Chapter Text
The camera frame holds steady on two cars parked over pale grey brick: a red Porsche and a dark Land Rover, both clean, both expensive, both completely still. The opening bars of Sorry by Justin Bieber bleed in, bright and overproduced. The camera arcs in a slow pan, swinging away from the cars and climbing three wide limestone steps until the lens lands on a front door, a single, enormous slab of warm walnut wood set deep into a concrete portico, framed on both sides by lavender growing wild in low planters.
A graphic punches across the screen in clean white text: 73 Questions with Shane Rozanov (ft. Ilya Rozanov)
A hand reaches in from the left side of the frame and knocks twice.
The door opens.
Shane Hollander stands in the gap, one hand resting on the inside handle. His hair is cut short, parted down the side, the ends brushing just above his brows. He has a good summer tan, the kind that builds slowly, from daily exposure, not effort, and it has brought out the freckles scattered high across his nose and cheekbones. He wears a black quarter-zip athletic top with the sleeves pushed to his elbows and matching shorts. His expression is open, mild, and the small smile on his mouth sits just a degree below natural.
In his hands, there are two sweating glass tumblers of iced matcha, plastic straws leaning at matching angles.
"Hey," the interviewer says from behind the lens, voice bright and practised. "Look who it is— it's Shane Hollander!"
Shane dips his chin and lets out a short, soft laugh. "Hey." He steps out onto the stone patio and extends one of the tumblers toward the camera in a fluid, rehearsed movement.
"Oh, is this for me? That's really generous. Thank you." A hand reaches into the frame to take the glass.
"It's no problem." Shane turns, his free hand closing around the thick edge of the open door, his weight leaning lightly against it so it swings wide behind him, revealing the entry hall. "Come on in."
The hall swallows the camera whole.
White brick walls stacked in tight, precise rows climb the full height of the space up to a coffered ceiling paneled in pale ash wood. The floor is wide-cut limestone, the grout lines ruler-straight, the surface so lightly sealed it barely catches the light flooding in from a glass wall at the far end of the hallway. Dead center on a low pale rug sits a heavy, dark oak table with nothing on it. There is no mail, no keys, no evidence that anyone has ever set something down in a hurry.
"Wow, your home is absolutely stunning."
"Thank you." Shane moves toward the center table, his feet making no sound on the stone.
"How long have you lived here?"
He stops at the table. His hand finds the edge of it, just resting, fingers curling loosely over the lip of the wood. He tips his face slightly upward, his gaze settling on the blank white wall above for a moment. Then he looks back at the camera. "We started renovating it in 2014, but I only moved in this year." He inhales through his nose. "Yeah, four months ago."
"And if you had to describe home in three words?"
Shane's grip on the table tightens; he straightens up. "Comfortable. Light. Family." He says the last word with a small pause before it.
"Do you have a favourite room?"
"The kitchen." He says, instantly. "I'll show it to you later. It was my favourite part to design."
"Great, I'm excited. So, coffee or matcha?"
Shane lifts his tumbler and takes a slow sip from the straw. He lowers it, turning the glass in his hand. "Matcha. I like it, ceremonial grade, I get it imported from Japan. Coffee is good too, matcha has just become part of my routine now." The familiar ground of the question settles something in him. The fine lines at the corners of his eyes ease.
"What's the first thing you do in the morning?"
"I open all the curtains in the house."
"And after that?"
"I check my texts." He stirs the straw around the bottom of the tumbler. Then he turns his back to the camera and starts down the hallway.
The camera follows.
The corridor is long and unbroken, flanked on the right by a full wall of steel-framed glass. Through it: a wide, flat backyard, immaculately maintained, the grass an almost artificial green. On the left, a floating staircase climbs behind a glass railing, each tread hanging from the wall with no visible support. Two copper pendant lights hang at staggered heights above the lower landing, glowing gold against the pale stone floor.
"Are you an early bird or a night owl?"
Shane glances back over his shoulder, a quiet, real laugh escaping before he reins it in. "I'm an early bird."
"I could have guessed that one," the interviewer laughs back.
Shane ducks through a wide archway, and the space opens suddenly, dramatically, into the kitchen.
The ceiling here is paneled in the same pale ash as the entry hall, but the room is wider, taller, and the light is brutal; a full wall of arched, steel-framed glass runs the length of the far side, flooding every surface with the kind of even daylight that leaves nowhere to hide. Beneath the windows, a long double sink is set into a pale stone countertop, a single potted olive tree on the sill, its roots crammed into a rough ceramic pot. The cabinetry is seamless, warm oak, floor to ceiling on three sides, the appliances built flush behind it so the room reads as almost entirely wood. A professional-grade range in steel interrupts the run of cabinetry on the back wall, the only surface in the room that isn't warm or pale or organic. In the center, a long travertine island— six bar stools lined up on the far side, all pushed in exactly level.
"I can see why this is your favourite room, Shane."
Shane rounds the island. He opens a slim hidden drawer, removes a thick coaster, and sets his sweating tumbler down on it.
"What are you cooking if someone comes over last minute?"
Shane looks toward the run of wooden cabinetry hiding the refrigerator. "Glazed salmon."
"That's a personal favourite."
"Yeah?" He raises his eyebrows. His hands, empty now, drop to his sides and his fingers brush awkwardly at the seam of his shorts.
"Hidden talent?"
Shane rocks back once on his heels. He steps away from the island, moving toward the far wall, and the light from the window hits him from the side. Without it full on his face, something changes— the skin beneath his eyes is thin, the shadows there deeper than the tan suggests they should be. He holds the camera's gaze. "Uh, hm." He swallows. "I have a high pain tolerance. I don't think that's a talent, though, or very hidden. You know, with hockey."
He stops in front of a wide sliding pantry door: dark metal frame, ribbed glass panels, the shelves behind it visible in soft, refractive layers. He pushes it open, and inside it is obsessively organised. Glass jars in descending height, canned fish alphabetised by brand. A dedicated shelf for paprika chips, ten identical bags lined up in a row.
"Do you want a snack?" Shane asks, his head tilting to one side.
"I'd love one."
Shane reaches for the chips. He tosses the bag underhand toward the camera, and the frame shudders as the interviewer catches it. "Yes!"
"Good catch." Shane leans one shoulder against the metal door frame.
"That is an impressive pantry, Shane. Do you have a favourite snack?"
"Ilya likes to snack." Shane grips the door handle and slides it shut. The glass panels come together with a heavy, sealed thud. "And I hate mess, he hates mess. So this keeps us both happy." He stops. His eyes go still, trained somewhere past the lens. He blinks twice in quick succession. "What was the question?"
"Do you have a favourite snack?"
"Right." Shane nods. He runs one hand back through his hair, his fingers catching briefly in the part. "A tuna melt, I guess."
He walks back to the island and pulls out one of the barstools, sitting down with his legs spread wide, both feet planted flat on the hardwood. His left knee begins to bounce, not dramatically, just a small, persistent vibration.
"Shane, your Men's Health interview went viral."
Shane nods.
"Are there any non-negotiables in your wellness routine?"
He folds his arms across his chest, tucks his hands into his armpits. "I practice yoga every morning, and I work out pretty much daily too. It's important to me to keep my body moving, but—" He pulls his right hand free and taps his fingers against the travertine, a rapid, absentminded drumroll. "My diet is also super important. I've been on a macrobiotic diet since my first season."
"Any advice for fans trying to get fitter?"
Shane's brows pull together slightly. "Honestly, just find what works for you and stick to it. It's a marathon, not a sprint."
"What's your worst habit?"
A thump rolls up through the floor from somewhere below, dull and heavy, the sound of something large dropping. Shane's eyes cut to the hallway, fast, involuntary. His pupils expand. The line of his jaw tightens, a white ridge of tension tracing the bone from ear to chin. He holds completely still.
Then, as if nothing had happened, he looks back at the camera. The tension is gone, every trace of it, dissolved. "Huh?" A small, confused blink. "What? Sorry— what did you say?"
"No problem Shane! What's your worst habit?"
Shane's bouncing knee goes flat and still.
"I'm kind of stubborn," he says.
"And what's your best quality?"
Shane's smile comes back at that. He dips his chin, looking up at the camera from under his brows. "I'm kind of stubborn."
The interviewer lets out a short, warm laugh. "I'm sure that helped you on the ice, right?"
Shane hums, shaking his head just slightly. He leans back until his shoulder blades find the edge of the counter behind him, his weight shifting off his feet. "Kind of, but not really. I mean—" He shrugs, "It's a team sport, and I'm good at being a team player, taking one for the team and stuff."
"Even though you're stubborn?"
"Even though I'm stubborn."
"Speaking of hockey—" the interviewer's voice shifts slightly. “This year was your last season playing for the Montreal Voyageurs. You won the Stanley Cup for the third time, and then you retired. That's a massive change, right?"
Shane's jaw tightens. His eyes hold the lens and don't move, just straight in, their dark brown catching the window light. His nose wrinkles once. "Yeah," he says. "It was. It is."
"Let's talk about it." the interviewer says.
The light slides across Shane's face and turns his eyes the color of shifting liquid gold, like there is something trapped inside his irises. He holds the camera's gaze for one full second before his eyes drop just slightly, just fractionally below the lens, like he's looking at the bottom lip of it instead of the centre.
"Do you still plan to lace up?"
He huffs like he was lightly punched. He glances down at his lap, actually considering it, like the question got under his ribs before he could block it. "Sometimes. I mean, the rink's not crazy far. I'll always love a morning skate, you know, when it's empty." He swallows."Just skating, though. Not—" He stops and tries again. "Just skating." He says with a slight nod.
"Of course. And you'll still watch the games?"
Shane laughs, edged with disbelief at the sheer absurdity of the question. "What? Of course."
"What do you miss most?"
Shane wipes his hand across his mouth. He stands from the barstool slowly, pushing it back by its seat until the legs are exactly level with the others in the row, and turns away from the camera. It follows him down a pale wood-paneled hallway, into a wide archway framing the dining room, a heavy round walnut table, and a bunch of cream-colored protea in a low dark vase dead center. The light comes through a glass panel to the left of it and cuts a rectangular stripe across the slate floor.
Shane doesn't stop there. He walks, his hands loose at his sides, and turns his head slightly back toward the camera as he answers. "Obviously, the—" He flicks his eyes toward the ceiling, rolling them briefly at himself. "The bus. Weirdly."
He moves through the dining room, through two enormous sliding glass panels that have been pushed all the way back into their pockets. A sunken seating area is cut into the center of the covered patio, a curved sofa built directly into the floor and cushioned in pale linen, and a long flat coffee table ahead of it. Shane walks straight through without looking at any of it.
The garden spreads out ahead of the camera in the full September light. A long, rectangular pool sits low in the grass, its water dark and still, reflecting the ceiling of trees arching over the property from all sides. Beyond the pool, the lawn steps down in terraced levels, low hedges clipped at exactly the same height bookending each tier, stone steps cutting up the centre, and an outdoor kitchen built into a pale stone wall at the bottom. Willow trees lean over the far corners. The whole thing is immaculate, perfectly maintained, and completely empty.
Shane stops on the patio edge and turns his head back to the camera. The light is different out here, broader, kinder, and for a moment it simplifies his face, takes away the shadows under his eyes. "Long road trips," he says. "Going to all these different cities, everyone half asleep. You're kind of just—" He pauses. "In it with them. Nowhere else to be." His mouth closes."I miss that part. Being in it with everyone."
"What has retirement taught you so far?"
The shift in his face is immediate. The slight, unguarded squint at the corner of his eyes closes off, his brow settles. His arms drop straight to his sides, hands loose, and the small, composed smile returns to his mouth as cleanly as if it had simply been waiting offstage."To slow down," he says, "and be present with the people I love." He tilts his head toward the garden. "And that I like to garden."
"Ha, of course, that’s great. I mean, it’s obvious, you're doing a brilliant job out here. Shane, it's gorgeous."
"Yeah? I’m doing important work, super important." He scoffs lightly, glancing back over his shoulder at the manicured hedges, the precise lines of the mowed lawn. "But thank you. I take my shrubs seriously."
He turns and walks back through the open glass, and the camera follows.
"Best advice a coach ever gave you?"
Shane walks backward through the dining room archway, the table passing behind him, his eyes steady on the lens. "Control what you can control." He holds a squint for a moment, then he turns around.
He moves to a wide staircase that drops below the main floor level, the ceiling lowering overhead as they descend, the walls shifting from pale wood paneling to raw concrete. The light gets dimmer the further down they go, and cooler.
Shane stops at the base of the stairs, one hand resting on the steel rail. The lower level is cooler than the rest of the house, the walls raw concrete on both sides, the overhead lighting is recessed and dim. He crosses his arms over his chest and turns to face the camera, where it settles in front of him.
"If you weren't a hockey player, what would you have been?"
Shane's brows pull together, and he lets out a disbelieving exhale through his nose. "God, I don't—" He stops, shakes his head. "Honestly, man, no clue. Hockey was always the plan. My whole life is—" He cuts himself off and shrugs. "I'll let you know when I figure it out."
"A househusband."
The voice comes from somewhere down the hall. Shane's whole body flinches, both hands flying up in front of his head. "Jesus." He drops his hands. "Ilya." He hisses. "You scared me."
The camera swings left.
Ilya Rozanov comes down the hall toward them at an easy, unhurried walk. He is shirtless, wearing only dark training shorts and white sneakers, a towel slung over one shoulder. His chest and torso are sheened with sweat, the moisture running in a thin line down the centre of his chest, pooling in the hollow of his throat, tracking down through the chains around his neck. One of them has a diamond engagement ring threaded onto it, and on the other, a small gold cross. Both sit flat against his chest, shiny with sweat. In his right hand, he carries a water bottle. He tilts it back and squirts a stream of water directly into his mouth without breaking stride.
"Ilya!" The interviewer calls.
He lowers the bottle, mouth still wet, and gasps. "Vogue! I’m scared! Who let you in here?"
"I'm here to ask seventy-three questions," the interviewer says, laughing slightly, voice cracking on the last word.
Ilya's mouth pulls at the corner. "Ah, yes? Is this true? I am ready for you now." He wipes his hand over his sweaty forehead and stops at Shane's side, close enough that his shoulder makes contact.
Shane moves two inches to the left.
Ilya's arm drops, loops around Shane's waist, and pulls him back in. Shane goes with it and then immediately tips his chin down, his mouth pulling flat. "Ugh." He drops his gaze to where Ilya's forearm is pressed against his hip. "You're sweaty."
Ilya turns his head and presses his mouth to the side of Shane's cheek. Shane's eyes close.
"So, catching you two home together now the season's started, is that rare?"
Shane side-eyes Ilya, his expression still carrying the residue of annoyance, mouth turned down slightly at the corner. "It is really rare. So, lucky you."
"Oh, that's great. Ilya, could I ask you some questions too?"
Ilya shrugs one shoulder. "Sure. I know, we are very interesting." He leans down and presses his mouth briefly to Shane's shoulder. "I'm going to put the towel in the laundry basket," Ilya says, quieter, his chin dropping toward Shane's ear. "Before you kill me." He kisses him on the ear before stepping out of frame.
Shane faces the camera. He holds the look for one second, long enough for the viewer to see it, then lifts his hand and wipes the side of his face where Ilya's mouth had been.
"Shane, where did you grow up?"
He turns and starts walking, and the camera follows.
"Ottawa, my parents are still there, but we spent summers at our cottage in Ontario. I’m Canada-born and raised," His voice settles into the easy rhythm of a question he's answered many times. "Being close to my parents was great."
They pass through a set of interior glass doors and into a long, dark-paneled corridor. The ceiling is low, lined with a single track of recessed directional spotlights, each one angled precisely at the wall. The walls themselves are warm walnut, broken at intervals by deep-set display niches, and between them, large framed black-and-white photographs. Shane crossing the blue line on a breakaway, one skate off the ice. Shane holding the Cup above his head, his face tipped all the way back, mouth open. Ilya at the crease, the puck already past him, his stick raised in a clean arc. The two of them in matching suits, Ilya's hand at the small of Shane's back. Shane alone, leaning against a locker-room wall after a win, sweat-soaked and exhausted, still in full gear, eyes closed.
Shane walks the length of it without glancing at a single one of them.
"Who do you usually go to for advice?"
He turns his head back over his shoulder. "My mom."
At the end of the corridor, a pair of glass doors. Shane pushes through them.
The indoor pool opens up on the other side. It is long and narrow, the water a pale, luminous blue-green under submersed lighting, the surface completely still. Shane walks the length of the pool without stopping, moving alongside the water.
"What did you want to be at ten years old?"
"This." Said instantly. He hears it, and something in his shoulders softens half a degree. He tips into a short, dry smirk at himself. "I mean, a hockey player. For Montreal, centre and captain." He pushes through the next glass door at the far end without slowing. "That's all I ever want— wanted to do."
The gym is huge and bleached with the bright morning sun through the windows. Equipment is arranged across the space with the same precision as everything else in this house, and a full-length mirror runs the length of the back wall, the reflection doubling the space.
Ilya is leaning against the edge of the flat bench with his arms folded, scrolling his phone. He glances up as the door opens and slips the phone into the pocket of his shorts.
"He is showing you every room in the house, I'm sure." He pushes off the bench, straightening to his full height. "Mr. Real Estate."
"It's a beautiful home, Ilya. You two have great taste."
Ilya raises his eyebrows and tips his head toward Shane. Shane stands with his arms folded loosely over his chest, staring at a spot in the distance six inches left of the camera.
Ilya steps forward. He reaches out and loops his arm around Shane's neck, settling his forearm across the top of his shoulders, the weight pulling Shane slightly sideways. Shane doesn't resist; he leans into it, marginally.
"He designed it," Ilya says. "All of it. And he did it perfect."
"Thank you, Ilya," Shane says to the camera.
"Shane, you’re a designer, model, athlete, gardener." The interviewer's voice tips upward, reaching for the lightness of the bit. "Is there anything that scares you?"
"Uh, besides this interview?" Shane's mouth rises briefly, genuinely, at the corner.
The interviewer laughs.
Shane's thumb finds the knuckle of his index finger and presses into it. He looks around the gym. His eyes come to rest on Ilya, instead.
"I think everyone's scared of being forgotten, right?" He laughs, deep and slightly too flat, his blinking faster than usual, "That's probably the athlete answer." Ilya's arm tightens fractionally across his shoulders. Shane nods, confirming it to himself. "Being forgotten."
"What's the most impulsive thing you've ever done, Shane?"
Shane's thumb stops pressing his knuckle.
"Uh—" He taps it once.
"Marrying me, I think." Ilya takes the answer from him without hesitation. He lifts his right hand from Shane's shoulder and extends it toward the camera, turning it slightly so the light catches the wide gold band on his ring finger. "Moving to Boston and, hm—" He drops the hand back. "Putting a ring on it, impulsive, but we all understand."
Shane nods slowly, his gaze at the floor. A small smile settles onto his mouth for a moment, half-assembled, not quite reaching his eyes. "Right." He nods again. "That."
"Ilya, do you think Shane is more impulsive or more calculated?"
Ilya turns to look at Shane. He makes a slight show of the consideration, tilting his head, eyebrows rising. Shane meets his eyes and holds them.
"This one?" Ilya says. "He is very calculated, very smart. He thinks to death, plans everything." He squeezes the back of Shane's neck once before his arm drops back to his side. "I am the impulsive one."
Shane's mouth stays closed. He doesn't agree, but he doesn't shake his head either. He looks back at the camera, and the small smile is still there, fixed in place, giving nothing at all away.
"Mm," he says.
"Ilya, when did you know Shane was the one?"
Shane unloops himself from Ilya's side and steps out of frame. Ilya doesn't watch him go. He looks at the camera, runs one hand slowly up and down his own forearm, and hums.
"Immediately," he says. "It was during the World Juniors. I see him in this stupid beanie—" he pauses, giggling, "and I see his freckles, of course, out of everyone in the world, he is the most beautiful. So I think, yes I must have him."
The camera pans left. Shane is at the dumbbell rack, fitting a dumbbell back into its slot. His back is to the room, and both hands are closed around the bar, knuckles white, and the line of his jaw is sharp under the wash of light coming through the windows. He becomes aware of the camera a half-second too late, and when he turns around, his face is neutral again. The scowl is gone so completely that it leaves no trace.
"And Shane, how did you know Ilya was the one?"
Shane glances at Ilya, just briefly, the duration of a blink, then back to the camera. "When I realized he was actually serious about me."
Ilya laughs, ducking his head as if shy. The interviewer laughs with him.
"Where was your first date?"
Shane opens his mouth.
"The cottage," Ilya interrupts. He turns to look at Shane, his eyes are heavy-lidded. He opens his arms, and Shane exhales through his nose, steps away from the dumbbell rack to fit himself back against Ilya's side.
"Very private," Ilya continues, still looking at Shane rather than the camera. "Just us in the Canadian wilderness for three weeks." His heavy gaze drops to Shane's eyes, then his jaw, then his throat. His hand finds the hem of Shane's shirt at his hip and slides underneath it. Shane side-eyes him, but does nothing.
"Yes," Shane says to the camera. "My cottage."
"What's your favourite place in the world, both of you?"
"Home," Ilya says, before Shane's mouth has fully opened. "Here, for both of us. Where else would it be?"
Shane nods, slowly. "Yeah, here. I don't really go out much anymore. It's nice, just us."
"Shane, what's your ideal night in?"
Shane looks at Ilya. Ilya's knuckles drag up his side in a slow, reassuring stroke, and Shane's hand drops immediately, grabbing the hem of his shirt and tugging it down over Ilya's fingers. "When we were long distance," Shane says, "and we finally got to see each other, we'd stay in. He cooks, I just kind of hover. Then we’d put on an old game and talk over it."
"So who's the better cook?"
Shane tilts his head toward Ilya without hesitation. "Him. I'm decent, but Ilya says my cooking is boring."
"Is true," Ilya says. "Is boring, he makes gross rabbit food. Did he tell you about his diet yet?"
“He has, actually.” The interviewer laughs.
"But now that Shane is at home—" Ilya's other hand migrates around to Shane's front. Shane looks down at it. He takes it, fingers closing around Ilya's hand, and lifts it away from his body, setting it back at Ilya's side with a careful grip. "I think he will be cooking more for me. I will teach him, he’s a good student."
"Between you two, who wins the arguments?"
Shane's eyelids lower slightly. Both corners of his mouth lift, almost imperceptibly, the smallest possible version of a smile, like he knows the answer is not funny. He looks directly into the lens.
"Ilya," he says. "He usually gets his way."
"What's the worst fight you've ever had?"
"Jesus." Ilya's eyebrows go up. He glances at the interviewer with something between amusement and assessment. "Vogue did not come to play, eh?"
"I mean, every couple fights, but we're not really—"
"We do not fight," Ilya says simply. "I do not let him stay angry at me."
Shane nods.
"Shane, what's something you understand about Ilya that no one else does?"
Shane pulls back fractionally, and he looks Ilya up and down. "He's very protective," He says. "People don't guess that unless they see it firsthand." He pauses. "He's always checking in on me. Always wants to know where I am, what I'm up to."
Ilya says nothing. He watches Shane with his head slightly back, hazel eyes twinkling.
"And what's your favourite thing about him?"
"Well." Shane's eyes stay on the camera. "He cares so much.”
Ilya's smile returns immediately, wide, and he reaches for Shane. Shane is already turning back to face the camera, but he lets Ilya's arm come around his shoulders without looking at him, settling into the weight of it by posture alone. "Like he said, I tend to overthink, but I don't have to do that with Ilya." He sets his hands loosely in his lap.
"Has retirement changed your relationship?"
Shane scoffs. "Yeah, I mean, obviously. Hugely." He shifts his weight. "When I was playing, I was gone half the year."
"Yes," Ilya says, "and even when he was home, he was so in his head about the next game, about hockey, being captain to very famous and important team." He raises his eyebrows at the camera. "He was not really home."
Shane's mouth pulls tight, his jaw tightens along the hinge. "Okay." He leans slightly away from Ilya's arm. "And now I'm in Boston."
"We are inseparable now." Ilya pulls him back in, firm, and Shane's breath catches.
"God, ow." Shane turns his head. His voice drops to a whisper, a warning delivered at close range. "That's too tight, Ilya, stop it."
Ilya's lips part at him, and he tilts his head.
"What's the most romantic thing he's done for you?"
Shane swallows. His eyelids move in a slow series of blinks, the rhythm slightly irregular, like he's cycling through memories behind them. He looks at the high corner of the room, chin tilting up.
"I'm not a fan of doing big romantic gestures just for the sake of it." He pauses. "But when I’m really anxious about something I don’t want to do," Shane's gaze stays in the corner, settled on something only he can see. “He just handles everything."
"Aw, so Ilya is the responsible one,” the interviewer says.
Ilya turns his head and presses his mouth to Shane's cheek. "I would do it again," he says, quietly. "Any time." He doesn't pull back immediately. "He knows this."
Shane shrugs at the camera, “See? Protective.” He looks down at Ilya's hand, where it sits against his hip under the shirt. He takes the wrist and lifts it away from his body, inspecting the smartwatch strapped to it. "Ilya, it's almost nine," Shane says.
He reaches up and takes Ilya's other arm by the forearm, unlooping it from around his shoulders. Ilya sighs long and theatrically and rolls his eyes.
"Ughh, fine."
"Ilya has to go." Shane steps forward, out of Ilya's radius, and turns toward the door. "Let me take you to my second favourite place in the house."
Ilya catches him as he passes, mouth pressing to the side of his cheek. Shane whinces and keeps walking.
The camera follows him through a door and into a smaller room. The walls are clad in vertical pale oak planks, the grain running floor to ceiling. The ceiling is low and fitted with soft, recessed downlights; the room is dim even with them on. Along the left wall, a Pilates reformer sits on its frame. A smaller balance table beside it, a purple yoga ball resting in its corner. Two black yoga mats are laid out on the pale floor, one rolled out flat at the centre of the room, positioned to face a wide glass sliding door. Through it, a shallow timber deck, and beyond that, the lowest part of the garden.
"Is this your second favourite place?" the interviewer asks.
Shane shakes his head, already moving toward the glass door. "No. We’re almost there."
He pushes it open and steps out onto the deck, and then through a second wooden frame doorway on the left.
The garden beyond it is entirely enclosed, with white rendered walls on three sides. The ground is covered in pale, round river stones, raked smooth, broken only by two flat limestone stepping-stones running through the center. In the far left corner, a low wooden platform, wide and plain, sits a few inches off the ground, three rough-edged stone vessels arranged on it in a loose grouping. A single tree grows up through the stones near the back wall, its trunk slender and slightly bent, its canopy spreading out, casting a dappled, moving shadow across the white wall behind it.
The space is completely silent.
Shane lowers himself onto the wooden platform and sits with his legs crossed, his hands resting loose in his lap. The cameraman settles beside him, and the lens holds on the courtyard, the stones, the tree, the sky.
"I think I like this almost as much as the kitchen," the interviewer says.
"Me too."
"So Shane, now it's just us." The interviewer sighs, relaxed. "What's something people get wrong about you two?"
Shane inhales slowly through his nose. He turns to face the camera, his eyes settle just beneath the lens, not quite meeting it, looking at the bottom rim. "That he's the scary one and I'm the timid one. Couldn't be more wrong, I can be pretty scary too."
"How would you describe living in Boston?"
"Quiet." The corner of his mouth lifts.
"If it wasn't Boston, where would it be?"
"Ottawa."
There is no hesitation, no elaboration.
"So what does a perfect day look like for you now?"
Shane turns his face away from the camera. The lens catches his profile, the straight line of his nose, the freckles high on his cheekbone, the slight set of his jaw. And there, just below his ear, where his neck meets the hinge of his jaw, a faint discolouration in the skin. The light shows the shape barely: a soft, off-hue patch of pink, slightly deeper at its center, the rough outline of a thumbprint.
"Waking up early," Shane says. "Doing yoga outside, going on a long run, then having breakfast." He taps his fingers against his knee. "Do chores, go for a long walk, have lunch. Watch a documentary at night while I eat dinner on the couch. Read and go to sleep." He shrugs. "That's it."
"Any new projects you're working on? Retirement must have given you a lot of free time."
Shane laughs, short like he’s been caught. "Uh—" He looks at the camera. “Ilya and I are working on something together, you'll find that out soon. I started Pilates, though. I can tell you that."
"What's something you wish people would ask you more?"
"Nothing." His tired eyes crease slightly at the corners. "I don't like questions."
"You must be loving this interview, then."
Shane shakes his head, the small, quiet smile teasing at his mouth again. "You're fine."
"What three words best describe you?"
"Uh—" He exhales. "Adaptable, disciplined." He frowns, the crease between his brows deepening. "Patient?" He says, questioning, slightly less certain than the others.
"Who would you call if your car broke down?"
Shane sits up straight. "Ilya."
"What's the best advice Ilya has ever given you?"
“Uh, hm.” Shane's eyes close. He tilts his head back, and when he speaks, his voice drops into an approximation of a deep Russian accent, broad and flattened and almost entirely wrong, the vowels collapsing in the wrong places. "It does not matter what they think; they are not in this house." He opens his eyes. "I found that funny."
The interviewer laughs. "That's a pretty good Ilya impression."
"Sure it is."
"What's your favourite thing about Japan?"
"The food."
"If I had twenty-four hours in Tokyo, what should I eat?"
"Anything fresh and local." Shane chuckles. "Honestly, I don't really know. I've never been."
"Nihongo o hanasemasu ka?" the interviewer attempts, the syllables mangled. A caption bar appears at the bottom of the screen: Do you speak Japanese?
Something shifts in Shane's face. His eyes light, just briefly, a genuine, unguarded thing, quick as a reflex. He ducks his chin, "Sukoshi." His cheeks flush in embarrassment. "A little. My mom didn’t really speak it to me, so—" He straightens slightly. "Oh, that's another thing I’m working on. Learning Japanese and Russian." He pauses. "U menya neplokhoy russkiy."
"What does that mean?"
"My Russian's not that bad."
"It sounds pretty impressive to me."
Shane scoffs, looking back out at the stone garden.
"What's something you never thought you'd see yourself doing in a million years?"
Shane's eyes stop tracking the wall, and his blinking stops. The slight tension around the corners of his eyes smooths out entirely, flattening until the skin is perfectly still. His jaw unhinges a fraction of an inch, the muscles going slack. The camera focuses tightly on his face, the white light of the courtyard catching the dark brown of his eyes; they look shallower than they did a moment ago, the pupils contracted. He holds that perfect, paralyzed stillness for two seconds.
Then, his mouth stretches into a smile.
"Retiring this young."
The tree moves in the breeze again.
"So, Shane. What's next for you?"
Lev slams his laptop shut.