Work Text:
September 2000
Shane Hollander played a great game today. His coach expressed his pride in the game winning goal he scored by handing him the championship-clinching puck, as all his teammates cheered around him and bounced off the walls. Another weekend, another travel team tournament had taken them to Buffalo. The city had been crawling for days with multitudes of youth teams of all ages, most sugar-high on Timbits and fueled with stereotypical kid energy.
His father, David, pulled away from the ice complex, everyone packed up for the hours-long drive home to Ottawa. Yuna, his mom, turned around in her seat to squeeze Shane on the knee. He held his puck proudly, twirling it in his hands, and beamed at his mom.
“I can’t believe I got the game winner, mom,” Shane exclaimed. “I’m gonna put this on my trophy shelf when we get home! Right in the front.”
“You were great, sweetie,” Yuna praised. “You worked so hard on your backhand these last few months, it’s nice to get rewarded with that goal, huh? Just have to connect those passes with your line mates a little better. Luckily the other team’s top line had weak shooters, I don’t know how they made it to the championship game.”
“Yuna,” David said quietly, with a hint of complaint. He knows his wife means well. “Let him enjoy this. He’s nine, not everything has to have MLH-level analysis. You played an awesome game, son.”
“Thanks mom and dad.”
It wasn’t long before they reached the border back to Canada. Customs was speedy and Shane proudly showed his puck to the agent in the booth. The QEW was light on traffic on that Sunday afternoon. The Hollanders were taking the long way home, as it had become tradition coming back from tournaments west of Ottawa to stop at a roadside farm stand just outside of Peterborough. They loved cooking a welcome-home meal with the fresh seasonal vegetables from the stand, and now in early September they would probably have some nice peaches to make for dessert. David would typically roast the peaches with some butter and sugar and serve them with ice cream.
“I hope we make it in time,” Yuna said, mostly to herself. It was nearing three thirty in the afternoon. The extra distance from Buffalo took them longer to reach that neck of the woods, and they were usually there and gone by this time of day from most other tournaments in months’ and years’ past. Shane had fallen asleep, head cockeyed, lulled by the passing trees just at the threshold of turning yellow and the vast open fields.
The familiar yellow farm shed snuck into view above the horizon at long last. Another car pulled out onto the road from the makeshift gravel lot and David turned in from where it left. The beat-up Pontiac that belonged to the farmers sat beside the shack in its usual spot. A hand-painted wooden sign read “Rozanov Farms” in red lettering above the shed window.
“Shane, let’s get out of the car,” Yuna whispered. She shook his knee to rattle him awake. He yawned and stretched, looking out the window, and eagerly unclipped his seat belt once he saw where they were.
The farm stand was a highlight for Shane, his favorite part of a travel hockey road trip. He was different from most kids, regardless of age, because he loved eating his fruits and vegetables, whereas most kids would beg their moms or dads to take them to McDonalds. But more importantly, the fruits and vegetables they bought from this farm stand in particular were more delicious than any others they had found anywhere else. The family who owned the farm were sweet, friendly immigrants, making their living on honest work and busy hands. Love was poured into every crop they harvested and brought to the shed for customers to purchase. It was evident in the flavor and size and quality of the crops that they were well looked after on this farm.
Rozanov Farms’ produce stand was run by a mother and her two boys. The father was never around. The younger boy was close to Shane’s age. His curly dirty blonde hair hung just to his ears, twinkling blue eyes illuminated within the shadows in the farm shed where he worked, and a dark mole painted perfectly in the middle of his left cheek. A few smaller specks of freckles decorated the boy’s face like confetti, but none so many in comparison to Shane’s own smattering of freckles, a personal galaxy across his nose and cheeks. The boy usually wore tattered denim overalls with a dirt-smeared white shirt.
The two boys never spoke much to each other. Shane knew they were from another country, but maybe the boy was shy and didn’t know a lot of English. Shane hadn’t even learned his name, but he liked to imagine they’d be friends if they lived closer to the farm instead of in the city. The boy was always busy though, helping his mom package up the produce the Hollanders selected while his older brother took care of the cash box, so there wasn’t a lot of time for talking anyways. They were also usually stopping through when the farm stand had more customers milling about, and it would have been rude to take up their time with silly chit chat when others needed assistance.
The boy was a carbon copy of his mother, the same face and eyes and hair, but hers was longer, draped over her shoulders in a curly mop and a bandana knotted on her head. Sometimes it was tied in a loose bun on the back of her neck. She wore the same blue dress much of the time, which matched their eye color, and she was soft spoken and appreciative of everyone who stopped by her humble farm stand. The Hollanders were always sent off with a “spasibo! thank you, thank you!” from her heavily accented and warm voice. Sometimes she threw in a “see you next time”, especially when Shane and his family became regulars, she recognized them more and more as returning patrons.
Shane hopped up to the window, kicking up the dust that had settled below the gravel in his wake. The boy was condensing a pile of onions that had been picked through over the course of the day, and he looked up when Shane’s shoes crunched on the gravel when he skidded to a halt. Shane gave him a wave and a smile, and the boy returned a bashful smile and a small wave of his own. Shane’s parents caught the attention of the mother and started shopping.
“I’m Shane,” he said to the boy. “I’ve never gotten to talk to you before.”
“Ilya,” the boy said, his own accent thick like his mother’s. ‘Eehl-yuh’, Shane repeated in his head. Ilya moved one more onion into his new pile. “Always very busy,” he said slowly.
“You guys are good farmers,” Shane told him. “I love coming here.” And because it’s the only other thing Shane knows how to talk about: “Do you like hockey?” Ilya didn’t react, maybe he didn’t understand Shane. Shane held up his hockey puck from the championship to show him. He hadn’t wanted to part from the puck, still very proud of himself, clutching it with an iron grip. “Hockey?”
“Ah, a little. No time for games. Work outside a lot.” His language was very bare-bones and drawn out, but Shane was happy he recognized the little black disc. “Pick many beets and onions,” Ilya added with a smile.
“You should keep this,” Shane said, offering him the puck. “Maybe you could play someday.” He handed the puck across the counter, and Ilya took it, wide-eyed. “Maybe we’d play against each other someday!”
“For me?”
“All set, Shane, come along!” Yuna steered him back toward the car before he could answer. David held a bag full of corn and squash and carrots in one hand, and a bag of his prized peaches in his other. “We’ll be cutting it close for dinner and they need to close for the night.”
“Bye Ilya,” Shane called, looking behind him. Ilya waved, and tucked the puck into the pocket of his overalls.
That night after dinner, Yuna helped Shane sort his laundry and lay his hockey gear on the back deck to air out. David stayed in the kitchen baking his peaches for the grand finale of the day.
“Did you put your puck with your trophies?” she asked, scanning the shelves in his room. Shane looked up from his GameBoy and shook his head.
“No, I gave it to Ilya,” he said plainly, and returned to his Pokemon battle. His mother looked stumped.
“Who is Ilya? Shane, you gave your puck away?” Yuna sat on the edge of his bed and brushed his jet black hair off his face.
“Yeah, the boy at the farm. I thought he could use it to play someday.” Shane shooed her hand away, it was distracting him.
“Oh Shane…,” she sighed. “He’s probably very busy helping his family… but that was very thoughtful of you.”
“He’s nice. I wish we lived closer to play together.” He smashed the buttons of the GameBoy, trying to catch a new Pokemon for his trainer character. Yuna smiled sadly. It would be nice if Shane had some friends to make good trouble with outside of his hockey teams, but the farm was very far away.
“Put that away soon and come down for dessert,” she said as she stood up, heading to the door. “You are almost at your screen time limit and you have school tomorrow.” Shane caught the Pokemon with a cheer as she left the room, and obediently turned it off.
The rest of tournament season came and went. The Hollanders continued their regular stops at the farm stand in the meantime until the winter closed them up for the season. Shane’s team won a couple more trophies. He tried his hardest to get another game winner to replace the puck he gave away to Ilya, and it took him into the middle of winter before he got one. He displayed it proudly in the very spot on his shelf where he would have put the first one.
That’s how the next couple of years went. Tournaments, produce stand, and home. As Shane graduated to the next age groups, his teams changed, but his excitement to see Ilya at the farm never did. Ilya’s English improved over time and the two boys occupied themselves with simple conversations while Yuna and David picked their produce for their evening meals. Shane almost looked forward to these visits more than his tournaments sometimes. He was still more than happy to play in the tournaments and push himself to be better if it meant he’d get another visit to the farm.
November 2002
One day, Ilya handed something to Shane across the counter. Peeling his fist open, he looked down to see a Russian nesting doll figurine sitting on his palm. The doll looked similar to Ilya—blonde hair and blue eyes painted on the face.
“It’s you!” Shane beamed, holding the doll out in front of him.
“Almost,” Ilya said and smiled. “Missing my spot.” He pointed to his cheek, the mole obviously missing from the doll’s face. His eyes lit up with an idea and motioned for the doll back, and he took a marker from under the counter and put a little dot on the painted figure before handing it back. “Now is me. For you, my friend.”
“Thanks! We’re friends,” Shane agreed. He took the figurine home and sat it on top of his second game-winning puck, the one he earned to replace the original puck he gave to Ilya.
Three weeks later, the Hollanders were driving back to Ottawa from another November tournament, this time in Kitchener. Shane’s team hadn’t made it to the finals, a string of some bad luck in their games leading to an early elimination. It would have bummed Shane out more if he hadn’t had the promise of visiting his friend Ilya. He knew Ilya would cheer him up the rest of the way.
David slowed the car as they approached the familiar farm stand, hesitant to turn in as they noticed the window on the shed was boarded shut. The sky was gray, overcast and very typical of the late fall. Some cars were coming up behind them, so he turned in anyways so he didn’t tick off the other drivers by idling in the road.
“Must be closed today,” David observed. “It’s a little early for them to be done for the season, unless they had a rough time growing late this year.”
“That’s too bad. We’ll have to get them next time. Looks like we’ll be stopping at the supermarket when we’re closer to home,” Yuna concluded.
Shane put his hands on the window glass and stared out sadly at the lifeless farm stand, mood falling. He hoped his parents were right, that this was just a bizarre closure and they’d be back next time. But it was late in the season and the promise of them being open in another few weeks’ time was unlikely before the winter hit in full force.
September 2003
Rozanov Farms did not reopen the following year. The Hollanders checked each and every time they passed by on the way home from Shane’s latest tournaments. There were no signs of them even planning to reopen, the house sat completely dark in the distance. Shane held back tears as he clutched the inside of the car door and longingly looked out at the empty property. The fields remained bare without new crop growth, instead filling with patches of weeds and tall grass. At some point of abandonment, a ‘For Sale’ sign appeared at the far end of the property where the driveway to the farmhouse reached the road. Shane couldn’t believe it.
Ilya and his family just vanished, up and left. There was no signal, no warning from him or even his mother on their final visits to buy produce. Nothing to say “oh by the way, we are moving, thank you for supporting us these years”. Shane didn’t understand how they could just give up their livelihood, their home. His parents explained that sometimes farming is simply a difficult business. Even the good farmers struggle with production and costs, and maybe it just didn’t work out for them in the end.
He wished he’d known, to at least have said goodbye to Ilya and wish him well. Maybe Ilya would have had an email or something they could use to keep in touch if he wanted. Or given Shane his new address to write letters, or see if they moved somewhere closer to him that their parents could get them together to play once in a while. But Shane had nothing, apart from the nesting doll that Ilya personalized to resemble himself. Although it was a limited comfort, because the nesting doll couldn’t tell him what happened to Ilya and his family.
July 2006
The Hollanders got a new computer a few years later. Once in a while, Ilya would come to Shane’s mind. Sadly he thought of Ilya less over time since visiting the farm stand came to a grinding halt years before. But Ilya never totally left his memory. Shane tried to get online one day to search the Rozanov name. The satellite signal took the search a long time to populate any results, but nothing returned about the farm. There were a few websites in Russian language that probably mentioned the surname, but Shane couldn’t translate it and there were surely many people who still lived in Russia that had that family name. He wouldn’t be able to tell if any of the results were about his Ilya. Ilya Rozanov the farm kid might not be the only Ilya Rozanov in the world.
Yuna and David had eventually found another produce stand to divert to after Shane’s tournaments, but it was never the same. The new farmers didn’t pay them much mind between bagging up strawberries and green beans and whatever else, and taking their money. It felt very impersonal, simply transactional. The stand lacked the warmth and love the Rozanovs emanated in their work.
Soon, Shane drove himself to tournaments and didn’t bother stopping at any roadside stands on his way home. He wouldn’t consider it unless Rozanov Farms somehow magically reopened after years of darkness and decay. He never knew if the property got sold. Some other farmers could be taking credit for great crops when it was the family before that sowed the love into the soil underneath them.
September 2008
Shane wrapped up his tenure with travel teams and out-of-town tournaments in favor of the team at his university, and there were no more road trips with imposter farm stands to worry about. Shane made the top squad as a freshman, which was rare, but a player of his caliber had not been seen at the school in quite some time and they leapt at the chance to have him. Scouts from Team Canada and Major League Hockey came to see him shortly into his first season. He was a candidate for the International Prospects Cup team, and would be eligible for the MLH draft soon. Rumors started right away that he could potentially be taken first overall by a very lucky hockey club if he kept up his pace.
He kept the Russian nesting doll in his dorm at school, on the top shelf of his desk with some other personal items from home. It became very a very sentimental piece over the years, the one thing that still tied him to Ilya Rozanov. Shane made peace with the situation although he sometimes wondered if they would have stayed close on those brief visits as they got older, had the farm remained. He wondered what Ilya was doing now.
Ilya got shuffled to the back of Shane’s mind as the intensity of the season grew and his schedule got busier, but still never got totally lost.
October 2011
Shane returned to Montreal two months ago, renewed by a relaxing summer and ready to take on his sophomore campaign in the MLH. He settled back into his condo and dutifully attended training camp, happy to see his Metros teammates again. Most everyone from last year had come back, either still under contract or on an extension. There were a few new faces, including a draft pick and two guys acquired by offseason trades with other clubs.
They had an early-season road trip to Carolina and Florida that the Metros returned from late. Despite the middle-of-the-night arrival in Montreal on their team plane, Shane’s regular schedule kicked him into gear at 6 AM after only a few hours of sleep and he went out for a Saturday morning run.
Recently he’d been missing the luxury of fresh-picked produce. The same kind he had grown up on. His local supermarket carried all kinds of organics, but they didn’t land on his palate the same. Now that he was more comfortable with Montreal and its surrounding communities after a year here he thought visiting a farmers market might do the trick, just to switch things up. At least, he hoped.
Montreal had been a bad team when Shane was drafted by them. That’s how it was: worse teams got a higher chance to pick the best of the best in the draft pool. It was a chance for a team to rebuild, retool, around generational young talent. Shane had a remarkable rookie season in the midst of the team’s overall struggles. But it’s hard to carry a whole team to the playoffs on the back of one person. His individual praise meant little if he couldn’t share success with his team.
His sophomore season had started a little rough, although his team was clicking more. Other teams may have gone too easy on Shane last year and when he ran away with the scoring race, they realized they had to put more pressure on him on the ice next year. Shane was getting checked more frequently now, players anticipated his passes and goalies his shots. It was starting to get to his head, which is why a change in routine and diet was sounding enticing. Not that he was blaming his struggles on a lack of apples picked from the tree that morning or peppers snipped off the stems minutes before hitting the market table, but what harm could it do to try something.
After his run he took a quick shower and made his post-run protein smoothie, and sat in the kitchen. He propped his phone up and searched for local farmers markets. There were quite a few options listed. It was a wonder he hadn’t already stumbled upon one with all the wrong turns he made trying to learn his way around the city last year. Wanting to take a breath away from Westmount, he decided to try the one near Little Italy and hopped in his car.
The market was expansive and diverse. Vendors had the fresh produce he expected at some tables, and others had fresh baked goods, jars of pickled items and jams and jellies, cheeses and meats. Since Shane came this far, he decided to window shop and scope everything out before picking out what he needed. He avoided wearing his logo gear from the team in an attempt to blend in, but still found people whispering and pointing in his direction. In such a hockey-crazed city, Shane knew this was a possibility.
He left with a variety of fresh food for the week, leafy greens poking out of the top of his bag, excited to meal prep with his haul. A couple local kids said hello after recognizing the young star, and Shane made their day with a high-five and a picture taken on the parent’s cell phones. It thankfully didn’t draw a crowd, otherwise he would have never gotten out of there.
The fresh food helped Shane just enough, scoring in each of his next six games. He started to make a habit of visiting the farmers market when he first got back to Montreal after a string of road games, prepping his favorite diet-acceptable meals the same night with everything he brought home.
Routine set in as his team continued their rise in the ranks the next few seasons. Shane became the team captain along the way, and Montreal made it back to the playoffs. They, try as they might, couldn’t seal the deal with a Cup win yet. The squad had fallen short in the second and third rounds. It was progress. Shane continued to frequent the farmers market, satisfied this far with the results of his efforts on and off the ice.
April 2014
Shane returned home to Ottawa after a promising season. He would stay near his parents for part of the summer before moving on to his practically new summer cottage that he had built a couple years ago. The cottage, while being his place of solace, felt emptier with each visit. Something was still missing.
The people around him, his parents included, suggested that he was missing love in his life, someone to spend time with and talk to. Someone to occupy his mind and heart. Lots of girls had expressed their interest in him. They slid into his DMs, they approached him at the bar the few times he agreed to go out with his teammates, made signs calling his attention during warmups at his games. He felt almost obligated to try, so he feigned interest in a pretty girl one night at a restaurant holding a private party for some who’s-who of Montreal. Said pretty girl, named Rose, turned out to be a famous actress who was decent and kind and genuine, and “feigned interest” became real genuine friendship. Shane steered away from romantics with Rose very quickly, and she subsequently picked up on it very quickly. He was utterly shocked that she was not upset about this in the slightest when she held a heart-to-heart with him, and she encouraged him to live honestly and truthfully, promising to be there every step of the way if he ever needed her.
He felt fulfilled in that department, finally having the comfort of a close friend outside of hockey. It was love, but not the kind he craved.
When he returned to his condo in the late summer before training camp, the evening sun cast a perfect golden beam of light through the curtains over his bookshelf—the bookshelf that held some of his most important trinkets and awards, including the tiny nesting doll figurine.
October 2014
The Metros won their home opener in front of a raucous crowd of red and blue jerseys against a mediocre New Jersey team. Hard to gauge the direction of the season off one game against an easy team, but it instilled hope in the room after getting knocked out of the playoffs last season. A game like this made it hard not to smile after, and coach let them but had to knock them down a peg, reminding them they wouldn’t win a cup from one game in October. The team returned to their stoic, locked-in mindset before leaving the arena, already gearing up for the next game in two days versus a visiting Washington team.
On the morning following the home opener, Shane went on his pilgrimage to the farmers market in Little Italy after his usual run. He made his rounds as was his routine. A new juicery stand had gone up inside the pavilion, and he couldn’t help but try their spinach-carrot-strawberry hard-pressed blend, of course only after asking about the sugar content with the merchant.
Shane moved down the row, sipping on his juice, and took note of another new vendor table further up. He’d been here enough now to admit he knew the layout like the back of his hand, and anything out of place grabbed his attention. The flatbed of a pickup truck was backed up to the makeshift exterior threshold, filled with crates of produce and boxes of sprouted herbs. A young man was taking multiple trips back and forth between his display table and the truck, carrying the crates to set out his items for sale.
The table was soon filled with piles of potatoes, beets, onions and carrots in the front, and a few pint baskets of late-season peaches on the side with the collection of planted herbs. Any surplus was stored neatly on the lift-gate of the truck. The man donned a cowboy hat and a weathered brown leather jacket, jeans marked with dirt and torn at the bottom of the legs. Shane walked closer and the man tipped his hat off into his hand. He shimmied his forearm out of the sleeve of his jacket and wiped his brow with his arm.
That’s when Shane sees it.
A mole perfectly placed in the center of the man’s left cheek. Above it, blue eyes that maybe have darkened a few shades over the years since his youth, no longer the same bright hue as a cold crystal spring. They still twinkle, maybe a little dimmer, but it’s still there. The hat now missing from his head revealed those dirty blonde curls Shane once knew, except they were combed and tucked tight to his head instead of wild and wispy. Shane dug far into his memory to find any mental image he can of the boy from his past to support the idea that this is who he thinks it is.
This has to be Ilya Rozanov.
The man he strongly believes to be Ilya sprinted back to his truck suddenly and returned with a canvas banner. He knelt down on the ground under his table and tied the ends of the banner to the table legs. When it unraveled, red letters revealed the name “Rozanov Homestead”. It was the quickest confirmation Shane had ever received to any question he’d had in his life.
It did beg a follow-up question: would Ilya even remember Shane after all these years? Shane was almost petrified to find out, because what if he reintroduced himself and Ilya had no idea? He’d embarrass himself surely. “Hi, I’m Shane, do you remember me from twelve years ago? We were a lot younger obviously but you look exactly the same. No, you don’t remember? No worries man I’ll just go and I’ll never show my face here again!”
In reality, was it the most embarrassing thing that could ever happen? No. But Shane’s anxiety inflated almost anything. He needed a way to approach and maybe let recognition happen naturally.
He also needed something for his next meal prep. The carrots at Ilya’s booth honestly looked really good. They’d roast well to accompany his chicken for the week. Maybe some of those herbs too, he could re-pot them for future use, and chop some rosemary or thyme to dress the meal up. Yeah, he was going to Ilya’s booth, that’s for sure.
“Hi, are you open yet?” Shane called from beyond the front table. Ilya had been facing his truck, condensing his produce crates and stacking the empty ones in the front of the flatbed. He turned to greet his potential customer.
“Sorry, I am open, yes,” he affirmed. His accent was as thick as Shane remembered. Only now, his English sounded more fluid and confident, and his voice was deeper. Something flickered across Ilya’s face when his eyes reached Shane.
Now as he stared Ilya in the face, Shane lost his entire train of thought. What did he come here for?
Ilya had been shy and kind and devilishly handsome as a young boy, and that’s possibly part of the reason why Shane was intrigued by him and had wanted to be his friend all those years ago other than being similar in age. Their personalities were a lot alike as youngsters. Once they had the space and time, Ilya reciprocated Shane’s friendliness and genuinely seemed interested in communicating with him, however limited. As an adult, Ilya was positively beautiful, and Shane hoped the spirit of that sweet boy was still thriving within his bones.
“Yes, there is something you want?” Ilya pressed. He fluffed out a plastic bag in preparation of Shane telling him what he wanted. The sharpness of air punching the inside of the bag snapped Shane out of it.
“Hi, sorry, yes-” Shane cleared his throat. “I’d like two bunches of carrots, I guess maybe three onions and one each of the thyme, rosemary and oregano. Oh, and one basket of peaches.”
“Ah, big spender,” Ilya said, lifting his eyebrows as he gathered the items. Shane in the meantime innocently sipped more of his juice concoction, watching Ilya’s burly calloused farmer hands at work. He noticed that Ilya took care to pick the best of the bunch to package up, though Shane would bet there wasn’t a bad thing on that table if Ilya farmed at all like his parents used to. “Making anything good?”
“I guess, just my meal prep. Have to eat clean,” Shane explained. “You know, eat good feel good, right?”
“Yes, you must maintain your… physique.” Ilya raked his eyes up and down Shane’s body, no doubt recognizing his build and athleticism. Shane felt a heat rush to his face and he hurriedly took another sip of juice from the straw, hoping the cold drink would void whatever was happening within him right now. “It’s eighteen.”
Shane quickly paid him a twenty when Ilya handed him the bag of produce, and declined the change.
“Thank you for business. Have fun cooking,” is what Ilya left him with, along with a curious smile. A smile that would etch itself in Shane’s head until his next visit to the market, which was already too many days away from now.
While his dinner was in the oven that night, Shane almost searched again for Ilya Rozanov online. He ultimately stopped himself, wanting to ask Ilya himself what happened all those years ago. Plus it gave him an excuse to talk to Ilya again.
Shane ate one portion of his meal prep for dinner, and oh, god, the carrots had roasted perfectly and the fresh herbs complimented them so well. They were plump, soft, naturally sweet, everything Shane had been missing on his dinner plate for twelve long years. It was kind of silly how a pile of carrots could do that. After he’d left the market that day, he had also swung into the supermarket in his neighborhood and bought some dairy-free vanilla ice cream for the peaches. Dessert was something he rarely did these days because few treats fit into his diet, but he could let the reins loose this one time for the nostalgia.
He tried and failed to fight away the idea it was all in his head. There simply could not be any coincidence when it came to the superiority of crops grown by a Rozanov.
Washington came into town having also won their first game of the season, so it meant one of them would receive their first loss that evening. Shane wouldn’t let it be Montreal taking the loss.
He played out of his mind, netting a hat trick between the second and third periods. One of the goals came on a breakaway after he was set free of the penalty box. His only flub of the game was taking that tripping penalty, but it worked out in his favor when he stormed the offensive zone and slid the puck through the goalie’s five-hole on a one-handed backhand. For the rest of the game Shane was always in the right areas on the ice, predicting the play as he had been known to, but with more of a sharpness, a precision that caught his opponent tripping over themselves and also stunned his teammates.
“Great fuckin’ shift Shane, what, did you eat your vegetables?” Pike asked as they hopped on the bench after a shift.
“Actually, yeah, I did,” Shane said matter-of-factly. Pike laughed beside him and knocked him with a shoulder.
The Washington game was the last at home for a week. Their upcoming schedule took them to Boston, Toronto, and Philadelphia. Shane froze the extra meals he had made, they would be more than enough to get him through nearly a week after they returned, but it meant delaying his next return to the farmers market. He laid awake in his hotel room in Toronto hoping that Ilya would be there again.
The Metros had a three-game home stand after their short road trip, capped off with a back-to-back set of games home and away against Ottawa. Like clockwork, Shane went for his run first thing in the morning after they’d returned from Ottawa, showered, and drove up to Little Italy. November was quickly approaching, the market started putting up their winterized walls to prepare for the looming cold.
Ilya was there, once again the lone representative of Rozanov Homestead. He was without a cowboy hat today, his curls combed and gelled tight to his head, and had on black jeans with the same brown jacket. Set out in his booth were his usual bundles of carrots and crate of onions, and this time added stalks of Brussels sprouts and broccoli crowns between them. On the side table he placed out some small pie pumpkins and spaghetti squash. Shane was ecstatic about the variety, although if he had to eat carrots again for another week he would have been content as long as they were from Rozanov. He stood in line behind another patron until her order was complete.
“Ah, welcome back my friend,” Ilya greeted as his previous customer moseyed away to the next stand down the row. “The carrots turn out good I hope, since you are back? Or maybe not, it has been a little while.” Shane huffed out a laugh, his lips turning up slightly. Ilya not only remembered him, but what he bought from their brief interaction just over a week and a half ago.
“No, the carrots were amazing. I was just out of town for a little bit,” Shane informed him. “I used the fresh herbs you grew, they turned out perfectly. I haven’t had carrots this good since I was a kid.” Ilya’s eyes flickered with a spark of further recognition.
“Is that so?”
Much to their dismay, a line started forming behind Shane, and not wanting to take up all his time (though he would have gladly), he rattled off the items he wanted and handed the cash to Ilya in exchange for the filled shopping bag. Shane reluctantly walked away, knowing with his hockey schedule it would be a few weeks before he would be back. His feet couldn’t drag him back to his car yet, so he circled around the market while the handles of the plastic bag pinched the inside of his fingers. On his way back around Ilya was clear of customers and Shane found himself walking back over to the booth.
“Forget something?” Ilya asked when he noticed Shane looming in front of the table again. He grinned, perhaps a little flirtatiously. Shane felt like he was blushing the way his cheeks warmed and hoped it wasn’t too obvious. He had a question—actually he had two—but he chickened out of the one he wanted to ask more, yet again.
“Actually, I wanted to see… are you going to be here through the winter? I can’t imagine you can grow too much in the snow, but… just, you know, just wondering.” Shane nervously scratched the back of his neck.
“I plan to be,” Ilya began. “But you never know. I have a greenhouse, I will try to grow a few things during winter in there—peppers, tomatoes, green beans, if it works out I try more—but will depend on how well they do. It is my first winter with the greenhouse.”
“Cool. I, uh, I hope it goes well. I’d like to keep buying from you, as long as everything else is as good as your carrots, of course,” Shane teased. Ilya chuckled in return. “I’ll be out of town again next week but hopefully I’ll see you soon.”
He continued like that over the next several months. Returned from a road trip, had his run, and visited the farmers market. Of course in the real bitter cold he ran inside his home gym, but he stuck to the rest of his habits as he remained on top of the league’s scoring and Montreal rose to be among the top teams in the standings. Ilya dutifully had his booth set up each morning Shane was there, with the yield he successfully grew in his greenhouse. However it was possible for Ilya to consistently grow such flavorful crops, Shane didn’t know.
Shane felt like a kid on all those car trips to tournaments again. The highlight of his weeks became the days post-road trip when he would head to the market to see Ilya and and leave with a full heart and a fuller bag of produce. He still hadn’t mustered up the courage to ask Ilya if he remembered him, but these little moments were enough in the meantime.
He eventually told his parents that he had found one of the Rozanovs from the old Peterborough farm stand at his local farmers market. Yuna and David had been visiting Shane the night before a home game and he cooked for them using some of the products from Ilya’s farm. They were delighted by the news and glad that the family was still doing well. Yuna, being nosy, tasked Shane with asking why they abruptly shut down, to Shane’s discomfort he told her “Mom, I’m not gonna ask him that”. “You always used to love going there”, she had said. He agreed with a big smile plastered across his face.
April 2015
Montreal clinched a playoff berth back in March. Practices became more rigorous, schedules were about to get busier. Shane knew he wouldn’t have a ton of off-time to frequent the farmers market as the Metros prepared to make a long run in the playoffs this season. They had a lot of promise after their last two playoff stints, sports writers and prediction sites and fans alike forecasting the best odds for Montreal to come away with the Cup this year.
The day after their final game of the regular season, Shane raced over to the farmers market with enough time to make it to team practice after. He’d had an idea when he sat down a few days prior and calculated his probability of having time to continue this routine, with most outcomes landing on the negative.
Ilya had a line a few people deep now that spring produce was at its peak. Customers were picking up everything from artichokes to radishes, as well as hearty root vegetables still coming up from the winter. Shane didn’t mean to look impatient but he stood behind everyone and checked his watch obsessively as the minutes ticked away, each one closer to the start time to practice. Slowly he made it to the front of the table.
“Not your usual day, ah?” Ilya crooned when Shane stood before him. Shane had only been here days ago, too soon for another shopping trip. Ilya had picked up on that. His smile was so distractingly beautiful today that Shane almost forgot what he came through to ask about. He looked incredible now that he had shed the layers of cold weather clothing, Shane could see defined muscle through the way his cotton shirt hugged his abdomen, broad and equally muscular shoulders and arms. It wasn’t surprising that Ilya was fit, he supposed working on a farm would keep anyone in shape. He was just a lot bigger than Shane would expect for a farmer. “What can I get for you today?
“Sorry, I’m actually not here to get anything today… I actually wanted to see if you can help with something.” Ilya stared at him, puzzled.
“I will try.”
“My schedule is getting pretty tight for a bit, but I want to keep up my regimen. I don’t know if I’ll have much opportunity to make it out here,” Shane explained. “Would you ever consider doing a home delivery for me? I’d pay, obviously, for the service, I don’t really care about the cost.”
“This could work,” Ilya said, considering the idea with a shrug.
“Oh, great!” Shane exclaimed, maybe a little too eagerly. “I haven’t thought it all the way through yet,” (he had actually, in much detail), “but if it works for you, I was thinking we could schedule a day and you could text me once a week with what you have ready, and drop off what I need.”
“Sounds like you have it thought out very well,” Ilya teased, drawing an airy chuckle out of Shane. He walked back to his pickup and rummaged in the front seat, most likely for a pen since that’s what he came back with. He flipped open a tiny notebook that he pulled out from the pocket of his jeans and handed it and the pen to Shane. “We can set something up and see if it works. Write down your info?”
Shane scribbled only his name and phone down. He didn’t expect Ilya to lose the paper, but he would feel safer to text his address rather than write it, given who he was.
“Let me know what you would charge for delivery, I would pay that on top of what I buy, of course,” Shane reiterated. “I would probably need to stock up by next week Thursday, if you’re available that day. I’ll be around by then, and I’ll text you my address. I live in Westmount.”
“I can do Thursday,” Ilya said, nodding. He held Shane’s gaze with a knowing look. “I will be in touch.” Ilya outstretched his hand for a shake, which Shane took firmly. His hand was rough, calloused skin on his joints from working the farm, but that didn’t affect the level of electricity that trickled up Shane’s arm and rocked the rest of his body.
“Thanks,” Shane said quietly. “I’ll see you soon, then.”
He left the market on that note, hightailing it to his car and down to Bell Centre. He made it with enough time to get his stretches in and a short ride on the stationary bike to warm up his muscles for a what he expected would be a grueling practice. Coach certainly worked them, and it paid off because they won games one and two against New York. Shane had played insanely good, and netted a couple of goals. The team might have felt that the next two games in New York would be a walk in the park because the Metros got trounced in game three and barely scraped through game four. Shane got home in the middle of the night after the team flew back and slept soundly until his alarm went off at 6 AM.
It was Thursday morning.
He didn’t know what time to expect Ilya to text him. Shane imagined he would be out picking whatever he had for the day at this time, and had probably been up and at it for a while. Still, when Shane was on his run, he kept his phone in his hand the entire time to make sure he didn’t miss it. He showered when he got home, no message yet. It wasn’t until he was blending his post-run smoothie that his phone vibrated against the countertop.
Unknown number: Hello Shane, it is Ilya from Rozanov Homestead
Unknown number: I have artichoke, tomato, snap pea, bell pepper, parsnip, carrot
Unknown number: Also had a few ripe berries, is a mix because was not enough for pint of each one
Unknown number: Please give item and quantity and I will get total
Unknown number: And address
Shane swiftly added the number to his contacts and sent back the information.
Ilya Rozanov: Thank you. Is $30, $15 for delivery. $45 total
Ilya Rozanov: I should be there in half hour or less
There’s a pause, then another from Ilya.
Ilya Rozanov: Do I need to leave by gate or door?
Shane: You can knock, I’ll be around
Ilya Rozanov: Ok
Sure enough, about twenty-four minutes later there was a knock at Shane’s door. He practically threw his empty smoothie cup into the sink and ran to the door, swinging it open. It was probably a bit much. Ilya appeared on the other side of the entry. Dirty blonde curls were combed tight to his head as usual. His arms were full with two brown paper bags full of Shane’s order, carrot stems hanging out the top of one of them. ‘Maybe today,’ Shane thought. ‘Maybe today I’ll ask him if he remembers me.’
“Hi Ilya, thanks so much for doing this,” Shane greeted him. “How are you?”
“Very good, thank you.” Shane held his gaze at Ilya, and he didn’t realize the smile that tugged at his lips was becoming very visible to the man opposite him. Ilya smiled but cocked an eyebrow.
“Oh, sorry about that,” Shane muttered with a pinch of his eyes and a small shake of his head. “Um, do you mind bringing that into the kitchen?”
“No problem.”
Ilya followed Shane in and the door fell shut behind them. The kitchen was only steps up the hallway and Shane motioned to the countertop where he wanted the order set. Ilya placed the bags exactly there.
“Nice place,” Ilya commented looking around at the high ceilings, down into the open floor plan and higher-end finishes.
“Thanks,” Shane replied. “It’s comfortable for the season.” A silence momentarily filled the space. “Do you want a glass of water or anything? I just have to get my cash for you.”
“No, I’m good thanks.”
Shane nodded and retreated to his room to fetch the payment. When he returned with the cash in hand, Ilya had been faced away from him, standing in front of his bookshelf across the room, maybe checking out the titles of Shane’s book stash or perusing his other decor and knick-knacks. He took notice of Shane’s footsteps and slowly turned around, the tiny Russian nesting doll clutched in his hand.
“You kept this,” Ilya whispered, eyes wide and watery. “You still have this.”
“Ilya,” Shane breathed. “Yes, of course. I kept it with me always.”
“I did not think you remembered me, Shane,” Ilya said. His accent was growing thicker through his building emotion, and his eyes left the doll in favor of Shane at that moment. “I recognized you the first time I saw you at the market. I did not think I would ever see you again.” Shane chuckled, the sound both soft and sad. Wetness now pooled in his eyes from witnessing Ilya’s bittersweet reaction.
“I didn’t think you would remember me,” he admitted. “But I could never forget you, Ilya. My friend.”
Shane stepped toward him and Ilya collapsed into his arms with a sob. Relief flooded through him like a tsunami, that Ilya had found him and held his memory close over these very distant years. They had been two ships passing in the night in their youth, the routes their lives charted lead them back to the same harbor now as adults.
Other than the brief touch of hands when 11-year old Ilya first handed him the tiny figurine and when they agreed on Ilya’s delivery service last week, Shane had no other physical contact with him until today. They had exchanged no hugs as children, not so much as a high-five, always on opposite sides of the wall at the farm stand. It felt so good to hold Ilya now, something he had secretly and deeply always wanted to do. Part of seeing Ilya again over the last eight or so months hadn’t felt entirely real. Yes, he’d been in front of Shane’s eyes, but like a ghost—like he’d vaporize if Shane reached out to touch him. With Ilya’s weight crashing down on him now, he was real, tangible, and Shane broke down.
He’d not experienced pain quite like Ilya disappearing in the blink of an eye, with no trace or hint of where he’d gone. At that age, he still hadn’t exactly understood the full scope of what death was. But losing Ilya—a real, physical, very present person in his life— to the displaced air that filled the void where he had once stood felt undoubtedly like a death at the time. He’d forced back tears a lot back then, and it was all coming out now.
“Oh my god, Ilya,” Shane bawled. “I am so happy that I found you.”
There they stood, just off the living room, wrapped tightly together. White knuckles grasped at and fisted the others’ shirt, desperate to keep close for fear that one of them would disappear again if they let go. Their chests expanded against each other in deep steadying breaths as their initial sobs declined into sniffles, dark spots from tear stains on the shoulders of their clothes.
“Sorry,” Ilya croaked when they eventually separated. “We are a mess.” Both their faces were red and shiny from crying, their hair tousled on the sides that had pressed together in their embrace. They laughed awkwardly before Shane grabbed a box of tissues off the end table behind Ilya for them.
“Don’t be sorry,” Shane sniffled. “I should be sorry for not saying anything sooner. I can’t believe we went all this time without….”
“No, it’s okay.” Ilya grabbed a fresh tissue and dabbed a corner of Shane’s eye that had been missed. His eyes lingered on Shane’s cheek for a spell. On his galaxy of freckles.
“Do you- do you have some time to stay? I’d really like to talk to you,” Shane stammered. He looked at Ilya, hopeful and pleading.
“I want to but I have more harvest in my truck, I am expected at the market soon,” Ilya answered disappointedly. His eyes fell to the floor.
“I’ll pay for it,” Shane said quickly. “I’ll buy everything in your truck. I’ll donate it, I work with some charities that take fresh food. Just… stay. Please.”
“Okay,” Ilya agreed. “I can take a sick day I guess.” He grinned, a heartbreaking relief still apparent through it, and returned his gaze to Shane. “Maybe glass of water too.”
Shane opened his garage and let Ilya pull his truck into the empty space next to his so the stock from the farm would stay fresh without sitting outside in the sun all day. Ilya returned to the house and Shane sat on an armchair in the living room, a glass of water on the coffee table. He motioned to the couch for Ilya to make himself comfortable.
Neither knew where to begin. Shane had so much he wanted to know. So much of Ilya he’d missed over the years. Would Ilya want to talk about any of it? Shane guessed maybe he knew what staying might entail and wouldn’t have agreed to it if he hadn’t wanted to talk about anything. He’d be OK if there were questions he didn’t want to answer, though. It wasn’t Shane’s business at the end of the day, he just wanted to catch up and get to know his friend again after all this time.
“How have you been?” Shane asked.
December 2002
Irina Rozanov woke up feeling different. There was always a happy kind of sadness, a satisfied hollow when she shuttered her farm stand for the winter. The summer and fall had been another good season for her. She was proud of her boys for working hard to help her grow and harvest in their humble fields. But for herself, an emptiness persisted where there was once joy and anticipation of the future. It had been growing stronger over the years, only her sons Andrei and Ilya kept her up and busy. She wanted to provide for them.
The boys were getting older. Andrei’s interest in farming was waning, instead he wanted to sit and sulk in his room or accompany his father on errands doing god knows what. Ilya had inherited a lot from Irina, in his looks and his green thumb. He waited at the kitchen table for her every night that winter when she should have been sitting out with him to review schoolwork and plan their gardens and fields for the spring, strategizing their rotations and deciding on something new to grow. She instead laid in her room until Ilya came to nestle by her side and she’d brush through his curls until it was time for bed.
At night, Ilya’s father could be heard down the hall speaking to Irina very harshly, even insulting her. Ilya curled up in bed clutching the hockey puck he kept under his pillow.
“This is not sustainable,” Grigori would hiss. “You do not make us enough money to live. It is a waste of time.”
When Ilya would wake up in the morning, he made sure to enter her room when he knew his father was gone. He planted a big kiss on her forehead and she would smile weakly at him. There was love in her eyes, but no sparkle. She stopped singing to him, she became forgetful and out of focus, she grew lethargic and hopeless. Ilya cherished his mother that was still here, but missed the mother he had.
Her decline hadn’t been noticeable before, but it was great and sudden all at once, until well into June when their earliest crops should have been nearly ready for the first harvest. The crops had not been planted that year, and Irina did not rise from her bed.
Ilya’s father left later than usual on that morning. When Ilya knew it was safe, he snuck through the crack of her bedroom door. He kissed her forehead, but she did not smile back this time. Ilya collapsed to the floor, paralyzed with grief. His loud sobs and screams for ‘mama’ echoed unanswered through the empty house.
The Rozanovs left their home in autumn after letting the farm grow into disarray. Ilya fought to stay, it was his mother’s home and his mother’s life’s work they were just throwing away. He had skipped school lessons to try growing even just a few simple things, determined to change his father’s mind. But his 12-year old body was too small and feeble to work the heavier equipment, the land too large to care for all by himself. Grigori had let go of the few farmhands they had. Andrei laughed at Ilya each time he tried to press on alone.
Amidst the chaos of moving and in the grief for his mother, Ilya lost his hockey puck, the same one his only friend Shane had gifted him. Shane was an exuberant young boy around his age that Ilya was fortunate to see every few weeks at the produce stand. Shane and his freckled cheeks, his kind eyes. He liked to talk about hockey a lot. Ilya knew about hockey from his early years growing up in Moscow, but when his family moved to North America and started a farm, he was too far away to enjoy or play hockey. Apparently Shane played, which was cool. His family was nice too, and they always bought a lot when they stopped by.
Shane would probably be to coming back to the farm with his family soon. The farm would be empty and overrun with weeds and Ilya would be not be there to see his friend. Ilya was in the car almost to Toronto when he realized Shane would probably be looking for him, wondering where he’d gone to. Nobody would be there to tell him. And the one thing Ilya had of Shane’s to remember him by was gone.
Grigori moved him and his sons into a fairly nice house outside of Toronto. It was maddening—he’d always complained about the lack of money they made to his late wife. So Ilya couldn’t figure out how he could afford a house near an expensive city when their farm property hadn’t even sold. Was his father sitting on this money all along when he ridiculed his mother for trying to keep them safe and comfortable and fed with the farm?
Toronto was miserable. Ilya hated the city. The noises were too much, everything was too cold and metallic. He missed trees, he missed wide open spaces. He missed the land where his mother raised him.
July 2007
As soon as Ilya’s schooling was complete, he quietly left his father’s home to a farm north of Oshawa. Some good came from living in Toronto, because at least they had a few farm markets, and he talked around to some of the farmers until one agreed to let him stay and work for them. They couldn’t pay him much on their own, but anything Ilya could get was a start. He could relearn the skills he hadn’t used in some years, and learn new ones, like how to fix the equipment and even care for livestock. As a kid, his mother briefly had a couple of chickens for eggs, but some coyotes had gotten to them and they never tried again.
On any days the farmer didn’t have much work for him, he spread the word to neighboring farms to call Ilya for extra help. It was kind of him to do that, and it helped bolster Ilya’s savings a little bit more.
Getting back to this way of life helped him feel close to his mother again. She was a little bit in every seed he planted, cheering him on from the sidelines of wherever her spirit rested. Irina was his motivation.
A few times, Ilya helped at the farm stand, mostly filling in for his boss to break for lunch or if he and his family had appointments to go to. Memories of Shane flooded his mind whenever he did. The rest of the farm was home to Irina in his heart, but the farm stand was home to Shane. He’d grieved Shane for a time too, his only childhood friend lost and destined to remain history with each passing day. Ilya couldn’t even begin to know how to find Shane, if he searched. Google would not know or be able to tell him who or where the boy with black hair and freckles was. Ilya didn’t know his last name or what part of Ontario he was from. What if he didn’t live in Ontario? He could have moved across the country to Kamloops or Moose Jaw for all Ilya knew. Did he even play hockey anymore?
To distract his mind and ever-growing list of questions, Ilya took any odd job someone proposed. The payments for his work cushioned his bank account. He was determined to buy his own property someday soon and never have the need to go back to his father’s home. Ilya worked himself to the bone for years, most days were harder than not, knowing when he made it to the finish line he would be well rewarded.
August 2010
Ilya had been bringing in the daily newspaper for a few months. His boss was limited to the main house while recovering from a knee procedure and he was getting to the tail end of his rehab. Ilya’s savings had grown significantly over the years, and in exchange for bringing in the paper, he could take the section with the real estate listings to start looking at available properties.
He was not impressed by the options he found around Oshawa. Nothing was really wrong with them, they were decent pieces of land, old houses with good bones. Maybe he still felt like he was too close geographically to his father here. Too close to track Ilya down for whatever cruel reason to try and shame him for following this way of life.
Ilya’s boss gave him a needed day off once he was back on his feet after surgery. Normally he would fight a day off, he wouldn’t have passed up on making some extra money. His body needed it though, and it was a good opportunity to broaden his real estate search. He drove himself into town to the library and jumped on a computer to research some other areas to move to.
He was surprised to find some affordable properties in the rural areas outside Montreal as he expanded the map. Living in a new province might be nice, a chance to really start fresh and put more kilometers between him and his estranged family. Later in the week Ilya found himself making the drive to meet with an agent and see a few places, and by the following month he was signing the closing papers for his house. His now-former boss rallied some of the fellow famers that Ilya helped out over the years to pay for a big moving truck to help him move into his new house. They also gifted him with some hand-me-down farming equipment to get him started when he was ready for his first planting. It was touching, Ilya was overcome with emotion from their kindness.
Ilya took the winter there to settle in and work on projects inside the house. He painted, refinished kitchen cabinets, patched up floors and replaced a bathtub. Every night he sat by the wood stove and mapped out arrangements for his gardens in the spring. From sunrise to sunset, he was committed to his dream. As soon as the snow melted, he was out at the garden center to pick up packets of seeds, fertilizers, a few fruit trees, even a small tiller. He purchased some lumber and had the merchant cut it to size so he could build his own small farm stand to sell his surplus whenever he would start harvesting. In the time between tending to his house and garden he took a job with a produce supplier to deliver fresh food to local restaurants and schools, needing to supplement his income while things were slow.
Years went on and eventually Andrei tracked him down. He knew it was only a matter of time, some kind of sick joke to knock him off-balance now that he was starting to thrive. Andrei didn’t want anything surprisingly, only to tell him their father had become very sick. Ilya was grateful for the contact. The news didn’t sadden him too deeply despite this. Yes, it was his father, but only by blood. Grigori never did anything except bury his wife and uproot his kids from the only life they had known in favor of whatever illicit dealings he had going on in Toronto.
April 2014
Andrei didn’t speak to Ilya at their father’s funeral except to give him information for the lawyer who was executing the will. Ilya was shocked that he was receiving half of the estate. He was even more shocked when he saw the number. How in the world was Grigori ever so ruthless to Irina when he had this kind of money in the bank? Ilya was glad he was gone. Andrei got their father’s house, obviously Ilya had no need for it.
Ilya banked the money, but spent some of it the only way he knew how to shove it in his father’s face: he spent it on his farm. He’d been eyeing a greenhouse, which would extend his growing season through the full year if it worked well. The build was paid for and scheduled. When it was completed, Ilya constructed tables and raised beds for the interior after he tended to his outdoor crops. He began researching openings at farmers markets too. His yield was becoming too much for his little farm stand with limited reach. The foot traffic at a city market would be beneficial to make money and limit his waste. Ilya had loyal customers at the farm stand, but they could only take so much from him.
October 2014
A market in the Little Italy section of Montreal had an opening for a new vendor to start in the fall. Ilya applied for the spot and by the late summer he received the collateral to display at the front of his table and the extra crates he had ordered to carry his supply. It was exciting, it would be a nice way to step out and get his produce out there. He was extremely proud of how he had grown since the beginning. Perhaps his mother had a hand in it, watching over him all these years. No, his mother definitely had a hand in it even before she knew what his life had in store, because she taught him everything she knew about love and care and hard work from the beginning. Her passion had been infectious.
Residents of Montreal filled the market on Ilya’s first day. Many were wearing jerseys and shirts for their beloved Metros, which Ilya understood was their professional men’s hockey team. Ilya set up his booth to his liking, and remembered the table banner he had forgotten to put up. When he had applied for the spot, he needed a name to identify his farm. “Rozanov Farms” had been his mother’s pride and joy, so Ilya decided on “Rozanov Homestead”. He picked red-colored lettering in honor of Irina’s old wooden sign.
In between the crowds of people, his first customer approached his booth when his back was turned to reorganize his crates. Did he really need to reorganize? No. He was a bit nervous with so many people around and hoped he would sell well on his first day.
“Hi, are you open yet?” asked a voice behind him. Ilya let the crates be and turned around.
“Sorry, I am open, yes,” Ilya answered. The man in front of his table was tall, athletic, handsome. Hair black like obsidian, brown eyes and… freckles. The man looked a lot like the grown up version of his Shane.
They both stared at each other for a moment. Ilya caught the familiar curious twinkle in the man’s eyes, and it was confirmation enough. This was definitely his Shane. He didn’t expect Shane to remember him though, and he kept quiet and professional.
Shane kept staring until Ilya broke through his thick focus with the ruffling of a plastic shopping bag. Ilya also needed to do something so he wouldn’t start crying at the first sight of his childhood friend after twelve years and creep him out.
“Yes, there is something you want?” Ilya asked.
“Hi, sorry, yes…,” Shane said and cleared his throat. “I’d like two bunches of carrots, I guess maybe three onions and one each of the thyme, rosemary and oregano. Oh, and one basket of peaches.”
“Ah, big spender,” Ilya commented with a sly smile. He began gathering all the items and packaged them up neatly in the bag while Shane looked on. “Making anything good?”
Shane explained with a small grin that everything was for his meal preps for the week. Ilya made some other quick small talk and before he could stop himself, he complimented Shane’s astounding physique. Shane lingered at the table shortly before paying, and then he left.
Ilya did well on his first day. He sold almost everything he had brought. When he packed up his truck and drove out of the city, he stopped at a gas station to fill his tank and grab a couple Cokes from the adjoining mini mart to stock his fridge with at home. Next to the counter in the mini mart there was a newspaper stand One paper was still left from that day’s news.
On the front page was a blown-up photo of a hockey player bumping heads with a goalie. The headline was in French which Ilya understood enough to speak only, but couldn’t read it very well. It looked like a happy scene in the photo, there was a smile on the player’s face. A smile that Ilya had seen that very morning. Below the photo, the caption was also in French, but he scanned it until he saw the name “Shane Hollander”. Shane. Shane Hollander.
He finally had a full name.
Ilya promised himself not to go insane about Shane Hollander. He allowed himself a few minutes to Google the name when he got home that evening while his leftover stew from a few days ago was heating on the stove. Images from Shane’s career thus far flooded the results screen, including a photo of him and his parents on his MLH draft day. Those were the same parents he’d seen routinely stopping by his mother’s farm stand over a decade ago, and that was indeed his Shane. Ilya sank to the floor and cried.
Ilya tried to keep at the market most days, because firstly his gardens kept sprouting enough to go back, and secondly he kept trying to work up the courage to say something to Shane if he came back.
It had almost been two weeks and Shane had not returned yet. After a week Ilya gave him the benefit of the doubt that either he hadn’t worked through all his meal preps yet or he was just busy, although worry crept into the back of his mind that maybe Shane was not happy with what he purchased from his booth. A few days past that, Shane reappeared.
He asked Shane how he had enjoyed his vegetables and teased that maybe they were not very good if he had waited so long to come back. Shane assured him that everything was amazing and he had been gone, out of town for a spell. Right. Hockey schedules. Ilya didn’t lead on that he knew Shane yet or even that he knew he was the city’s star hockey player. He simply took Shane’s order like he would anyone else and got paid and they went their separate ways again.
Then it really sank in that Shane mentioned he hadn’t tasted produce as good as Ilya’s since he was a kid. Could he possibly…? Ilya needed to say something. However, with the bustling market, Ilya usually had a line and he couldn’t take up people’s time like that when he had a business to run.
Fifteen minutes later Shane was back in front of the booth.
“Forget something?” Ilya asked.
Shane only wanted to know if he was going to continue to be at the market through the winter, curious if he could still grow anything through the cold. Ilya informed him that he intended to be, with his new greenhouse he was hopeful to get some production in the offseason. Shane seemed happy about this, eager to keep patronizing Ilya’s booth.
They carried on their song and dance as the months flew by. The spring came, and Ilya found out that Montreal was headed to the playoffs. He wondered what that meant, if Shane would still come around like usual. There wasn’t a lot of time or energy left over in Ilya’s days to sit down and learn about this kind of stuff.
In the middle of April, Ilya was tending to a line of customers at the market when he saw Shane hurriedly join the queue. He looked impatient, checking his watch every few minutes. Ilya couldn’t rush through his line though Shane was making it difficult not to. He looked like he needed to be somewhere and this wasn’t his usual day to come.
Shane finally got to the front of the table and Ilya was about to open a bag for an order, but Shane only had a question. Would Ilya consider delivering his produce indefinitely, for a fee, since his schedule was ramping up. Ilya concluded internally that this had something to do with the playoffs. He would be more than happy to assist and so he took Shane’s information to use for his first delivery day. Above the name and phone Shane had written down, Ilya scribbled ‘Thursday’ so he wouldn’t forget the first request in all his excitement. He went home and thanked his mama for bringing Shane back. He wouldn’t waste this opportunity to reconnect with Shane for real.
The rest of the time passed in a blur until Ilya blinked and he was standing in Shane Hollander’s kitchen. Shane had disappeared into the back hallway to get cash for Ilya’s payment. Ilya looked around at the clean and polished condo, a far cry from his fixer-upper in the country, when something caught his eye. A Russian nesting doll, displayed front and center on a bookshelf. It was only the smallest doll of the set, the innermost figurine. Shane did not have any of the other pieces. On the left cheek was a perfectly imperfect black dot that Ilya had marked it with during his final interaction with kid Shane before his life turned upside down. And Shane had held onto it all this time. A sob wracked through Ilya’s entire body as he picked the doll up from the shelf, a hand over his mouth to muffle his cry. He heard Shane’s footsteps coming back into the room.
Shane remembered him, he was holding the proof that he had never once forgotten, and Ilya crashed into his arms when Shane took a step closer.
April 2014
Shane listened to Ilya talk and they sniffled over a growing pile of tissues on the coffee table. At some point during Ilya’s story, Shane had moved over to the couch next to him and had tried soothing him with a firm hand on his back. It broke his heart that Ilya went through all those years alone, that he lost his mom and everything he loved, and subsequently the rest of his family, while Shane had just sat in the car as a kid innocently wondering where Ilya had left to. How could he have known, though, back then?
Ilya built himself up from nothing despite the grief and the hardships he faced. That was a major accomplishment and Shane was so proud of his perseverance, his grit, his heart. Shane told him this and Ilya fell into his chest with another big wave of emotion. He imagined Ilya probably hadn’t had anyone to tell him that they were proud of him since his mother passed. He held Ilya tightly and let a few more of his own tears fall.
“Ilya, I am so sorry I wasn’t there for you,” Shane said weakly. “I wish I could have been. I didn’t know how to find you. I tried.”
“Shane, it’s okay,” Ilya reassured him, muffled by Shane’s t-shirt. Because truly, as much as it broke Shane, there was nothing he could have done.
Holding Ilya was everything to him. He melted perfectly into Shane’s arms, a piece long missing that clicked into its rightful place. Shane never wanted him to go another day in his life alone, without the support and love that he was so deserving of. He hoped Ilya would want to be close with him. Shane wasn’t sure he could lose him again when he just got him back.
“Alright, alright,” Shane began when he blinked his last tears away. “Enough sad.” Ilya chuckled and unwrapped himself from around Shane. “Let’s go donate that food in your truck. I’ll make a couple calls. You’re welcome to come back and hang out here after too, if you want.”
A few soup kitchens were more than happy to take the fresh produce off their hands for their community meals. The boys did more catching up on drive before Ilya took Shane home after with an empty flatbed and happy hearts after an emotional morning. They’d spent hours together, gone longer than either of them planned. It was perfect. Something had shifted between them during that time, pulling them toward each other as naturally as gravity. Stepping back inside the condo, they stood and faced each other.
“I have a game tonight,” Shane started softly. “If you’re not busy and want to come, I can get you in.” Ilya’s eyes glimmered and he smiled at the offer, but ultimately shook his head.
“I wish,” he said. “The gardens need much work since I have not been there all day. It is a very nice offer, thank you.” Shane’s face changed into mild shock.
“Wait, you really do all this on your own?” Ilya nodded. “With how much you have at the markets, I thought you’d have at least one extra set of hands.”
“Nope.” Ilya popped the ‘p’. “No help. All on my own.”
“So you really are all on your own out there…. Like, you live alone.”
“Yes, Shane,” Ilya said. “You live alone here, no? What, you will come murder me, lonely farmer in middle of nowhere?” He grinned playfully, Shane blushed and shook his head downward to hide his own grin. When he looked up, Ilya’s smile lingered and his eyes were focused on Shane’s face, but fell just below his nose. Shane licked his bottom lip and brushed it with his thumb in case he had something stuck there.
“Do you… like living alone?” Shane lowered his gaze to Ilya’s mouth, then back up to his eyes.
“Sometimes is okay,” Ilya said. The twinkle came back to his eyes. “But it would be nice to have someone pretty to keep me company.” Shane’s look fell to the floor.
“Ah.”
“Pardon me if it is too much… you are very pretty, Shane.” Brown eyes snapped back up to Ilya’s dark blues. “And maybe you can have me over for dinner one night, and if you want, I can show you how pretty you are.”
“Yes,” Shane exhaled sharply without hesitation. “I want.”
“Have a good game.” Ilya winked and turned to walk to the door. A shiver crawled across Shane’s skin. While he wanted to hold Ilya once more before he left, it was probably a good thing for him to just go otherwise he likely wouldn’t have made it out the door.
“Wait, Ilya,” Shane called. Ilya skidded to a halt. “I need to pay you for everything that was in your truck.”
“Oh, you do not have to-,” Ilya started to say.
“No. Don’t even start that. I’m paying you,” Shane insisted. “You grew and picked all that and didn’t even get to sell it because of me. So if you don’t tell me I’m giving you however much I want.”
They settled on a price, and Shane paid him double, quieting every protest thrown his way before Ilya pulled out of the driveway.
Shane played a great fucking game that night. He scored the opening goal of the game, and even though Montreal fell behind late, he got a second goal on the night to tie it and force overtime. It shifted the momentum in their favor going into the extra period, and propelled the team to win the series on a slap shot from the point by their defenseman Parent to send New York home. The team flooded the ice and pinned Parent against the glass in celebration before breaking up for the handshake line.
He celebrated with his team a little longer than he usually would on just any old win. Everyone was excited, they were moving on. The Metros would be waiting several days to find out what team they’d play in the second round so he could spare the extra time, although he still needed to do his post-game workout and desperately wanted to get home to sleep. Even though they let New York only take one win in the series, the last few wins for Montreal had been tight and coach would surely be working them hard tomorrow. It would only get more difficult down the stretch.
There were some texts on his phone when he got home that night, all from Ilya. He had sent them over the course of the evening. Ilya had apparently watched the game, or at least part of it once he finished with his farm chores.
Ilya Rozanov: I never watch you play before
Ilya Rozanov: You score that goal because you eat your vegetables ;)
Ilya Rozanov: Great game Shane. I am proud of you
Ilya Rozanov: Goodnight
Shane shot one back before he went to sleep.
Shane: I’m glad you could watch :) I’m off tomorrow night, come for dinner?
Yuna called Shane in the morning after he’d had his morning run to chat about the game. Talking about the technical parts of the game and weak areas was her schtick, and Shane always engaged with her. He knew he’d get an earful after a difficult couple of games against New York. Since he’d hear it all again from coach in a couple of hours, he was eager to change the topic.
“Mom, remember how I told you I found one of the Rozanovs from the farm when I was younger?” Shane asked.
“Of course! How are they doing?” Yuna asked. Shane could hear her shuffling around through the phone, she was probably pouring her coffee with her phone pressed to her shoulder.
“It’s actually just Ilya, the boy who was my age,” Shane shared. “Or I guess, he’s still my age now.” He chuckled briefly, then quieted. “I talked to him. He told me his mom had passed away when they never reopened all those years ago.”
“Oh dear, how awful,” she exclaimed. “What a horrible thing for him to go through at such a young age.”
“I know.” Shane paused. “We’ve been catching up a lot. I invited him to come over for dinner tonight since we’re between rounds. You know the farm he’s at now is his own? He started it from the ground up basically, he does it all by himself.”
“Wow! That’s very impressive, I imagine that’s a lot to take on.”
“You should see how much he grows, I cannot believe it’s all just him! But we’re having fun reconnecting and I hate for him to be alone, you know? He’s gone through a lot.”
“That’s very sweet, Shane. So… is he coming for dinner?”
“I haven’t heard from him yet. I’m sure he’s working at the market this morning,” Shane answered. “But I have to go to practice here, so I’ll talk to you soon. Love you, mom.”
“Love you, Shane.”
Practice was tough as expected. There was hope for one good thing at the end of all the grueling drills. Okay, two things: motivation to come back stronger for the second round, and Ilya’s reply. The text came through during practice. Shane picked his phone up out of the upper cubby at his stall before he got changed and the little message banner appeared on his screen.
Ilya Rozanov: What time and do I need to bring anything?
Shane answered.
Shane: Is 6 okay? Or earlier, is fine, I’m not doing anything later. Just bring yourself
A reply came through straight away.
Ilya Rozanov: I will text when I am on my way
As soon as Shane got home, he got to work coming up with a menu. He looked in his fridge and freezer, realizing it would likely be chicken. Ilya didn’t seem like the type for fish. After he prepped everything he wrapped it in baking dishes in his fridge for later so he could spend more time with Ilya, and hopped in the shower. At around 3 PM he got an ‘on the way’ text. Earlier than he expected, but he did tell Ilya he could come over basically whenever. Ilya was clearly looking forward to spending time with him, too. Shane changed out of his lounging clothes into something simple but a little more elevated than just casual. A light gray linen shirt, dark jeans, and black socks. He felt good, comfortable.
Shane opened his door to greet Ilya. He’d seen Ilya almost weekly since October but seeing him on his doorstep for the second day in a row was so incredibly surreal. Ilya got a little dressed up for the occasion too, it was so cute. He nearly knocked the breath out of Shane. He had come in light wash jeans (clearly not a pair he wore to work outside in as they were without dirt stains and rips), a forest green polo, and a red necktie with dainty white polka dots. The only thing that screamed “farm” were his work boots, but they complimented his outfit well and they’d be coming off at the door. His hair was combed back in his usual clean and gelled style.
“Hey Ilya,” Shane greeted. “You look great. Come in.”
“Thank you for inviting me,” Ilya replied. “You look very good too.”
Ilya crossed the threshold and the two got lost in the sight of each other for a moment. When it went on a beat too long they both blushed and huffed out a short giggle. Shane toed at the floor, hands in his pockets.
“I still can’t believe you’re here,” Shane uttered, it earned a fond smile from Ilya. “I know I said come over whenever, but I hadn’t planned out what we were going to do yet. I mean, apart from dinner.”
“I am good to wing it,” Ilya said. There was a hint of mischief at the base of his delivery.
“We could talk, for a little while,” Shane suggested, but it lacked promise. Shane knew what he really wanted. “Until we… decide….” Ilya inched closer to him.
“No, let’s talk after,” Ilya said about three octaves deeper as he stepped into his space. His gaze had honed in on Shane’s mouth.
“Okay,” was the only thing Shane could breathe out when Ilya’s lips were already on his, strong and fervently. Ilya was devouring him, and something about it was both extremely sexy and tranquilizing. Shane would easily become addicted.
He commanded the kiss, coaxing Shane to part his lips with minimal pushback before his tongue slid through, and groaned into his mouth. Shane wrapped his hands around the back of Ilya’s head to push him crushingly deeper against his face. His fingers freed some of the curls from the stronghold of his hair gel and, god, Shane was absolutely floating. Their mouths folded together as if they were cut from the same mold. Shane felt the sharp outline of Ilya’s cupid’s bow as his lip sank over it.
They parted to breathe and Shane realized Ilya had backed him up into the wall.
“Now that that is out of the way, we talk,” Ilya joked. He pecked Shane on the tip of his nose.
“Shut up,” he said, and he was beaming.
If “talk” meant cuddle on the couch and make out some more, then they definitely talked. They talked for a long time. Shane couldn’t keep his hands off Ilya and eventually the rest of his curls fell loose, wispy and unruly like when they were kids. Shane’s shirt was half unbuttoned. He ended up on his back, elevated by a pillow. Ilya laid face-down between his legs and against his stomach, and Shane idly toyed with his curls, twirling them around his index finger.
“You told me yesterday you lost your puck, right?” Shane inquired quietly.
“Yes,” Ilya answered, despondent as he let go of a long breath. “My father made us leave in such a hurry there was a lot we left. I thought I put it in my bag but it was not there when we got to the new house.”
“I promise I’m going to get you another one. It will be another game winner.” Ilya popped his head off his abs, looking very concerned.
“My puck was a game winner?”
“Yeah,” Shane laughed. “I didn’t think you understood me enough then to tell you. It was my first ever game winning goal puck. It won us the tournament that weekend.”
“Shane, I am going to throw up,” Ilya said dramatically. “You are telling me you not only gave me a puck from your goal, but that it was your first ever winning puck… and I lost it forever.”
“Do not throw up, Ilya,” Shane urged, squirming. “I got a trophy anyways. That puck wasn’t my only take-home.” Ilya sighed and rested his head back down on Shane, who watched it rise and fall with his breaths. “But I’ll get you one better. And I want you to be in the crowd when it happens.”
“I will be, and I will hold you to it.”
“You know, I like your curls like this,” Shane added, twisting another on his fingertip. “You look great either way, but, I don’t know, this just feels more you.”
“Is hard to leave them loose when I sweat all day. They stick to my face,” Ilya stated.
“That makes sense.”
“Maybe for you I will let them free sometimes,” Ilya said. “Since you have such pretty freckles and you said so nicely.”
“Shut up, I do not,” Shane said, another blush rising to his cheeks.
“No, is very true,” Ilya insisted. “Since always I have been… obsessed, yes?”
“Since always, huh?” Ilya craned his neck so his chin rested on Shane’s chest on top of his steady, shallow breaths.
“Mm, yes,” Ilya said. He pushed himself up, caging Shane with his arms, and leaned in to kiss each of Shane’s cheeks and the bridge of his nose where the freckles were dusted. “So very beautiful, you are.”
“You’re flattering me,” Shane said, turning pink.
“No sorry, I was talking to freckles.”
“Okay,” Shane huffed jokingly, shoving Ilya off him. Ilya pouted, the dramatics coming out in full force again. “I have to put dinner in the oven.”
It was amazing how quickly the two became comfortable with each other, like they had never been apart. After Shane got the oven lit and the food in, he gave Ilya an official tour of the condo, including the small office space where he held all his MLH awards and plaques. They made it back to the kitchen somehow without distraction and with the few minutes to spare before the timer went off, Ilya pruned the little herb stems that Shane had bought from him and repotted so they would grow in better.
The two enjoyed their dinner, using the time to actually talk. A cozy, steadying energy bloomed in the air between them. Shane cleared the dishes when they were done and returned to the table where he sat on Ilya’s lap and pressed their lips together again. Ilya’s thick arms wrapped around Shane’s back to hold him in place with great need. Shane cupped his cheek and let his tongue slip in.
Later, Ilya sat up from the bed and began readying himself to head home. It hadn’t been too long after dinner before they redirected themselves to the mattress and Ilya delivered on showing Shane exactly how pretty he was. They’d laid tangled and touching each other for some time after.
But Ilya needed to get home to sleep. His days started at 4:30 in the morning to pick and tend to his gardens and get everything packed up for the market. Shane hadn’t considered this when he invited Ilya, but it made sense then why he had been over so early. Ilya departed with a long kiss and a promise to have Shane over, even if it meant waiting until the season was over when things weren’t so crazy. Ilya could keep meeting up with Shane in the meantime when their schedules meshed. A final promise for the night was for Ilya to let Shane know when he was safely home. Shane waited up until he got that text.
The Metros second round opponent was decided two days later. They would be going up against Columbus, who had upset in the first round and crushed the statistically better Toronto team. Shane saw Ilya once during this round, between games one and two, because the Metros ultimately swept Columbus in a quick four games. The other Eastern matchup opposite them was a speedy five games and soon the conference finals began in Boston.
May 2015
Shane continued to skyrocket in the playoff scoring ranks. He was a major factor in each of their victories, even when they lost a game he still gave his all to get on the scoresheet and try to will them to a win.
Boston took them to six games, and Ilya finally took Shane up on his offer to go see him play. It was a gray spring day, rain was relentlessly coming down in buckets and there wasn’t much that Ilya was able to do outside at the farm through it. Shane left a jersey in his suite for Ilya to wear. Before warmups, Shane exited the tunnel to sit on the bench and meditate. Fans were just beginning to fill the arena and he lifted his view to the suite level. He could just about make out Ilya’s hulking figure in the box, curly hair looking untamed and wearing a blue jersey, and he smiled, warming inside.
Montreal led the series three games to two and could clinch their first trip in fifteen years to the Cup Finals if they won tonight. A win tonight was not for the grand prize but it might as well have been, the way Shane was buzzing knowing Ilya was in the building.
Shane could not find the back of the net that night. Maybe it was nerves, wanting to impress Ilya, but it certainly wasn’t for a lack of trying. He registered a personal best of shot attempts in a playoff game. Thankfully his teammates rallied and put enough past the Boston goalie to win the game and the series. They had the game in the bag by the third period, leading 6-2 on the scoreboard with little chance of Boston turning it around before the clock hit zeroes.
Following the presentation of the Eastern Conference championship award and his captain’s duty to give a locker room speech, Shane snuck away to a back hallway where he had a staffer bring Ilya down.
“Thanks for coming tonight,” Shane said, glowing. Ilya embraced him and planted a big wet kiss on the cheek, complete with an embellished ‘mwah’ sound effect.
“I am happy you won,” Ilya said. “You will have to score more goals if you want me to come back.”
“Fuck off. But seriously, you let your curls free for me and this is how I repay you,” Shane chuckled. He reached up and teased the ends his hair. “I don’t get it, how did I not even get one?” He sighed then, resting his forehead on Ilya’s shoulder.
“You think I make you nervous?”
“Not a chance,” Shane said, and it might have been a little bit of a lie. He tried really hard to play better than his best with Ilya looking on. “I have to do a bunch of press now, so I don’t want you to feel like you need to stick around if you need to get home. I just wanted to say goodnight if you were gonna head out.”
“Yes, this is later than I have been out in, well, ever,” Ilya laughed. “Past my bedtime.” The corners of his eyes crinkled with exhaustion. “But I had the best time, it was fun. Puck goes in the net next time, remember.” He winked.
“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it all. Maybe if you beg for it.”
“Ah, look at you,” Ilya cheesed. “I am not above begging, but luckily I do not have to since you already made promise to me.” Shane waved his hand dismissively as he blushed.
“Goodnight, Ilya.”
“Goodnight, Shane.”
“Text me when you’re home.”
“You too.”
They parted with two delicate, languid kisses and Ilya was led out to the back lot where his truck was parked and waiting.
June 2015
Shane was desperate to make time to be with Ilya before he had to travel west with the team to Minnesota for the Finals. Coach practically had the team under lock and key when he had the bogus idea to put the team up in a hotel in Montreal rather than have them live in their homes with their families. This was allegedly to “limit distractions” so the team could focus on the games at hand. It sucked for the guys with babies and young kids and wives at home, who were already on such limited time with them during the regular season. But it was a sacrifice for the gig, and they were so close to the finish.
So, they were forced to survive off late-night video calls and texts for a few days. In the grand scheme of things it wasn’t so bad, but they obviously would have preferred the real thing, to be in each others’ arms. Ilya switched his sleep schedule just enough that he could see Shane’s smiling face through the screen for a short time after the first two home games. The gesture warmed Shane’s heart ever so much.
The series was one game apiece going into game three at Minnesota. On a routine dump and chase of the puck, Shane’s skate blade caught a funky edge and he went down, sliding into the boards, his knee compressing on impact. The ref whistled the play dead when Shane stayed down, writhing on the ice, his face crumpled and contorted from the pain. His athletic trainer ran onto the ice to check on him but he was able to get up on his own after a minute. He went to the room immediately with a mild limp in his gait. At the start of the second period, he came out to try a lap but the trainer advised him to stay out of the game as a precaution.
Shane remained in the locker room through the rest of the game, half dressed. It was so hard for him to watch the game when he couldn’t be there for his teammates. Ilya had texted him in a panic the moment he saw the fall and kept him company on the phone once he knew Shane was okay but not returning to the ice. The Metros were able to pull it off without him luckily, stepping up in the absence of their captain. On their day off following the game, Shane did light work on his knee to test it out and was a game-time decision for game four.
The Metros disappointed the Minnesota home crowd in game four with a close win. Shane was able to get into the lineup and scored their second goal. Less than a minute after Minnesota tied it up, Pike deflected a shot-pass from Shane for the go-ahead. It wound up being the game winner and they went home to Montreal, the Cup in the building for their shot at becoming champions. They knew their opponent would come out guns blazing, backs against the wall, and they would have to control the pace to come away victorious.
Shane invited Ilya back to the game that night to sit in his suite. He paid some of Ilya’s neighbors to do some work on his property so Ilya could take all the time off he needed in case Shane won the cup. He wanted Ilya to stay to celebrate all night with him if they did. Yuna and David were also going to be in attendance, hoping to see their son accomplish the dream he worked all his life for. Shane had told his parents ahead of time that Ilya would be there and they waited in the parking garage for him.
While Shane was inside preparing himself and his team for what they hoped would be their last game of the season, Yuna and David warmly embraced Ilya. Many tears were shed when they said how sorry they were to hear of his mother, and they reminisced on all the happy memories that Ilya’s mother’s farm stand had given them. Yuna took over the conversation when they started to walk into the building. She had all kinds of questions about Ilya’s new farm, and would more than likely continue to bombard Ilya with them until puck drop.
The anthems had only just begun and the crowd was the loudest it had ever been in Shane’s career. Shane was on the ice, standing on the blue line as part of the starting line-up. He shifted his weight back and forth from one foot to the other, trying to stay loose and centered. Looking up toward his suite, he saw Ilya and his parents standing together. His eyes only lingered a moment before dropping back to the ice.
Tonight was for him, but it would be for them just as much.
Neither team gave way in the first period. As soon as Shane won the opening face-off, he raced up ice and connected a pass to JJ for a quick shot from the circle. The goalie batted it away easily with his blocker. Minnesota took control in the other direction and Parent blocked the shot before it got to the net, but another Minnesota forward found the puck and shot it from a sharp angle. Mitty shouldered it away for his defense to clear. The rest of the period went like that. Lots of chances but no breaks.
For as much as Shane had been in his own head the last time Ilya was here to watch, he was miraculously able to obtain a clear mind in this, the pinnacle of any game he could ever play. He tuned everything else out, listening only to the calls and shouts of his teammates, the crackling of the ice under his blades, the sharp tapping of sticks on the ice. The puck on his stick gave him wings, propelling him between defenders to all the right areas of the rink. This is what he was born to do. It was the most fun he’d had in his professional career.
Late in the second Shane caught the puck on the blade of his stick and flew toward the Minnesota netminder. The defense in front of him got fooled by his fake shot and went down too early, and he wristed the puck to the top corner of the net. It sailed cleanly over the shoulder of the goalie and finally there was a goal on the board and the Metros had the lead. The goal horn blared and the building erupted even louder. Shane jumped into the glass to celebrate his goal before his line mates tackled him in a dogpile. But the game was far from over.
They held the lead into the third. The crowd was blowing the roof off the building when they skated back onto the ice. Just over five minutes into the period, Pike was called for a hook in a desperate attempt to get Minnesota off the puck after they picked his pocket and he needed to play defense when they took off on a breakaway. The untimely penalty led to a game tying power play goal for the opposition. But the fans didn’t deflate. They wouldn’t let the team deflate and the Metros wouldn’t give them a reason to. Shane tapped Pike on the leg with his stick when he skated out of the penalty box, a signal of support, they had his back.
No goal would come before the clock ran down to zero after sixty minutes, and the team went to the room to prepare for overtime. While it was not do-or-die for them, all they needed was one goal to end this. Coach said a few words, Shane said a few words, everyone gave their full attention and threw in their own messages of motivation to keep the team inspired and on track to take this game for themselves.
The crowd was impossibly louder when both teams returned to the ice for the extra period. Shane won the face-off, and the opening of the overtime began very similarly to the first period. Back and forth, momentum swinging, lots of chances taken against goalies who morphed into brick walls.
Then, a window opened. A beautiful window, a grave error by a Minnesota defenseman caught out of place. The puck ended up on JJ’s stick while Shane was halfway up the ice waiting for the pass, screaming even though he knew that JJ saw him the whole way. Rubber smacked the blade of his stick, time slowed, and the noise drowned out every thought that tried to enter his brain. The goalie likely assumed Shane would come in trying some fancy toe-drag between-the-legs trick shot in front of the blue paint and didn’t come out as far as he should have to take away the angles. But this was good old-fashioned overtime hockey for the Cup, not time for cutesy little tricks. Shane surprised him with a slapper from the top of the circle and as the crowd held their breath, the puck clinked off the crossbar and shot down across the goal line.
The building exploded, pure unabashed noise that rattled the walls and could be heard two hours away in Shane’s hometown of Ottawa, if not further. Shane hollered with elation and sprinted to the other end of the rink. On his way down, he pointed up at Ilya in his suite, dedicating the goal to him. He had to look back quickly so he wouldn’t trip over where his teammates had thrown their helmets and sticks and gloves when they made an even bigger dogpile around Mitty. He leapt on top of Comeau, or at least he thought it was Comeau, with tears in his eyes he couldn’t see straight. Everyone in sight got a hug, a kiss on the cheek, “let’s go boys” and “we fuckin’ did it!”
“Fuck yeah, Hollzy,” Pike screamed. “Fucking best of the year!” Shane gripped the shoulders of Pike’s jersey and shook him ecstatically.
As was tradition in all the playoff rounds, they dispersed from the initial celebration for the handshake line. Minnesota stood from their crumpled despondent positions on and around the bench, their ride coming to an end not in the way they hoped. Shane congratulated them on a great game and series, though it seemed like it fell on deaf ears, the wound still fresh for them.
At the end of the line Shane spotted the puck. Before he got wrapped up in what was to come, he skated over to retrieve it and tucked it into his jersey under his compression shirt.
First was the presentation of the MVP award. Shane was given this honor, ending the playoffs with the most points and second-most goals of any players that year. It was nice but not the trophy he wanted. He handed it off quickly to a trainer to keep on the bench. Arena staff cleared the area and rolled out the Cup, and the league Commissioner presented Shane with the trophy first as the team captain. He hoisted it over his head, shaking it vigorously, and lowered it to kiss the cold metal that he earned. After a few laps with his teammates in tow, Shane handed it off to Mitty for keeping them in the game tonight.
Fans pounded on the glass, phones out to take all the photos and videos of the greatness they’d just witnessed from their team. Shane stepped back while his teammates enjoyed the moment and flashed a grin up toward his suite, looking for his favorite dirty blonde curls. The suite was vacant, but before he could worry, Yuna, David and Ilya were all walking onto the ice with the other families of the Metros to celebrate together.
Yuna held her son and cried, repeating how proud she was of him about a million times. Not usually one for big emotions, David even found himself to be teary-eyed. He gave Shane a hearty pat on the back before pulling him into a monster of a hug. Then Ilya. Sweet, beautiful Ilya, staring at him with big wet eyes like the first time he was at Shane’s condo standing across from this unreal, long lost person from his youth. Shane towered over him on his skates. Ilya cracked first and they crashed together, a bone-crushing hug while they buried their faces in the crooks of their necks.
This is what it was all about. The trophies were all well and earned with hard work, but the moments the sport afforded around all that fanfare was what meant most to Shane. Playing hockey had given him the single greatest thing beyond the rink: finding his Ilya. Years of worry and unknowing washed away the moment Ilya appeared through the crowd in his farmers market booth, and again when the nesting doll made them say what they already knew. And none of that would have happened if Shane hadn’t stuck with hockey, hadn’t worked day in and out to be the best, hadn’t landed in Montreal on his draft day. If Shane hadn’t played hockey in the first place, he might never have known Ilya to begin with.
Shane told Ilya he’d be up celebrating for a while, but could take the key to his condo if he was ready to go at any point. They’d have to drive separately anyways since Ilya came up in his pickup and Shane would probably have his parents take him home if he was drinking with the boys for a while.
The locker room was dripping beer and champagne from the ceiling well before all the bottles were dry. Someone kept pouring beer in the bowl of the trophy to pass around for everyone to drink, and more beer sloshed out to the floor than made it into mouths. Bodies were sticky but adrenaline was still high hours after the ice was cleared.
Shane was a little tipsy and decided he was calling it a night a little after 2 AM. He’d noticed Ilya had left some time ago and had enough himself. There would be many more festivities to enjoy over the next week. He quickly showered to rid him of as much beer smell and sticky coating as he could, and dressed back into his suit to leave. As captain he was also allowed to take the Cup home the first night after winning if he wanted. The rest of the team was still going strong though, so he left the trophy with them to enjoy. Yuna drove with Shane in his car out and David trailed behind in theirs.
If Yuna noticed Ilya’s pickup truck parked on the street outside of Shane’s condo, she didn’t mention anything. He wanted that conversation to wait for another day when he was of sounder mind and could discuss with Ilya first. It was clear they had feelings for each other to some capacity, but nothing was worth saying now until they both could decide what they wanted together. Shane had so badly wanted to kiss him out there on the ice when he had come out with the other families too, but a lot of people didn’t know about him yet. The media circus that would have been born out of a kiss like that wasn’t something he wanted to thrust Ilya into without his consent. He honestly preferred to have his moment with Ilya in the privacy of his home after being in front of cameras for hours and hours.
Shane silently let himself in, unsure whether Ilya would be asleep or awake. The lights were dimmed in the kitchen but the room was empty. He first got himself a glass of water and chugged it for his poor body that had been marinating in alcohol. Ilya slowly trudged out from the back hall by the time he finished and his eyes lit up. His curls were pushed up on one side of his head from sleep.
“Hi,” Shane sang. He set his empty glass down to step to the other side of the room. Their arms wrapped around each other instinctively and Shane kissed his temple. “Thank you for coming tonight. So much.”
“I did not want to be anywhere else. You enjoy the party, Mr. Champion?” Ilya asked with a yawn, pulling back to look him in the eyes. He was so sleepy and handsome but his pride in Shane was obvious across his face.
“It was fun, but a lot,” Shane admitted, laughing. “Those guys are crazy. I still can’t believe we won.”
“I can believe it,” Ilya stated plainly, pursing his lips. “You are Shane Hollander, my superstar.”
“I’m your superstar?” Shane said, beaming.
“Well are you not?” Ilya returned the grin. “Hm, I will go then to look for new superstar.” He shrugged like it was no big deal and to tease Shane further, he turned around, pretending to go.
“Fuck you,” Shane chuckled, tugging him back. “Fine, I’m your superstar. And this superstar has something he owes you.”
Shane pulled the little black hockey puck out of his suit jacket, wagging it back and forth in his fingers. Ilya nibbled on his bottom lip before grinning again, unable to contain himself.
“One game winning goal puck. Scored by Shane Hollander,” Shane said. “Witnessed in person by Ilya Rozanov, as promised.”
He held out the puck between them. Ilya grabbed on to take it and Shane didn’t let go, pulling the puck back to draw him forward until their lips met in a tender brush. He then released the puck to pull Ilya impossibly closer, running fingers through the curls at his neck. The rubber landed with a thunk on the kitchen floor. Ilya splayed his hands across his back and slid them down to squeeze Shane’s ass. It escalated the force of their mouths to heat and hunger, starved for the touch since early in the evening. They breathed from each other until they couldn’t, and separated with a strand of saliva draped between their mouths.
Shane Hollander played a great game today. After scoring the game winning goal in overtime to clinch the Cup, he claimed his game winning puck. That puck ended up in the caring hands of Ilya Rozanov. Shane ended up there too when Ilya picked him up and carried him to bed, their lips never separating.
There was no better way he could celebrate.