Chapter Text
According to 7 Stages of Getting Over a Breakup (and Finally Moving On), by day sixty Shane Hollander should have been completely over Ilya Rozanov.
To be fair, he'd already made it through most of the list.
Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Acceptance... probably.
But apparently the article had forgotten one.
Stage eight: watching a soccer game you didn't understand just because the apartment was too quiet when the television was off.
He'd landed on the World Cup by accident and never bothered changing the channel. Twenty minutes later, he was sitting cross-legged on the couch with a box of Cheerios in his lap, inexplicably invested in Canada's chances.
Canada let in a goal.
Shane grimaced. "Oh, come on."
The announcer immediately launched into goal differential, Group C, and several other concepts Shane was reasonably sure he'd never heard before in his life.
None of it explained why Canada seemed determined to lose.
He snatched up his phone.
Shane stared at the messages until the screen dimmed, locked his phone, and tossed it onto the couch beside him.
He wasn't going outside.
Outside meant couples splitting nine-dollar coffees, people walking hand in hand, and dogs that would inevitably remind him of the golden retriever he and Ilya had almost adopted at Christmas.
Inside, at least, the things that hurt were predictable.
He reached for his mug without looking.
His fingers closed around empty air before bumping into the coaster.
Right.
Ilya had taken the chipped Moscow Dynamo mug.
Shane looked at the empty spot for another second before dragging his attention back to the game in time to watch Canada waste what even he, after less than half an hour of watching soccer, could tell had been a perfectly good chance.
"Seriously?"
His phone buzzed somewhere between the couch cushions.
He let it.
Rose had apparently decided Wednesdays were now dedicated to rescuing him from himself. Every week she came up with a new plan involving overpriced cocktails, live music, or men with names like Troy who were supposedly "emotionally available."
The phone buzzed again. Shane sighed, reaching between the cushions.
It wasn't Rose.
Air Canada: Check-in opens in 72 hours for your flight to JFK.
Fuck.
Their anniversary trip.
He could still remember booking it.
He'd been sitting on the kitchen island with his laptop while Ilya, shirtless after complaining the apartment was too warm, made dinner. They'd argued about the Knicks tickets for maybe ten minutes before Ilya gave him one of those long looks that usually meant fine, you win.
Shane hadn't thought about the reservation again until the next morning.
He'd woken up wrapped around Ilya, pleasantly sore, reached across the bed for his phone, and found a single notification waiting for him.
Purchase confirmed.
Shane blinked, and by the time he realized he was smiling, the expression had already faded.
"No, no, no."
He practically launched himself across the coffee table, sending the Cheerios box onto the floor as he grabbed his laptop. The confirmation email was still open. So was the Cancel reservation button.
He clicked it.
Error: This package is non-refundable.
Shane frowned, tried again, and got the exact same response.
"You've gotta be kidding me."
The hotel website wasn't any more helpful. Neither were the Knicks tickets. Ten increasingly desperate minutes later, he'd confirmed three things: the flights couldn't be cancelled, the hotel couldn't be cancelled, and apparently courtside seats came with more legal protection than he did.
He let the laptop fall onto the couch and scrubbed both hands over his face.
"Who even sells a non-refundable anniversary package?"
By the time he called customer service, the hold music had looped often enough that he was beginning to take it personally.
Somewhere around the fifteenth loop, he'd abandoned the couch for the living room rug, where the crack in the ceiling slowly looked suspiciously like Nova Scotia.
Twenty-two minutes later, the music finally cut off.
"Air Canada Diamond Elite Services. This is Svetlana. How can I make your travel magical today?"
Svetlana sounded like the kind of person who actually got eight hours of sleep every night, answered emails before breakfast, and had probably never once wanted to lie face-down on a living room rug.
"Hi. Shane Hollander." Shane nudged the overturned Cheerios box with his bare foot. "I have a reservation to New York in three days that I need to cancel."
"Certainly, Mr. Hollander. One moment."
The soft clack of a keyboard came through the speaker while Shane picked up the cereal box, gave it one last hopeful shake, and watched three Cheerios tumble into his palm.
"Thank you for waiting. I've located your reservation." Another few keystrokes followed. "The Diamond Elite Anniversary Package."
The word anniversary alone made Shane want to throw his phone straight through the drywall.
"Unfortunately, because your package includes flights, third-party event tickets, private transportation, and a customized hotel reservation, it isn't eligible for cancellation or refund."
"There has to be some kind of exception."
"I'm afraid there isn't."
Shane scrubbed a hand over his face and let out a slow breath. "Svetlana, I'm begging you. Charge me a cancellation fee. Keep everything." He laughed quietly, more exhausted than amused. "I need this trip to stop existing."
"I'm very sorry, Mr. Hollander, but I'm unable to override the booking conditions."
Shane closed his eyes.
His mother was a lawyer. There was always another angle.
"Okay... let's say somebody gets really sick."
"We would require official medical documentation before reviewing the request."
"Right, but what if it isn't just sick?" He rolled onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. "What if somebody booked this trip for their pregnant wife and she went into labor that morning?"
"Children under the age of two travel free," Svetlana replied without missing a beat. "The family would simply be able to travel at a later date."
Shane blinked.
"But..." He rubbed at his forehead. "What if I'm pregnant?"
The silence on the other end lasted long enough to make Shane regret asking.
"Mr. Hollander," Svetlana said carefully, "are you pregnant?"
He squeezed his eyes shut.
"...No."
"Then I'm afraid that exception wouldn't apply."
Shane lay there for another second before letting out a slow breath through his nose. "Right."
"Is there anything else I can help you with today?"
He considered inventing another exception, decided he was out of ideas, and sighed.
"No. That's all."
"Thank you for choosing Air Canada. We hope you have a magical trip." The call ended.
A magical trip.
Sure.
Except that Ilya wouldn't be there with him.
The thought arrived so quietly it took Shane a moment to actually register it.
The Leafs were right in the middle of the season. Between practices, games, road trips, media appearances, and whatever else NHL players did when they weren't being concussed, there was no way Ilya was getting a random weekend off because six months ago they'd decided New York sounded romantic.
Shane frowned.
"...Hang on."
He sat up, reached for the laptop again, and pulled the confirmation email back onto the screen, scrolling straight to the booking details.
Recipient: Shane Hollander.
Phone: Shane Hollander.
Payment Method: Shane Hollander.
Everything was under his name.
The airline and the hotel had been emailing him. Every confirmation, every reminder, every update had gone directly to Shane.
And Ilya...
He once left the apartment wearing two different sneakers because he'd been answering a text while getting dressed. He'd left his laptop behind often enough that Shane had stopped asking if he'd forgotten it and started asking where.
There was absolutely no chance he was keeping track of an anniversary trip they'd booked months ago without Shane reminding him every other week.
"...You're kidding."
Everything had already been paid for and Ilya was almost certainly somewhere in Ontario getting yelled at by his coach.
Unless Air Canada planned on arresting him for taking his own vacation...
Shane could go.
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he could stop it.
Maybe the universe finally owed him one.
After all, what was the worst that could happen?
✈️
Three days later, Shane was genuinely convinced he'd made the best decision of his life.
The eight-dollar airport coffee tasted like wet dirt, but he finished it anyway.
He bought a cologne because the display promised new beginnings, picked up a paperback he'd probably never open, and by the time he reached his gate, he almost believed this weekend might actually work.
Outside the terminal windows, a cluster of photographers had gathered behind the barriers while a few people in Maple Leafs jerseys stretched onto their toes, trying to catch a glimpse of whoever had just arrived.
Shane barely looked before boarding was called.
He scanned his boarding pass, thanked the flight attendant with an automatic smile, and stepped into the first-class cabin feeling lighter than he had in weeks.
He slowed just enough to check the seat numbers.
1A.
1B.
2A.
The seat beside his was already occupied. Broad shoulders. Black hoodie. Blond hair.
Shane almost kept walking.
But something about the way the hood slipped back made him look twice.
The hair was longer now, curling against the back of his neck exactly the way it always did after three months of promising he'd get it cut "next week." The drawstrings were still frayed. Shane had threatened to replace them more than once, and Ilya had refused every single time.
It still wasn't enough.
Canada was full of tall blond men who refused to buy new hoodies.
Then the man looked up.
Shane stopped so abruptly that someone behind him muttered, "Excuse me."
He didn't hear it.
Ilya had let his beard grow in a little. There were faint shadows beneath his eyes, and his hair was getting too long again.
No.
Ilya's jaw shifted once before he tipped his head ever so slightly.
"Hi, Hollander."