eyes and leaned his head against his hand as he sunk down onto the couch. That had been his first thought, but he hadn’t wanted to acknowledge it. 

“Are you sure?” Shane asked quietly. 

“Yeah, Drapeau spoke to his wife. He used a hunting rifle.”

“Fuck,” Shane whispered. He could feel his eyes stinging behind his eyelids. 

“JJ's calling,” Hayden said. “Are you okay?”

Shane nodded, and then croaked out a “yes” as Hayden hung up. It was unclear how long Shane sat on the couch, his head resting in the palms of his hands. Long enough that the media release must’ve been published, because Yuna was calling him. 

“Shane, honey, are you okay?” Yuna asked as soon as he picked up. 

“I’m okay,” Shane said. It felt wrong to focus about his emotions when he hadn’t even talked to Torres since he retired. He should have reached out. 

“It’s so sad. His poor children,” Yuna said. “I’ve seen multiple articles about it now. The league must be concerned. It’s not a good look for them, especially since he was an enforcer.”

How many times had Shane seen Torres fight over the last two years? Thirty? Forty? He couldn’t shake the images of Torres being hit in the face, the swelling before the night was over and the bruises the next day. They had applauded him, patting him on the back after and praising him for sticking up for the team. Would he still be here if hockey hadn’t demanded he sacrifice his body and health? Would he still be here if his team had supported him the way he fought for them?

“I can’t imagine they’re going to acknowledge anything about fighting unless they’re cornered,” Yuna continued, but Shane couldn’t keep listening. 

“I have to go, Mom,” he choked out. 

“Oh, okay. You’re sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, I just need to go.”

“Okay. Good luck tonight, honey,” Yuna said, and Shane slumped back onto the couch. How were they supposed to play a game tonight? It felt like someone else was controlling his body as he went through his usual game day routine, and then he was placed in front of cameras and microphones for a pre-game interview. It was nothing but questions about Torres: a message for his family, favourite memory of him, what he meant to the Metros organization. Shane couldn’t remember what his responses were. 

Then the last reporter asked, “Do you think the league has any responsibility in all this?”

“I don’t want to speculate or speak on behalf of Torres or his family,” Shane began, “but I think we all have a responsibility to make sure players are healthy and supported.”

With that, Shane thanked the reporters and walked back through the arena towards the dressing room, when Marcel, the PR manager, waved him over. 

“I was listening in on your interview,” Marcel said, and Shane nodded. “You can’t go around implying that the league is at fault for what happened to Torres.”

Shane frowned, “I didn’t. I said we all needed to make sure players are supported.”

“Yes, but we're not reporting it to the public as a suicide.”

“They clearly already know. His family said so in their statement,” Shane replied, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Marcel threw his hands in the air and sighed.

“Listen, just stick to what our press release said, okay?” 

Shane didn’t reply. He turned and continued towards the dressing room, anger brewing in his chest. Torres’ life and death weren’t simply inconveniences to navigate past as smoothly as possible. The dressing room was quiet when he walked in. No one was in the mood to talk or blast music like they normally did. The only sounds were of velcro being adjusted on equipment and tape being wrapped around shin pads and stick blades. 

The silence lasted until Thériault came in for the pre-game speech and to announce the starting line up. 

“I know this is hard, boys, but we need to start strong out there. Hollander, your line is starting, with Boiziau and Sedlak on D and Drapeau in net,” Thériault said. He continued to talk about their strategy against Winnipeg until he wrapped up his speech with a clap of his hands: “Let’s win for Torres.”

Shane frowned at his skates. It was an open secret that Torres hated how Thériault ran the team, and yet he still couldn’t escape him. Before the start of the game, the announcer asked for a moment of silence for Torres, and then Shane was lining up for the faceoff. 

“Hey, Hollander,” the Winnipeg centre said. “People are saying it was 'cause he was getting divorced, is that true?”

Shane didn’t reply, he just won the faceoff and skated away. The Metros ended up losing the game 4-1, and the room was still quiet as they took their equipment off. JJ was the first to shuffle out of the room, even though he usually hung around until the last players were walking out the door. Shane followed behind him and drove home in silence. The radio seemed too loud, too normal. 

Lying in bed, sleep escaped Shane. Memories of Torres filled his mind instead, all the possible signs that he wasn’t doing okay, that he was struggling under the surface. Shane grabbed his phone off the bedside table to distract himself and stopped when he saw Rozanov had texted him: I am sorry about your friend, Hollander. He was a good guy. 

Shane felt his chin wobble as he stared at the message. Torres was a good guy. He wasn’t a news story, or a blemish on the league’s image, or a reason to win, or a piece of gossip. It was ridiculous, because Shane didn’t know him that well, not like he knew Hayden or JJ, so Rozanov’s text shouldn’t impact him so much. 

Thank you, Shane sent back, and for the first time since he found out about Torres’ death, a tear rolled down his cheek. 

April 21st, 2013 - 10:00 PM

Shane was exhausted. He knew playoffs would be rougher and more intense - he had played in the playoffs in the OHL and in minors - but this was harder than he expected, and it was only the first round. The Metros were playing Tampa Bay, and their win tonight had saved them from elimination. They had to win the next two games to make it to the next round, but they would be playing in Montreal next, where their fans would be energizing them. Or at least, that’s what Shane hoped.

He rubbed at his shoulder as he brushed his teeth. It had been nagging him since March; Shane could handle it when he was on the ice and had adrenaline and ketorolac flowing through his veins, but at home, once the injections had worn off, the pain came back to him. After he rinsed his mouth and laid down gingerly in his bed, he pulled out his phone. He considered it part of his job to keep track of the other teams, especially those he might be playing if the Metros made it to the second round, but he cringed when he saw his own picture in the first headline: “‘Not over yet’: Hollander, Metros react after surviving elimination game against Tampa Bay”.

More than the headline, Shane’s eyes were caught on the small “MT” patch on the shoulder of his jersey. It had been added to the team’s jerseys in January, but Torres was no longer a topic of conversation in the news cycle or in the dressing room. Shane was relieved that the speculation was over, and simultaneously nauseated by how quickly someone’s death could become irrelevant. Thériault had made it clear before their first playoff game: the patches could stay until the end of the postseason, but there would be no tolerance for any distractions.

A text from Rozanov lit up his phone, which had gone dark while Shane was lost in thought: I give skating lessons, for a price. 

The text included a link to a YouTube video, and Shane sighed when he clicked on it and saw the clip of himself stumble in the middle of a two-on-one as his skate blade caught an edge. He had seen it multiple times now, and it only happened last game against Tampa Bay. 

Another text came in: I give other lessons too. Fun ones.

Shane huffed out a laugh. Trust Rozanov to be focusing on teasing Shane and sex even though the Raiders were in the middle of their own playoff series. A smile stayed on Shane’s face. Did Rozanov keep up with the Metros, or did he come across the clip by accident? Something about the thought of Rozanov following Metros coverage just so he had material to tease Shane with was endlessly amusing. It was probably reading too much into it, but it was enough of a distraction to settle Shane’s emotional spiral so he could fall asleep.

March 3rd, 2013 - 5:30 PM

The wooden frame of the cottage sat on a plot of dirt and gravel, strangely bare against the backdrop of the lake and trees. It would definitely need landscaping; Shane knew nothing about plants, but maybe he could find a specialist who knew about native trees and shrubbery. He had read that keeping local plants around the shoreline was better protection against erosion than a retaining wall. 

“Ready to head back?” David asked as he approached from where he and Yuna had been checking out the view of the lake. 

“Yeah,” Shane replied, still staring at the beginnings of his cottage. “I’m ready.”

“Let’s eat dinner before the game starts,” Yuna called from where she was standing next to the car. “I want to properly enjoy watching Rozanov and the Raiders get eliminated.”

“Remind me why we hate Rozanov?” David asked as they walked towards the car.

“He’s arrogant and thinks he’s better than Shane,” Yuna replied. “Anyway, he plays for Boston.”

“Right,” David said, “we hate Boston. I remember now.”

Shane smiled faintly as he climbed into the car. 

October 25th, 2013 - 9:30 PM

As Hayden sent the puck down the ice and into the empty net, the Montreal crowd cheered. There were still sixteen seconds left in the game, but not enough for the Raiders to score two goals to tie. The Metros patted Hayden on the head as he skated to the bench; it was the 200th point in his career, and the team had been on the look out all night for when he would get it. Shane skated down the ice to get the puck to keep for Hayden, but Rozanov had already beat him there as the rest of the Raiders went to the bench.

“I need the puck, Rozanov,” Shane said as he approached.

“Wow, Captain Hollander coming to get it,” Rozanov said with a smirk.

Shane had been named captain at the start of the season, and he still wasn’t used to seeing the C on the front of his jersey. It felt performative more than deserved, like they gave it to him just because he was the best player and the face of the franchise, not because he was a great leader. He was determined to do a good job regardless.

“Come on, it’s his 200th point,” Shane said.

“Who, Pike? You gave him some of yours, didn’t you?” Rozanov said.

“Rozanov,” Shane said sternly.

“Ask nicely,” Rozanov said with a smirk, and Shane just sighed. He reached for the puck with his stick and Rozanov pulled it away.

“Please,” Shane said quietly, and he hated how his stomach flipped at the look Rozanov gave him.

“Good,” Rozanov said. He lifted the puck onto the blade of his stick and tossed it in the air to Shane, who caught it in his glove.

“Talk later, Hollander,” Rozanov said as Shane turned to skate away.

Shane gave the puck to the trainer to keep for Hayden, but his mind was still in that conversation with Rozanov. The final sixteen seconds drained uneventfully, and before he realized, the team was back in the dressing room and Shane’s phone buzzed from where it sat on the shelf above his stall. He didn’t need to check it; it was probably Yuna, or an email about one of his brand deals, or a random notification from the social media he never paid attention to. Or it was Rozanov, because he said they would talk later, and it was later.

It wasn’t Rozanov. It was a notification about the score of the Raiders game, which he was aware of, considering he just played in the same game. Shane wasn’t disappointed. He was pleased, relieved.

And then his phone buzzed again, and his heart rate picked up at the name “Lily” on his screen: I have a different hotel room. 1147.

Rozanov sent the address next, and it wasn’t the hotel that visiting teams normally stayed in when they came to Montreal. Shane stared at the message until another one came in: I will be there at 10.

Shane put his phone down abruptly and glanced over at Hayden, who was humming along to the music playing as he peeled off his equipment, oblivious to the internal turmoil brewing within Shane. There was no way to rationalize going to see Rozanov late at night in his hotel room. It was insane that Shane was even trying to find an excuse to go; that alone was enough reason not to, the fact that Shane crumbled so easily in the face of Ilya Rozanov. Because every time he got a text from Lily, he had to try not to smile, and every time they played against each other, he had to hide how amused he was at Rozanov’s antics. It was too much. They weren’t even supposed to be friends.

It would be the end, tonight. Shane would meet Rozanov, and he would tell him it all had to stop. No teasing on the ice or in interviews, no texting, and absolutely nothing sexual. No more teasing, texting, or hook ups. Shane repeated it to himself as he knocked on the door of the hotel room. As soon as Rozanov appeared in the doorway, Shane rushed inside. He had no excuse if he was caught at a hotel in the city he lived in.

“I didn’t think you will come,” Rozanov said as he observed Shane.

“Yeah, well,” Shane shrugged, “I think we should talk.”

Rozanov raised his eyebrows. It was unfair how good he looked in a t-shirt and sweatpants, how effortlessly he embodied himself in every moment, even in a random Montreal hotel room.

“That is what you want?” Rozanov said.

“I mean…” Shane trailed off. It wasn’t about what he wanted. It was never about that, not since he chose to play hockey for a living. Shane didn't have the space for multiple wants, he wasn’t given that luxury. He could have Rozanov if he wanted to give up hockey, but it wasn’t a trade he was willing to make. And even if he was, it was far too late. His parents, the team, the organization, the fans, the city. They all had too many wants of their own, and it was all Shane could do to keep up with them.

“Is not what I want,” Rozanov said calmly. “I want to fuck you.”

There was no point in pretending anymore, because Shane was reaching for Rozanov’s shirt and pulling him into a kiss. There was no finesse to the way their mouths crashed together, and maybe if Shane didn’t wear out every angle of these memories with Rozanov, examining every detail in his mind, he could tell himself later that Rozanov reached out first, that Rozanov was desperate, that Rozanov put his lips on his and Shane was powerless to resist.

Rozanov wrapped a hand around the back of Shane’s neck and pulled him back gently to tug his shirt over his head, doing the same with his own shirt after. Then he led Shane towards the bed and crawled on top of him, bracketing his arms on either side. 

“This okay?” Rozanov asked, and Shane nodded. It was more than okay, the weight of his body against his, settling him in place. 

Rozanov kissed his way down Shane’s chest, hands following behind and squeezing at his skin as they went, before one hand wandered back up to curl around Shane’s jaw. Shane’s own hand grabbed onto Rozanov’s wrist and shifted it so he could take two of his fingers into his mouth, sighing as Rozanov’s index and middle fingers pressed against his tongue. His eyes had fallen closed at some point, because they snapped open with a moan as a wet heat enveloped his cock. He hadn’t even realized that Rozanov had gotten his pants undone. 

His whole body must’ve lurched, based on how Rozanov pulled back and looked at him. 

“Is okay?” Rozanov asked, and Shane nodded. 

It apparently wasn’t enough, because Rozanov removed his fingers from Shane’s mouth and stared at him, which wasn’t what Shane wanted. 

“Words, Hollander,” Rozanov said. 

“It’s okay, keep going,” Shane said breathlessly, and then tacked on, “Please.”

That seemed to satisfy him, because he leaned back down and traced his tongue along a vein before taking Shane’s cock back in his mouth. As much as Shane had reluctantly used memories of hook ups with Rozanov to get off when he needed to get himself over the edge, nothing compared to experiencing it, and it was overwhelming. Then Shane’s dick hit the back of Rozanov’s throat, and his whole body tensed in an attempt not to come. 

“You find another man to fuck you, Hollander?” Rozanov growled as he pulled off and tugged at Shane’s pants. 

“What?” Shane panted, distracted by the feeling of one of Rozanov’s hands grabbing at the meat of his thigh. 

“Was it another player?” Rozanov asked. “I make you feel better, yes?”

Rozanov was still talking, but Shane couldn’t hear over the white noise in his ears. There was no other player, no other man fucking him, because this was something Shane wasn’t allowed. Because Rozanov had said it himself, when Shane had asked if they should be risking everything: it was just fucking. It was a greedy, carnal thing that would destroy everything Shane worked for and alienate everyone he cared about. 

“Hollander?” Rozanov asked, his movements halted. 

“I, uh- I have to go,” Shane stuttered. 

Because Shane couldn’t do this right either. He had led Rozanov on in his selfishness, and he had shown up at the hotel room, and he couldn’t even make it good for him. It wasn’t worth it in any sense of the word: it wasn’t worth the risk, and Shane hadn’t been worth his time. 

“Hollander?” Rozanov asked again as he backed up and sat on the bed beside him, but Shane wasn’t hanging around. He couldn’t. 

“Yeah, I just… I have to go,” Shane said, pulling up his pants, hurriedly throwing on his t-shirt, and shoving his feet in his shoes. He didn’t look at Rozanov as he rushed out the door, he didn’t stop until he was in his car and driving back to his apartment. 

Standing in the hallway, leaning back against the door with the lights off, Shane’s shaking hands pulled out his phone. A text was waiting from Rozanov: Are you okay? 

Shane sunk down to sit on the floor. He wouldn’t reply. It was probably mean not to, but there was nothing Shane could say. He didn’t know how to interact with Ilya Rozanov without ending up in his bed. 

The phone screen went dark and Shane remained seated. 

November 8th, 2013 - 6:45 PM

Shane kept his head down as he stretched on the ice during warmups, staring at his gloves and avoiding the large Raiders logo painted on centre ice. He hadn’t responded to Rozanov’s text nor did he receive anything else, which Rozanov couldn’t be blamed for. Shane didn’t even give him an orgasm before he ran off like a coward. That was the most unforgivable part. Rozanov wasn’t hooking up with him for his personality, and his body was nothing special in a league full of professional athletes. Rozanov was hooking up with him because he was the most convenient and least dangerous option if Rozanov wanted to sleep with a man. 

A pair of skates entered his vision on the other side of the red line. Shane didn’t need to look up to know they belonged to Rozanov - the tongues of his skates were sticking out, instead of neatly tucked under his shin pads and socks like Shane’s.

“Hollander,” Rozanov said hesitantly, like Shane was a wild animal.

“Don’t,” Shane said quietly. He couldn’t do this, not on the ice in front of fans and their teammates. He was a coward.

“I-“ Rozanov began, but Hayden’s voice called out and interrupted him.

“What the fuck do you want, Rozanov?”

Rozanov stared at him for a moment before replying, “You are a call up?”

“Fuck you,” Hayden snapped. “You know who I am.”

“Wow,” Rozanov said, “confident.”

He skated away as Hayden scoffed and turned to Shane.

“I hate that guy,” Hayden said. “Is he ever not a complete asshole?”

Shane thought about standing behind the arena in Regina, sitting on the floor of the hotel gym in LA, being told not to play with a busted knee in Ottawa, laughing during the CCM shoot in Toronto, speaking in front of the press in Nashville, receiving a text about Torres, being asked if he was okay.

“Not really,” Shane said to Hayden.

The rest of the game passed by uneventfully. Rozanov’s eyes followed him as he set up for each faceoff, but no words were exchanged. It was the first time in five years that Rozanov was silent, and Shane didn’t know what to do without him setting the tone. He wanted the chirping back.

Shane was greedy that way.

February 16th, 2014 - 11:00 PM

Shane stared at his phone as he sat on the stiff mattress of his small bed in the Olympic Village. The room was quiet - nothing but his twin bed, a dresser, and a wooden chair kept him company - but Shane’s thoughts were loud, replaying the play-by-play commentator’s announcement that Russia had officially lost to Latvia. He had wanted to watch the game in person, like he had done with the Canadian women’s team and the other men’s games he could fit into his schedule, but JJ was adamant that he had enough of the Russian team just being in Sochi, and Shane wasn’t about to go alone. Instead, he watched the broadcast from the Village in horror as the Russian goalie let in a soft goal to tie the game, and then a defensive miscommunication led to Latvia’s game winner. Some of the Canadian athletes watching with him had cheered as Shane watched Rozanov console his teammates before they stood for the Latvian anthem. 

Hockey players knew pressure. It was a fast game that lived in the millimetres between the puck hitting the post and flying into the back of the net, with fans that accepted nothing but perfection. Montreal fans and Boston fans had that deep loyalty and sky-high expectations in common. But there was a special kind of pressure that Shane felt, that he could see surrounding Rozanov. The kind that expected them to take responsibility for the actions of a team of twenty-two other men, because they were the best, and the best players had to achieve the impossible. Shane felt the added weight of his country’s expectations at the Olympics; his country, which was disappointed if they didn’t win by a blowout, which was defined in part by its excellence on the ice, which shared his greatest accomplishments and his biggest failures. 

If Shane felt the pressure from six thousand kilometres away, Rozanov must have been crushed by it, standing in the epicentre. With one last look at his unanswered text to Rozanov, a simple “are you doing okay?”, Shane put his phone down. 

Two unanswered texts, months apart, both asking the same question. Rozanov didn’t owe him anything, and Shane was great at making things worse.

Rozanov still hadn’t left Shane’s head, three days later. If anything, he was even more preoccupied as he walked into the figure skating venue with Hunter and Carter Vaughn after their discussion at the cafe. It wasn’t that Shane was a complete idiot, he knew that other countries weren’t safe for gay people; he heard enough in dressing rooms to know that his own country wasn’t always accepting. And yet, he didn’t know enough, and that made him feel out of his depth, like he didn’t know how to plan his words and actions. If he was home, he could look it up, but he didn’t even want to do that here. 

More than all of that, he was worried about Rozanov. Shane had heard endless criticism of the Russian team since their loss. The Olympics were the largest stage they’d played on, who knew what people would dig up the longer Rozanov’s name and face were disparaged as the captain of the floundering hometown team. 

“I bet I could jump that high if I didn’t have so much fucking equipment,” Vaughn said. 

“I don’t know if you have the muscle for that,” Shane said with a smile. 

“Fuck off, Hollsy,” Vaughn said as Hunter laughed. 

Shane just shrugged as the music began for the next program and the familiar sound of skates cutting into ice filled the rink. He watched as Joe, the Canadian figure skater, leaped into the air and twirled across the ice surface. They had attended the same sports academy in Ottawa before Shane left for Owen Sound, and as athletes that both skated, they had spent time training together. Joe was one of the few faces from his pre-NHL days that he was happy to see when he walked into the Olympic Village. 

“Wow, man! Your buddy fucking killed that,” Vaughn said as they sat back down after applauding Joe’s program. 

“Fuck yeah he did,” Shane replied, but his brain was replying on autopilot, because Ilya Rozanov stood at the top of the stands, looking down at the ice surface. He wore all black, and Shane couldn’t see the details of his expression, but he had no doubt that it was Rozanov. He was used to large distances between them, that couldn’t stop him from recognizing the outline of his body and the way he held himself. 

If he had paused to think, he would’ve known it was a bad idea. He would’ve stopped himself from jumping up, offering a weak excuse about finding the bathroom before climbing the stairs two at a time. But Shane never seemed to know how to think around Rozanov, and so he was almost jogging as he kept his head down, avoiding eye contact with anyone who might recognize him, and then he slowed to a walk as he approached Rozanov in the empty suite above the regular seating. Classical music poured out of the speakers as the next program began, but Shane’s eyes were only on Rozanov’s slouched form as he leaned against a metal pillar. 

“Hey,” Shane offered, but Rozanov didn’t react, not looking away from the ice.

“I, uh, saw you up here and wanted to see how you were doing,” he tried again. 

“Fine. Go sit down,” Rozanov said, and Shane shoved his hands in his pockets at the sharpness to his tone. He hadn’t expected a warm welcome. He didn’t know what he expected, all he knew is that he wanted to see if Rozanov was okay, because despite everything, despite the deep sting of their last meeting alone, there was no one who knew what it was like to be them. To be so loved in an instant and completed hated in another, depending how they reacted to the pressure. And sometimes to be hated no matter what they did, because hockey was steeped in that kind of violence, the kind that protected its own only as long as they agreed to play by the rules.

“I just-“ Shane began, but Rozanov cut him off.

"Now you want to talk?” He said in the same dark tone, one Shane was unfamiliar with.

“Are you okay?” Shane asked. This wasn’t Rozanov as he knew him. There were games in the NHL, the World Juniors, the Rookie of the Year award - Shane had seen Rozanov lose, reacting with competitiveness, wit, anger. This was different, this was something beyond where Shane knew how to reach. 

“Go away, Hollander." Rozanov still hadn’t looked at him. 

“I texted you, but-“ 

“Yes, I got your boring text,” Rozanov snapped, turning to glare at him. “I did same as you. Now go.”

“Right, okay,” Shane said quietly. “Fuck.”

Rozanov had turned back to the ice surface, but the image of his expression when he looked at Shane was stuck in his mind. It was an expression that could be described as mean, but that was too simple. Mean was the expression that classmates, teammates, coaches had worn. Mean were the words that came out of their mouths. 

Rozanov wasn’t mean. Maybe what Shane saw was Shane’s own meanness reflected back at him. They weren’t worth it. That had been decided in their rookie year, and Shane was still clinging on and causing problems. Shane wasn’t worth it, and he couldn’t fault Rozanov for being tired of his shit. 

That night, on his stiff mattress, Shane stared at the search bar. It felt like he was giving himself something he didn’t deserve; something maybe he had never deserved, but certainly didn’t now. And yet, he couldn’t stop his fingers from typing in “2009 NHL draft” and clicking on the images tab. He had to scroll before he found it, but then there it was. The only photo they had together: Shane with a fake smile and two fingers up, and Rozanov with one finger up and a blinding smile. 

This was Ilya Rozanov, youthful and happy and unburdened by the absolute shitshow that Shane had created out of a simple plan to fuck. 

There was no one else who knew what it was like to be them, with the love, hate, expectations, disappointment, idolization, and pressure, pressure, pressure. Shane knew this, and so, looking at the picture of Rozanov, Shane promised him that he would stop adding complications to his life. 

March 8th, 2014 - 9:30 PM

Shane looked at the jumbotron as he skated to the faceoff in the Raiders’ zone. They were losing 5-1, and with less than a minute left, Thériault hadn’t bothered to pull Drapeau for the extra attacker. It was a lost cause. Most of the Metros fans were already walking towards the exit. 

Shane didn’t look up as Rozanov crouched for the faceoff in front of him. They hadn’t spoken all game, and there was nothing Shane wanted to hear about the Raiders’ decisive victory. The ref blew the whistle, and Shane moved to get the puck, but the blade of his stick just knocked against Rozanov’s. The whistle blew again, and Shane sighed as he saw the ref gesturing for him to leave the faceoff dot.

“Come on,” Shane groaned. “Let’s just finish this. The game's almost done.”

But the ref shook his head, “Rules still apply, Hollander. You went early.”

Shane switched places with Hayden and ignored Marlow as he lined up beside him.

“They give you ice time in important moments, yes, Pike?” Rozanov said, and Shane gritted his teeth.

The dressing room was quiet as the Metros filed in after the game. They were in a wildcard spot, and every game mattered over the last month of the regular season. It was always chasing and being chased, and the only thing Shane could control - how well he played for the Metros - was slipping from his fingers. He got undressed and showered in the same haze that he played in; it wasn’t until he was walking towards the arena exit that he was jolted out of it. 

“Hollander,” Thériault called from where he stood in the doorway of his office. “Come talk before you go.”

Thériault walked into his office, not giving Shane any option but to follow. The office had surprised Shane at first; there wasn’t much to it other than a desk, a cabinet, and a chair on either side of the desk. A few pictures of the 1993-94 Metros, the last team to win the Cup in Montreal, hung behind the desk, but the walls were otherwise bare.

“Sit,” Thériault said, gesturing at the chair across from his. Shane sat down hesitantly. Thériault didn’t usually scare him, not anymore, but something about sitting across the desk from him made Shane feel like a child in trouble. 

“Listen, Hollander,” Thériault began, “I need to know what the fuck is going on with you, because this last month has been some of the shittiest hockey since your rookie season.”

Shane folded his hands in his lap. What was going on with him? A lot, probably. 

“I’m sorry,” Shane said quietly. “I know I haven’t been playing my best-“

“Don’t give me that bullshit,” Thériault said. “Are you injured? We need to deal with it now, before the playoffs. And get you on pain killers.”

Shane watched as Thériault crossed his arms. The office chair creaked as he leaned back and observed Shane. 

“I’m not injured,” Shane replied. “I think… I’ve been having a hard time. With what happened last year, and then the Olympics were a lot.”

“A hard time,” Thériault repeated flatly. 

“Yeah,” Shane said with a sigh. “Mentally, I guess.”

It was quiet in the office. The rest of the team had surely left by now to lick their wounds at home. That was all Shane wanted to do, to go home and stop thinking about how to keep his life from crumbling in his hands. And stop thinking about Rozanov, while he was at it. 

“Jesus Christ, Hollander,” Thériault finally said, running a hand over his face. “They said you were soft during your junior days, but I thought you had grown out of it.”

Shane didn’t say anything. The hockey world was small; he was never going to completely outrun his days in the OHL, but Thériault’s words brought back a rush of shame that he had almost forgotten. 

“Is this going to be some shit like Torres?” Thériault continued. “Because I can’t handle that right now.”

Shane’s hands curled into fists. 

“I’m not suicidal,” he said through clenched teeth. 

“Great, you’re not a total pussy,” Thériault snapped. “What do you want me to do, Hollander? Sit here while you cry?”

“No,” Shane said, trying to control his tone. “I’ll handle it. I’m going to book some ice time at the practice facility to get focused again.”

Thériault nodded silently, and Shane stood from his chair. He was exhausted, and he didn’t have any more patience. 

“Hollander,” Thériault said as Shane’s hand grabbed the doorknob. Shane paused but didn’t turn around. “Don’t put this mental stuff on the team. They don’t need to be distracted by their captain before the postseason.”

“Fine by me,” Shane said and walked out the door, letting it fall closed behind him.

June 13th, 2014 - 11:30 PM

Shane pulled the covers up over his chest as he settled into bed. He should’ve been exhausted after spending the afternoon and evening with Hayden, JJ, and some of the Metros, but his mind was still working too fast. 

Ilya Rozanov and the Raiders had won the Cup. Shane wanted to be mad, or competitive, or whatever his teammates were feeling when they called Rozanov a douchebag and a bastard and a cocksucker, because here was another thing that Rozanov beat Shane at. First to win a Cup. He was jealous, of course, but still, when it was Rozanov against San Francisco, Shane felt nothing but relief when Rozanov won. It was one of the things that made him soft, getting teary eyed at the sight of his rival winning the Cup. 

He grabbed his phone off the bedside table from where it was charging and did what he never did: he opened Instagram. His account was an impersonal collection of photos he was contractually obligated to post and his yearly season-end thank you to Metros fans. Shane searched up the Raiders’ account, where there were a few videos of plays from the game and the on-ice celebration, but nothing that he hadn’t already seen during the broadcast. Next was Rozanov’s account, which had nothing from tonight. Shane sighed and rested his phone facedown on his chest. 

They were surely at a club, celebrating and getting wasted. Rozanov would probably find a woman to bring home. All of the Raiders would, unless they were already in a relationship, and maybe even then. Maybe they’d sleep with multiple women tonight. It would be expected of them, that Shane knew without needing to win the Cup himself. What Shane needed was to go to sleep, to get Rozanov’s emotional expression as he lifted the Cup out of his head. It was nostalgia, mostly. It was the same face that Shane had seen win gold at the World Juniors. He could appreciate the work Rozanov put into getting there, but he wouldn’t allow himself anything more than feeling a drive to work harder. 

June 30th, 2014 - 8:00 PM

Shane had wanted to reject the offer, but Yuna insisted it was good for his image to have a lighthearted, comedic appearance. He had been under the impression that they were going for serious and dedicated hockey player, but apparently too serious meant not enough interest in him as a person, which was fine with Shane. Not so much with Yuna.

And so Shane stood backstage in the theatre of the luxury Las Vegas hotel that was hosting the year-end awards show, waiting and dreading for Rozanov to join him so they could put on their scripted routine for the audience. Rozanov, who would surely beat Shane at winning MVP this year, because where the Metros had fizzled out in the second round of the playoffs, the Raiders made it to the Cup final and won. That wasn’t part of the criteria, not officially, but it was something all the voters knew and couldn’t forget. Rozanov deserved it, anyway. Shane could admit that.

“You’re on next,” a PA said, stopping next to Shane. “Where’s Rozanov?”

“I don’t know,” Shane said, and the PA hurried off. 

Rozanov was probably getting off somewhere; he certainly didn’t worry about mixing business and pleasure. For all Shane knew, he had found a date to bring to the event. There was a brief moment as he waited backstage where he considered looking it up, to see if there was anyone at Rozanov’s side this evening. It was a curious, intrusive part of himself that had always existed around Rozanov. Shane just needed to redirect it back to where it had started, as a simple interest in knowing the strengths and weaknesses of his biggest competition.

The PA from earlier ran by, frazzled, and Shane felt nerves dig claws into his shoulders and stomach. As much as he didn’t want to do this with Rozanov, there would be nothing worse than being sent out there to humiliate himself alone. The dumb bit the league had scripted for them was one thing, but there was no reason at all for Shane to go out there alone. He wasn’t invited to present most sportsmanlike because of any of his own merit, he was invited to be half of the rivalry, the comedic foil to Rozanov’s wit and charm.

Shane begun pacing as anxiety overtook his body. Maybe Rozanov wouldn’t show up after all. It was hard to blame him, when Shane had run from his hotel room, ignored him, and then suddenly bothered him in Sochi. But this wasn’t about Shane, this would be the league he was disappointing if he bailed. Shane checked his watch - less than a minute left - and then he heard a voice behind him. 

“Wow, nice watch,” Rozanov said lightly. “They give this to you for free or what?”

The anxiety Shane felt transformed into anger, going from cold to burning hot instantly. Rozanov could be mad. That was understandable. But they were far past the point of pretending they had no history when it was just the two of them. 

“Where the fuck were you?” Shane snapped. “We’re on in five seconds.”

“Twenty-five seconds,” Rozanov corrected flippantly, as if his disappearing act hadn’t almost given Shane heart failure. 

And then, because Shane had long since learned that he had no self-control when it came to Rozanov, he asked, “What were you even doing?”

Shane glanced at him for the first time that night, as the announcer began introducing the Lord Talon award for most sportsmanlike. Rozanov was expressionless.

Finally, Rozanov replied, “I was busy.”

“With who?” Shane shot back, glancing at him again, but Rozanov didn’t return the look. He just walked on to the stage first, because he always had to be three steps ahead of Shane. 

The presentation of the award blurred by Shane. He and Rozanov took turns reading the cheesy script about the importance of friends in hockey, words already written for them and flashing across the teleprompter in case they forgot. 

“Hey, before we give out next award,” Rozanov said, “can I get a selfie with you?”

Shane knew the script, he knew his lines and Rozanov’s lines, but for some reason it still surprised him to hear those words. 

“What?” Shane said, thankful his lines were easy and short. 

“Come on! When will this ever happen again, buddy?” Rozanov grinned and pulled out his phone. 

“Okay, fine,” Shane said, “but hurry up.”

Rozanov leaned towards him, and the brush of his arm against his shoulder was enough for Shane to hold his breath, but then his hand grasped the back of his neck for just a moment before it slid down, leaving a trail along Shane’s spine.

“Great,” Rozanov said, the touch on Shane’s back gone. “Give me your number. I’ll text them to you.”

“No chance,” Shane said. The teleprompter was a lifesaver in that moment, when Shane had nothing in his head but the memory of Rozanov’s palm against the bare skin of the back of his neck. 

Shane didn’t return to his seat like he was supposed to once he passed off the trophy to the Vancouver player who won. Instead he wandered down an empty hallway and into the nearest bathroom. It was much too hot. The weight of everyone’s eyes on him, on him and Rozanov standing together, and the heat of the bright lights pointing right at them. Nothing about their relationship was meant for the spotlight, not the laughter or the tension. It was fitting that their little act on stage, designed to give the league some personality, was pre-written for them. Except Rozanov’s hand holding the nape of his neck and sliding down his back wasn’t pre-written. The league could accept a slap on the ass between teammates, but it wouldn’t have co-signed whatever that touch from Rozanov was.

Shane checked under each stall door before leaning his hands on the sink counter with his head bowed. He began counting to ten, trying to calm himself down. Looking at his hands braced on the countertop, Shane had a strong urge to bite at the hangnail sticking out on his index finger. It had been a long time since Shane broke the habit of biting his nails. It hadn’t been as long since he decided to remove himself from Rozanov’s life, but it was a promise he had made to himself nonetheless.

The sound of the door opening made Shane straighten up, and he turned to see Rozanov walk in and lean against the paper towel dispenser casually. They stared at each other. It was clear Rozanov wasn’t going to bother pretending he was in the washroom for any other reason than to follow Shane.

Rozanov broke the silence with a laugh and said, “Well…”

“What?” Shane scoffed. “What the fuck do you want, Rozanov?”

There was a brief pause where they just stared at each other. Shane didn’t understand why Rozanov was here, across from Shane, instead of heading back to his seat. The winner of most valuable player hadn’t been announced yet, and they both knew that it was Rozanov’s award this year.

“I want you to suck my dick,” Rozanov said calmly.

“Fuck you, you are unbelievable!” Shane exclaimed. “That’s not who we are anymore!”

“It can be,” Rozanov said, as if it was that simple. As if there were no risks to their careers and everyone who depended on them on and off the ice. As if Shane hadn’t done his best to keep them apart, because he couldn’t let a plan to fuck be the reason they both go down in flames. There were mistakes along the way, Shane could admit, but he was trying. 

“It can’t,” Shane said quietly.

Rozanov pushed off from where he was leaning against the wall and stood in front of Shane to observe him. There was a quality to Rozanov’s stare that always made Shane nervous, always made him feel like he was truly being seen. There were too many parts of Shane that weren’t meant to have light shined on them. 

After a moment, Rozanov asked, “Why not?”

There were a lot of reasons, but at the end of the day, it boiled down to the fact that Shane’s greed wasn’t worth the risk for them both. He could lie and say that he didn’t want Rozanov, but they both already knew that wasn’t true.

“It could ruin everything, if people found out,” Shane sighed. The fight had left his body. It was exhausting, the continuous battle against himself. 

“If people found out,” Rozanov emphasized, tilting his head to catch where Shane’s gaze had drifted to stare at the wall over his shoulder. 

“I just can’t do this,” Shane said, and when Rozanov didn’t reply, he stepped around him and towards the door. Their absence would be noticed if they didn’t return soon.

As Shane’s hand touched the cool metal of the door handle, Rozanov spoke again: “Last time, in hotel, did I hurt you?”

“No,” Shane said softly as he opened the door to leave. “You didn't hurt me.”

It was the truth.

The final buzzer blared throughout the arena as Rozanov took a final shot on net. The puck rang off the post and into the corner harmlessly, and the game was over. Shane hopped over the bench to congratulate his teammates, avoiding eye contact with Rozanov as he headed off the ice with the rest of the Raiders. 

There had been no texting over the summer, not that Shane had expected anything, but their last encounter in Las Vegas was a bit too real, too close to admitting things that couldn’t be said. It wasn’t buried under hockey and competition, and that left them with nowhere to hide. Not even Rozanov seemed to be able to joke his way out of it. At least, that was assuming Rozanov wasn’t content to just let any sort of relationship between them fizzle out, even giving up on the façade made to satisfy the media’s desire for their rivalry. 

Shane raised his stick in the air to salute the fans with the rest of the Metros before heading off the ice. 

“Beauty of a goal, cap!” Hayden said cheerfully as they walked down the tunnel towards the dressing room. He slung an arm around Shane and knocked their shoulders together. 

“Thanks, Hayd,” Shane replied. 

“Rozanov was pretty quiet tonight, wasn’t he?” 

“I guess,” Shane said as he left his stick outside the door of the dressing room and walked inside. 

“I was expecting him to be even more of an asshole after winning the Cup,” Hayden continued, trailing behind Shane. 

Shane just nodded and didn’t reply. Really, he just wanted to shower and go home. He didn’t want to speculate about Rozanov’s behaviour, or think about the Raiders winning the Cup, or picture Rozanov’s face as he raised the Cup over his head. 

He must’ve been too quiet though, because Hayden watched him pull off his equipment for a moment before asking, “Hey, are you okay, man?”

“What? Yeah, of course,” Shane said and ducked his head as he sat to untie his skates. 

“Was it the hit from the second period? I can get the trainer if it’s bothering you,” Hayden said. “Did you get a Toradol shot after?”

Shane’s body was fine. He had trained hard all summer, and although his body was already bumped and bruised a few weeks into the season, that was nothing compared to the state it would be in come April. It was a useful excuse though. 

“It wasn’t that bad. I’m feeling okay, just need to get back into things,” Shane said. 

“Nothing wrong with a bit of vitamin T to get you through the pain, capitaine,” JJ called. 

Shane smiled and nodded. He wasn’t unfamiliar with ketorolac, or the myriad of drugs that helped him push through injury over the years. 

“Really, I’m okay,” Shane said. 

“JJ, stop trying to deal drugs,” Drapeau called from across the room with a laugh. 

“C’est quoi cette câlisse de merde? You take more than me,” JJ shot back. 

Shane continued getting undressed as Hayden laughed beside him at the back and forth between Drapeau and JJ, only looking up again at a particularly loud curse. It was better to laugh it off and fit in, JJ had said. Except that was when Shane was a rookie, and now he was the captain. 

“It was a fucking joke. Why are you being such a bitch?” Drapeau shouted. The smile dropped from Hayden’s face and the low chatter within the dressing room fell silent. 

“Okay,” Shane cut into the quiet. “Enough, Drapeau. Let’s not take things too far.”

“Are you saying it’s my fault, Hollander?” Drapeau said in disbelief.

“I’m saying we’re a team, and we just beat Boston. Let’s focus on that,” Shane said and walked towards the showers. He heard Hayden’s cheerful voice trying to lighten the mood until the water rushing over his head drowned it all out. 

March 10th, 2015 - 7:15 PM

Shane kept his eyes on the faceoff dot as he lined up for the start of the game. The Metros were second place in the Eastern Conference, but Shane wasn’t about to falter. He had to work harder, win more until it was the first game of the playoffs, and then he had to work even harder, win even more. 

A pair of skates appeared in his vision, the tongues sticking out, and then came the voice. 

“Hollander,” Rozanov acknowledged casually. 

Shane looked at him briefly before looking back down, sweeping away a minuscule trace of snow from the freshly flooded ice. Rozanov looked good, looked confident even though the Raiders were only in a wildcard position. 

“Rozanov,” Shane said back. It was their first direct interaction since Las Vegas last year, and Shane didn’t know what to do with it. 

“People say you will win the Cup this year,” Rozanov said, but there was no teasing smirk on his face when Shane glanced at him again. 

“Who says that?” Shane replied. He couldn’t imagine the Raiders were hanging around chatting about the Metros winning. 

“Same Montreal fans that said you will win last year,” Rozanov said. “And the year before. And year before that.”

Shane rolled his eyes and crouched into position as the ref blew the whistle. It was back to normal, an awkward sort of peace through what Rozanov does best. Except he was mostly quiet the rest of the game, no more teasing at the faceoff or smirking after checking him into the boards. 

With a minute left in the third and the Metros up by a goal, the Raiders called a timeout. Shane leaned against the boards, catching his breath as Thériault drew up a defensive play on his small whiteboard. 

“It’s our last regular season matchup against Boston,” Thériault said as the timeout ended. “They’re desperate to keep a playoff spot, but we need to be even hungrier.”

Shane nodded and skated to the faceoff dot, Rozanov appearing in front of him not long after. It was quiet between them, as it had been since the start of the game. Shane was tempted to say something, anything to reduce the stiffness in their every interaction, but his mouth stayed shut. Every one of Shane’s edges felt frayed, slowly unravelling further with each of Shane’s attempts to pull the threads back together. He trusted himself to play hockey, but he couldn’t trust himself with much else, including with Rozanov. Especially with Rozanov. 

It didn’t matter, in the end, because Rozanov spoke anyway: “This woman I know, she says you are going to win the Cup.”

Shane looked up at him, confused, but Rozanov continued, “I am better player, of course, but she still says this. She is usually right.”

Shane looked at Rozanov for a second longer. Did Shane seem so fragile that Rozanov had to walk back his chirping from earlier? Was it that obvious that he was on edge? 

“She sounds smart,” Shane said, and paused before tentatively saying, “I don’t know why she’s hanging out with you.”

He felt his muscles tense as the words left his lips. It sounded mean, meaner than Shane had intended. The version of himself that could banter back and forth with Rozanov seemed like a lifetime ago, like someone else entirely. Rozanov was probably talking about his girlfriend, or his latest hookup, and that made Shane’s comment even more inappropriate. 

Yet when Shane glanced back at him, Rozanov was smirking. It threw Shane off enough that Rozanov won the draw, sending the puck back to his teammate to set up a scoring opportunity. The Metros hung on long enough to secure the victory, but the memory of Rozanov’s smile stayed with Shane much longer. Longer than Shane should’ve allowed. 

June 25th, 2015 - 10:00 PM

The dressing room was tense, even as JJ and Hayden chatted loudly over the EDM music blasting through a speaker. The Metros were up by one goal going into the final period in game seven of the Cup finals, but it was far from over. Anaheim would be pushing as hard as they could to tie the game; the Metros couldn’t be complacent. 

Shane looked around the room at his teammates: Comeau was holding a painkiller between his teeth as he searched for his water bottle, Hayden’s chin had a row of stitches from a stick to the face in the second period, JJ was wrapping his swollen ankle, Drapeau was wincing as the trainer gently inspected his knee. 

Shane looked back at the blade of his stick and began re-taping it, the rhythmic motion familiar to his hands. He could see his own arms, scattered with bruises and scrapes. The rest of his body would be the same, if he bothered to inspect each and every point of pain. Injuries would either be a source of pride or a constant reminder of everything lost, depending on how the night ended. But Shane wouldn’t let his team lose; there was nothing he wouldn’t put on the line to win this game. Even the thought of making it so close and not winning it all was unbearable. 

Two minutes left before the third period. Shane leaned his freshly taped stick against the wall and waited for the song to end before powering off the speaker. 

“Listen,” he said, standing from the bench. “We’re in a good spot, but we can’t get complacent. We need to play the right way, the way we’ve been playing all season and all playoffs. The way I know we can all play. We’re twenty minutes of hockey away from winning the fucking Cup, now is the time to dig the fuck in.”

“Anaheim doesn’t stand a fucking chance!” Comeau yelled, and then the rest of the team was on their feet and shouting. 

It was loud, sharp noises as hands smacked against backs and sticks knocked against walls, and Shane would’ve hated it, should’ve hated it, except he loved this sport, every sharp crackle of skates on ice, the booming of the puck hitting the boards, the rise and fall of the crowd’s collective voice along with the flow of the game. It was addictive, like a shot of heroin specialized just for Shane. The lows, too many lows for Shane to count, only made the highs more euphoric. 

Shane’s mind felt surprisingly calm as the puck dropped for the third period, but his body revealed the whirlwind that swirled underneath, hands shaking as he picked up a water bottle in between shifts. Or maybe it was the adrenaline that kept him moving close to forty kilometres an hour as he skated. Regardless, when he stepped on the ice, he knew what to do. Hockey was what he knew how to do. 

Get on the ice, get possession of the puck. Dump it in Anaheim’s zone, forecheck, get a shot on net. Backcheck, block a shot, pass to a teammate, break out of the defensive zone. Get off the ice, drink water, get ready for the next shift.

One minute left, and Anaheim pulled their goalie. Fifty seconds, JJ blocked a shot. A battle for the puck along the boards, and Anaheim won possession with ten more seconds run off the clock. Forty seconds, and Drapeau made a pad save on a shot from the point and then again on the rebound. Whistle stopped play, face off, and Anaheim won the draw. Shot attempt, block, pass, shot, save, rebound, pass, pass back, shot. 

Suddenly, a buzzer echoed through Shane’s ears, and he looked up at the scoreboard. The game was over, and the Metros had won the Cup. Hayden launched himself at Shane, his gloves and stick clattering to the ice, and JJ followed behind him. Shane tossed his stick and gloves to the side as he gripped the back of Hayden’s jersey. 

“Holy fuck,” Shane whispered. “We won.”

“We fucking won, Shane! We won the fucking Cup!”

“Hollsy!” Another teammate screamed and wrapped him in a hug, eyes teary. He was far from the only one crying, even as the Metros pulled on their championship hats and lined up on the blue line for the presentation of the Cup. It was all Shane could focus on as the league commissioner congratulated both teams on an amazing series: the Cup sat on a podium, a few metres away from him. Shane had seen it before, he had visited the Hockey Hall of Fame and pushed his hands against the glass of its case to try and read the names inscribed on it. But this was different.

“It’s my honour to welcome Captain Shane Hollander for the lifting of the Cup,” the commissioner said. 

Shane skated over and felt the sharp contrast of the trophy’s cool metal against his overheated hands as they posed for a picture, and then he was raising the Cup over his head, skating along the boards as the arena burst into cheers. It was ten, maybe fifteen seconds of pure happiness, and then he turned back to his team and surveyed the lineup. Comeau was their most veteran player, he realized, and passed the Cup to him. It would’ve been Torres, a few years ago. More Metros lifted the Cup as Shane watched, before the PR team became impatient and pulled him aside for an interview. When it ended, the words he had said already gone from his memory, he turned back to centre ice and felt his eyes sting with tears for the first time that evening. 

Yuna and David were walking onto the ice with the other families, and Shane’s chin wobbled. 

“I did it,” was the first thing out of Shane’s mouth as he leaned down to hug his parents. 

“I’m so, so proud of you, Shane,” Yuna said wetly as she hugged him tightly. “I can’t believe my little boy who made me take him skating every day is now lifting the Cup.”

Shane tucked his face against her shoulder and quietly asked, “Was it worth it?”

“I’ve never been more proud,” Yuna replied with a sniff. 

July 3rd, 2015 - 8:00 AM

Shane winced as he slid into the front seat beside David. His body was exhausted after the regular season and four rounds of playoffs to win the Cup, and a week of being dragged around the city to party. Now that he was in Ottawa and his extra ketorolac had run out, the pains in his body were competing to see which one could monopolize his attention the longest. 

“Feeling sore?” David asked as Shane rubbed at his shoulder after buckling his seatbelt. 

“A bit,” Shane replied. 

“Okay, I’m ready,” Yuna announced as she slid into the backseat. “Are you sure you haven’t changed your mind, Shane?”

“I’m sure,” Shane said. “I’m looking forward to a quieter celebration.”

He wasn’t lying. It wasn’t a glamorous way to spend his day with the Cup, but he had had enough partying in the last week, and more than that, this was one way he knew he could repay his debt to his parents. 

“Okay, if you’re sure,” Yuna said, and began running through their schedule for the day. 

The keeper of the Cup met them at David’s office building, where his colleagues milled around outside in anticipation of their arrival. Some of David’s university friends also stood in a group on the sidewalk with a six-pack of beer, which would soon be poured into the Cup for them to take turns drinking out of. Shane tried not to grimace at the sight of more alcohol, especially so early in the morning. 

Next was the local charity Yuna volunteered for, where children and adults alike lined up to take pictures with Shane and the Cup. He was sure his face would be frozen in the same stiff smile by the time he was done. 

“More muscle pain,” Shane muttered to himself as he rubbed at his cheeks after the last photo. 

“Shane, honey,” Yuna called him over from where she was talking to another woman across the room. “Aisha has a son who’s eligible to be drafted to the OHL next year. I was telling her about your junior days.”

“That’s exciting,” Shane said, the stiff smile back in place. 

“I’m just worried about sending him far from home,” Aisha said. “He’ll only be sixteen!”

“I was worried about Shane, too,” Yuna admitted, “but I think it was a great experience for him. He came back so mature and focused, right, Shane?”

“Yeah,” Shane said, keeping his voice light as Yuna looked at him expectantly. “It’s the best way into the NHL, if that’s really what he wants to do.”

“He says it’s his dream,” Aisha sighed. “I’m just worried he’ll be disappointed or hurt, but I’m sure you’d say it was worth it, wouldn’t you, Shane?”

Worth it? 

It was worth it. Shane just won the Cup, of course it was worth it. He loved this game, and there was nothing else he could imagine himself doing. There was nothing else he wanted to do. Except he was frozen by Aisha’s words, brought back to memories that had never been and probably would never be spoken aloud. Memories that were too painful to talk about, and then one that was too good, one where the very fact of his pleasure made it unspeakable. And in that memory, Shane asked a similar question, looking for reassurance that it was worth it. 

“There’s nothing I wouldn’t give up for hockey,” Shane said instead. 

Yuna squeezed his arm and smiled at him. 

“Shane has always loved hockey more than anything,” she said proudly. “We’re going to visit the Sandy Hill arena next, so he can bring the Cup to some of his old coaches and their teams.”

Shane smiled tightly at Aisha as Yuna left to tell the keeper of the Cup that it was time to move to the next destination. What he said was true, but he couldn't help but feel like he was deceiving everyone.

October 22nd, 2015 - 6:30 PM

Shane shifted on the ice to stretch out his other leg and began counting in his head. It wasn’t something he usually did; the timing and routine for each stretch was ingrained into his muscles, but it was better to keep his mind occupied. 

“Hollander,” Rozanov said as he began to stretch his hamstrings on the other side of the red line. So much for staying focused. 

Shane glanced over at Rozanov. His hair looked shorter, or at least it wasn’t poking out from under his helmet or curling around his ears. 

“Lots of partying this summer?” Rozanov asked. 

“I was training,” Shane corrected. He shifted back to stretch his groin. 

“Training,” Rozanov repeated, shifting in his stretch, but Shane kept his eyes focused on the ice. “Even though I will win this year?”

“No chance,” Shane replied as he stood up and headed to take some shots on net. 

January 31st, 2016 -  4:00 PM

“Hollander, you didn’t have to humiliate me like that!” 

Shane smiled and shrugged at a player from Team Europe as he skated back to his bench. The jumbotron listed his time at 13.485 for one lap of the rink, putting him in first place. The All-Star skills competition didn’t count for anything real, at least not in terms of the NHL season, but fans were there watching. Yuna and David decided to attend this year, too. Shane could put some effort in for their sake. 

The players mingled and chatted along the benches as the hardest shot event was being set up. Shane leaned against the boards; he had already won accuracy shooting and fastest skater, so the rest was up to his teammates. 

“I wish I was in Mexico right now,” a player from Team Europe sighed. 

“Everyone wishes that,” a Chicago player said, and then turned to Shane to ask, “Even you, right, Hollsy?”

“Mexico could be nice,” Shane said. “It’s good to participate in the All-Star game though.”

“Aren’t you a little old to care about these games, Hollsy?” 

Shane looked up at the Chicago player who had spoken, and then at the Team Europe player. They were both watching him, waiting for a reply without much levity in their expressions. 

“It’s for the fans, isn’t it?” Shane replied. 

Before anyone else could say anything, a familiar voice shouted something in Russian to the European player, who rolled his eyes and muttered something back. It must not have been quiet enough or polite enough, because Rozanov skated over with an unamused look on his face. The Team Europe player grumbled at him in Russian as he skated away. 

The Chicago player snorted and asked, “What the fuck are you barking about, Roz?”

“Told him to stop listening to Americans before he forgets how to shoot the puck,” Rozanov replied as he rested his hands on the top of his stick. 

“Fuck off,” the Chicago player said. “Don’t tell me you care about this shit, too.”

“Not so much that I practice in the hallway before,” Rozanov said casually. 

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Rozanov said with a faux air of innocence. “Your shot was better in the hallway, I think. Hit more targets. Maybe you were scared with fans watching, it’s okay.”

Shane stood up straighter as the Chicago player’s face grew red and moved closer to Rozanov’s. Fighting was not something that happened at the All-Star event, no matter how much players might infuriate each other during the season. 

“No wonder everyone in the league hates you. You’re a fucking asshole, you know that?” 

“Hollander told me, yes,” Rozanov replied as the Chicago player skated away. 

Rozanov didn’t seem bothered; he certainly liked to trash talk anyone and everyone, that Shane knew from firsthand experience. And yet, now that the Chicago player had left and Rozanov remained, Shane felt like he could breathe a bit easier. At least, until Rozanov turned to look at him. 

“Too bad,” Rozanov said. “How will I make friends if everyone hates me?”

“You should probably stop pissing everyone off,” Shane said as he leaned back against the boards.  

“So boring,” Rozanov replied. “You want me to say sorry?”

Shane shrugged, “Maybe let him win hardest shot instead.” 

“Yes, okay,” he said to Shane’s surprise, until Rozanov continued: “Only if you let me win the All-Star game tomorrow.”

“What? No,” Shane said. Maybe he did care too much about the All-Star events, but he wasn’t about to hand over a victory to Rozanov. To anyone, for that matter, but especially not to Rozanov. 

“Wow, and I am the biggest asshole?”

“There are probably a few worse than you,” Shane said. 

Rozanov smirked slightly as he watched him for a moment, and then said, “You will not let me win anything?”

Shane tried not to smile, but he could feel his lips curving upwards slightly. 

June 21st, 2016 - 1:00 PM

“Hollsy!” Comeau slurred over the cheering of the fans as the open-top bus made its way through the streets of Montreal. 

“Capitaine!” JJ called next, slinging an arm around Comeau’s shoulders as they shuffled down the aisle towards Shane. 

“You guys should pace yourselves,” Shane said, wrinkling his nose at the scent of alcohol on their breath and the smoke trailing from the cigar in between Comeau’s fingers. “The parade just started.”

“Goddamn, Hollander,” Comeau groaned. “If winning the fucking Cup two years in a row doesn’t make you happy, what does?”

Shane just sighed and grabbed the back of JJ’s shirt as he leaned over the railing to wave at fans.

“Come on,” Comeau nagged as he held out the cigar. “Take a drag, lighten up.”

“No way,” Shane said, pushing his hand away. “It’s bad enough breathing it in secondhand. And it smells horrible, even worse than cigarette smoke.”

“Ça a pas d’allure,” JJ said, turning to Shane. “Cigarettes smell like shit.”

“Yeah, and so do cigars,” Shane muttered to himself as JJ and Comeau shuffled down the aisle towards Drapeau. There was nothing more irritating than talking to someone while they’re drunk; Shane was two beers in himself, and he still felt much too sober for it all. 

What would make him happy? Winning the Cup certainly had, still as exhilarating as the first time. Celebrating with fans made him proud, celebrating with his parents even more so. It wasn’t that he was unhappy, it was that he was responsible, and that was how he won the Cup two years in a row. If he chased after every fleeting pleasure, he never would’ve made it this far. 

Shane smiled and waved at a group of fans that called out his name, while he internally ran through his speech for later in the afternoon. Yuna had made some last minute suggestions last night, and he wanted to make sure he remembered them.

August 4th, 2016 - 10:00 AM

The sound of shoes clomping across the wooden floors of the cottage made Shane cringe. It would be inconvenient to take their shoes on and off as they loaded the filming equipment out of the truck, but that didn’t mean there was any less gravel brought inside. Not for the first time, Shane felt himself wishing that he had tried harder to convince Yuna not to go through with this feature. It was about making his brand more personable and showing fans his personality, she had said, but to Shane it felt like revealing too much. If he started sharing little pieces of himself, soon there would be nothing to stop everything from spilling out of him. 

“Shane,” the director called, “It’s such a beautiful day out. I think a shot of you doing yoga by the lake would be stunning.”

“I don’t really do yoga down there,” Shane said, following the director’s finger pointing towards the dock. 

“I think that’s a great idea,” Yuna said excitedly. As the director began updating the film crew about the new plans, Yuna turned to Shane and put a hand on his arm. “You don’t want to?”

“Sure,” Shane sighed. “I’ll be good food for the horseflies.”

Yuna watched him quietly for a moment and said, “Okay, let’s keep the yoga segment inside.”

“No, it’s okay,” Shane said quickly. When Yuna didn’t look convinced, he added, “Really, it’s fine. It’ll look better by the lake, and the breeze will keep the bugs away.”

Shane offered the best smile he could muster to Yuna and headed outside with the yoga mat. He knew he was being pissy, and he didn’t want to take it out on his mother. She was working hard for his career, as she always had; she didn’t need to deal with Shane’s mood on top of it. 

October 27th, 2016 - 11:30 PM

Shane slumped into his seat at the front of the plane and leaned his head back. It had been an exhausting game against Minnesota that had extended into overtime and then a shootout, and the Metros didn’t manage to pull off the win. Shane looked to his left as Hayden sat heavily in the seat beside him. 

“Fucking missed the net,” Hayden muttered for the fiftieth time since the game had ended.

“It happens to all of us, Hayd,” Shane sighed. 

“You’ve missed the net by a foot in the shoutout, when we needed to score to stay alive?” Hayden asked incredulously. When Shane just shrugged, Hayden pointed a finger at him and said, “See? You haven’t.”

“I’ve made mistakes. You have to shake it off, we still have Colorado tomorrow,” Shane said, rolling his head back to stare at the seat in front of him. 

“I can’t wait to go home,” Hayden said wistfully. “I want to be there when the baby kicks for the first time.”

“Yeah, totally,” Shane said, closing his eyes. 

“You don’t get it,” Hayden said. “We need to find you a girl.”

“We need to find a way to salvage the last two games of this road trip,” Shane muttered. 

“We can do that tomorrow,” Hayden said and pulled out his phone. “Charlotte wasn’t your type, right? What about Alice? She’s hot. And blonde.”

“Hayden,” Shane groaned, opening his eyes and pushing Hayden’s phone away from his face. “Hair colour isn’t the problem. I’m just not interested in being set up on a date.”

“Come on, I can give you her number and you can text her while we’re out of town. A test run,” Hayden said, scrolling through his contact list. 

Shane just closed his eyes again and waited for the flight to take off. It was just over two hours until they landed in Denver, where Shane and Hayden collapsed into their hotel room to sleep. As exhausted as Shane was, Hayden’s words kept ringing through his head. He was twenty-five, and the interest in his love life would only get more and more intense. 

He sighed and opened the messaging app on his phone, but instead of drafting a message to the woman’s contact Hayden had forced into his phone, he scrolled through his conversations until he found Lily. 

His own unanswered message stared back at him: Are you okay?

Shane sighed and put his phone face-down on his chest. Revisiting those memories wouldn’t do him any good. 

November 8th, 2016 - 11:15 AM

“You’re sticking around?” Hayden asked as Shane turned toward the equipment room instead of heading for the parking lot. 

“Yeah, I broke two of my sticks last game,” Shane sighed. “I want to prep a few more.”

Hayden shrugged on his coat and shook his head. “You know people are paid to do that, right?”

“I like to do it myself,” Shane said. “Anyway, we play in Boston often enough that it’s not hard to find what I need.”

“Sure, man,” Hayden said with a pat to his back as he headed for the door. 

Shane walked down the hall in the opposite direction, nodding at the Raiders’ equipment manager as they passed each other. At first, it was uncomfortable to explore beyond the visitor’s dressing room in other teams’ arenas, but after a bad period with an overly taped and too long stick, Shane learned to get over the discomfort. The equipment manager had insisted that the stick looked identical to how Shane usually had it, but the difference after he got into the equipment room himself to cut and tape a new one was clear to him. 

He pushed the door to the equipment room open and found the Metros’ trainer had left his still plastic-wrapped sticks against the wall as promised. He began methodically pulling each one out of the plastic and lining them up on the table saw. 

The door swung open and Shane jumped, looking over his shoulder. 

“Hollander,” Rozanov said calmly, as if he often found Shane in the Raiders’ arena. 

“What are you doing here?” Shane asked, lining up the last stick on the table and turning to face Rozanov fully. 

“There’s this thing I do here,” Rozanov said and paused for effect. “I play hockey.”

Shane rolled his eyes and said, “You’re an asshole.”

“Yes, I know,” Rozanov said as he shut the door behind him and walked until he was standing across from Shane. “Worst guy in the league, yes?”

Shane looked at Rozanov for a moment. He didn’t seem particularly bothered or upset; he certainly didn’t sound like he was trying to be accusatory or passive aggressive. And still, it bothered Shane.

“I didn’t say that,” Shane said quietly. 

Rozanov watched him carefully as Shane flickered his eyes to his face and away to the shelves of tape and skate blades. When Shane looked back at him, he was smiling slightly, and somehow that was enough to settle Shane back into his skin. 

“Unless you’re here to piss on my jersey, then maybe I’d change my mind,” Shane said, and then immediately regretted it as Rozanov’s eyebrows furrowed. “I mean, I know you wouldn’t, I was just… joking, I guess.”

“That wouldn’t be a fun prank,” Rozanov said, his expression settled into something unreadable.

“Right, yeah, I was just… joking, I guess. I wouldn’t do it either. Obviously,” Shane replied, but Rozanov kept watching him with that same look on his face. 

“I know, Hollander,” Rozanov finally said. It was moments like these where it felt like Rozanov could look right through Shane and see far too much.

“So what are you doing here? You never answered,” Shane said, turning back to fuss with his sticks. 

“I did answer,” Rozanov said from behind him. “I play hockey here.”

“Very funny,” Shane said, lining up the top of each stick at the proper height to be cut. “The game isn’t until seven. Don’t you have a practice facility for the morning skate?”

“Yes,” Rozanov replied, “but there is no one fun to fuck with there.”

Shane’s hands paused their fiddling. Had Rozanov admitted to coming to the arena just to find Shane? Warmth heated the skin of his face and neck as he stared blankly at the wall in front of him, and then a much hotter, more unpleasant flush of panic took over as he remembered where they were. 

“Oh,” Shane forced out and turned on the table saw. The loud whirring of the machine filled the room as it cut into carbon fibre, the grating sound giving Shane a chance to collect himself. 

He took a deep breath and turned the machine off, checking the ends and putting the plug back into each stick. The room was quiet, but when Shane turned around, Rozanov was still standing a few steps away. Shane just watched Rozanov for a moment. He rarely got to take him in, to look at his face without worrying about if anyone else saw him looking.

“You don’t have trainer to do that?” Rozanov finally asked. 

“I do,” Shane replied. “You sound like Hayden.”

Rozanov scrunched his eyebrows together and frowned. “No, no, Pike sounds like me.”

“He said it first,” Shane pointed out. The offended look on Rozanov’s face made Shane smile as he continued: “Anyway, I prefer doing it myself. It’s worth it to know it’s done the right way.”

“Yes, well, you know me,” Rozanov said casually, “I’m lazy.”

Ilya Rozanov was never someone Shane associated with laziness. No professional hockey player could be considered truly lazy, not with the amount of exercise and hard work it took to make it to the NHL, but anyone could see the results of Rozanov's hard work on the ice. 

“I don’t know that side of you at all,” Shane said, and they fell into silence. 

Rozanov stepped forward slightly, and Shane found his eyes drifting downwards, unable to continue direct eye contact. Rozanov’s mouth was easier to look at. It was a nice mouth, curved slightly in amusement. Shane had kissed that mouth. That was hard to believe sometimes, and he didn’t let himself think about it often. It had been a long time since he kissed someone he wanted to kiss. It had been a long time since he kissed Ilya Rozanov. 

The worst part was that sometimes he felt like he had a handle on it, whatever it was that pulled him towards Rozanov, and then everything flew out the window when they were face to face again. Shane turned abruptly and collected his sticks from the table. 

“I should go,” Shane said quietly. “The guys are probably wondering where I am.”

He didn’t let himself look at Rozanov again as he hurried out of the equipment room. 

November 26th, 2016 - 10:00 PM

Shane tried to remind himself that the reason he accepted JJ’s invitation was because he was trying to put himself out there more, instead of allowing himself to fall into the same cycle he always did, but his feet took him towards the back of the restaurant and into a booth for some quiet. 

“Are you here to help me finish these fries?”

Shane looked up at the sound of a woman’s voice and found Rose Landry sitting across from him. Hollywood superstar Rose Landry, in a restaurant in Montreal on a regular Saturday night.

“The chef gave them to me, and they are really good. I’m not going to fit into my costume if I eat them all,” Rose continued, popping a fry into her mouth. “Jesus Christ, these are so good. I’m Rose, by the way.”

Her outstretched hand spurred Shane into action, pulling him from his starstruck staring.

“I’m Shane,” he said, shaking her hand. “I’m- Wow, I’m a big fan.”

“Would you be surprised to know that I’m a fan of yours?” Rose said. 

“Really?”

“I’m a Michigan girl with three brothers,” Rose said by way of explanation. “Have a fry, Shane Hollander. Detroit’s not going to go easy on you tomorrow night.”

Shane smiled slightly and put a small fry in his mouth. It was salty and not something Shane would normally eat, but he could appreciate the taste. What he really craved was ginger ale, something to soothe the nerves in his stomach. Whether or not it was the drink itself or the emotional comfort, Shane didn’t care.

It was strangely easy to talk to Rose, who was funny and charismatic and seemed to know what to expect from a hockey player and somehow still not expect Shane to act a certain way. He had forgotten what it was like to have a proper conversation with someone whose life didn’t revolve around hockey. 

“Paint me a picture,” Rose said after finishing a story about one of her first acting jobs. “Shane Hollander, age eight.”

“Well, I was definitely on the ice somewhere,” Shane began. It was easy to tell Rose about those times, when he was just a kid playing a game and having fun with friends. 

“Did it stop being fun?” Rose asked softly. 

“No,” Shane said quickly, but he could hear the lack of confidence in his voice. He had never thought about his hockey career in terms of fun. It wasn’t supposed to be fun; it was hard work, with real-world consequences beyond just himself. Hockey was just a game, and it was also how he made his parents proud, how he repaid them financially. “Well, I mean, kind of. I love it, but it got more intense, so I guess I got more intense too, if that makes sense.”

“Yeah, it does,” Rose replied. “And I bet that being the only Asian kid didn’t make it less intense.”

Shane looked up from the plate of fries in surprise. When he was a rookie, the media liked to point out that he was the highest drafted Asian player in the league’s history, but he had been playing for long enough that his heritage didn’t make headlines anymore. Even back then, though, there was no acknowledgement of what it meant to be one of a few players of colour, or why there are so few Asian players in the sport. 

“I wasn’t the only one. There was one other,” Shane began, and the words kept flowing from his lips. Perhaps that was more surprising than Rose bringing it up, the fact that Shane found himself talking about it. Not in detail, and certainly not about the later years, when teasing became hazing, but it was more than he had told anyone in a long, long time. Maybe this was what it felt like to find someone he connected with. 

Maybe he had finally found the right woman for him. It was there that Shane decided: this would be the first step in fixing some of his problems.

December 2nd, 2016 - 10:45 AM

“Alright, boys,” Comeau called from where he was leading the post-practice stretch at centre ice. “We’ve got something special on the agenda this morning.”

Shane frowned and looked at Hayden beside him, who just shrugged. As far as the coaches had said, it was just a regular practice. 

“Come on, Hollsy, don’t be shy!” Drapeau called from across the circle. 

Shane stood slowly from where he was crouched on the ice and skated over to Comeau. 

“I don’t really know what’s going on,” Shane said. 

Comeau ignored him and looked around the circle at the other Metros, who began tapping their sticks against the ice. It was then that realization hit Shane, and anxiety filled his stomach. He looked around at his teammates and made brief eye contact with a rookie, who was tapping his stick and looking around the circle nervously. Traditions weren’t something to question, they were meant to be silently learned and respected. 

“Drapeau!” Comeau yelled over the noise. “You start.”

“Hollsy, are her tits fake?” Drapeau shouted, and then the tapping stopped. The Metros watched Shane, waiting for his answer. 

“I’m not doing this,” Shane said firmly. 

“Shit question, have you seen her? They’re obviously fake,” Comeau said. “I’ll start. Did she put out as soon as you met her? A buddy playing in LA told me she whored her way through Hollywood.”

“Shut the fuck up, Comeau,” Shane snapped. “I said I’m not doing this.”

Some of the other Metros groaned, and Drapeau’s voice shouted after Shane as he began skating away: “You’re fucking Rose Landry and now you’re too good for us, huh, Hollander?”

“This isn’t appropriate. You shouldn't talk about her like that,” Shane said, trying to adopt a stern tone even as nerves twisted in his stomach. 

“You’ve always had a fucking stick up your ass,” Drapeau accused, “but you’ve listened to us talk about chicks for years. If you don’t want to be one of us, go be a bitch with your fucking girlfriend.”

Shane turned around to look at where Drapeau was fuming at centre ice, Comeau standing behind him, and the rest of the team looking between them silently. It was true: Shane had watched teammates do this over the years, and he had never spoken up, but Drapeau was wrong about the rest. Shane had never wanted anything more than to be one of them, to fit naturally in the world of hockey that he clung onto so dearly. 

“Hey, vous deux,” JJ said, coming to stand between Shane and Drapeau, “Capotez pas. You said it, Shane’s always been like this. He’s not used to talking about this shit, so go easy on him.”

“So you’ve fucked her, right?” Comeau asked, barely letting JJ finish his sentence.

All of the Metros’ eyes were on Shane: Drapeau glaring, and Comeau waiting expectantly. JJ looked hopeful, and Hayden shifted where he stood, unsure if he should jump in. The rookie watched with wide-eyes, and Shane had to look away from his nervous expression. 

“Yeah,” Shane finally sighed. “We’ve had sex.”

JJ clapped him on the back and said, “That’s our capitaine!”

There was no more stick tapping or excitement amongst the team, but Drapeau nodded and skated away. It was a fragile truce that JJ had brokered. 

Shane skated off the ice and headed to the dressing room. He hadn’t lied, but his performance was nothing to be proud of. The evening started well: Rose teased him once she realized his fridge was free of processed sugar, gluten, and dairy, but Shane laughed too and brought up her coffee addiction. Rose argued adamantly that Detroit should have won last year’s playoff series against Tampa Bay, and she listened when Shane talked for what was probably a bit too long about Tampa’s ruthless forecheck. But then what should’ve been a perfect ending to a perfect evening turned into a struggle between Shane and his own body. 

Rose’s skin was smooth and soft under his hands, her legs slender as they wrapped around his waist, her hands gentle as he fumbled with the hooks on her bra. She was perfect, yet somewhere in the time between frantic hookups with Rozanov and the period of abstinence since, Shane’s body had forgotten pleasure. He would make it remember, if he had to. If that was what it took to continue his relationship with Rose.  

December 16th, 2016 - 7:00 PM

The crowd was still cheering as Shane lined up for the opening faceoff, but Rozanov was strangely quiet in front of him. Shane’s eyes were stuck on his face; the strange sight of Ilya Rozanov avoiding eye contact was unsettling. It probably had nothing to do with Shane, ultimately. He wasn’t that important of a presence in Rozanov’s life. 

The ref turned back around from where he was scolding the wingers for creeping too close and said, “I saw your girl in the stands, Hollander.”

“Yeah, she, uh- they like to show her on the jumbotron,” Shane stuttered. 

“That’s the kind of relationship you should show off, bud,” the ref said before blowing the whistle. 

Shane crouched into position, and Rozanov still didn’t look at him as he did the same. Nothing, no smirk or amusement, just a clenched jaw as he put his stick on the ice. The difference between this Rozanov and the one he last met in the equipment room in Boston was stark, and it continued all game. Every faceoff was avoided eye contact, each check into the boards was accompanied by silence. It should’ve been a good thing: Shane no longer needed to worry about Ilya Rozanov. 

“You good?” Hayden puffed as they sat down on the bench after a shift in the second period. 

“I’m fine,” Shane panted. “Why?”

“You seem distracted or something.”

“I’m fine,” Shane repeated, but he wasn’t blind to how poorly he was playing. His passes weren’t connecting, he was stripped of the puck twice in his own zone, and he fanned on a shot with a wide open net. It felt like Rozanov was everywhere, even the sight of him across the ice was distracting. Everything seemed positive when they last spoke in Boston, at least from Shane’s perspective, but the longer that Rozanov completely froze him out, the more Shane felt something was wrong. He watched as Marlow knocked his shoulder against Rozanov’s as the snow was shovelled off the ice during the TV time out, and Shane let out a huff of breath as Rozanov bumped him back. 

The sudden cheering from the crowd startled Shane out of his thoughts, and he looked up at the jumbotron to see Rose posing playfully in her Hollander jersey before the camera switched to a group of young fans jumping around. Right, Rose was at the game, witnessing his sloppy, distracted playing. That should be his focus, instead of worrying about what he could’ve possibly done wrong in between the last time he and Rozanov spoke and now. 

The scrape of blades on ice, the echo of the puck against the boards, the tapping of sticks to call for a pass. These were the things Shane tried to focus on for the rest of the game, but it didn’t make a difference. The Metros scraped by with a 1-0 victory from a scrappy goal by the fourth line. It was a win, two points gained all the same, but it didn’t feel like Shane was a winner. 

The dressing room was quiet as the Metros filed in, only Hayden and JJ’s voices breaking the silence in an attempt to lighten the mood. 

“Still meeting Rose at the club?” Hayden asked as he pulled his jersey over his head and threw it into the laundry pile in the middle of the room. 

Shane leaned his forehead against the wooden shelf above his stall where he was putting his gloves and helmet. There were many places he would rather be than at the club on any given day, let alone after a subpar performance against their rival team. 

“Yeah, I guess so,” Shane sighed.

The club was already overwhelming as soon as Shane entered and was led to Rose’s VIP table, where she sat with her friend Miles and a few other faces Shane recognized but couldn't name. The flashing lights didn’t help his recollection, but for once the pounding music was appreciated as an excuse to smile and nod without needing much conversation. 

As the other partiers left the table and Shane was left with Rose and Miles, Rose turned to him and said, “Good game tonight, babe.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Shane laughed humourlessly. 

“No, it wasn’t,” Rose admitted, “but you won!”

The Metros won on the scoreboard, but Shane had failed at his own mission to forget about Ilya Rozanov. 

“I need a beer,” Shane declared. Even at the club with his girlfriend, all that ran through his mind as Rose scolded Miles for a comment Shane didn’t register was what he could’ve done to make Rozanov turn so cold, how he could’ve misread the situation so badly the last time they spoke to think that Rozanov went out of his way to see Shane.

Rose was dragging him onto the dance floor before long, sliding fingers under his t-shirt and across his stomach, then trailing over his shoulders as she swayed to the music. Dancing was another area where Shane’s body didn’t do what he wanted, where it fought against every movement that came naturally to others. He smiled briefly at Rose, before his focus was pulled away by the strobing lights and pounding music. There were countless people in the club: women, men, Rose’s cast mates, and-

And Cliff Marlow, towering over the heads in the crowd as he chatted with a few women. It looked like there was another Raiders player there beside him, but it was hard to tell in the dark. Shane’s stomach clenched and twisted, searing panic flowing through his veins. He didn’t want to know, but his eyes couldn’t stop scanning the crowd until he found what he was looking for. 

Ilya Rozanov, swaying effortlessly as he pulled a blonde woman closer into a kiss. 

Shane felt something crack deep inside him, in a place he didn’t know existed. Something more than panic from seeing Rozanov outside of the arena, something much more sorrowful. There had always been gossip about the many women Rozanov surrounded himself with, but Shane had never witnessed it firsthand until now. 

“I gotta use the bathroom,” Shane choked out as he pulled away from Rose and stumbled forward. If she replied, it was lost in the deafening club music and the fog that had overtaken Shane’s mind. 

Except now Shane was standing a few metres away from Rozanov, who was facing him as he held the woman from behind and kissed along her neck. It was surreal to see, a scene that froze Shane in his place long enough that Rozanov looked up and made eye contact. He didn’t seem surprised to see Shane, in this location they’d never frequented together. A rational part of Shane would’ve said it didn’t matter what Rozanov did, a petty part of Shane would’ve been pissed that Rozanov could acknowledge his presence now but not the entirety of the game, but the majority of Shane was an unbearable hurt that shook all coherent thought out of him. Rozanov slid his fingers towards the woman’s mouth, tapping at her bottom lip until she opened her mouth wide enough for his index and middle fingers to enter, all without looking away from Shane. 

Flashes of their first meeting what felt like a lifetime ago: a hotel wall against his back, Rozanov’s body against his front, two fingers in Shane’s mouth. That had been a fundamental turning point in Shane’s life, something that Rozanov shared freely with women and men alike. 

Shane stumbled backwards before turning on his heels and pushing through bodies to find the washroom. The door was cool against his back as he leaned his weight on it, desperate to keep anyone else from entering. Desperate to keep Ilya Rozanov from following. Shane took two shaking breaths and closed his eyes. He needed to push whatever emotions that had revealed themselves back into the deepest recesses of his mind, if he was to stay sane. It wasn’t clear how long he leaned against the bathroom door as he took deep breaths, only his phone buzzing in his pocket reminding him that the world had continued to move forward. 

Ignoring his phone, he moved toward the sink to splash water on his face with shaking hands and then keeping his eyes trained on the floor as he exited the washroom. 

No one had tried to open the door while he was inside. Shane tried not to think about the implications of that. 

“Shane,” Rose said as he approached the table she had returned to with Miles. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Shane said, clearing his throat. “I was just-“

“Holy shit,” an unknown voice exclaimed. “It’s Shane Hollander.”

Shane looked up to see a young man standing in front of their table, pointing at him in disbelief. 

“I can’t believe it,” the man continued. “I just met Ilya Rozanov, and now Shane fucking Hollander?”

Rose looked at Shane in concern as he choked on his own saliva at the sound of Rozanov’s name. 

“Sorry,” Rose said apologetically. “We can’t do photos, but if you have a pen and paper, Shane could give you an autograph.”

“Fuck, you’re Rose Landry,” the man said. 

“Guilty,” Rose said with a laugh, putting a gentle hand on Shane’s leg. Even that light touch felt like too much right now.

Shane watched blankly as Rose chatted with the man briefly before sending him on his way. He must not have had a pen, Shane thought mindlessly. Or maybe he had signed something in his stupor without registering. It didn’t matter. 

“Do you really hate him?” Rose asked. 

“What?” Shane replied, looking away from the blur of lights and bodies on the dance floor. 

“Rozanov. Do you actually hate him?”

“Oh, well, it’s complicated, and, you know-“  Shane stuttered to a stop and then sighed. “I need another drink.”

As he knocked back a beer and pasted his best attempt at a smile on his face, he felt himself get pulled back into memories. This time he found himself remembering the local bars his junior teams would pour into after a game, the LCBO trips to stock up for a team party. This is what he did then: resist as long as he could until he eventually ended up with a drink in his hand and alcohol in his bloodstream. It had been almost a decade and Shane was still that same boy, trying to fit in with what was expected of him. 

“Let’s head out,” Rose said as Shane’s empty beer bottle clinked against the table. She leaned in to whisper in his ear, “I’m sorry for dragging you out right after a game. I’ll make it up to you at your place, okay?”

Shane nodded silently. She kept her word once they walked into his apartment, but Shane could barely uphold his side of the deal. No matter how much Shane wanted to pretend otherwise, it wasn’t images of his girlfriend that propelled him to orgasm. 

Rose was kind and beautiful and funny, and she was never going to be the person Shane wanted in his bed. 

December 24th, 2016 - 11:00 AM

It was quiet in the living room of Shane’s childhood home as David focused on flipping over each piece of the jigsaw puzzle he had dumped on the coffee table. Shane absently mimicked him, turning over each piece and sliding it to a pile with the others. 

“Careful, kiddo,” David said, grabbing an edge piece that Shane had placed in the pile of regular pieces. “We need these ones for the frame.”

“Are you two still doing that puzzle?” Yuna called as she walked into the living room. 

“We haven’t even finished setting up,” David replied. 

“I’m surprised you haven’t gotten bored yet, Shane,” Yuna said, and he just shrugged. It was silent for a few minutes before Yuna spoke again: “Are you sure Rose can’t make it?”

“Mom,” Shane groaned, running a hand over his face. “I told you, she’s already with her family in Michigan.”

“But she’s filming in Montreal, right? She could stop by on her way back.”

“The season will resume before she gets back,” Shane said. “Anyway, it’s been less than a month. I don’t even know if it’s going to work out.”

“Shane,” Yuna scolded. “If you think like that, then of course it won’t last.”

“She’s right,” David said calmly. “Don’t go looking for reasons your relationship will fail.”

Shane sighed and fiddled with a puzzle piece. He didn’t have to go looking for reasons he and Rose wouldn’t last. One reason found him in the club with no searching on Shane’s part. Every other reason was buried deep into Shane’s skin.  

“I don’t want it to fail,” Shane said honestly. “I just think… our lifestyles are so different.”

“Listen, honey,” Yuna said, coming to sit beside Shane at the coffee table. “I know it’s a big adjustment to let someone into your life, but Rose is an amazing woman.”

“I know,” Shane mumbled. 

“She’s perfect for you: the superstar of the hockey world with Hollywood’s superstar,” Yuna continued, and then offhandedly mentioned: “She’s great for your image, too. Your sponsors were thrilled when you two made things public.”

Shane’s hands paused their fidgeting as he turned to look at Yuna’s earnest expression. It was an expression Shane never knew how to deny, one that he felt ashamed to see fall in disappointment. His relationship with Rose was never about just the two of them, and he needed to remember that. It was destined to fall apart if Rose ever saw the secrets he kept hidden, but that could be said about every aspect of his life. He would just have to keep trying. 

January 11th, 2017 - 7:00 PM

Of course, it rarely mattered how much Shane tried. If it did, he probably wouldn’t have been sitting in a restaurant as his girlfriend gently revealed that she knew his biggest, longest-kept secret. It had taken her just a few months of knowing him, too. Rose should be pissed that he wasted her time with a relationship that would never satisfy her, or at least irritated that he didn’t have the courage to say anything of his own initiative. It was characteristic of Shane’s life that his failures fell into the lap of whoever was closest to him.

“Hey, you don’t owe me any explanation,” Rose said softly. 

“I feel like I kind of do,” Shane mumbled. 

And yet, nothing more came out of his mouth. What could he say? He’d tried his whole life to stay in line, to do what was expected from him, and it didn’t matter, because he always fucked something up. Intentionally or not, because of his choices or how he was born, something was always fucked up. 

“You really don’t,” Rose said, and then, after a slight pause: “Can I ask if you’ve ever been with another guy?”

Shane nodded slightly, and, humiliatingly, he could feel tears pooling and threatening to spill over his lashes. He had been with one other man, who he could never forget. There had been a time on vacation that Shane realized the waiter was flirting with him after many obvious attempts, but even miles away from home, it had felt too risky. He wouldn’t have known how to take things further anyway, not without Ilya Rozanov leading the way. 

“Have you ever told anyone that before?” Rose asked. 

Shane shook his head. There was no one to tell. He wasn’t even sure he really told Rose; she seemed to know the answers before she asked the questions. 

“Was it better?” Rose asked next. 

“Yeah, it was, uh-“ Shane stumbled. “It was better.”

There was nothing and no one that compared to Ilya Rozanov. At the start, when it was just supposed to be a convenient hotel hookup, it was easy to dismiss as hormone-fuelled lust. Shane was starting to realize that maybe not then, but now there was something more pulling him to Rozanov. 

January 29th, 2017 - 6:00 PM

Shane’s phone buzzed against the small hotel table where he sat eating his dinner. Hayden was out with JJ and Comeau to try a local Nashville restaurant, but Shane would much rather take advantage of the room service meals that the Metros dietitian coordinated with the hotel. He stuck another bite of chicken in his mouth as his phone buzzed once, twice more until he finally gave in and picked it up. 

“Hi Rose,” Shane said as he turned on speakerphone and set his phone back down. 

“I’ve been on set for so long that I think they actually might be kidnapping me,” she said in a hushed voice. 

Shane smiled. He hadn’t truly believed Rose when she said she wanted to stay friends, but he had been quickly proven wrong. He was glad about it, too, which was probably more surprising. He wasn’t used to letting people get so close so quickly. 

“You’re calling the wrong person,” Shane said. “I’m on the road.”

“Are you saying you won’t come to my rescue?”

Shane smiled and leaned back in his chair. “If you can wait a few days.”

“I don’t know if I can forgive you. Unless…” Rose trailed off. “Unless you’re busy with a cute boy.” 

“What?” Shane said, startled. It would take him a long time to get used to someone knowing he was into men. 

“Come on, you’re surrounded by muscular men,” Rose said. “There must be someone there you find hot.”

Shane stared at the empty plate on the table in front of him. That was a secret that he couldn’t speak aloud, not even to Rose, who already knew so much, probably too much. It was bad enough to be gay in this league, worse to be attracted to another player, and unredeemable to be into his rival. 

“Okay, forget hockey players,” Rose said when Shane didn’t reply. “Is there anyone you’re interested in right now?”

After a pause, Shane put his head in his hands and said, “There was.”

“Do you want to talk about him?” Rose asked softly. 

Shane didn’t know how to talk about Ilya Rozanov. Not in any context other than hockey. He didn’t even let himself think about it. 

“There’s not much to say,” Shane said finally. “It never went anywhere. Obviously.”

“Would you want it to, if you could?”

“I…” Shane started but stopped. If he could? That felt like such an impossibility that he couldn’t even imagine it. Him and Rozanov, holding hands, drinking from the same drink with two straws, calling each other pet names… It didn't seem like a possibility in any lifetime or version of the two of them. But talking to Rozanov, teasing and not worrying about saying the wrong thing, that was… nice. There was a lot he wanted to say to Ilya Rozanov, if he could. 

“Maybe,” Shane eventually settled on. “But it’s not possible.”

“It would be hard,” Rose acknowledged quietly, “but it might be worth it. You deserve to be happy, Shane.”

It all came back to that, in the end: whether or not it was worth it. And hadn’t that been decided all those years ago? 

“He doesn’t think it’s worth it,” Shane whispered. 

“Oh, Shane,” Rose said soothingly. “Did he say that?”

“Kind of,” Shane mumbled, closing his eyes. It was a long, long time ago. A lifetime ago, it felt like. 

“Maybe you should talk to him,” Rose offered. “And if he’s an asshole, he’ll regret it for the rest of his life. You’re a catch. And then I’ll set you up with the hottest man I know.”

Shane opened his eyes and smiled slightly. Ilya Rozanov was always a bit of an asshole. 

February 5th, 2017 - 9:00 AM

“There’s a flight to Tampa Bay tomorrow morning. I was thinking of booking a ticket,” Yuna’s voice came through the speaker of the phone. 

Shane set down the blazer he was attempting to fold in his suitcase and looked at where his phone sat on the desk. 

“Aren’t you and Dad going to Mexico in a few weeks?” Shane asked, fiddling with the button of a linen shirt. 

“We are,” Yuna said, “but that doesn’t mean I can’t come with you to the All-Star game.”

“I mean,” Shane stalled. How did he tell his mother that he didn’t want her to attend? “You could, but that would be a lot of flying. And you’ve been to Tampa before.”

“I would still go to support you,” Yuna said indignantly. 

“No, I know, I just-“ Shane stopped and took a breath. “Is there something wrong? I thought you already decided you didn’t want to come this year.”

The line was quiet for a moment before Yuna said, “I’m just worried about you. I know you said that you and Rose are still friends.”

“We are,” Shane interjected, but Yuna kept talking. 

“But breakups are never easy, and you’re going to be on a team with Rozanov of all people.”

It would be the first time they were on the same team for the All-Star Game, after all these years. The league seemed to have realized that there was no new angle with them on opposing sides, but rivals forced to be teammates was bound to draw interest. Unfortunately for Shane, that meant there was renewed talk about Ilya Rozanov, and every time it brought back Rose’s question. 

“It’s just the All-Star Game,” Shane said. “Rozanov won’t do anything.”

“If you’re sure,” Yuna sighed. “Listen, don’t say anything about Rose, okay? We don’t want anyone to start making up stories about what happened.”

Shane hummed where appropriate as Yuna kept talking, his mind already thinking ahead to the weekend. 

February 6th, 2017 - 1:30 PM

Shane felt a bit stiff walking through the hotel lobby in the clothes his stylist had sent with him. It was hot in Tampa Bay, and press for the All-Star weekend wasn’t until tomorrow, but he was determined to start on the right foot. The lobby was mostly empty as he headed for the pool where this year’s All-Star players were spending the majority of their free time. All-Star weekends in warm climates were often that way, especially with families and kids tagging along. 

Shane’s footsteps stuttered slightly as he stepped onto the concrete floor of the outdoor bar. Ilya Rozanov sat on a stool in a Hawaiian t-shirt, effortlessly relaxed and confident in himself and his clothes, sipping on a beer. It was a moment of weakness, prompted by Rose’s voice in his head, that led Shane to the stool beside Rozanov. 

“Can I get you something to drink?” The bartender asked as Shane sat down. 

“I’ll have the same as my teammate, please,” Shane said, hoping he didn’t seem as awkward as he felt. 

There was a quiet pause as Shane shifted in his seat and Rozanov cleared his throat. 

“So, what, are they out of ginger ale?” Rozanov asked, and then tacked on: “Captain.”

Shane glanced at Rozanov and then looked back at the bar top where his hands rested. He had never told Rozanov he liked ginger ale, had he? It was a ridiculous, tiny thing that made his heart pound. 

“I’m feeling a bit wild,” Shane offered, looking at Rozanov again. “So, this should be fun, huh? I’ve always wondered what it would be like to play on the same team.”

“Have you?” Rozanov asked flatly. 

“Yeah, I have,” Shane said. It was an old thought from back when he first watched Rozanov play in Regina. That was far too much to admit, so he changed the subject: “Nice that it’s in Florida this year, right?”

“Yes,” Rozanov replied. 

Shane mumbled a thanks to the bartender as he placed a bottle of beer in front of him. He took a drink and stared at the condensation on the bottle as a drop of water slowly slid down the glass. This was a possibility that loomed in the back of his mind but that he hadn’t let himself think about: that the Ilya Rozanov from the game in December was the only one Shane would be allowed to see from now on. The one who didn’t have a certain levity in his eyes when he looked at Shane, who didn’t want to speak to him at all. He hadn’t let himself think about it, because he knew he never would’ve approached Rozanov if he had, but the weight of it on his unprepared heart was impossible to ignore. 

“Did, uh-“ Rozanov began, and Shane’s breath caught in his throat. “Did you bring anyone with you?”

“Uh, my parents thought about coming, but they’re going to Mexico in, like, two weeks, and they’ve been to these before, so…” Shane trailed off, stopping the outpouring of words from flowing out of his mouth. 

“Ah,” was all Rozanov said, but he had given Shane enough hope to try. 

“Also, I didn’t feel like being managed this weekend. Did you, uh, bring anybody?” Shane asked in an attempt to prolong the conversation. It was never something he was good at, though it was rarely something that he struggled with when it came to Rozanov. 

Rozanov turned to look at him before responding, “Nope.”

He continued to watch Shane as he took a sip of his beer, maintaining eye contact until Shane had to look away. He almost missed the flicker of Rozanov’s gaze down his neck and across his chest, heat spreading over Shane’s body as if it was a physical touch. It was only fair that Shane return the favour; his lips tugged into a smile as he took in Rozanov’s red Hawaiian shirt and the peek of his chest. 

“Nice shirt,” Shane said. 

“Thanks,” Rozanov replied. “I like to, you know, get into the spirit.”

“You’re pulling it off,” Shane said. It was true, even if it came across teasingly, but it was the type of thought that wouldn’t normally be spoken aloud. The little bubble that surrounded them was broken by Carter Vaughn’s arms slinging around both their shoulders. 

“Cats and dogs!” Vaughn crowed loudly. “Look at this! Fuckin’ beauties!”

“Yeah, it should be a fun time,” Shane said, shifting slightly in an attempt to loosen the hold Vaughn’s arm had on his neck. 

“Careful with this guy though,” Vaughn said to him jokingly. “You can never trust him.”

Shane watched as Rozanov raised his eyebrows and gave a tight-lipped smile. He never seemed particularly affected, not enough to react strongly, yet Shane couldn’t help but wonder if it bothered him, the way he was spoken about across the league. The reason why was obvious - Rozanov didn’t hold back when dishing it out - but Shane had trusted him with so much and he had never been let down. 

“One black coffee please,” Rozanov gestured to the bartender. 

“Oh, I’m just fucking with you, Rozy,” Vaughn said. “It’s going to be a hell of a time. Let’s go, East boys!”

Shane laughed slightly as Vaughn headed towards the hotel with a cheer. “I feel like we’re gonna get a lot of that sort of thing this weekend.”

“It should give us a chance to get to know each other,” Rozanov said. “Who knows what we might have in common.”

Shane broke eye contact and took a drink of his beer. Vaughn’s interruption might as well as not happened, because Shane felt the same pull towards Rozanov take its hold once again. 

“You’re looking very pretty today,” Rozanov said casually. 

“Hm?” Shane said. The sound and feeling of Rozanov calling him pretty was like déjà vu. Perhaps part of that long-forgotten feeling was that of Shane allowing himself to be open with Ilya Rozanov again, like when he was a young rookie entering the league for the first time. 

“Different, maybe?” Rozanov continued. “Someone take you shopping?”

Shane hesitated: “If I, um… If I tell you something, will you promise not to tell anyone or make fun of me?”

“Well, it depends,” Rozanov replied. 

“Seriously,” Shane said. 

“Yeah, sure.” There was a certain edge to Rozanov’s voice, but Shane couldn’t decipher it. 

“I hired a stylist,” Shane admitted, and instantly a smile crept onto Rozanov’s face as he breathed out a laugh. It was a real smile, unlike the one that Vaughn had received. 

“Fuck you,” Shane said, but he missed the sight of Rozanov’s smile as he covered it with his hand. 

“Sorry,” Rozanov said, mirth still in his eyes. “Wow. Of course you did.”

“I shouldn’t have told you,” Shane muttered, despite his own smile making its way onto his face. 

“No, no. I love it, I love it,” Rozanov said. “You got, what, tired of looking like shit?”

“I didn’t look like shit,” Shane argued. “I just wore, like, athletic stuff.”

“I know what you wore,” Rozanov said, but Shane ignored him. Mostly because Rozanov was teasing him, but also because he didn’t want to give himself too much time to think about just how observant Rozanov had revealed himself to be. 

“Some of the guys in the league are so fashionable,” Shane continued. 

“Yeah, so very,” Rozanov agreed. 

“Not you,” Shane tried to keep his smile in check. “Some of the guys.”

“In the league?” Rozanov asked. 

“Other players, not you,” Shane confirmed, and he was unable to keep the smile off his face. 

“Okay,” Rozanov nodded reluctantly, and Shane took another drink of his beer. No matter how often it happened, Shane was always surprised by how easily he got lost in the feeling of simply talking to Ilya Rozanov. 

“So…” Rozanov began. “This has nothing to do with Rose Landry?”

“What?” Shane couldn’t maintain eye contact and looked instead to the beer bottle on the bar top in front of him. How was it possible that Rozanov knew Rose had encouraged him to think about a future for the two of them?

“Not wanting to look like shit,” Rozanov said, and Shane let out a breath. 

“No. Well, I mean, yeah. She's always dressed, um, very well, and so do her friends, but I just wanted to stop looking like I was always going to the gym,” Shane rambled. “I never really cared about clothes.”

“So you and her are not…” Rozanov trailed off. Shane knew what he was asking anyway. 

“We’re not,” Shane said without making eye contact. He heard his mother’s voice in his head, telling him not to talk about Rose, but this was far from the most dangerous secret Rozanov knew. And beyond that, it felt important that he answered. “She’s great, but uh… We’re just not … compatible, I guess.”

Shane looked back at Rozanov to find him already watching him. Eye contact always felt too exposing, too overwhelming, simply too much. Shane was used to being the one to break eye contact, or he wouldn’t realize that someone was expecting eye contact until he glanced over to see them looking back at him. This time, though, Rozanov broke eye contact first, his gaze stopping purposefully on Shane’s mouth, as if it was a message just for Shane, and Shane, full of what if and if we could and what would it be like, was unable to do anything but let his own eyes drift down to Rozanov’s mouth. It was a nice mouth. What would it be like to be able to kiss that mouth and not fear that his world was crashing all around him? 

Shane looked away quickly and fiddled with his beer bottle. It was a nice thought for a bright, warm day under the sun, but it wasn’t reality. Not for Shane, at least. 

“I should circulate, I guess,” Shane said awkwardly. It was the last thing he wanted to do, which probably meant it was the right thing to do.

“You have new clothes to show off,” Rozanov replied.

Shane stood and found himself between his stool and Rozanov’s body, the closest they had been out of equipment in a long time as he slid his way out. 

There was something different, after that. Shane didn’t know exactly what it was, but suddenly Ilya Rozanov was calling his name from the pool, teasing him in front of other players’ kids, splashing him with water as his muscles were lit with the shine of sunlight on water. It was different. Maybe this was what he should’ve been imagining when Rose asked if he wanted a relationship with Rozanov, if they were living a different life, because this made sense. Somehow they were out in the sunshine, where everyone could see them, and they still made sense. 

February 7th, 2017 - 1:00 PM

The All-Star Game was meant to be fun; no one wanted to get injured over something that meant nothing. Well, the winning team would split one million dollars, but for the calibre of players invited to participate, that wasn’t much more than a nice bonus. Shane was one of the few who had a drive to win, not enough to play at full strength, but enough that he would be disappointed in himself if he didn’t. He would be the first to say that the rivalry between him and Rozanov was blown out of proportion for the sake of the media, yet he admittedly liked to beat Rozanov. It meant something special to beat his number one competitor, and Rozanov had always been his most skilled opponent. 

Except this year, as Shane received the puck on his stick, it was Rozanov who passed it to him. And when Shane skated across the blue line and into the opposing team’s zone, he dropped the puck and Rozanov was there to pick it up and rifle it into the back of the net. It was their second goal in three minutes, and Shane felt giddy. He could be anything, playing with Rozanov like this. He could be the shooter or the playmaker, above the circles or behind the net. Rozanov was able to keep up with all of it and still make his own plays, creating chances in his own way. 

As they skated back to their bench, a player from the other team yelled, “Can't you play on a different line, Rozy?” 

“I just go where the captain says,” Rozanov called back as he trailed behind Shane, who tried not to smile too widely. 

“Since when are you so well-behaved?” The ref asked as they gathered at centre ice for the faceoff. 

“Always,” Rozanov insisted. “It is good I’m here to stop Hollander from starting fights.”

“Ha ha,” Shane said sarcastically, but the look Rozanov gave him made it clear he wasn’t very successful at hiding his amusement. 

The next game was much the same. They combined for three more goals, and Shane was still shocked when Rozanov threw his arms around him to celebrate. That wasn’t how things were supposed to work; they were rivals, one was always a winner and the other a loser. Except here, where they were on the same team, where they competed in the same competition and both won. It was revolutionary enough for Shane that it was still on his mind hours later as he watched the sun set over the ocean from the beach. The idea of them on the same team wasn’t a runaway daydream of a sixteen-year old Shane anymore, and it had been so easy to just play hockey. 

“Found you,” Rozanov’s voice came from Shane’s left and pulled him from his musing. 

“You were looking for me?” Shane asked. 

“Of course not,” Rozanov replied. 

Shane looked back out over the ocean and Rozanov sat beside him and leaned back on his hands. Shane wasn’t quite sure whether Rozanov meant it or not, but he had approached him when he saw him on the beach, and that meant enough that Shane didn’t feel the need to investigate any further. 

“Oh, I looked up that word,” Rozanov said. “Compatible.”

“What?” Shane said. It was a non sequitur that didn’t immediately register in his head. 

“Compatible,” Rozanov repeated. “I thought I knew what it meant, but I wanted to be sure.”

“Oh.” He was talking about Rose. Shane didn’t know how to talk about Rose with Rozanov; there was no precedent for Shane to follow. He certainly didn’t ask Rozanov about all the names he was tied to in gossip over the years. He would rather not know.

“So you and Rose Landry are not…” Rozanov trailed off. 

“Yeah, not… compatible,” Shane sighed. “Not in that way, anyway.”

There was a pause as Shane saw Rozanov shifting in his peripheral vision. A small part of Shane still felt like a failure to admit that he couldn’t make his relationship with Rose work. A not-so-small part of him, if he was being honest. 

“When do you fly out?” Shane asked. 

“Early,” Rozanov replied. 

“Same,” Shane said. “Columbus.”

“Toronto,” Rozanov said with an emphasis on the final syllable that made Shane smile slightly. It was cute, which was a word most people wouldn’t associate with Rozanov. 

Something warm brushed against his hand - Rozanov’s hand, Shane realized when he looked down. It was such an innocent touch, and yet he was mesmerized, unable to look away. It was the ocean air, it was the remnants of their day together, it was Rose’s voice in his ear. Whatever it was, Shane found himself wanting to just talk to Rozanov, for once.

“What room are you in?” Shane asked before he could stop himself. 

The words hung in the air as Rozanov looked back at him. And then Rozanov said, “971. I’ll go first.”

Shane watched as Rozanov pushed himself to his feet, minuscule granules of sand falling as he dusted his hands off. There was a moment where he stared at Shane before turning back to the lobby, and then it was just Shane and the ocean again. The possibility that Rozanov was expecting to fuck and nothing else was higher than Shane wanted to imagine, though Rozanov couldn’t be blamed for that. Communicating wasn’t something they had much space to do over the years. 

Once it had been long enough, Shane waited a few minutes more, just to be safe, before rising to his feet and dusting off his hands and legs. He just needed to keep it simple: head through the lobby, wait for an empty elevator, head to the ninth floor, check the hallways, knock on room 971, and… talk to Rozanov. The plan was interrupted immediately, of course, because as soon as Shane stepped into the lobby, a player from San Jose called out to him. 

“Hollsy! Congrats on the win.”

“Thanks,” Shane said stiffly. There was nothing suspicious and yet he felt like he was caught in the act. 

“You know, I like you and Roz better when you’re on different teams,” the player continued, and Shane offered a tight smile. “Good thing you two couldn’t stand each other long enough to stay on the same team, am I right?”

“Plus the cap space,” Shane said and immediately regretted it. All he needed to do was keep his mouth shut and agree, not act like he had been considering the logistics. 

The San Jose player just laughed and smacked Shane’s back. “No way in hell Rozanov’s taking a pay cut, the greedy bastard.”

Shane just nodded, but the San Jose player kept talking: “Hey, I’m meeting Marek and Grondin at the casino, if you want to put your winnings to good use.”

“I’m good,” Shane said. “I don’t have much luck with betting.”

It was a flimsy excuse, one based on a lifetime of avoiding gambling all together, but it was enough for the San Jose player to head towards the exit with a wave of his hand and a call of “suit yourself” thrown over his shoulder. Shane’s thoughts drifted immediately to the idea of him and Rozanov on the same team.

Their contracts wouldn’t fit reasonably in one team’s cap space, even if they managed to find a team interested in them both. Rozanov’s contract was shorter than Shane’s anyway; they would have to coordinate over several years if they wanted to sign with the same team. As much as they are both superstars, it would probably take some convincing to prove to a team that they wouldn’t be at each other’s throats. The rivalry was truly and solidly baked into their identities, at least publicly.

Shane was brought out of his musing by the ping of the elevator arriving on the ninth floor. It was better that way. There was no point in theorizing about the impossible. 

He looked both ways down the hallway before following the numbers to Rozanov’s room and pulling out his phone. He shot a quick “here” text to Rozanov, doing his best not to linger on the last message in their conversation. It was still a surprise when Rozanov opened the door and stepped aside to let Shane slide in. Or maybe the surprise was that Shane found himself sneaking into Ilya Rozanov’s hotel room once again.

Except this time, he sank down onto the end of Rozanov’s bed, folded his hands in his lap, and watched as Rozanov leaned against the wall across from him. It was casual, at least on the surface, but there was an undercurrent of tension, the memory of what they used to do in hotel rooms and who they are now pushing against the seams of the silence between them.

“This looks serious,” Rozanov finally said.

“It’s not,” Shane said automatically before correcting himself: “I mean, yeah, I guess. Can you just sit down or something?”

Rozanov padded over to the desk where he leaned casually, arms bare in his tank top. It was silent, then, and Shane had no more time to stall.

“Look, I just- I know I made things weird back then, okay? And now, I guess, but-“ Shane cut himself off and sighed. “I just freaked out.”

“Freaked out over nothing,” Rozanov muttered.

“It wasn’t nothing. It was our entire careers ending before they even began!” Shane huffed when Rozanov tilted his head to the side, still seemingly unable to take it seriously. “Don’t act like that. This is hard enough without you being an asshole."

“What do you want, Hollander?” Rozanov said, staring at him from across the room.

Shane sighed and shook his head slightly. That wasn’t the question. What Shane wanted was never the question. He got what he wanted when he became an NHL player. He didn’t get to keep adding more on top.

“We fucked a couple times,” Rozanov continued. “Now we don’t. It’s simple.”

“Simple?” Shane repeated in disbelief.

“It’s simple for me,” Rozanov replied with an air of nonchalance.

“Bullshit,” Shane said. It wasn’t simple, no matter how aloof Rozanov wanted to act. It wasn’t like getting caught leaving the club with a woman. And that’s what it came down to, in the end: “I think… I think I’m gay.”

Rozanov laughed, “Oh yeah? What makes you think that?”

Shane could feel his defences rising at the casualness with which Rozanov smirked at him, perched on the top of the desk like they were chatting about hockey stats. 

“Fuck you,” Shane said. “You’re not gay.”

“No, not completely,” Rozanov acknowledged calmly. 

Shane felt the weight of his body sinking into the mattress as he shifted slightly in his seat. Shane had always known; there were no illusions in his mind that Rozanov wasn’t happy to be around the women he was seen with. And yet Shane couldn’t say the same, he couldn’t keep lying to himself and waiting for the right woman to come around. Maybe that’s what gave Rozanov such peace of mind - the fact that he could find a woman to love and be genuinely happy, except Shane still couldn’t believe it could ever be that simple, even for Ilya Rozanov. 

“Yeah, well, I think I am. Completely,” Shane said. 

“Okay, so you’re gay, so what?” Rozanov said in exasperation. 

“Well, it’s kind of a big deal. To me at least,” Shane snapped as Rozanov hunched over and let his arms hang down over his knees. “Sorry if I’m being boring again.”

Rozanov groaned and straightened himself, sliding off the desk to sit beside Shane on the bed. Strangely enough, it was a comfort to have Rozanov beside him. They were always facing off against each other, staring each other down from across their own side of the ice. Now they were facing the same direction, side by side, the way Shane has sat on the bench beside Hayden and JJ for years, but also different, because Shane was letting hidden parts of himself coexist inside the hockey world. Even if that just meant Rozanov, because Shane didn’t know if he could ever share with the Metros, no matter how close he was to Hayden. 

“Why are you telling me this?” Rozanov asked quietly. 

“Who else am I going to tell?” Shane replied, and Rozanov just nodded slightly. “It’s not just being gay. Being gay is one thing, but fucking your arch-rival is another thing.”

“That’s why it is a secret,” Rozanov said. “And now we stopped.”

“I know that, but-“ Shane sighed. “I’m just trying to say it was a huge risk.”

“Yes, Hollander,” Rozanov said sharply. “I know the risk. I wouldn’t be able to go home, you know that?”

“Because your family?” Shane asked, thrown off by the sudden shift in topic. 

“Because Russia,” Rozanov said, throwing an arm out. “I wouldn’t be able to go back to Russia.”

Shane slouched slightly where he was sitting. Right, he knew that. He knew that when they were in Russia for the Olympics, but it was hard to imagine what it would be like to live there, for Rozanov to grow up there. 

“What would they do to you?” Shane asked quietly. 

“I don’t want to find out,” Rozanov said with a slight tremor to his voice. 

This wasn’t what Shane wanted to say. He didn’t come here to reopen old wounds and make things worse; he wanted to have the decency to give Rozanov some sort of explanation, some sort of closure. 

“Look, I’m sorry,” Shane said, looking at his hands folded limply over his thighs. 

It was quiet for a second, and Shane glanced over at Rozanov, who was looking forwards with an unreadable expression on his face. Not for the first time, Shane wished he could read his mind. 

“Why are you sorry?” Rozanov asked, turning to look at Shane. 

“I just…” Shane began, before trailing off. He was sorry for a lot of things: for complicating Rozanov’s life, for running away, for being scared. “I’m sorry for how I handled everything. I’m sorry I freaked out. I didn’t know what to do, or how to do anything properly. I still don’t, really, but-“

Shane paused and sat upright from where he had been slouching. Voices echoed in the hall, the loud, boisterous sound of drunk hockey players. And Shane was in Ilya Rozanov’s hotel room. 

“Is that Vaughn?” Shane whispered urgently, turning to face Rozanov with wide eyes. 

“I think so. Maybe,” Rozanov replied. He watched Shane, calm and unbothered as the voices grew louder and faded away as they stumbled further down the hall. 

“I should, um- I should go,” Shane said, keeping his voice hushed. “That’s what I wanted to say. That I’m sorry.”

He fidgeted with the hem of his shorts as Rozanov just observed him for a few moments longer, and then he leaned in slowly. His breath hit Shane’s cheek and then his lips pressed softly against Shane’s, and they were kissing. It wasn’t as urgent or heated as Shane thought it might’ve been, now that he allowed himself to admit that he did in fact imagine kissing Ilya Rozanov again. It was soft and simple, and then Rozanov was pulling back and Shane blinked his eyes open, unaware he had even closed them. 

“Okay,” Rozanov said softly, patting Shane’s cheek once and leaning back. 

“Okay,” Shane repeated, dazed. He sat there a moment longer, but Rozanov didn’t move or say anything. In the quiet of the hotel room, Shane pushed himself to his feet and headed towards the door, only turning back once his hand hit the doorknob. When he looked over his shoulder, Rozanov was leaning back on his hands, watching quietly. 

Shane turned the doorknob and stepped out into the hallway, the feeling of the kiss still lingering in his mouth, and he couldn’t help but wonder if that was goodbye. 

February 13th, 2017 - 9:30 AM

“Come on, Shane,” Hayden groaned as they tied their laces for the morning skate. “You gotta help me out here.”

“How am I supposed to know what Jackie likes?” Shane said, tucking his sock over the tongue of his left skate and moving to tie the right one. 

“Probably should’ve thought about Valentine’s Day before this, Piker,” another Metro called from across the room. 

“Fuck you, Girard!” Hayden yelled back. “At least I have a date!”

Shane smiled and shook his head as Girard threw a ball of tape that bounced off Hayden’s shoulder and onto the floor beside Shane’s skates. 

“How ‘bout you, Hollsy?” Comeau asked as he slid his elbow pads on. “Bet Rose Landry is expecting something big.”

Shane’s fingers stilled where they were tangled up in his laces, and he could feel Hayden’s eyes on the side of his face. He had found out about the breakup a few weeks ago, but Shane had forgotten to tell the rest of the team. He had been a bit distracted, recently. 

“Yeah, probably,” Shane said, tightening his laces, “but we broke up.”

The dressing room was quiet as the news sank in. Shane finished tying his laces and moved on to his chest protector, the sound of velcro louder than normal in the quiet. 

“No wonder you look lost these days, bud,” Comeau said eventually. 

“Her loss, eh, capitaine?” JJ said, and Shane offered him a tight smile. 

The rest of the Metros took turns patting him on the back as he headed out to the ice, giving him words of encouragement when they stopped for water breaks. Shane appreciated it, really, and it gave him an excuse when he was lost in his thoughts about the events of the All-Star weekend. 

February 26th, 2017 - 12:00 PM

The whirring of the saw as it cut into the carbon fibre of his stick wasn’t enough to drown out Shane’s thoughts. He was in Boston, in the equipment room in the Raiders’ arena, about to face Ilya Rozanov for the first time since the All-Star Game. Their private talk in the hotel was supposed to clear the air about their past, yet Shane was dragged further into it than he had been in a long time, and he had no idea what to expect. Would Rozanov ignore him? Chirp him? Tell him to fuck off? 

Shane let out a breath and turned off the saw, blowing dust off the end of the stick and turning to grab the next stick that was leaning on the wall behind him. 

“Jesus!” Shane shouted as he made eye contact with Rozanov, who was suddenly standing across from him, leaning on the closed door of the equipment room with his arms crossed. 

“I am starting to think you work for the Raiders,” Rozanov said with a smirk. 

“Fuck off, you almost gave me a heart attack,” Shane complained, grabbing the stick and twirling it in his hands slightly. 

“Wow,” Rozanov said. “That was easy.”

“Do you actually need the saw, or are you just here to fuck with me?” Shane said. 

“Hm,” Rozanov pretended to think, putting a finger to his chin in mock contemplation. “Maybe both.”

Shane turned and grabbed the stick he had just cut and the plug, which skittered across the countertop and onto the floor. He sighed as he crouched to pick it up and jam it into the top of the stick. 

“You can use the machine,” Shane said, trying to maintain his composure. “I’ll come back later.”

But Rozanov didn’t move off of the door, instead just watching him with a faint air of amusement in the curve of his mouth. 

“No,” Rozanov said, letting his arms fall and sliding his hands into the pockets of his athletic shorts. “I’ll wait, Shane Hollander.”

It was quiet in the room as Shane watched Rozanov, before he quietly turned back to the saw and laid the uncut stick down to be measured. He marked the right length, lined it up on the saw, double checked the measurement, turned the saw on, and cut the excess off the top of the stick. It was quiet again when the saw turned off, and Shane couldn’t help but peek over his shoulder, where Rozanov remained unmoved by the door. He had half-expected Rozanov to leave, to go find something else to do while Shane busied himself with game-day prep, but he still stood there patiently. 

Shane put the stopper into the second stick and grabbed a roll of tape before squaring his shoulders and facing Rozanov. 

“All yours,” he said, holding his sticks in one hand and the tape in the other. 

Rozanov nodded and shuffled away from the door, letting Shane pass by. Once the door closed behind him, he took a deep breath and headed down the hall towards the visitor’s dressing room. A part of him had thought - or maybe it was more of a hope - that Rozanov might try to kiss him. A small, crazy part that was still malfunctioning from that night in February, because that’s not something Rozanov had ever done even when they were rookies, not at the arena. It was that same uncontrollable part of Shane that made him look back when he heard the equipment door open and close. Rozanov walked the other way towards the Raiders’ dressing room, tossing a roll of tape in the air and catching it as he went. 

Shane frowned. If all he needed was a roll of tape, he could’ve grabbed that while Shane was using the saw. 

March 2nd, 2017 - 6:00 PM

Shane flopped onto the couch in his apartment and closed his eyes. It was nice to be home, in his own space, where he could fully relax without worrying about anyone else. Until his phone buzzed from within his pocket. 

Shane sighed and kept his eyes closed. The Metros had just gotten home after a four-game road trip; he needed a minute of quiet, but when his phone buzzed again with a two-minute reminder of his unread text, he sighed and pulled it out of his pocket. 

Lily: https://youtu.be/4ZBe9rmrsK4?si=n5ex8cW4czqLw5an

Shane stared at the message from Rozanov long enough that his screen went black. He turned it on again and stared a bit longer. Of all the people he might’ve guessed were texting him, Rozanov wouldn’t even have been in the running. His thumb tapped on the link, which opened to a clip posted by the league of Shane trying to avoid a check from a defender last night and accidentally flying straight into Toronto’s bench. Shane returned to the text conversation and his fingers began typing. 

Shane: Why are you even watching that???

Asshole. 

Lily: You want to play for Toronto that bad? They are shit this year. 

Shane: They’re shit every year. 

Don’t you have the second half of a back to back in an hour?

Lily: So you know my schedule. 

Shane dropped his head back against the couch. Why the fuck did he have to embarrass himself like that?

Shane: I keep track of what’s happening in the league.  

Lily: But not your bench. 

Shane: Fuck you.

Shane huffed and put his phone down on the coffee table. It wasn’t that weird to know the Raiders’ schedule; they were the Metros’ divisional rivals, and the end of the regular season was approaching. Of course Shane was keeping track of the standings and who was playing who, and that just happened to mean that he knew the Raiders were playing Buffalo tonight. 

What was weird was Rozanov texting him like they’re buddies. Was that what Rozanov wanted, to forget the past and just be casual friends? If there was anything Shane had learned, it was that it wasn’t that easy to forget. 

March 16th, 2017 - 5:30 PM

Shane walked down the hallway of the Boston arena, three freshly cut sticks in his hand. He still had a few that he had prepped in Montreal before the road trip, but it never hurt to have some extra. He would’ve done the same in any arena. 

And he wasn’t disappointed that Rozanov didn’t appear in the equipment room. 

It was better to have his pre-game routine intact, instead of igniting the whirlwind of emotions that Rozanov brought out of him. If there was a time when Shane needed focus, it was now when the Metros were ramping up for another playoff run, exhausted bodies fuelled by the idea of cementing their dynasty in hockey legend. Nothing and no one could say Shane didn’t belong in this sport then.

As in every Montreal-Boston matchup, Shane lined up for the opening face off against Rozanov. The close proximity as they leaned in for the draw was something Shane had long gotten used to, something that was as regular a part of the sport as tying his skates, but it felt different with Rozanov. A good different, this time, as Rozanov smirked across from him, knocking the blade of his stick at Shane’s while the ref turned to scold Hayden for moving too far into the faceoff circle. 

“I have bad feeling about tonight,” Rozanov said, knocking his stick against Shane’s once more. 

“You should,” Shane said, glancing over to make sure the ref wasn’t watching before knocking Rozanov back. “You’re going to lose.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Rozanov said with a smirk. “I think you will go home crying.”

“You wish,” Shane said, and then the whistle blew sharp and shrill in his ear. 

“You boys still chirping or can we start the game?” The ref said, crouching into position to drop the puck.

Unfortunately for Shane and the Metros, whatever giddy mood Rozanov seemed to be in was effective on the ice. His hits were hard, his passing was crisp and tape-to-tape, and by the midpoint of the third period, hats were raining onto the ice to celebrate Rozanov’s third goal of the night. 

“Fuckin’ Rozanov,” Hayden snapped as he slammed the bench door and took a seat beside Shane, who just nodded. 

The Metros were playing well; they were outplaying the rest of the Raiders, but with every goal they put up, Rozanov managed to get another. It was a special kind of frustrating, playing so well and yet not being able to pull off the win. Rozanov’s performance would’ve been fun to watch if Shane didn’t hate losing so much. 

March 17th, 2017 - 11:00 AM

Shane took a deep breath and released it slowly as water from the shower ran down his face and over his shoulders, hitting the tiles with a splash. The Metros were holding on to third place in their division, which would give them a playoff spot, but it would also pit them against a tougher opponent in the first round. He turned the water off and stood dripping in the shower for a few extra moments. The exhaustion of back to back Stanley Cup victories was haunting him, with a mind that hadn’t been turned off in years and minor injuries that never had time to fully heal. It was a heavy weight across his shoulders, and it was a privilege all the same. Players put everything on the line to win the Cup, and Shane wouldn’t quit until he had no other choice. 

Walking back into the dressing room, Shane adjusted the towel around his waist and checked the schedule as he passed. Tomorrow was Philadelphia, a team they had to beat. 

“Hey,” JJ called over the light chatter in the room, “did you hear about Rozanov?”

That brought Shane out of his thoughts. When Rozanov was usually brought up in the Metros’ dressing room, it wasn’t with such a curious tone. 

“What about Rozanov?” Shane asked watching as JJ scrolled on his phone. 

“Well, he did not fly with the rest of the team to Nashville.”

Shane paused before asking, “He flew separately?”

“He did not go to Nashville at all,” JJ replied. 

Shane watched as JJ put his phone down on the bench and began pulling the tape off the blade of his stick, entirely casual as Shane’s mind was running a mile a minute. 

“He didn’t get hurt last night, did he?” Hayden asked, pulling a clean t-shirt over his head. 

“Not that I know of,” JJ said as Shane walked to his stall between them. 

“No, he didn’t,” Shane said. Rozanov had ended the game as relaxed as he began it, celebrating more and more with each goal in his hat trick. There was nothing limiting his strides, nothing holding back the release of his shot. Rozanov wasn’t hurt, at least not hurt enough to skip the road trip. 

“Maybe he’s sick,” Hayden shrugged. 

“He’s not,” Shane replied immediately, getting frustrated but trying to keep it in check. “I mean, he didn’t seem sick.”

“Câlisse,” JJ swore. “ESPN is just saying he did not go to Nashville. Capotez pas.”

Shane tried to stay calm, to forget about it, but it remained a niggling itch under his skin. Rozanov had been in the best mood Shane had seen in a long time yesterday, he was at the top of his game, and now he had disappeared. Shane pulled his clothes on and grabbed his phone, heading out to his car and searching Rozanov’s name as soon as the car door closed. There was nothing, just the fact that Rozanov hadn’t joined the team in Nashville and endless speculation. When Shane got to a comment that one of Rozanov’s hookups was probably giving birth to his child, he turned off his phone and leaned his head back on the seat. 

It was fine. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t Shane’s teammate, he wasn’t even quite his friend. And still, when Shane got to his apartment, it was all he could think about. He sighed and pulled out his phone, opening his conversation with Lily and texting: Are you okay?

Shane stared at the message for a moment, watching it deliver and his screen dim. 

March 22nd, 2017 - 2:00 PM

There was still no reply a few days later, no matter how many times Shane checked. His phone rested on his chest, eyes staring at the ceiling from where he lay on his hotel bed as Hayden chattered away from the other bed. 

“What do you think about them bringing back the Global Series next season?” Hayden asked, but before Shane could respond, he continued: “I’ve never been to Sweden, but why do we have to play the fuckin’ Raiders? I’m tired of seeing those dumbasses all the time.”

“Yeah, for sure,” Shane said. 

“Speaking of dumbasses, if I have to hear about Munro’s junior stats one more time, I might lost my fucking mind,” Hayden complained. 

“He’s just trying to impress the guys,” Shane replied, tapping his fingers on the back of his phone. 

“It’s not impressing me,” Hayden muttered.

Shane just hummed and picked up his phone again, his screen opening to his conversation with Rozanov. 

“Just text her,” Hayden sighed. 

“What?” Shane said, turning his head to look at Hayden. 

“Just text whatever girl you’re moping about,” Hayden said as if it was obvious. 

“I’m not…” Shane trailed off, looking back at his phone. He didn’t know how else to explain his behaviour if Hayden were to press him about it. 

“You’re Shane Hollander. She’s not going to turn you down,” Hayden insisted. 

Shane sighed and looked back at his phone. Something told him Rozanov wouldn’t be particularly impressed by who he was, but maybe Hayden was right that Shane should just text him again. 

His thumbs hesitated, typing and deleting a few times, before sending: Let me know if you need someone to talk to. 

Shane cringed at his own message and dropped his phone back down on his chest. It was quiet in the room as Shane stared at the ceiling and Hayden scrolled on his own phone, until Shane felt the vibration of a notification against his sternum. His fingers slipped as he scrambled to grab his phone, and then he saw it, a text from Rozanov: You are alone?

Yeah, Shane texted back with trembling fingers as he rolled off the bed and shoved his feet into his running shoes. 

“Hey, I’m just gonna…” Shane trailed off as he gestured towards the door. 

“Have fun!” Hayden called, but Shane was already halfway out the door and hurrying down the hall towards the stairwell. 

A call from Rozanov buzzed in his hand as Shane stared at his phone in shock for a moment, still in disbelief that Rozanov actually wanted to talk, before he picked it up with a breathless “hello”. 

“Shane Hollander,” Rozanov said into his ear, and Shane felt his muscles relax a bit at the sound of his voice. 

“Are you okay?” Shane blurted out. “What happened? You can talk to me about it. If you want.”

Shane shut his mouth and put his forehead in his hand. Embarrassing. 

“My father,” Rozanov said flatly. “He is dead.”

“I’m so sorry,” Shane breathed out. He couldn’t imagine being so far from home most of the year and then receiving that call. 

“He was very sick,” Rozanov said, his words blending together slightly and his voice exhausted. “Maybe it’s better.”

“It must be hard still. He was your father,” Shane said softly. There was a different quality to Rozanov’s voice, a vulnerability that Shane had rarely heard. 

“He was very…” Rozanov trailed off, searching for the word, “old-fashioned. And police. He was police. My brother is too.”

“What about your mother?” Shane asked. 

“Dead. She is dead. Long time ago. By accident,” Rozanov said, spitting out the last word. 

“I’m so sorry,” Shane said, feeling helpless. He was never good at comfort, at finding the right thing to say. He had never wanted so much to be better at it than now. 

“I wish it could be different, with my father,” Rozanov said quietly, almost to himself. “I wish he could know me, or something.”

Shane listened quietly. Rozanov was sad, and hurt, and thousands of miles away. 

“I don’t know,” Rozanov continued. “English is too hard right now.”

Shane nodded even though Rozanov couldn’t see him. He knew what it was like to try and find the right words in French after a tiring game, but he couldn’t imagine doing it nonstop. 

“Hey, I have an idea,” Shane began tentatively. “How about you tell me everything that’s on your mind, but in Russian? I won’t understand, but maybe it’ll help.”

“Okay,” Rozanov said and paused, and then he was speaking in Russian. 

It brought Shane back to his days in the juniors, before they had even met, back when Shane kept up with Rozanov through whatever grainy clips he could find on his billet family’s computer. Rozanov was always speaking Russian then; it was a sound that Shane didn’t realize would be so familiar. 

Closing his eyes, Shane leaned back on the metal bars of the railing, the chill of the concrete seeping through his sweatpants as he focused on Rozanov’s voice. It was angry at some points, maybe bitter, then it got shakier as he went on. Shane had never heard him talk this much. What would it be like to talk to Rozanov in his first language? 

There was a long pause, and Shane opened his eyes, but then Rozanov continued, adding a few more sentences in a rush like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to say them. 

“Okay,” Rozanov said tiredly. “I’m done.”

Shane sat up a bit and asked, “Do you feel better?”

“Yes, probably. I think so,” Rozanov said quietly. “I should sleep.”

“Yeah, of course,” Shane said. 

“Thanks,” Rozanov said after a pause, and then the line went dead. 

Shane lingered in the stairwell for a moment, processing what had just happened, before wandering back to his hotel room. It was horrible, hearing the sadness and exhaustion in Rozanov’s voice and being unable to do anything about it. Shane didn’t know what he would do if Rozanov was here, but maybe he wouldn’t feel so useless. 

Shane swiped his keycard into the door and stepped inside, toeing off his shoes and collapsing face-first onto the bed. 

“Hey, buddy,” Hayden said, walking out of the bathroom. “Didn’t work out this time, eh? That’s alright, it happens.”

Shane just sighed into his pillow. Rozanov had no parents now, working in a foreign country… No wonder he was exhausted. 

“You should go back to that other chick,” Hayden said. “What was her name? Lily?”

Shane’s head shot up, looking at Hayden who sat calmly on his bed with a glass of water. 

The panic must’ve shown on his face, because Hayden said, “Chill, I know you used to text some girl named Lily. You were totally obsessed with her.” 

“I’m not- There wasn’t…” Shane stuttered and then sighed, rolling over and lying on his back. “It wasn’t like that.”

Shane smiled, bittersweet. It wasn’t the first time he was told he was obsessed with Rozanov, even if Hayden didn’t know that’s what he was saying. It didn’t matter though. There was no going back, not to hook ups and pretending there were no consequences to their actions. 

“Dude!” Hayden exclaimed suddenly. “You are so into her!”

Shane didn’t reply. Instead, he picked up his phone and pulled up his conversation with Rozanov, turning onto his side so Hayden couldn’t see his screen. 

Shane: We can talk again sometime. If you want. 

Shane stared as the message delivered, ignoring Hayden’s feet as they nudged at him impatiently. 

“Tell me about her,” Hayden said excitedly. 

“There’s nothing to tell,” Shane replied, turning off his phone and plugging it in on the bedside table. 

March 31st, 2017 - 6:30 PM

It was relieving to see Rozanov in person, skating around the Raiders’ zone in warmups, even though they’d called again since that first night. Rozanov had been in a lighter mood, still with sadness leaking into his voice, but teasing Shane about not being able to surpass Rozanov’s goal total while he was away and asking what the media were saying about his absence. Something about seeing him in person settled part of the twisting in his chest, and he couldn’t help but glide over when Rozanov stopped near centre ice to stretch. 

“Hey, uh,” Shane began, looking around to make sure no other players could hear, “how are you doing?”

Rozanov looked up at him, a quality to his gaze that made Shane focus on a piece of tape sticking out on the knob of his stick instead. 

“Good,” Rozanov said with a smirk. “Good enough to win tonight.”

“No chance,” Shane replied, smiling. This was familiar ground, something safe between the two of them. 

He turned towards the bench, but Rozanov’s voice stopped him: “Hey, Hollander. Thanks.”

Shane looked back at where he still stretching his legs on the ice. It was sincere in a way Shane didn’t know how to process, especially not half an hour before the game started. 

“Yeah, no problem,” Shane said with a nod, and then he continued over to the Metros’ bench to grab some water. Was this what it was like to be friends with Rozanov? If so, Shane needed to learn how to stop reading into every little micro-expression and choice of words.   

“What was that about?” Hayden asked as Shane reached over the boards to grab a water bottle. 

“I just offered my condolences,” Shane replied. It wasn’t that much of a lie. 

“Oh, yeah, that’s nice. Fuck, I should have done that,” Hayden said. “What’d he say?”

“He told me to fuck off,” Shane said and groaned internally. That was probably not the best way to relay Rozanov’s words.

Hayden scoffed, “Jesus, what a dick.”

“He’s not that bad,” Shane argued weakly. “It’s mostly an act.”

“A pretty convincing one,” Hayden muttered.

Shane looked back at Rozanov, who had moved onto stretches for his other leg. He didn’t think he had ever been convinced that Rozanov was any more mean-spirited than other trash talkers in the league, but not for the first time, he wondered what Rozanov might truly be thinking, what he thought his relationship to Shane was. None of these thoughts were conducive to winning a hockey game.

“Yeah, well, let’s make sure we win this one, right?” Shane asked Hayden, straightening up from where he was leaning on the boards.