Chapter Text
Now
May 2013
Shane Hollander heard the news around 8:00 a.m. on a random Tuesday morning.
He was still adjusting to the lack of hockey schedule. His team had only recently been knocked out of the playoffs.
His alarm still went off at 7:00 each morning, the tempting snooze button steadfastly ignored. He still went for his run, even when his eyes were still heavy with sleep. And every morning, he drank his protein-packed smoothie at 08:00 while he watched ESPN.
He'd seen countless headlines over the seasons, had heard impressive and concerning stats from both his own team and his rivals. They all blurred together; he barely remembered individual stories.
But he would remember this one.
Breaking News: Las Vegas King's Centre and alternate captain, Ilya Rozanov, moving to Boston Bears.
He'd choked on his drink. His lungs burned as he sputtered into his empty apartment.
He couldn't make out what the newscaster was saying. The explanation coming from the greying man's mouth was drowned out by a high-pitched ringing in Shane's ears and the desperate coughs still escaping from his chest.
He rushed to the kitchen to gulp down some water. It cleared his airway enough for him to take a steadying breath.
This wasn't anything, really.
It's not like he hadn't seen Rozanov since he disappeared from their draft camp.
It's just that he could usually get away with only a handful of interactions a year. And even that was hard. Annoyingly difficult.
On the very few occasions their teams would play, Shane would feel on edge the whole time, unable to draw a satisfying breath until either he was on a plane, or Rozanov was. He'd even been grateful when he'd been too injured, the first and only time, to play against Vegas last season.
And now, they were going to be in the same division.
He'd have to see him in pre-season and regular games. Oh God, he might even have to play in the playoffs against him.
The thought should thrill him. There had never been anyone he loved playing against more. No one who challenged him, pushed him, the way Rozanov did. He'd played the best hockey of his career in those World Junior Championship finals, at that camp.
But the excitement had been mostly scraped away, leaving only a confusing ache in its place.
He could usually ignore it, the weird sensation only rearing its head when Rozanov was in his eyeline.
He hoped he'd be able to ignore it now.
He grabbed his phone from the counter and typed Rozanov's name into the search bar, forcing himself not to linger on the images of the man. He hurriedly clicked the link to the most recent news article.
There wasn't a lot of information available. Rozanov had completed his rookie contract and, as a free agent, had signed with the Boston Bears. There was no official reason stated as to why he was leaving Vegas.
Shane couldn't imagine leaving the Voyageurs; he'd started building what he believed would be a real legacy with them. He'd signed on for another season without a moment's hesitation and hadn't even entertained the idea of letting his mother speak to another team's management.
What could make someone leave the team that drafted them?
Whatever the reason was, it had been enough to make him walk away.
He rolled his shoulder, trying to ease the tension that was suddenly clawing up his back.
He knew Rozanov was not seeing someone seriously. He was clearly seeing many women, but Shane never saw the same girl on the tabloid covers or NHL fan accounts that sometimes popped up on his Instagram feed.
And even if one of those model types turned into something serious, that was good, right?
Maybe the playboy act was just that, a pretense. A character to play for engagement and public entertainment. He'd gotten the sense that Rozanov kind of craved stability, liked the idea of someone sticking around.
But again, that was years ago.
He locked his phone and dropped it onto the counter.
What did he know about any of this anyway?
Shane would never pretend to know anything about the man he'd become. Even if it was most of what consumed his thoughts when he was dancing in the liminal space between being awake and asleep.
He stared at the black screen of his phone for a second, willing himself not to do it.
But he couldn't help it, like he hadn't been able to help himself every time the compulsion hit him over the past four years. It was inevitable, really.
He grabbed his phone again and opened Facebook with his burner account. The one he'd made back in February of 2008. The profile picture of a hockey puck on fresh ice remained unchanged from the day he'd set it, just so he'd know it was him.
He opened the messages with Ilyushka Landyshev.
A familiar wall of sent messages from his side greeted him. He wasn't bothered by the fact that there were no responses, though. He'd long given up any hope of hearing back. It wasn't why he wrote to him anymore, anyway.
He started typing.
xxx
Now
August 2013
Ilya Rozanov was glad to be home, even if it was technically the first time he'd been in this apartment since it had become his home. Even if it would only be temporary.
All that mattered was that it wasn't in Moscow.
It was smaller than he was used to, but Svetlana's things scattered about made it seem more welcoming than his Vegas apartment ever had. He dropped his bags in the spare room. His room.
There was a bunch of Bears merch scattered over the comforter, brochures for city tours, and an I Love Boston ballcap added into the mix. He smiled softly as he picked up a card, just the words Thank You written in Cyrillic. He couldn't help the small smile that crept over his face. He wasn't sure when she'd had time to do this, especially given everything. But the gesture was thoughtful.
He grabbed the ballcap, snapped a selfie, and sent it to her.
She'd be back in a couple of weeks, remaining behind to finish settling her dad's estate. Ilya was needed earlier for meetings with his new management. He hadn't liked leaving her behind, but he was grateful to put the Moscow skyline in his rear-view mirror. He never felt like he could draw a breath on the streets that were plagued with ghosts and threats.
He moved all of the presents into the top drawer of the empty dresser before collapsing onto his bed. He needed to shower and unpack, but he was exhausted in the way only more than twenty-four hours of travel could accomplish.
He knew napping would be a bad idea. He'd been adjusting to the frequent bouts of jet lag for long enough now to know how to combat it.
But God, he wanted to sleep.
Instead, he headed to the lounge and put on ESPN. The familiar sounds were a comforting soundtrack in the unfamiliar space.
He'd been dozing in a state of half-sleep, head heavy and eyes burning, when his attention was caught by Shane Hollander on his screen.
His vision snapped into focus, drawn to the freckles he once traced with his fingers as he tried to commit the exact pattern to memory.
It was always strange seeing him now.
His eyes were different.
When he saw them now, usually on a screen or a billboard, they seemed guarded. Perfectly pleasant, and always beautiful, but nothing like back then. The way he'd looked at Ilya with curiosity, with light. He'd always been fascinated with how clearly he could read every thought in them.
The eyes staring back at him now were shuttered.
He had no idea what he was thinking.
The kid he knew seemed mostly hidden under his golden boy, polite Canadian veneer.
Or maybe nothing was hidden. Maybe this was just who Hollander was now.
He turned the volume up and caught the end of the interviewer's question.
"...Rozanov is now in your division. Are you nervous about what that means for the Voyageurs?"
Hollander gave a forced smile.
"Hockey is a team sport. And Boston has always been a fierce and strong opposition. We aren't any more nervous because of the addition of any player."
He cleared his throat.
"He's an incredible player though, and we'll make sure we're prepared for him and give him a proper welcome to the Eastern Conference."
Such a perfect answer.
Such a boring fucking answer.
Ilya should switch off the television.
"And there was a hint at a rivalry between you two before you were drafted to different conferences. Do you think that it might pick back up, now that you'll be seeing more of each other on the ice?"
Hollander swallowed visibly.
"I don't know. Time will tell, I guess. As I said, he's an incredibly gifted player. It will be good practice to play against someone that skilled. I'm sure Boston is overjoyed to have him."
"Thank you Shane, best of luck for the upcoming season!"
"Thanks, man."
And then he was gone.
The room seemed strangely silent, even with the soundtrack of last season's highlight reel bleeding through the sound system.
Ilya took a deep breath, the image of Hollander dancing across the back of his eyelids. And, predictably, it morphed into the image of Hollander's younger self, eyes wide and smile gentle.
He let out an aggravated groan.
He hated that this still happened sometimes.
He was frustrated with himself. At how his brain would reach for memories of campfire nights and uncertain, gentle hands at the most inopportune moments. He'd be drunk, or on a plane, and he'd be back in that cabin with the low light and ugly blankets. Not often, but enough that he had developed a fear that those memories would never fully leave him alone.
That time lived somewhere deep inside him, carefully folded away.
Ilya knew that in the grand scheme of things, three weeks was nothing. It was a blip, genuinely inconsequential. Barely enough time to learn the shape of another person, let alone miss them.
He'd spent years telling himself exactly that.
It had never quite taken.
It's just that there was something about how Hollander had cracked him open so easily, letting him feel something he never thought he could, that had left him off-kilter ever since. He'd been seventeen and terrified, angry at the world, missing his mom.
And then suddenly there Shane Hollander was.
He shouldn't have been able to see through him the way he had. Not with this perfect Canadian life and his perfect Canadian manners.
But he had.
For a moment there, he had.
For a moment, Ilya had felt like maybe he wouldn't always feel so alone.
And then the moment was gone.
And life had moved on.
Ilya switched off the television.
Maybe he would try to sleep after all.