Chapter Text
He didn’t object. When Farah, his agent, had called him about the baffling trade, he didn’t object. No bargaining, no begging, just “Huh.” Farah kept talking, and Shane kept responding, but he was on autopilot. He had been doing this all his life, pretending to be there when he was anything but. Farah didn’t notice. She probably would be shocked later when he had no idea what her instructions had been.
“You’ll likely get a call from the team in the next hour or so and they’ll give you a time to report to the airport. It’s just over 6 hours to San Francisco, so you’ll likely not report to practice for a couple of days with all the travel, but their coaching staff and equipment manager will likely be in touch today… Shane? Are you still there?”
“Yeah, Farah. Yeah.” Shane snapped to attention, finding he did know what he was supposed to be doing. It was nice when his brain did the work while he was gone. “Take the call, get on the plane, get back to practice. Right.”
“Hey, sweetheart, I’m really sorry this is happening. I know how much you love your life in Montreal.” She paused to breathe and Shane quickly interrupted her.
“It’s part of the game, Farah. If I didn’t want to get traded, I’d pick another career.” It had sounded very mature and professional but Shane knew he was feeling anything but. “Thank you. Really.” The phone clicked and Shane dropped down into the leather chair of his hotel room. Where was he even? Tampa? A Carolina? It didn’t really matter. He’d ask his mom to go pack him a couple of bags and close up his apartment. He had what? Two seasons left on this contract? Or was it three?
Shane closed his eyes and blew out a breath. His phone buzzed. Looking down at the screen, a text blinked back at him..
LILY: See you in two days.
“Fuck.”
—--
It was like Farah had predicted. His coach called– all business and so detached. As if the past 5 years of his life did not matter. As if he was a toy that two children could exchange. Being traded is hard. It’s full of shame, of guilt, of blame. And for generational talents who were also franchise anchors, it was downright bizarre. Shane didn’t even ask his coach why. The words he was saying were robotic and sounded strange coming out of his mouth. Shane could easily imagine the front office approved script he was reading from sitting just out of frame.
Shane’s flight was in 4 hours. He sat in the hotel lobby facing a warm mostly ignored beer. The rest of the team was already on the bus and headed to the airport. He wondered if they noticed he wasn’t on the bus. If they asked about him, and what their HR approved message had sounded like. Shane’s phone was quiet, so it was possible no one knew yet. He hoped he would already be in the air when the news broke. Let Farah and his mom have the first few hours.
The text from Rozanov sat unanswered. He picked up his phone and thought about calling. They didn’t do that. Hadn’t done that. But it felt… wrong to just send a text. Right? He chickened out.
SHANE: I got traded.
His phone rang a second later, but before he could pick it up, the call disconnected.
—-
The news had been a frenzy the week Hollander was traded. And everyone wanted to know what Ilya thought. Press calls, on ice interviews, random people on the street. Everyone calling his name to ask him what he thought of Montreal’s own Shane Hollander being sent to the west coast away from the snow and the pressure of the eastern division.
“I look forward to seeing him in the Stanley Cup Finals.” had worked at first. But it lost his humor on day three. And from there all he could do was shrug and say the same old “Let’s see if he can catch up to me in the scoring race.”
But alone, in his house in his bed, Ilya felt empty. Things had been good(?), yes, good, between him and Hollander. They had fallen into a rhythm after Vegas last year and it had been nice. It had been comfortable. It had been all Ilya had thought about since. He measured the days in how far they were from the next time they’d meet. Three weeks till I’m in Montreal, Two weeks till he’s in Boston. Back and forth through the season till the inevitably torturous summer break.
They were just two days away from the first meeting of the season when Hollander was suddenly gone. Ilya realized he was being dramatic. It wasn’t like he had died or even retired. But playing on the west coast… Hollander may as well have been on another planet. Their teams would only meet twice this year. He had already checked. And they wouldn’t even be together at the All Star Game.
Ilya stared at the last text Jane had sent. “I got traded.” Ilya’s first reaction had been to jam the call button. To hear his voice. To protest. To beg him not to go. But as fast as the impulse hit him, the cold understanding that there just was no choice. No stopping this. It was the sacrifice they made for their charmed lives. And so he hung up.
That was that.
Hollander never called back. Never texted again. And so Ilya watched ESPN that night. San Francisco’s post game interview talking about Hollander reporting for practice in the morning. Montreal welcoming the player they had replaced him with. So many commentators shocked and confused and angry about the whole thing.
It had been 16 days and the news hadn’t let up. Hollander had played three games now with the Sea Lions and been amazing in each one. That only fueled their confusion. Ilya watched the games he could, west coast time being generous to him. When his teammates asked if he was coming out, he’d make an excuse to go home and watch Hollander play. It felt like an addiction, the physical need to just watch him move and breathe and be happy.
For all the angst that Ilya felt, Hollander did look happy on the screen. His new team embraced him (of course they did, they were extremely lucky to have him) and he was playing the best hockey of his life. Ilya could tell he had been out in the sunshine, his skin was darker, sure, but also glowing in a way. He seemed relaxed, too. At home, even.
Ilya couldn’t help but wonder if it wasn’t just the weather or the lowered expectations or the much chiller team, but also… him. That Hollander was no longer tethered to him. That maybe he was able to measure his life in things other than the days between the moments they spent crashing into each other. That while Ilya felt like he was drowning, maybe Hollander felt like he had finally been pulled from the water.
Ilya looked down at his own hands to see he was holding his phone, text messages open, and thumb hovering over Jane’s name. Fuck. He had stopped himself from doing this too many times to count. But it had been 16 days, the longest they’d gone without texting or talking or fucking in what? A year? Two? Before all blended together in a long mess and after stretched before him desperately long and entirely wrong.
So, fuck it, he’d text. What was there to lose, really? Two awkward games a year? Maybe a press conference or two together. An award presentation sometime in the future? None of that mattered, not really.
ILYA: San Francisco looks good on you.
Sure, it was flirty and ignored the weight of everything. Ignored the reality that Hollander’s last message held. But this is what they were best at. Starting over. Ignoring the emotion, and hurt, and whatever else was lingering between them.
The three dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then appeared. Then they were gone. Ilya didn’t realize he was holding his breath. Butterflies were building in his stomach and he was focused on each breath as it came and went. Then it just stopped. He threw his phone, shattering the screen.
—-
Shane was in the locker room when he had gotten Lily’s text. It was unmistakably him. Smooth, simple, devoid of real emotion while being flirty. His way of saying I’m still here. I still want you. Can we forget? But Shane didn’t want to forget just yet.
If he was being honest, he was hurt. Rozanov had left him alone and disconnected on what had been the worst day of his life. It had felt so sparkly clear– if we can’t fuck in two days, what is there to talk about anyway? And so as the days passed one by one, Shane just accepted it was done. They were done.
It was better this way, he reasoned. What could they possibly expect from two nights a year? The collision course Shane had seen ahead of them was just gone. And wasn’t that a good thing? Wasn’t that what he had been hoping for all along? They couldn’t be together anyway. There was no more than what they had and the longer they had that, the more Shane wanted. It had become painful more than fun.
So, clean break. Restart. Plus he was in San Francisco now. A good place for… people like him. A good place to find himself in a less precarious situation, even. A good place to build a life that wasn’t just orbiting a brooding sarcastic man who left him aching and wanting and feeling so very alone.
For 16 days he believed his own lie. He spent time in the sun, and for the first time in his life could run outside during the season every day. He read on the balcony in his apartment, and spent days off exploring the hilly damp city that somehow was shrouded in fog and bathed in sunshine. And then, in the loud chaotic locker room after a particularly good game, Lily sent him a text.
He typed and stopped. And typed again. Something flirty. Something flippant. Something angry. Something dismissive. Then he stopped typing, and looked down at his phone.
SHANE: I miss you.
Shaking his head violently, he erased the words letter by letter and shoved his phone back in his bag.