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The game was hectic, and the crowd was rowdy, dying at the back and forth of the Montreal Metros and the Boston Raiders. Hollander felt himself getting antsy, more pressure as he kept missing shots and passes. The Raiders weren’t doing much better.
Hollander could see their captain, his rival, Ilya Rozanov gathering the Raiders to yell in their faces, telling them to perform better.
Sliding to the face off, Rozanov’s head was red down to what was hidden under his jersey, his mouth running off of swear words. “сака блят!”
The Canadian was tempted to say something stupid, comment on the anger in his voice and the red in his skin. You look like a true Russian, but that would cause only bad things. Bad things like gloves falling.
Instead, Hollander whispered a, “You okay?”
Rozanov’s face relaxed to something sadder. “Fuck. Papa is watching.”
Hollander didn’t know what that meant, but something bad. Maybe Rozanov’s dad was very strict, or maybe the man just didn’t want to disappoint. “You’re going to do fine.”
Rozanov scoffed. “Interesting kind of chirping, Hollander.”
“Yeah?”
“Stop talking.”
Hollander hummed, tapping his stick on the ice instead of talking, like Rozanov requested.
The puck dropped, and they were back in the game. Hollander jumped too soon, missing the puck completely. Rozanov skated away with it, before passing to Marlow, who passed it to Carmichael, and at some point it came back to Rozanov.
Hollander was on the verge of throwing a fit. His body trembled, aching to just do something right. Rozanov was making things impossible.
He sped up, swerved, and then crashed into Rozanov, pushing him to the boards, and then—
and then through the boards. Through the boards, the icy white wall, past the ice, and into an office room with yellow walls, tan carpets, and elementary school lights.
Hollander collapsed onto Rozanov with a grunt, his body confused on why it was falling so forward. He was only supposed to go so far.
Did they break through the boards? No, they went through them. Why did the crowd go silent? They weren’t even there. Hollander threw his stick and rolled off of Rozanov, who was knocking out cold, hitting his helmeted head a little too hard on the… the carpet. Not the ice.
“What the fuck.” Hollander whispered, moving to his knees. The room was completely empty, vast, with two extended hallways showing that there was more to see. There were no windows, no furniture, but aside from that, completely normal. Almost completely.
If the way they arrived had been normal, then maybe Hollander wouldn’t have minded being in here. The color of the wall did make his skin crawl a little bit though, an eerie feeling settling in his stomach.
“Rozanov?” Hollander tried, nudging the player softly. “Fuck.” He looked to the side, where an entrance was supposed to be, a door back to the rink.
But it was just a blank wall.
“I’m high. I’m so fucking high, aren’t I…” He mumbled, pulling his helmet off and tugging at the dark strands of hair underneath. Rozanov stirred a little, letting out a pathetic whine.
“Моя голова…” He mumbled, placing shaky hands on his head.
“What?”
“My head, fuck.”
“Does it hurt?” Hollander asked.
Rozanov was suddenly angry. “Yes! Because you—“ He opened his eyes and froze, looking around. “Huh?”
“I don’t know either.”
“Where—“
“I said I don’t know.” Hollander annunciated on his words, getting a little frustrated. First a bad game, and now this?
Hollander took his skates off so he could stand properly. He pressed a hand to the wall, and it was solid. “Hmm… maybe our atoms aligned.”
“What the fuck is atoms? aligning?!” Rozanov swore, “We went through a fucking wall?”
“I mean, it’s not impossible. We’re probably in the building next to the rink.”
“The furniture store? Captain… кларк?” He accent go strong on the name.
“I think so.” Hollander shrugged. “That place was abandoned, and this room looms abandoned too.”
“Fuck. We are probably locked inside.”
“Glass doors. We can break through them.”
Rozanov rolled his eyes, standing up now too. “Yeah, we went through a wall, we can go through a door too.”
“Shut up.”
Rozanov snorted, finding himself funny. He followed Hollander, the man saying to leave their helmets and shit there in case they need to go back to where they started, if they get lost.
“But that’s my good helmet—all the other ones don’t fit right or they itch!” Shane complained, saying that they should leave Rozanov’s stuff there, but Shane keeps his things.
“Ah, your sensory bullshit. Fine, fuck! We do that.” Rozanov grabbed Shane’s helmet and stick, throwing it at him.
“Asshole.” He mumbled, and the two went silent. Silent enough, that he could hear it, hear the sound of talking. A man talking, then a woman, both long streams of inaudible words. At some point, Rozanov’s head perked up.
“Zdras… здравствуйте?” He froze. “Someone here is Russian.”
“Yeah? Let’s find them. They aren’t speaking in English, so you do all the talking, please.” Shane said, and they both went quiet again, before arguing about which direction the voice was coming from.
At a certain point, the arguing got so annoying that Shane gave up. “Fine, but if you notice his voice fading, then we go back.”
“Okay. Good. I am going to show you I am right, as always.” Rozanov hmphed, whipping his curls. They started walking down the left hall, as Rozanov asked, and as they went down, the voice indeed faded. They went the other way.
“I fucking told you.” Shane whispered as they immediately came across a shadowy figure down the right hallway. “Hey!” Shane yelled, his voice echoing. “Excuse me!”
“Fuck, you sound like annoying teacher.”
“Fuck off. His hearing must be poor.” Shane picked up his pace. “Hey! Uh, priv.. привет!”
“That’s too casual.” Rozanov winced, his trained manners slipped from his mouth. “Shane, let me do the talking.”
“Okay.”
Rozanov rushed in front of Shane, standing in front of the man now. “здравствуйте!” He repeated, waving a hand in front of the man. “He’s not speaking Russian right now.”
“What’s he saying?”
Rozanov shrugged. “Gibberish, for all I care…”
“I don’t think he’s a real guy, anyway.”
“Yeah, fucking duh. I thought that was registered when he didn’t stop his talking to greet me back!” Rozanov grumbled, pushing Shane’s shoulder, which was still under all his guards.
Shane frowned, furrowing his brows. “Well I’m sorry! He’s in a fucking gas suit and he’s talking, maybe he’s freaking out and too lazy to… to stop and say hi.”
Rozanov rolled his eyes, letting out a groan of boredom. “Oh my god, Hollander…”
They waited for the man to switch back to Russian, which took a few minutes, but it finally did.
Rozanov sat and listened, translating slowly, with an annoyed look on his face. “Oh my god. It’s a greeting bot thing. All it’s saying is different ways to say ‘hi.’ Fuck! Fucking waste of time!”
“Rozanov—“
“No, fuck! We could’ve been out by now, back on the fucking ice! I have a fucking game to finish!” Rozanov swore, shoving Hollander. “Fuck you!”
“Fuck you! Neither of us knew what it was going to say—maybe it could’ve given us instructions on where the exit is!”
“Hollander, stop talking to me.”
“You stop talking to me!”
This argument could’ve gone on for hours, but then they finally agreed to stop talking to each other. For a few minutes. As they trudged down the hallway into another room, Rozanov’s eyes peered to the ceiling and he couldn’t help but say, “This place is fucking weird.”
“I know…” Shane looked up too. Above, it looked like another hallway, doors and gaps in the walls, as if someone was walking horizontally down. Looking back down made his head hurt, and he was losing his sense of direction as they kept moving.
“This place is massive.” Rozanov commented again.
Shane looked around, his stomach curling. “What’s that?” He pointed at a square hole on the wall, big enough for the average person to crawl through.
“It’s a hole, Hollander.”
Shane scoffed. “Not helping. Why would there be a hole in a furniture store?”
“Hollander, this is a little—“ Rozanov trailed off, feeling the hairs stand on his neck, like someone was behind him.
But when he turned around, no one was there. “I don’t like this place.” He turned back around, only to see that Shane was gone—no, Shane was climbing through the hole. “What the fuck are you doing?!”
“There’s another room in here! Look, this kind of looks like the locker room, but almost everything’s gone. Weird.”
Rozanov was tempted to grab Shane’s legs and pull. “Hollander…”
“Stop. We need to get out of here. Finish that fucking game.” He argued and pushed himself all the way through. Rozanov had no choice but to follow.
“I just feel like we’re getting further away from the exit.” Rozanov mumbled.
“Rozanov.” Shane scoffed, putting his head in his palm. “You were wrong about the welcoming bot, I think you’re going to bring wrong about this too.”
“Fuck. You don’t trust me at all?”
“Rozanov—“ Shane’s face relaxed, and he came forward, grabbing Rozanov’s hands. “I do trust you. So much.” He leaned forward, and kissed him stupidly. “Just not right now.”
“I hate you.”
“I hate you too.”
They kept going, not even thinking about how unusual the situation was. They were mostly focused on getting back on the ice. That’s how competitive they were.
Some furniture was sinking into the floor. Shane lead the way, the only one having confidence to keep going after a few minutes.
“Hollander, can we rest somewhere? We’ve been walking for like… an hour straight.”
Shane scoffed and pushed off some of the layers hiding his watch. “It’s been fourty-five minutes.”
“Yeah. An hour.”
“You’re such a baby.” Shane peaked down the hall, seeing an empty hot tub and dirty tiled walls and floors. “We can stop here, I guess.”
“Okay.” Rozanov sat down, leaning against the wall. “This place fucking stinks.”
“I know. Also, why is there a pool in a fucking furniture store?”
“Kinda looks like the one down the street from the rink.”
Rozanov thought deeply, before humming. “Yeah. Same tiling bullshit. I remember the Raiders going there for celebration. Stupid.”
“We celebrated there before too. I liked it; I’m not a big fan of bars.”
“I know.” Rozanov tilted his head, looking at Shane with fondness in his eyes. “I think there are lots of weird things here.”
“Me too. But it’s not all that important. What’s important is getting out and back to the rink.” He sighed, “I wish I had my phone. I’m sure my parents are worried sick.”
Rozanov’s face went pale, and he only nodded. Envious. “I bet.”
Hollander fidgeted with the guard on his shoulder underneath his clothing. “They probably sent out a search team for me. So we’ll get out of here in no ti—“ A loud crashing sound cut off his sentence, and both men flinched.
“What the fuck was that?!” Rozanov began to sat up, but Shane was already walking in that direction to see what was up.
“Hello? Anyone here?” He asked as he walked down the other, curving hall. It was empty, and in the room, a secluded gym, a shelf full of weights had been knocked over. But nobody was in there. “What the hell…”
“You find anything?” Rozanov asked, hiding behind Shane’s shoulder. “Oh. I remember this place.”
“It’s where we worked out together that one night.” Shane whispered. “It’s exactly the same. Why do they have the spitting image of that gym in here?”
“In a fucking furniture store. I don’t like this place at all.”
“There’s no better word to describe it than ‘unusual.’” Shane whispered, like it helped the situation at all. Rozanov groaned and pushed past him.
“Well, something had to knock it over. A small animal. A rat, most likely.” Rozanov said, walking over to the knocked over bells. “Let’s see here…” He pierced his lips together, digging through.
Shane made a sound of disgust. “The poor thing is probably dead. Crushed to death.”
“Nasty.” Rozanov dug anyway. “It’s so weird how this place is so big, too. I swear the store looked way smaller outside.”
“You’re right.” Shane mumbled. “Well, maybe we’re not in the store. But there’s not a building on the other side of the rink…”
“I don’t know. Maybe we’re behind it?”
“There’s another parking lot behind the rink. There’s no way.” Shane scoffed, walking past the gym and further down the hall. “What the hell…”
“Ah—wait! Hollander, don’t leave me here!” Shane heard Rozanov stumble as he got up, before hearing his fast feet catch up behind him. “What the…”
“It’s a house.” Shane whispered. “A dining room.”
There were people, sitting quietly. Solemnly. “It’s my house.” Rozanov mumbled. “Sveta?”
Shane’s eyes narrowed. Rozanov seemed to know these people.
“Почему ты не говоришь?” Rozanov asked, gagging as he looked closer at her face. From a distance, she looked normal, they all did, but up close was a whole different story.
Svetlana’s face specifically, was distorted. She had three noses, six eyes, and a long, thin mouth.
“What the fuck is wrong with her?” Shane whispered, and it seemed she heard him, as her head snapped in his direction. “I-I’m sorry. Sorry.” He raised his hands in defense, heart suddenly pounding in fear. She was real.
“Sveta, look at me.” Rozanov said, placing his hand on her shoulder. “Why are you here? You should be in Russia.”
She slowly turned her head, her eyes wide and unblinking, almost threatening. No response.
Rozanov sighed, dropping his hands and going back to Shane’s side. “I don’t know what’s up with her, but she doesn’t want to talk.”
“Rozanov…” Shane whispered, his body shaking involuntarily. He was so fucking scared right now. “None of this makes any fucking sense.”
“Hollander, it’s okay—“
“No it’s not.. it’s not, this doesn’t…” Shane didn’t know why he was so scared. He was so confused that it was driving him insane. He clung closer to Rozanov, burying his head in his chest as if it would help, like he could escape this place if he hid just perfectly inside the Russian.
“Oh, Hollander…” Rozanov wrapped his arms around him, “Are you scared of them?”
Shane slowly nodded his head.
“It’s okay. They won’t hurt you. I will make sure that they won’t.”
Shane nodded again. “Okay.” He tilted his head up to look Rozanov in the eyes, with his own watery ones. “Can we go back to the gym? Please?” His chin shook.
“Yeah… yeah. I don’t get what the big deal is.” Rozanov chuckled, and bid his Russian friends goodbye. They went back to the gym, Shane clinging harshly onto Rozanov, his fingers digging so deep that they were probably about to rip his jersey. “Hollander, what is wrong? You are having a panic attack.”
“This isn’t right. None of this…” Shane was going insane. He could tell. He couldn’t even explain what was so weird about it.
“I know.” Rozanov whispered. “Just… rest. I’ll look for—“
“No! No, no, no, no. I need you.” Shane pleaded, tightening his grip. The clothing whined, strained. “I need you. Please, I can’t— I can’t protect myself.”
“Hollander.”
“I need you, fuck.” Shane’s face contorted, and he started to cry. He missed his mom, he missed Hayden, and his dad, and who he would’ve been.
“Hollander, it’s okay. We’re gonna get out of here.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I…” Rozanov sighed, pressing a kiss to Shane’s head. “I’ll stay here then. We can go looking together when you’re awake.”
Shane sniffled, letting the rest of his tears out before replying. “Okay.”
-
Waking up, Shane felt sick, and a little hungry. That was one of the main problems: food. Shane and Ilya got up and went looking again. Shane almost refused to go back to the dining room, but everyone had gotten up and left over the time Shane was asleep.
They went through the rest of the house, Ilya reliving some of his memories. They arrived down the hall, in front of his mother’s room. He pushed open the door, and—
There she was.
Her white gown was covered in her throw up. Her face was distorted, way more than Svetlana’s was, but Rozanov could still recognize her. He could still see that sad, beautiful face.
“мамашка…” Rozanov mumbled, his eyes filling with tears. He walked inside the room, while Shane chose to stay back, watch their interaction.
Irina was different from Svetlana and the others at the dining table. She got up from her lying position on the floor after hearing her son’s voice. She let out a keen, standing up.
She was tall as fuck. Eight feet, at least.
“мамашка…” Rozanov cried, opening his arms for a hug. Irina lifted Rozanov in the air.
And then she dug her fingers through his stomach, and the last thing Shane saw before passing out was Rozanov’s guts being thrown against the white, floral wallpaper.