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They are an hour into the drive back to Boston and about to go through Customs when Joe LeClaire realizes Shane Hollander has been on his bus since they left Montreal.

Joe had arrived this morning after Dave had already started up the motorcoach. A little later than he would have liked but after the game last night, the slow mobilization of the morning hadn't been a shock. What had been a surprise was seeing Roz, Cliff, and Vic already camped out toward the back of the bus. But before Joe could do more than call a ‘good morning’ to them, Ryan had appeared at his elbow with a question.

Joe had planned to catch Roz before they got on the road. He hadn’t had a chance to talk with him the night before and he really needed to check in. It had been plain last night that Hollander’s injury had rattled something in the captain.

However, Carmichael’s questions seemed to daisy-chain out, while all around them the other players trudged from the hotel to stow their gear and climb on-board, as the Raiders’ driver ran through his pre-departure checklist. Finally, Joe had needed to tell Ryan they were going to have to table the topic, so he could focus on getting the Raiders on the road.

He'd let himself be sucked into ironing out final departure logistics, pushing down any lingering un-ease with the thought that it was enough that Ilya was on the bus. Joe would be able to check-in with him once they were on the road or, if it really came down to it, pull him aside upon arrival.

This assumption that because everything appeared fine, it was had ultimately been an over-sight on Joe's part.

In his defense, when mischief was a foot, particularly with a secret of this caliber, the other players tended to tip the team’s hand. Joe had been made Head Coach six years ago, after another seven before as Assistant. He knows his team. Joe can read a bus; knows what it feels like when there's a disagreement amongst the players or after a loss, like last night. He knows how the energy gets almost palpable when they are excited to be keeping a secret.

But even after everyone loaded their gear and Joe had done his final headcount from the front of the bus, there hadn’t been anything that raised alarms.

They’ve all piled off the bus to go through Customs. It's standard practice and the boys are old hands at it. Joe’s about half way down the line and has every intention of camping out there to herd them all through.

Perhaps it's a coach's intuition, but he idly gives them another head count as the first Bear steps up to the window for his paperwork to be checked.

Impossibly, he gets one too many.

At first, Joe thinks he’s double-counted someone, but no. There are twenty-one hockey players wearing Boston Raiders' merch in the Customs line.

They had left Boston with only twenty.

Joe counts again, intently this time, and when he finds the extra man, it both makes too much sense and not enough. He's trailing aside Ilya, hood pulled up, sunglasses on, with the word’s 'Boston Raiders' emblazoned across his chest.

Shane Hollander.

Joe watches them not fully comprehending what he's seeing.

Hollander gives a single nod to something Rozanov just said.

The sunglasses really didn’t hide the bruising that was still coming in after Hollander's impact with the ice. That cheap shot from Comeau had earned Hollander a concussion, which Joe had known even before the Voyageurs' had released a courtesy statement. He must be on some kind of serious pain medication to be out here standing in the weak sunlight of the early morning instead of recovering in a dark bedroom somewhere safe after a hit like that not even twelve hours before.

Hollander was in no shape for long distance travel, not as tourism or prank. So why was Hollander in line for Customs with the Boston Raiders?

Joe tears his eyes away, glancing down to the clipboard in his hands in an attempt to process the impossibility his eyes had just witnessed. He'll need to be collected if he wants to address…whatever this is. But somehow even the roster was purporting the lie that Shane Hollander was a Boston Bear, because at the bottom of the list after the driver, Joe himself, Joanie from PR, and every Raiders' player was the name ‘Shane Hollander’ scrawled in a script not noticeably unlike his own, but which was not his at all.

That would be the last time he’s leaving his clipboard unattended, Joe thinks.

Joe looks back up to find Roz and Hollander again without difficulty. They were speaking lowly, in deference to Hollander's injury. Shane is saying something. Carmichael turns around, words indistinct but his tone is that of a clarifying joke-of-a-question. Hollander gives him a blithe stare. It’s Ilya who says something to Ryan before turning back to Hollander who finally responds. Carmichael guffaws and even St-Simon, who had also been facing forward in front of them mutters something in an appreciative tone. The interaction is easy enough, which was a surprise beyond the obvious decades long team beef and the League mandated Hollander/Rozanov rivalry, because it was known Hollander could be an awkward guy off ice, even when not stiff from injury and a hospital stay.

Seeing them interact like this had Joe feeling like he'd fallen into some mirror world where Shane Hollander had always been a Boston Raider.

That, however, was not the world they lived in.

Joe makes a quick evaluation of the other Raiders. It's obvious the team all knew. Hollander is unmistakable. Yet, there he is just standing in their midst and the Raiders are hardly batting an eye at the addition. Their acceptance of him was so ubiquitous and unspoken that Joe himself hadn’t noticed the extra man until they were all in line at the border.

Joe goes back over the morning load of the bus. Looking back on it, he had no doubt that Carmichael's endless list of questions had been deliberate interference. Roz, with the possible and likely assistance of Marlow and St-Simon, had somehow magiked the Voyageur captain out of the hospital before visiting hours even started. After that feat, they had orchestrated for Hollander to get on the bus first so the team could get out of the city before anyone in Montreal knew he was gone and, more crucially to LeClaire's mind, that his egress was facilitated by the Raiders. Either they were incredibly lucky or a good deal of effort had been expended to get Hollander this far.

But what is the objective? Joe doesn’t understand. Why is Hollander here when he should be resting? Just as crucially, how had it even come about? There’d never been any indication this was even a possibility. Apart from that moment during last night's game, when Hollander had punched his own teammate in defense of Ilya and then sat on the ice next to Roz while he caught his breath—which still didn’t feel like reality but did seem to indicate there was an extensive foundation for genuine camaraderie between them.

Joe had never bought into the whole ‘blood feud’ business, but he should still know better, being the Head Coach of a team like the Raiders, who’s aggressive reputation proceeded them always. He understood better than most that a player’s public persona could be far from the whole truth of who they were off-ice. He just had never seen any indication, because both Roz and Hollander had always fed the fuel of the rivalry fire. So much so that Joe had never thought too deeply if that competition had been the whole story.

It clearly wasn’t.

They’d been matched since they were rookies. Very few players in the league were on their skill level. Roz, Joe knew, respected the game too much not to appreciate Hollander's commitment and talent. As for the Voyageur captain, Joe only really knew him at a distance, but if pressed, he might have said Hollander was too level-headed to hate. What Joe did know was they were both too competitive to allow anything like friendship to come between either of them and a win. That had always been true. Which is why Joe feels a little foolish for never having considered if there might not be some kind of camaraderie beyond the mere professional respect they showed each other on the ice.

He glances around for Joanie to see if she has clocked this at all. But no, she’s tuned out and next to be called by a border control agent.

Now Joe is stuck in the awkward position of confronting them in-line and causing a scene at the Border, which would then also mean he’d need to get Hollander an uber back to Montreal. Alone. Against medical advice.

It’s not a great option, especially when the entire team is already complicit in his presence.

Which leaves Joe with his second option: allow this madness and hope that their border agent is not a hockey fan.

Hollander doesn't meet his eyes when reboarding the bus. For that matter, neither does Rozanov. Joe doesn’t say anything. He’s keeping to his decision to not cause a public scene, so he just counts them off and allows them back on with nothing more than his heaviest coach's eye.

Joe is the last to climb the steps on-board. He surveys the team, looking for that buzz of a shared secret.

Roz and Vic have taken up their seats toward the back of the bus again. Hollander had disappeared entirely. Joe assumes he’s lying down—which good he should have been resting in the first place. The sunglasses Hollander had been wearing outside have found their way onto Rozanov’s face.

The other Raiders sitting closer to the front either steadfastly look anywhere but Joe or meet his gaze head-on with obscene blitheness. They know he knows and he knows they know he knows and still none of them are acknowledging the Voyageur in the room out loud.

He had been intending to say something in the privacy of the bus. But Joe knows his team.

He had earlier mis-attributed the subdued mood permeating off the Raiders to the loss of a game and a loss to Montreal no less. Re-examining it now, Joe can see this is not that. This is too solemn. Too serious. There's a weight in the player's expressions who do meet his eyes that feels like duty.

That alone is enough to give Joe pause.

Once Dave has them on the road again, Joe pulls out his laptop. He’d already re-watched the game last night, along with Roz’s interview. He’d scrubbed the footage back and forth analyzing first Roz and Hollander and then Hollander and that ingrate Comeau. Taken in against the context of Rozanov’s comments in the press debrief, it had all been rather revealing. Joe had been too tired to go back and do what he really wanted, which was watch the last couple of Montreal games for Hollander and Comeau's interactions.

He pulls one up now.

The first thing he noted was that it wasn’t just Comeau. At least half of the team by Joe’s count seemed off. He didn’t remember this kind of tension with the Voyageurs when he’d watch their games even last season. But these inter-team tensions weren’t impacting Hollander’s performance. Joe wouldn’t have expected them to. Hollander was grace on the ice personified. A consummate captain and the clear reason why the Voyageurs hadn’t merely remained some mid-ranked team for the past three fourths of a decade since his draft.

The same could not be said for a decent portion of the other Voyageurs. Even from the tape, Joe could see they were letting some off-ice disagreement impact their hockey—which of course translated to Hollander carrying the team more than usual.

The second thing he noted was a kind of clinical joylessness to Hollander’s play. Joe had seen the attitude in the Montreal captain before, though rarely in person. Hollander had an obvious love of the game, which always seemed to light him up when Montreal played Boston. Everyone in the Bell or TD Garden had the privilege and delight of seeing truly skilled athletes play their sport when the two teams went up against each other.

This wasn't always the case. When hockey was your job, it couldn't be. Inevitably, there were teams who were just more fun to play against than others, particularly in the rarefied stratosphere of really good hockey. It was Shane Hollander who made Montreal one of those teams for the Raiders. But when they studied Voyageur games against other divisional teams, Hollander, who had the weight of his team on his back, all of Montreal's hopes and playoff dreams, defaulted a lot of the time to a kind of businesslike play for lack of a better term. The same as what Joe saw with Roz when he got tired of playing with his food and just decided to sweep the floor. Hat-trick after hat-trick.

That was what Joe was seeing in the playback of Hollander's earlier games this season. Some ineffable spark was missing and they were just watching a hockey protege do a job. There was no joy to the game. It wasn’t a style of play Joe preferred, though it did bring wins.

But in these replays, the goals felt pyrrhic. When your team was acting like they would rather loose the game than work with you, that had to cut deep.

Something had happened in the Voyageur's locker room and despite Hollander's skill, his level-headedness, his commitment, and the two Stanley Cup wins, he had still somehow lost his team.

Joe reviews the footage of three games before he has enough data.

This was not good coaching. It was not good team management. To let whatever had come between Hollander and the rest of the Voyageurs fester into outright violence was unprofessional. Joe would sooner bench a player then allow something like this to last more than a game—if that. The moment a head coach became aware of this kind of discordance it necessitated action. It was one of the key reasons that coaches existed. That it wasn't just up to Captains to manage and control their teams.

Joe have never much liked Theriault as a person but any respect that may have been there professionally had just been completely wiped out.

This was a failure of leadership. It was a coach's job to recognize this kind of tension before it got to the hot ice of a game. And even if there had been a failure to notice this in practice, letting it go on for more than one game was inexcusable.

Joe had just watched it play out over four.

In the footage he watched, it was abundantly clear that the defensemen were not providing the support that Hollander needed. The very structure of hockey as a team sport, it's violent nature, necessitated every position during a game. But they were leaving him unprotected and that was dangerous.

This would’ve been true for any player, but for the captain, for the star center, the legendary twice in a generation talent that was Shane Hollander, who literally sold out stadiums, who had won that team multiple Cups - this negligence was nearly suicidal. Better teams than Montreal would be bending over backwards to cater to Hollander, backing his direction of the team and keeping him satisfied so he would keep playing for them. Because that was the thing: Hollander had options. It was naive to think otherwise.

Joe did not understand what the Voyagers' coaching staff and management were thinking allowing this to continue. There was something so foolhardy in the assumption that if they continued to do nothing, Hollander would not eventually walk. He played the kind of game and had the kind of stats that would make at least half of the league restructure their starting line just to get him on their team. Maybe they wouldn’t admit it out loud but if presented with the opportunity, Joe knew, those with the budgets would at least game the numbers. Hollander wasn’t too deep in his career. He was a known quantity.

More absurdly, Montreal's chances at making it to the playoffs hinged largely on Hollander. LeClaire had assumed this was a well-known fact, but looking at the evidence of the Voyagers' inaction in the face of whatever was going on with their team, they clearly didn’t see it that way. It was a bad gamble, because even if Hollander just kept sucking up the poor treatment, there was a significant risk of injury from the sloppy coverage—or like last night confirmed, an outright attack—which could take Hollander off the ice for a season or, worse, end his career. Joe didn’t think for a second that Theriault wasn’t aware of what was going on in the locker room, which meant their behavior was sanctioned. If Comeau was not benched for the remainder of the season or fully dropped, it would be as good as an outright endorsement.

They were trying to get rid of Hollander.

Which was unbelievably stupid and would ultimately lead to their downfall.

It also gave Boston an edge, but Joe couldn’t be happy with the mismanagement. Not when it resulted in injuries and bad hockey.

Hollander was actually lucky the attack had been so brazen. There were much worse places for it to have happened. At least on ice, he got some protection from his gear and could immediately get the medical assistance he’d needed. Anywhere else and there would have been a delay while help came.

Now, the danger was obvious. Undeniable.

But Joe was doubtful Montreal's response would be satisfactory. Which brought him back to Ilya.

This deception….Joe couldn’t decide if it was a breach of trust or just a slight of hand in favor of protecting a friend. There was no denying Hollander was in danger from his own team. He had a concussion to prove it. Joe could even agree there was ostensibly a good reason to get Hollander out of the city he called home, but why was it Ilya and why was it the Raiders facilitating this escape he didn’t know and that was perhaps the most frustrating part. That he had no idea this was even a possibility.

The Raiders’ reactions on the ice last night pointed to them not having the inside scoop either. Them being in on it now—well, Joe didn't think he could take being the last to know personally. There had only been so many hours between the hit and their departure. The dynamic between a captain and his team could be fickle with a bad captain, but could be sacred with a good one. This was a massive secret, which now appeared to be open amongst the Raiders. Even if this revelation had been met with openness by the boys, there would have been some damage control, some explanations, and—Joe tried to be generous....all of that would have been coming at Roz when he’d still been incredibly worried about Hollander’s condition. Making sure the team was good was frankly more important.

After all everyone had just seen what could happen to a captain who lost his team.

They're coming up on Montpellier when Joe decides the best course of action is to get up and ask Roz what’s going on.

Joe had assumed that Hollander would be passed out in the last empty row at the back. But no. When every other player has two seats entirely to themselves, Hollander is curled across the double with his head in Roz’s lap. It couldn’t be too comfortable a position, given his injury, but the choice is deliberate.

The hood is still pulled up and his face is turned into Ilya’s abdomen.

Lying in Roz’s lap would say a lot less about their comfort level with each other, if Ilya’s hand wasn’t also under the hood, seemingly splayed over the back of Hollander’s neck. It's protective in a way that could make sense for the comfort offered to an injured family member, maybe a good friend. But it looses all intelligibility when over-layed with the fact this was Ilya Rozanov holding Shane Hollander.

It seems Joe is just going to have to keep pushing through his bafflement today.

“Hey Coach,” Roz says.

“So.” Joe takes the seat across the aisle from them. “When were you going to tell me I’m party to a kidnapping?”

“No kidnapping,” Roz says easily, but Joe knows him and he can see a thread of tension tightening. “Hollander is with us because he wants to be.”

“Hollander has a concussion and should be resting.”

The stare Rozanov gives him is deadly. “He is.”

Joe would have hoped not throwing a fit at Customs would have tipped Roz off that he wasn't coming at this conversation on the adverse.

“Roz,” Joe tries, leaning forward, bracing his elbows on his knees feet in the aisle. “Come on, man.”

Ilya deflates somewhat, but he’s still incredibly tense. “We visited Shane in the hospital. He didn’t want to be there anymore, but because of concussion protocol could not leave without, eh....responsible person? To watch over him. Offered for him to come with us. He said ‘okay.’ No kidnapping. All very consensual.”

“Yeah, Cap can be very convincing,” St-Simon says from the seat in front of them. The gleam in Victor's tone does not actually reassure Joe, but it does confirm the collusion he'd suspected earlier.

Joe is about to press for more details when the phone in Rozanov's other hand starts sounding an alarm.

“Hold on, Coach,” Roz says as he turns off the noise and pockets the phone. “Shane,” he says softly shaking him awake, “Shane.”

“Hm?”

“Time to sit up,” Roz says, gentle and coaxing. “Next round of meds.”

Hollander makes a discomforted noise. Joe is surprised he managed to fall asleep contorted and curled up the way he was.

“Up now. You want to stay ahead of the pain, yes?” He urges, taking one of his hands to help Shane sit up. “Marly,” Roz says, as Hollander starts moving up off him. “Cliff.” Then when it is clear he has also dozed off. Rozanov breaks out his captain’s voice, saying loudly, “Marly!”

Hollander winces.

“Sorry, sorry,” Roz says to Hollander, but he taps the arm that St-Simon had hanging out in the aisle.

“On it,” Victor says levering himself up and stepping up the aisle to stand over Marlowe.

Some of the non-napping Raiders have begun to watch, curious but not shocked. Joe really wishes he hadn't been left off the memo of what's actually going on here.

“Hey, Marly,” Victor says knocking Cliff's foot sharply with his own. “You still got Hollander’s pills?”

“They better be in your back pack, Marly,” Roz tells him darkly. “You will be having to explain to Coach why we need to pull over on side of road if they are down in your gear bag.”

“I’m not that stupid, Roz,” Marly grouses. “Give me a break.”

While Marlow is extracting Hollander’s medication he has in his backpack for some reason, Joe glances back to find Hollander has fully sat up, resting his head against the window facing both Roz and by happenstance Joe himself. Hollander has the shades that were perched in Roz’s hair shielding his eyes again.

“How are you feeling?” Roz asks Hollander.

“That nap was too short,” Hollander says, and then proving that he’s not completely out of it Shane acknowledges him, “Hi Coach LeClaire.”

“Glad to see you up and about,” Joe says, because it is good to see Hollander wasn't more grievously injured from the pot-shot. He doesn't like the idea of Hollander getting injured regularly during games against Boston. The fact that this time it wasn't the Raiders’ fault he went down and the hospital trip didn't treat broken bones doesn't actually help the terrible feeling. “Do you know where you're at?”

“On the bus with Ilya and the Raiders.”

Ilya and the Raiders is said with such ease that Joe marvels how he could have missed this.

“You know where we’re going?”

“Boston.”

Rozanov's agitation at this line of questioning could be seen from space.

“Relax, Roz,” Joe says, making a calming gesture with a hand, “that's just concussion protocol. I don't actually think you kidnapped Hollander.”

“Nope,” Hollander says anyway. “Here on purpose.”

“Alright,” Joe allows. He really hadn't thought Hollander had been coerced. He would have had to be pretty out of it for that and Joe didn’t think anyone would be able to make it through Customs that doped up. Hollander had seemed pretty with it while in line, at least at a distance.

Roz is still tight-lipped in tension and he can’t imagine that’s because Ilya assumed Joe would not notice the rival captain was here in the first place.

Hollander guesses at the source when Joe has let the silence last too long. “You can say we’re friends, Ilya.”

This permission both loosens something in Roz and tightens something else further. “Yes,” Roz says on an exhale. “Hollander and I are friends.”

Joe evaluates him with an open expression. He wants to know how long that has been true. Instead Joe asks, “And he doesn’t have friends in Montreal?”

Rozanov fixes him with a pissy expression, but it’s a valid question. Joe is responsible for not just the Raiders’ well being but also the team’s public image while they are out of the city. Were anyone to discover they'd picked up the injured rival captain after an eventful game, to put last night mildly, it would not be accepted quietly. There would be waves and rumors that would eventually require a spin from their PR team.

“Hayden’s kids are loud,” Hollander sighs.

Roz’s head snaps in Hollander’s direction. “Oh, it wasn't that you wanted to spend time with me?” Roz demands, pouts even; a typical played-up reaction surfacing.

“That too,” Hollander agrees, tone indulgent and fond.

Given what Joe knows of Hollander’s dedication to hockey and the new found tension on his team, he is not necessarily surprised there is only one friend that Hollander would trust. So perhaps that had been the wrong question, because anyone paying attention to Hollander’s career even at a glance knows that Shane is Yuna and David Hollander’s pride and joy. “What about your parents?”

“I have been texting them,” Ilya says to Joe’s complete surprise. “They know Shane is with me.”

They know Shane is with me.

The implications of that statement are staggering. Joe bites back the first instinctual response of ‘and they are fine with that?’ because the whiplash of the last twenty-four hours continue to prove he knows nothing of this situation. Instead, he asks Hollander the more measured question of: “They didn’t want you home?”

“Of course,” Roz surprises him by responding again. “But it has not been so long since the fractured collarbone. That was a bit too much time toward the end, yes?”

Hollander shrugs and then winces. “Trust you. They know it’s fine.”

They know it’s fine? Joe is not even fully convinced it’s fine yet but….There’s a lassitude at the mention of Hollander’s parents that is too established to be faked. Too coherent to be blamed on simply the pain or drugs speaking, Joe's analytical mind supplies as he grapples with the dissonance between none of this making sense while still feeling real.

Ilya Rozanov has Yuna Hollander’s phone number and they have texted. She is not concerned that her son’s noted rival has absconded with him after Shane spent the night in the hospital for a concussion. Or that they are currently on route to a city in a completely different country. Because she trusts Ilya Rozanov. Apparently.

There’s something crucial in this revelation, Joe thinks.

“Here they are,” Marlow says, “you want me to get them ready?”

Victor glances back at Roz’s sour expression before taking the initiative. He looms over Marly, playful but not gentle in his reach for the white paper pill bag, telling Marlow in a hardly apologetic tone, “No, my good squire, you are being relieved of this sacred duty.”

“Fuck off,” Marly gripes at Victor’s overly sanguine smile.

“Well?” Roz demands after St-Simon had returned to his seat with the pills.

“Hold on,” Victor says. “Double checking the dosage.” He’s got the baggy open and is reading the print out instructions. “It says these should be taken with a meal or at least a light snack.”

Rozanov starts digging in his own backpack, while asking St-Simon, “You making yourself in charge of those now?”

“Yeah,” Victor says, “until you kick us out of your house.”

Roz doesn't seem bothered with this division of duties. He produces a power bar from his bag and promptly peels it open.

“Shane,” he says. Joe expects Roz to hand the whole bar over and allow Hollander to eat it at his own pace, but that is not what happens. Roz proceeds to start breaking the power bar into eighth-size bites. His fingers touching the tacky protein without hesitation. “Got to have a snack before the medicine, yes?”

Then, absurdly, he takes a piece of the power bar and holds it in front of Shane’s lips.

Reality tilts further when Hollander eats the piece right from Roz’s fingers.

Joe forces himself to blink so they don’t feel the stare that is gaining weight by the second. Friends that hand feed each other is....Joe doesn't even think this could be pinned on Hollander being concussed. He's been able to hold a coherent enough conversation with them. But Joe is not the only witness.

St-Simon has turned around in his seat and is watching Roz help Hollander eat too. His expression is warm. He's not surprised—or confused—by the intimacy. It’s another puzzle piece. Joe thinks there’s probably more to that memo he'd missed out on than just a secret friendship.

“Ryan,” Victor says, with a glance across the aisle at Carmichael. “Did you drink that extra Gatorade you had?”

“Nah, you need it?” Ryan asks already moving to grab it from his own bag.

“Yeah,” Victor says without elaboration.

Hollander is still eating every piece of power bar that Ilya is giving him. It’s the strangest thing, because by now Shane must have surely realized what was happening and still he hasn’t even reached for the wrapper to take over feeding himself.

Soon the bar is finished and Ryan is handing Roz the Gatorade. He cracks it open.

“Roz,” St-Simon says lowly, holding out the pills between a thumb and two forefingers.

Rozanov takes them in his unoccupied hand and turns back to Hollander. “Ready?”

“Hm,” Shane agrees.

“Otkróy,” Roz tells Hollander.

Shane's lips open without asking for translation.

Roz places the pills into his waiting mouth like it's nothing.

It had been one thing, how he'd fed Hollander the snack in bite-size pieces, but the way Roz’s fingers place the tiny pills inside his mouth, the care he takes in doing so….the intimacy is almost too much to look at. Hollander hadn’t balked. Hadn't even flinched.

“Khoroshy mal'chik,” Roz tells Hollander as he puts the un-capped Gatorade bottle in his hands to wash the medicine down.

Shane takes a sip and then another and then he passes the bottle back to Ilya, before sitting heavily against the side of the bus, eyes closed behind the shades.

Shane said the Hollander’s trusted Roz with their son. But it's clear Shane trusts Ilya full stop.

Joe doesn't know what he is supposed to do with any of this, but he can mire himself in logistics.

“Roz,” Joe says, once Ilya has re-pocketed his phone, having set another alarm for the next round of meds, “when this gets out, how were you thinking to play it?”

“You think it will get out?” Rozanov asks but his eyes remain on Shane.

Yes, Joe thinks, taking in Ilya’s expression as he looks at Montreal’s captain. Aloud Joe says, “Better to be prepared for the worst case. Tell me you have a plan.”

“You are right,” Roz sighs. “Marly thinks we should play it as a prank.”

“Believable,” Joe agrees. “Right up until it’s announced he's transferred to us.”

Ilya turns to him, almost breathless. “You think this is a possibility?”

Seeing Roz's expression, Joe nearly feels bad about saying anything without it being a sure deal. But there is no way for them to make it happen without talking about it.

“You’re lucky Boston has enough of a budget to play with that this is even a conversation,” Joe says instead.

He might be a bit sour still about being kept in the dark on something so established. But the last twenty-four hours have proved a great many things. More so, Joe has a responsibility to act when he can ensure the safety of players in the League, even when they aren’t his.

Yet.

Because Joe LeClaire is thinking about making a play to get Shane Hollander on the Raiders.

“We're not going to be the only one's talking about it either,” Joe says because this is a huge deal. “Your comments in the press debrief....it would be better if people didn't know he was with us now.”

“We’ll be accused of corruption if a transfer went through regardless of if this side-quest gets out, Coach,” St-Simon says.

That Joe knows to be true. The Raiders had a reputation. Which would contrast even starker when set against Hollander's golden-boy image.

Joe is a practical man. He doesn’t spend much time in fantasies. That’s not how he got to where he was today and it’s not how he makes sure that the Raiders’ are one of the top rated teams in their division. He likes to consider himself to be grounded. If something is unlikely to pan out, he doesn't give it a lot of thought. His long shots are strategic.

This shot is the longest of long, but....it still felt right in a way that meant the puck would snap the net.

Getting Hollander on his team wasn't something Joe had considered for many years. Not that he would change how things played out, but back in 2009 when Joe was still Assistant, he had stacked a solid case to draft Hollander. While the rookie's style hadn't been what they typically selected for this team, Joe still made an attempt to convince everyone above him that Shane Hollander would have been a valuable addition. He'd been over-ruled, of course. After all, Ilya was the obvious choice for Boston.

But Joe had known Hollander and the Raiders' play would have been compatible. Could have been something victorious.

This hunch was vindicated when Joe had watched the All Stars' game that placed Hollander and Roz on the same line. The synergy between them that night had been unreal. Their plays unfolded seemingly telepathically, neither had even needed to glance to see if the other was there for a pass. It had resulted in the kind of moves players would pull out during play-off slot clenching matches, when everything hung in the balance, but that night they had just been playing, ad-libbing, and having fun. Certainly not leaving it all on the ice. They had blown the other team completely out of the water.

So he’d been thinking about it again. Impossible not to after seeing their incredible chemistry. Joe wanted that kind of play every game. It would be nice to earn another cup. Roz was due another. As were they all. And blending Hollander's genius into the Raiders could be just the secret ingredient that took them all the way.

But Hollander was a tried-and-true Montreal boy. Loyal in that golden-way. Everyone knew he wouldn't leave the team that drafted him. It had been a moot point, so Joe hadn't dwelled on the possibility of luring Hollander to Massachusetts.

Except then last night's game. Except for the footage he’d played back of Hollander’s three prior matches. The complete lack of support from nearly every one of his teammates, barring Pike, Boiziau, and barely a couple others. Except now here they were. Hollander was on the Raiders’ bus in a Raiders' hoodie, with the Raiders' captain feeding him, and the Raiders themselves making sure he had what he needed.

LeClaire suddenly didn’t find that daydream to be so far-fetched.

“What,” Hollander says, voice hushed and wrong.

It's the first thing he's said in several minutes, so there's a collective focus shift to see how Hollander's doing. But it's Roz who asks, “How are you feeling, moy lyubov?”

“Fine,” Hollander answers, somewhat shortly. “You’re not discussing this.”

Ilya shifts slightly, the concern tucking itself back in favor of something more calculating. “You’re sitting on the Raiders' bus wearing a Raiders' hoodie.”

It's a statement of fact, but his words seem to have sucked the air out of the small space around them. Hollander's expression is a slapped kind of shock. It takes several seconds for him to find his words.

“That’s—that’s not fair,” Hollander starts. “It’s yours.” He's twisting his hands in the fabric from inside the pocket. “It doesn’t mean—” he breaks off looking more than spooked. There something nearly desperate to it when he says, “I just wanted to be with you.”

“You are,” Ilya says tone calm. “But solnyshko, you are still foggy with drugs and pain.”

“Ilya, what the fuck.”

“You are in shock and do not see how bad this is. It can’t continue.”

“No,” Hollander says, something panicked about it. “We have a plan.”

“We had a plan, yes. But we need a new plan now.”

Hollander frowns, then gives the barest shake of the head. “No.”

“We do. The old plan hinged on you being in Montreal,” Ilya states, “but that is not going to be the case anymore. So we need new plan. Is fine. We will make one. Right now, you only need to worry about getting better, okay?”

“No. What? No, we don’t need a new plan—”

“Hollander, is fine.”

“—No, I can fix this. It’s not—it’s really not that bad. We can still make it work.”

“Do not keep lying to me,” Roz says flatly. “Not when I have seen it with my own eyes.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Shane. You said they just needed more time to get used to it. That it would be fine. Weeks ago. They don’t get more time to as you say 'warm up to the idea.' It will not happen and they do not even know the half of it. They are not okay with you. It’s shit. They are shit people, save for useless Pike.”

“Comeau is—”

“Not the only issue. The Voyagers still have not suspended Comeau,” Ilya states, tone damning. “Perhaps the League steps in and does the right thing, but that is not where the correction should come. Your team should sanction him. Not be told to sanction. They are mistreating you. I won’t allow it.”

“Allow it?” Hollander repeats, incensed. “You don’t get to make that call. This is my career. My life.”

“Your life, yes,” Ilya bites back. “Which was revealed to have been in danger since you told them. Your life which could have ended if that hit had come a little different. I worry about your life, Shane. Do you?”

Hollander says nothing, jaw tense.

“His actions were not a part of the game,” Roz continues, voice shifting softer. “He did not even feel the need to hide them under the game. You are not safe there.”

“Ilya….”

Roz takes one of Hollander’s hands in his own. “Your plan asked for me to give up something I deeply valued. I said nothing because in exchange it opened up the future I wanted most. That future is a big thing. Many details to argue about. But there are also…how to say non-negotiables? Yes.” Roz ducks his head trying to get in Hollander’s line of vision. “I need you safe. That is a non-negotiable. Okay?”

Hollander gives a single nod, but doesn’t look up.

Roz reaches over, fingers sliding along Shane’s jaw in a caress, before grasping his chin to tilt his head up to meet his eyes.

“You’ve trusted that future to me, yes?” Roz asks.

There are tears building up along Shane’s waterline, threatening to fall as he stares at Ilya.

“If they won’t protect you, I will,” he continues. “I will do everything in my power and you are going to let me.”

There’s a moment of Roz just looking at Hollander and Hollander looking back before he breaks.

“I’m sorry,” Hollander says, moving over the seat till he’s slotted fully along side Roz, twisted across him and ducking his face into the crook of his neck. “God, Ilya, I’m so sorry.”

“Shush,” Roz wraps his arms around Hollander. A hand finding the back of Shane’s neck, his mouth next to an ear.

“If I could have just—”

“No, you’ve done what you could.”

Hollander makes a worse chocked off sound and attempts to push himself closer. Joe wonders why he doesn’t just fully climb into Roz’s lap.

“I know you,” Roz continues, petting down the back of Hollander’s head. “You’ve tried to make this right with Montreal. I know how hard you try.”

"No—"

"Shane," Roz attempts to interject. "You need to breathe."

“No, I could have done more,” Hollander cuts in clearly seconds away from a spiral. “I—”

“Hollander,” Joe says sitting forward, pitching his voice low and steady, “I can tell you as a coach what happened last night, what’s been going on, this is a failure of team leadership. This is far above what you could have smoothed over yourself. You needed support. It is a coach’s job to recognize when there are breakdowns in team dynamics, when things can’t be resolved at a player-captain level, and step into mitigate. This should never have made it to hot ice. You know it.”

Hollander is frozen against Ilya.

“But they've allowed it how long now?” Joe asks. “It's been simmering the last four of your games. At least. The fact that Theriault has let this go on? It’s unprofessional. If these were my guys, if Comeau was on my team, I would have benched him and every other player who was pulling this shit on the ice.”

“You don't know what I told them,” Hollander mutters. He's curled tight, expression grim.

Joe takes a breath. The fact is he doesn't need to know what Hollander told his team. Roz's arms are wrapped around him protectively, comfortingly, and there’s no way Roz would do any of this for Hollander if the secret was truly that bad. Joe knows Ilya Rozanov. He knows him to be a very good judge of character.

“I could make a guess,” Joe says. “But ultimately the details don't matter when I tell you that this should have been handled differently.”

“Theriault doesn’t—”

“No,” Joe cuts in, because he really doesn't want to hear Hollander spout off whatever bullshit excuses the Montreal coach has given him. “A coach backs their captain. Sure, they don't have to always see eye-to-eye, but any disagreements Roz and I have, we sort it behind closed doors and set a united front to successfully lead the team. This was never on you. You hear me? It was never on you.”

“Okay. Yeah,” Hollander says voice sounding a bit wet. “I don’t want—” he cuts off. “I was going to retire there.”

“I know, solnyshko.”

“I wish things were different.”

“They are fools. And it will be their loss,” Roz says, still running a hand down the back of Hollander’s head and his neck.

“I need,” Hollander says minutes later. “To lie down.”

“Are you sure?” Roz asks. “You are not going to be sick being sideways with the medicine?”

“I’m fine,” Hollander says, taking off Roz's sunglasses. “If you’re really talking about—you know it would help.”

As if those words made any sense, but Roz seems to take it as the highest endorsement, because he's already shifting to make room for Shane to lay his head on his lap. Hollander turns his face into Rozanov, the hood blocking out the light against Ilya's abdomen, the seam of his legs.

“Once we get back to Boston and you’re settled, talk to PR,” Joe tells Roz. “Hollander’s agent too, assuming you haven’t already. We can be optimistic this will remained confined. But get a statement prepared just in case. Did the border agents recognize him?”

“No,” Hollander mutters into Ilya. “Don't think so.”

“Well, that was a bit of luck…”

“Here,” Hollander blindly fishes his phone out of his sweatpants. “Set up a call with Farrah.”

Roz takes the phone. He’s already unlocked it by entering the number code before Joe even realizes the black screen should have been a problem.

“Tell her to put a hold around when your PR meeting will be,” Shane says. “Invite her when it’s official.”

“Let’s prepare for the worse and anything else will be gravy,” Joe says so as not to think too hard about Roz scrolling easily through Hollander’s contacts to find his publicist. It’s a minor thing compared to everything else Joe’s seen, but the intimacy is still disconcertingly bizarre.

“Sure,” Roz agrees. “Tomorrow after practice.”

“Fine,” Joe allows, “as long as there aren’t rumbles before then. Keep your phone on you.”

“Okay.”

Joe starts running through the ad-hoc list of everything that might need potential damage control he’s been adding to ever since his eyes landed on Hollander at Customs.

“And what will you do?” Roz asks.

Joe looks back up. The question pulling him out of possible futures and back to the present, as Ilya's gaze seeks out his own, terrible with its gravity.

“I need him to be off the Voyageurs,” Roz says plainly.

Hollander's hand shoots up and grips Rozanov’s shirt so tightly his knuckles have gone white.

Still Roz persists, “Any team that isn’t full of bigoted asshat traitors would be enough.”

It's a kind of confirmation and not exactly a surprise. Hockey, in general, has a rampantly homophobic culture. While the tension in Montreal’s locker room could have theoretically been triggered by literally anything, in practice these were men who had played together for years. Hollander had been their captain for years. They should have known each other.

Since the evening before, Joe had been guessing what could have been ugly enough to inspire undisguised violence. He’d landed on it having to be something not visible, something that had to be revealed. And it needed to be something that was condemnable to some, but not for Pike or Rozanov or the Raiders.

Well, this explanation in particular would certainly explain why Joe had never caught drift of a Rozanov and Hollander friendship, with that as their common ground. And that’s as far as Joe is willing to follow that train of thought, for now at least. Because the GM is going to ask him when they present this, if Joe can think of any reason offering Hollander a Raiders' jersey might cause potential problems. Management will be looking at this in terms of the rivalry. They’ll be blinded by it. That’s fine with Joe. He actually thinks he can smooth that down entirely and the genius of the All Stars game will only provide proof. But he can’t know anything else that he would need to disclose, regardless of all he’s just seen and heard, not for certain at least.

Maybe that’s just stacking the deck in favor of the outcome Joe wants. But also it’s just a little ridiculous to be involved in hockey, in any team sport really, and somehow think that friendships were safe from over-investment. The truth was they could be felt just as deeply as anything romantic. People seemed to forget that ruptured friendships could be just as destructive. Everyone knows of fights that have fucked up team dynamics so bad players have transferred over them.

“Joe,” Roz says holding his eyes, “I won’t know true peace unless he’s with us.”

He doesn’t need Ilya to use his first name to know how serious he is. The last ten minutes illustrated that. The last twenty four hours.

Ilya Rozanov doesn't need to beg Joe LeClaire for his help.

Joe has his back.

“I’ll run some numbers,” Joe answers. “Draft a couple of options.”

Ilya holds the eye contact for another solemn moment, before he lets out a breath. “Thank you.”

Joe doesn’t have a response to Roz’s gratitude. Not one that wouldn't invalidate the danger Montreal has proven to be against Shane Hollander. This is a basic safety issue. One he would feel obligated to address in some way, even if there was never a possibility of it giving way to the dream of Hollander and Roz on the same line or having one lead first line and the other lead second to wear their opponents down like relentless waves—which again admitting as a factoring motive somehow seems even more out of touch.

Instead, Joe pivots to practicals, saying, “I won’t do anything with those options until Hollander is fully cognizant and can attest he is serious about a transfer. That he wants Boston.”

Hollander makes a sucking breath noise against Roz, but he doesn’t angle for more unobstructed air.

Roz pockets Hollander’s phone before he lays his hand on Shane’s neck through the hoodie; it’s presence a soothing weight.

Joe watches this and takes a calculated risk. “I’m not getting the GM’s hopes up, if Hollander would rather die as a Voyageur than live anywhere else.”

The statement is overly harsh, but Joe is betting it will help. Shane and Ilya may have their own language and history to communicate through, but so do Joe and Roz. There’s a reason the Raiders are play-off favorites. Years of weighted glances, cuts of the eyes, and reads of the situation from a single sentence said in a certain tone has cultivated a short hand the two of them use to win. Joe knows what Roz needs in this exact moment and it’s pressure.

Ilya’s eyes hold a sharp kind of pleasure when they meet his own, even as his jaw tightens at the image conjured by Joe's words. He asks, idly, “Shane Hollander would rather live, yes?”

“You can’t be serious,” Hollander grumbles.

“Who is not serious?” Roz asks. “Joe is taking last night seriously. I am.”

There is a moment when Hollander says nothing, only squirms slightly against him.

“You are too,” Ilya continues. “Is why you’re letting me start to fix this. You will say now if you only care about your pride.”

Hollander is silent.

“Tell me ‘no.’”

Still, the Montreal captain says nothing.

“Tell me ‘no’ now, solnyshko, or I am handling this.”

“You need to re-phrase that as a question, Roz,” Ryan observes with a huff of amusement.

“I don't think he actually wants a response,” Victor says cryptically.

“Say ‘no’ now or we’ll make a new plan when you are feeling better.”

“A new plan out of the moves you’re making already on your own,” Hollander finally says, snippily. “Sure, some plan we’ll be making.”

“Shane, you would never have been able to keep your draft team. But we will get you somewhere better.”

A scoff from Hollander.

Then quieter Roz says, “I know what you need.”

There’s a protracted silence from Shane. His hand twists in the fabric of Ilya’s shirt.

“If you don’t trust that, just say ‘no’ and I will leave it.”

Roz doesn't move from his intent stare at the black fabric of the hoodie Hollander borrowed. Shane too seems frozen. Even the grip he has of Roz's shirt has paused.

“Stop asking.”

It takes a moment for Shane's words to register, but then Roz’s gaze snaps to Victor’s and over to Joe’s in shocked delight.

“There are many witnesses,” Roz says, not entirely a tease as a predatory anticipation slips into his eyes.

“No one will believe a bunch of Raiders,” Hollander grumbles.

Ryan hoots in pleased shock and Victor kisses his teeth in a bitten back grin.

“Ha,” Roz says.

Joe knows he can work this so the GM will be so excited he won’t be thinking of a single possible problem. It’s the League that will take the most convincing and he’s sure Rozanov is already aware. This will ruin the rivalry narrative. Joe makes a note to warn Roz that they will need to clarify the exact parameters in the CBA before making any official moves. Depending on how difficult the League wants to be, they might need to file a grievance. If this is really the path Hollander wants when he’s out of concussion protocol and feeling one-hundred percent himself again, they’ll get more brains on it to make a fight with the League less of a possibility. Boston literally has people who's job it is to be convincing for the team’s agenda. There will be a spin for this too.

“Okay, so we’re gonna pull into Boston here in less than three hours,” St-Simon says re-inserting himself in the conversation. “What else do you need?”

Roz shakes his head, “Hollander in a Raiders jersey. That is all.”

“That’s long game. I’m talking like when we get off the bus. Do you have any food at your house?”

Ryan scoffs. “Doubt he has much seeing as we had a kinda plan to buddy up to go shopping.”

“Some,” Roz says, “but not the food he needs. He has strict diet. Boring food only. Extra boring.”

“Okay,” Victor says turning around in his seat and pulling out his phone, “I’ll grab lunch on my way to yours.”

Ryan eyes St-Simon googling away warily for a second. “I’m not gonna take chances and fuck up the high-performance machine that is Shane Hollander by guessing what he can eat. But if you want to make up a list? I can pick up some groceries to tide you over, because I am absolutely out and will be going regardless of tag-alongs.”

“I can do that,” Roz says quietly.

“And Cassie is gonna come over,” Cliff says, turning in his seat to look back at them, “to check on him after her shift.”

In the span of time it takes for Joe to turn back, Roz has tilted his face pointedly away. He swallows as if his teammate’s outpouring of support had such an affect on him that he needed a moment to reign in his emotions.

After a breath, Roz mutters more to the roof of the bus than to any of them, “Ya etogo ne zasluzhivayu.”

Hollander takes the hand that had been holding the back of his neck. Ilya lets out a long breath as his fingers are intertwined with Shane’s. When Roz faces his team again, he makes eye contact with Marly.

“Spasibo. Ya ne mogu—” Roz cuts himself off. Swallows and grips Hollander’s hand tighter. He takes another second before starting again, just as grave and heartfelt as he’d been when thanking Joe, “Ya ochen' blagodarna.”

“I caught exactly one of those words,” Marly says, “but you're welcome.”

“We got you, man,” Ryan says.

Joe had often thought the Raiders would follow Ilya Rozanov just about anywhere. And it seems that welcoming a rival captain into their midst was as good enough a proof-case of that as any.

“Cliff was right,” St-Simon agrees. “You're stuck with us.”