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May 2, 2019
11:22pm
Shane stays until it’s over. Until all of his teammates head out to lick their wounds, until the equipment managers have wheeled away their soggy sweaters and equipment, until the locker room is empty, until all but the emergency lighting is on and the ice looks like black glass, resurfaced. It doesn’t actually take that long to button things up at the end, and he goes through all the required motions: he tells the press we’ll get ’em next year when they ask about how he’s feeling following a second round sweep and I’m going to take some time to process this season before I think about what’s next when they ask if he’ll sign a new contract before free agency. He lies a little, sure, but everybody does when they talk to the media. Talking to the press is a war of attrition. You do what you must to survive.
So, Shane coasts through all of it in the way he always has when something’s on his mind. The only difference is that he tacks on this is the last time I’ll— to whatever it was that he did. It’s an interesting exercise. It’s forced him to look at things differently, to try and really soak it in, to enjoy these first last times. It’s given him a lot of perspective.
If he looks at it all logically, nothing actually has to change. He can call the whole thing off right now and the world would never know. It would stay between himself and his agent, because even though she’d been the cover story, a reason for him to be spotted on the streets of LA, he’d never actually explained his plan to Rose. The thing is that he just… He isn’t really sure he’s been logical about any of this. Not for a while now. He’d gotten a lot of things twisted.
He cleans out his stall before he goes. There’s locker cleanout next week, probably Tuesday or Wednesday, Montreal doesn’t like to wait around, so he’ll have to come back, but that’s really just to talk to the media, to give the fans and the league some amalgamation of accountability. He’s sure Coach Theriault and the GM, Gerard Toussaint, will use it to insist that things between them and Shane are good, that they’re confident that he’ll resign like he always does. They don’t have any reason to suspect things are different.
His phone rings after he and his half full duffel make it out into the parking garage. The ramp’s empty save for a lone security guard in a golf cart monitoring the exit. Shane waves over at them after he throws his bag in the back of the SUV. He picks up the call once he’s securely inside the vehicle’s cabin. The bluetooth connects just as he’s about to back up, the caller waiting patiently for the vehicle’s spotty technology to do its job.
He hadn’t needed to look at his phone or the dash to know it’s Farah calling. After all, she’s the only one who knows what this was. For good reason, too. He’d already fielded his parents’ call, the usual one where they tell him he did good and he’ll get them next time, that they’re heading to the hotel. It’s funny. It’s like a weird, heartfelt parody of his own press conference. Ilya hadn’t called him, because he knows better. He understands. Shane doesn’t have to manage his expectations, he can be irritable and lick his wounds and Ilya won’t think less of him.
Except, honestly?
“I can’t tell if you’re just zoning out or if you’re ignoring me,” Farah says dryly through the car speakers, interrupting his reverie. “Ground control to Major Tom.”
Shane rolls his eyes. “I know you know I don’t know that music reference,” he quips lightly, waving at the security guard as the control arm releases him from staff parking and ejects him onto the arena’s empty roadway.
“Yes, you athlete types are horrifically uncultured,” she retorts, groaning. “How you holding up?”
He shrugs, realizing belatedly she can’t actually see him. “I thought it would hurt more than it does,” he admits. “Maybe it’ll hit me in a couple of days, but I’m mostly glad, I think.”
Spending the last few months knowing he was leaving had allowed him to be critical of some things he normally wouldn’t think twice about. He assumed this was how people felt when they quit their jobs, this weird sense of almost-freedom, like what was happening didn’t really impact them, that they were transient and wouldn’t have to live with the fallout of other peoples’ garbage decisions.
“Good. You headed to your condo?”
Shane’s already on the highway. He hadn’t even thought about it, already on autopilot. “Actually, I think I’m going to drive to Ottawa tonight.”
Farah hums. “Gotta go get your man, huh? I respect it.”
That startles a laugh out of him. He’s not sure he’ll ever be used to talking about being in a relationship with Ilya like it’s just a normal thing, like he’s just somebody with a boyfriend. “Yeah, kinda.” He sets the cruise control and yanks at his tie, throwing it into the passenger’s seat. He unbuttons the top few of his shirt next. If he wasn’t on the phone he’d open the window too, just to get the whoosh of the muggy spring air. “Are we sure everything’s still good?”
“Shane,” Farah says his name like his babysitter used to, the one that his parents had when he was little, usually it was followed by pleas to stop shooting pucks at the net in the back yard for five minutes and eat dinner. Unlike his babysitter, who never knew how to wrangle him, Farah does. She accepts that he needs to hear the whole thing over again for his own sanity, even though they’ve been through it at least ten times and nothing has changed since the last time he asked about it. She still sighs, just to make sure he knows he’s being ridiculous even as she indulges him.
“You are leaving Montreal after completing the obligations set forth in your contract. Your partner did the same thing last year. Nobody’s asked anybody to play for a team they currently played for. Good ‘ole Rodg might try to be an asshat and suggest tampering, but Ottawa’s so garbage I doubt the board of governors will want to do anything.”
Shane rolls his eyes at the taillights in front of him. “Right.” He hadn’t forgotten about that, it’s just sucky to hear aloud. Probably worse for Ilya, who had to play for them the whole season and hear about it the entire time.
“And,” she stresses, “If someone were to try and make a stink, you’ve never played a playoff match against each other. But, even if you had, friends and siblings play games against each other all the time. Nobody’s getting thrown out over it, so if someone were to suggest foul play, I would bury them in a discrimination suit so massive you’d be able to buy your own team.”
“I very sincerely doubt that,” he cuts in.
“It’s the thought that counts, kid,” she grumbles, annoyed that he’s rained on her parade. “You’re good. We’ve got all our ducks in a row.” She pauses then. It’s earlier in California. He can hear the sound of cars honking, the odd, soothing sound of distant traffic. It sounds… sunny. If sunny were an adjective for sound. That probably doesn’t make sense. “You getting cold feet? It’s okay if you are.”
“Nope. Not even a little.” There’s conviction in his voice, the kind he hasn’t really heard in himself around the rink in a long time. “I want this.”
“Atta boy,” Farah says. She sounds proud. “Ottawa sure as shit won’t know what hit them, though it might be a while before you win.”
Shane remembers how shitty Montreal had been when he went second overall, how bad they were until he’d hit the show. They’d been the worst team in the league, they’d just lost the lottery to their Boston rivals. They were in ruin. Ottawa has pieces. They’re the product of lazy owners or management, a structure in need of a shakeup, not lack of talent. If Ottawa were to be aggressive… there’s potential there.
“Maybe,” he allows, hoping he sounds thoughtful in a way that doesn’t suggest he’s actually Yuna Hollander levels of crazy, while simultaneously coming to the realization that this is the kind of moment people talk about when they realize they’re turning their parents.
“Pull the other one, kid,” Farah laughs, because she really does know everything. Shane couldn’t ask for a better agent. “You gunning for player coach or armchair GM?”
June 12, 2020
8:59pm
“We have worked too fucking hard to lose to Vegas,” Roz snarls, slapping the C on his chest. He was probably aiming for the crest and not his letter, but he makes his point regardless. “You know what we were in September. Nobody believed we would make playoffs, not even with Hollander.”
He points to Holly, posted up in the corner, arms are crossed over his chest. He looks calm, but mostly he's holding still in the only position that doesn't irritate his injuries. “Fuck them,” Hollander spits at the floor.
“Fuck. Them,” Roz echoes, the words rattling off the walls of the visitors dressing room. “We built this team up from fucking basement. We bullied our way into playoffs even though everybody doubted us. We worked our dicks off through every round. Now, we have dragged the team everybody said would sweep us to game fucking seven. We are not leaving this fucking city without the fucking cup. Do you hear me?”
Around Evan Dykstra, hell, from within Evan himself, the room erupts into animal cries of war. This is probably how the ancient Romans felt before they went out to slay their foes. (Okay, fine, he and Nick watched Gladiator on the plane yesterday. It’s a good movie, alright?) There's this thrum of energy underneath it all, metallic and sharp. Like licking a battery or something. Like being a kid and knowing when you go downstairs it’s Christmas morning.
“We are down by two goals. This is nothing,” Roz insists. He paces, one arm around his middle because Holly isn’t the only one who’s taken a beating. Vegas has been beating the piss out of them all series and Carolina before that. “We score two goals in twenty seconds. Tie game. Big whoop. Then game begins for real. Hazy will keep pucks out of net—”
“Damn right,” Wyatt calls from the corner, stretched out and rubbing his lucky paddle(not like that, he's just very particular about his lumber—okay, fine their sticks aren't actually wood anymore but you get the idea). His helmet sits up on the bench next to him. The A in the stylized Hazy painted underneath the cage doubles as the Avengers logo. It’s a bomb mask, and Hazy really has been their hero. They wouldn’t be in the playoffs if he hadn’t stood on his head for the first half of the year and kept them from getting buried by the rest of the Atlantic.
“—Shane and I will make them angry—”
Roz holds out his fist and Hollander bumps it, wincing as his weight shifts forward onto his fucked up leg. Roz murmurs something in Holly’s direction, the usual Russian shit, which Hollander mouths back, smiling because he's a beast and despite the pain there's nowhere else he'd rather be.
They've been putting their bodies on the line more than usual. Hockey is a physical sport, so some degree of wear and tear is expected by the time playoffs come. Four rounds in, staring down the third period of Game Seven, everybody's held together by icy hot, the team’s special blend of therapists, pain meds, and a fuckton of tape. Unless your bell gets rung, you’re bleeding internally, or your insides become outsides—basically if you’re told you’re gonna die if you go out there—you’re gonna say you’re good to play.
You can have surgery for that shoulder or knee or whatever in the off season, but you might not get another swing at a championship.
“ —then you guys will remind them we are a team. Shane and I aren't the only ones who can put pucks in net, yes?”
Everybody roars their agreement.
Evan is reminded of November, of Holly interrupting coach—their old coach—and marching to the front of the film room, face washed out in the light of the projector as he insisted Depth scoring wins championships. Everybody's looking at me and Ilya, and of course we're going to score. But if all they're looking at us, they'll never see you coming. If they underestimate you—and they will—make them regret it.
It's strange. Evan looks around the room and he can see every goddamned thing people say about them: they're top heavy, they've got three lines of nobodies and a d-core that began the season without a clear leader (Chewie stepped it up though. Both he and Evan have had career seasons after Hollander forced them through his fucked up optional practices). Despite their many improvements, they certainly aren't the best team that's been iced this year. Especially not if you look at them from a technical perspective. People—other people, not them—expected them to fuck around and find out by the end of the first round.
And yet, here they still fucking are. Take that, you sons of bitches.
“Skill does not win championships,” Rozy continues, the fucking mind reader. “Fuck skill. Skill does not keep you going when your bones are dust and muscles are shredded. Winning is about fucking—” he thumps on his chest. “This. Right fucking here. Is about heart. This team has that. This team is going to go out there and leave it all on the ice.” He looks around, eyes bright and a little wild. “We are going to beat those gold wearing mother fuckers in their stupid helmets—” Someone, probably Hollander coughs. It's no secret Roz is extremely fucking jealous of the gaudy gold and chrome colored helmets that Vegas and LA wear at home, “And we are going to do it together.”
October 17, 2019
8:58am
Ilya grins at Shane from center ice, loping along lazily as he gets his legs moving. It had been a McGriddle morning, Shane being in a decent enough mood to indulge him ahead of the shitshow that today is going to be. He remembers off-handedly that Farah has emailed him twice about considering a sponsorship with McDonalds at Yuna's prodding.
They're supposed to go over to David and Yuna's for dinner tonight, and if he doesn't respond to Farah before, she will lecture him. That's okay though, it's how she shows affection.
Leaning against the bench, Shane catches his gaze and winks, his entire face lighting up into a grin before he looks up at the clock. There's just over a minute now and several of the younger players are very notably absent. Coaches, too, but as Ilya has come to realize that isn't entirely surprising.
Shane has a lot of feelings about the way the team is coached, about the way players conduct themselves. He's always been the more technical of them, methodical, like his talent is a skill everyone has and can train, which is absolutely bonkers. It's cute that he thinks that way.
And, more importantly, it's important for the boys to see them as a united front. They're competitive. It's fun to compete against one another, whether they're on the same team or not. They just… maybe get a little carried away about it, yelling in each other's faces when they score, daring the other to try and show them up or chirping each other to the media.
They don't mean anything by it, not really. It's actually really hot to piss Shane off then go home and take him apart.
Which… isn't the point either. The point is that the team has mostly done things Ilya's way since he joined, because the coaching staff doesn't really have any specific culture in mind other than throwing whomever they think is best at their top players and trying to make a lineup out of it. Ilya didn't mind that style when it was just him. His heart hadn't really been in it last year, plus with the roster they'd had, everyone fully expected the team to suck.
There are good pieces, though. Boodram and Dykstra and Chouinard count among them. Wyatt, too, definitely. Maybe Dillon, but he seems to be taking a step back. All of them were already on the ice. Them, the bulk of the old-timers on defense, their two practice goalies, and Holmberg.
LaPointe and Young emerge from the far side of the rink, beside the Zamboni. The clock on that side of the arena, over their heads reads 09:02:48. They have the good sense to jog down the padded walkway.
Not that it'll save them. Ilya loves his boyfriend. He's the kindest, sexiest, most boring soul Ilya has ever known. He's also a fucking drill sergeant, a fucking tyrant, and he will run this team into the ground if he thinks it will get them to playoffs.
They duck their heads when Shane holds the gate open for them, sensing Ilya isn't the only one they've annoyed with their tardiness. “Sorry Holly,” LaPointe murmurs. He looks clammy and pale, probably hung over.
Shane's face is impassive as he asks, “Was there anyone else in the locker room?”
They shake their heads.
“Cool,” he says, sounding downright frosty. Ilya can't say he's surprised by the turnout. Shane probably isn't, either. Their coaches are probably still waiting in line at Tim's for coffee. “Get warmed up,” he tells them. “We’ll start soon.”
They look to Ilya for reassurance.
“Hollander is calling shots today,” Ilya tells them, gesturing at Shane. “We trained together over summer. I figure team could use same treatment.”
“I thought you said your summer training was hell on earth?” Dykstra calls, bright eyed as usual. His expression shutters when he looks over at Shane, clocking his satisfied expression.
He's such an asshole, Ilya thinks fondly. Shane had, of course, whipped him into shape over the summer, but Ilya had needed it. He'd gotten a little complacent last season once it became clear that playoffs were out of the picture, no matter how hard he tried to drag them there. It had been hard to give a fuck when the team around him certainly didn't, and outside of hockey everything else had felt so pointless.
It still feels that way sometimes, but not nearly as often. It’s much better with Shane around.
“Oh, it was,” Ilya tells them, because he'd been asked a question after all. “You guys are fucked.”
Him too, probably, but he has to put on a good show for the guys, has to pretend like Shane Hollander’s training regimen isn't going to get the best of him. There's an ice bath in the garage with his name on it. That’s one thing Shane has got him hooked on since they started training together. They have a whole setup in their garage: His and his ice baths set up side by side. It's romantic, if freezing your nuts off could ever be described as such a thing.
“What about the no-shows?” Bood asks, skating alongside Young in the corner.
“They have options,” Ilya muses as he glides to a stop at Shane's side. The rest he whispers into Shane's ear. “What was it you said in bed last night? They can ride the pine, request a trade, or go play in the minors?”
Shane laughs, trying to facewash Ilya with his smelly glove. “You're terrible, Rozanov.”
“Mm, yes,” Ilya supposes, ducking Shane's outstretched arm and shoving back. They clutch on to each other, partially wrestling but mostly holding on as Ilya's momentum causes them to drift in a circle. “But where is the lie?” Ilya presses, knowing damn well there isn't one.
Ilya might wear the C on his chest, but that is for the fans and franchise more than anything. It takes more than one guy to lead the charge if they’re going to get the job done. Shane might not be the loudest guy in the room, not like Ilya, who thrives when he’s the center of attention, but he has a different kind of draw. He loves the game so much, has so much passion for it—no matter how much Ilya calls him a nerd, this is the absolute truth—and it makes guys want to try, want to be better than they are to see if they can find another gear, push through their ceiling, exceed what everyone thinks is their potential.
They are going to go all the way this year. This is what Ilya told the media in preseason, and he’d made sure to stare them down when they laughed at him. He means it.
The day he’d signed with Farah Jalali and they’d officially had the same agent, Shane had read Ilya into his insane agenda. He wants to have his cake and eat it too—even if it’s one of those stupid all natural ones that don’t have real sugar—and Ilya is not immune to the earnest charm of boring Canadians, much less his own competitive drive. Being absolute garbage last year nearly killed him.
Ilya already has the thing he wanted most. Shane had given it to him. The rest is a bonus, sure, but Ilya is greedy.
Ilya wants another fucking cup. He can fucking taste it: the cold sting of it on his lips, the dirty tang of history in the making, the bittersweet champagne elation. He wants to raise it over his head and scream to the rafters, to pass it to Shane and catch his lips beneath the weight of it shared between the two of them.
He’s never let himself dream of something so fucking perfect before. He still doesn’t, but the picture of it is taking shape in his mind anyway, like it’s fucking inevitable. Shane says he is greedy, too, but Ilya doesn’t really think so.
After all, it’s not greed to want what’s yours, to make a path to a desired result and do what you must to claim it.
Huh, Ilya thinks. Maybe he isn’t as greedy as he thought.
Maybe he’s just forgotten he’s meant to be a champion.
December 24, 2019
8:23am
Svetlana’s connection from DC to Ottawa is early (nevermind the fact that there’s no direct flights from Boston, so she’d opted for a hotel the night before), but that's kind of by design. She breezes through security as best as one can, which is to say she pretends to be much nicer than she is and thanks God that the customs officials are Canadian. Getting back to Boston is far more painful. They always demand to know why you've been away as if America is some perfect place where nothing bad can touch you.
If the American passport didn't do so much work for her, she'd already live in Europe. She'd do well in France. Or Italy. Milan would kill to have her.
Her manicured finger flies across her phone screen once she's spat out from the customs line and into the main concourse. It takes seconds to find the correct person and dial.
“I'm already at arrivals,” comes the wide awake voice of her apparent chauffeur. She can practically smell the car exhaust through the phone. “I’ll pull up to the doors so you don’t have to walk far, it’ll take me about two minutes.”
“I told you I would take a car.” She deftly slips around a distracted businessman holding a Starbucks cup, roller bag and all, following the signs for the exit. “You men do not know how to listen.”
That’s not actually true, this one listens just fine. In fact, he listens better than most women Svetlana knows. The way his head had swiveled on his shoulders when Ilya revealed she was in fact not just some girl from Boston that he liked but in fact a friend from Russia, from his childhood, well… It makes her smile to think about.
She’d skyrocketed from begrudging acquaintance to priority number one in seconds. Hollander had been so embarrassed, but she appreciates the duality of his consideration. She wouldn’t want some hussy clinging to her person, either. He is good. Selfish about Ilya in a way that Ilya deserves.
He’s also here, on the morning of Christmas Eve picking her up at an airport that is overflowing: There are crowds of people trying to get into or out of the city, heading to their loved ones abroad or simply going home to be with them. It is not the Christmas Svetlana’s family celebrates—not her blood family, anyway, but Ilya has mostly abandoned the Orthodox holiday in favor of celebrating the one his new family celebrates.
Maybe it’s a bit hypocritical for her to be bitter about it considering she’s the special guest, but a part of her is—and she wouldn’t admit this under duress—jealous. Not that jealous, though, she’s been forewarned that there are matching pyjamas and that they will be hideous but extremely comfortable. Considering she’d not so accidentally stolen the shirt that came with last year’s set the last time she was here visiting, she supposes it’s a forgivable offense.
She ignores the jingling of whatever holiday music is pouring out of the speakers at the bag claim and charges through the vestibule leading outside. There’s dry, horrible heat, then the thick swirl of cold, and then the scent of exhaust hits her. It’s almost comforting, though it never quite hits the same as Moscow. She wonders, as she waits for Hollander to pull up in his Land Rover (that she will be forcing him to ditch as soon as she gets a chance, he can consider this his Christmas gift to her),if Ilya misses it, if he comes out of airports and taxicabs and thinks of the places he’s from that are lost to him now.
He always says he doesn’t miss it, but she can’t imagine that’s true. Moscow sucks, but it is theirs: the place that brought them into this world, that molded and shaped them in the way that homes do.
Hollander cuts off a minivan in arrivals to pull up directly in front of her. She glares at him so he knows not to get out of the vehicle, she is not an invalid and can chuck her own suitcase in the back, thank you very much. The back hatch is not automatic because he’s had the vehicle for many years. It is in good condition, but he makes ten million dollars a year just from chasing a little puck, nevermind whatever Rolex and Reebok and Calvin Klein pay out. His wheels ought to be more stylish.
She closes the hatch and wonders if she can convince him to test drive a Maserati.
The car is warm inside. Hollander leans over the center console to kiss her cheeks in greeting. He's gotten better about not letting anyone notice he hates partaking in the gesture.
“Ilya still doesn't know?”
Shane shook his head. He fights their way left and into a lane where traffic is moving, exhaling tension when they get beyond the backed up loop and exit the airport. “He thinks my friend Rose is joining us for Christmas, which he'd tolerate but—”
“You do not need to tell me how much he despises her,” Svetlana tells him, smirking. She knows all about it. She figured it out around this time in 2016, three years ago, and had played stupid right up until Ilya started blowing off contract talks with the Raiders. “He is,” she searches through her vocabulary for the word, “territorial.”
“That's alright.” Hollander smiles at the road beyond the windshield, like Ilya being a stage five clinger is cute. They really are disgusting together.
“Is that what your friend Rose says too?”
“I mean,” he shrugs like his friend isn’t one of the most popular actresses of the decade, changing lanes. “She's cool with it. He's not, like, restrictive about who I see or what I do. He just needs to know he comes first.”
One thing she likes about Shane Hollander is that he never gets upset when she gets sharp with him. They are different kinds of sharp, though the results are largely the same. She changes subjects and casts accusations as a means of interrogation. He does the same on accident, following internal pathways and saying what he means on purpose.
He doesn't get upset when she turns her temper on him, and she doesn't mind when he blurts out a thought that might be taken the wrong way by someone more delicate. They get along rather well.
However, they get along fabulously when they talk hockey. Ilya makes a big show of hating it, but he isn't fooling anyone. Usually, after a few minutes of silence, Hollander will default to asking her about the Raiders, or what she thinks about the Centaurs. Originally, she'd thought it was about gossip, especially when Hollander was in Montreal, but whatever the fuck Ilya said to him about her hockey knowledge must have been overkill because he really seems to value her input.
It's nice to be appreciated for more than her incredibly good looks, not that Hollander ever really underestimated her. His mother raised him to respect women, thank fuck.
She realizes, maybe a little later than she should, if only because she is not a morning person and no amount of espresso will correct it, that Hollander does not start a conversation about hockey. They cruise down the highway at an offensively respectable speed—he drives like a grandmother, Sveta, she can hear Ilya lament in her mind—and Hollander taps seemingly idly on the steering wheel, some playlist Ilya must have created droning out of the speakers on Spotify.
Hollander does not do stupid, idle things around her. She does not make him nervous. She sometimes makes him protective and defensive, but it's more akin to an angry kitten. He's more likely to get pink-cheeked and bitchy around her than flustered and twitchy.
More importantly, he hasn't done his usually hospitality routine where he offers her coffee and breakfast on the way home, like she might disintegrate if she doesn't eat in the half hour it takes for him to drive them there. That is the far more concerning part. She is off her game this morning. It is unacceptable.
“What is going on?” She demands.
Hollander winces. “Should've known,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “Look, I, um,” he blows out a breath, knowing that she does not have patience for incessant babbling. If Ilya were here she’d be yelled at for rushing him. “I told Ilya that it was Rose coming and that I was taking her to breakfast, then dropping her off at my parents’ place on the way to practice later, since we're doing Christmas dinner there.”
She doesn't comment on the concept of practice on Christmas eve, but everyone and their brother has heard the headlines about the Rozanov-Hollander duo co-captaining the Centaurs like they're running a fucked up military division. She thinks it's hilarious and can't wait to hear all about it from the Hollander matriarch after a few glasses of wine.
Back to more important things: “Where are we going in the meantime?”
If he attempts to take her to a jeweler right now she will be very fucking annoyed. She has a bet with both Hollanders that insists Ilya will be the one to do the grand romantic gesture. Yuna says that it will be after a cup but yes, her money is also on Ilya. David, in his odd, relaxed way, told them both they're wrong, even though Shane has already had his big moment last summer. If he does this now she will owe David a fucking car. Ilya will be buying it, but that is not the point.
“We're, um, going to the Centaurplex,” he says, chancing a glance at her. “Holy shit,” he exhales. “You thought I was going to tell you I plan to propose.”
“Yes,” she hisses through her teeth. “And I was going to murder you because,” she very pointedly does not mention the bet, “I know for a fact there is no boutique in this tiny city that would suit Ilyusha’s taste.”
“Obviously,” Shane says, eyes on the road again. He sounds offended that she would even suggest it. Good boy. “Also, Christmas Eve is way too cliche for that shit, but if I were inclined to give Ilya a stereotypical holiday gift, I’d opt for a puppy before a ring.”
Svetlana laughs. “You are wonderful, and I am glad I will not need to murder you.” She pauses, because he is still kind of deflecting. “Now finish answering my question.”
“Remember how I said you were my surprise Christmas gift to Ilya?”
“Yes.”
He nods. “Well,” he drawls out, and the nervousness returns, “My gift to you is an interview with the Ottawa Centaurs.”
What the fuck? She turns in her seat as Hollander drives past the exit for his house. She isn't dressed for a fucking interview. She's in fucking leggings and a blouse, and since she had to be at the airport at fucking four am to fly on a holiday she certainly hasn't bothered with more than moisturizer—
“I take back the part about murder,” she growls, flipping down the little shade over her seat to check her reflection. She is obviously better looking than most, even without makeup but appearances in this theatre are important. Especially for women. Foolish boy. “You kidnap me, force me into an interview for an unknown position and have not even bothered to warn me to put on foundation. If Ilya didn't love you, you would be dead already.”
He winces, but doesn't wither under her glare. She cannot tell if he is brave or stupid. “Look, I didn't exactly have a good window to do this. The Centaurs’ front office is not great. I think the AGM has promise, but Monty Blankenship is a fucking idiot—” she sees him physically swallow back the part where he is a nice guy. Nice guys do not often cut it in professional sports, especially not in cutthroat positions. “And I told him I knew someone who would be an amazing special advisor.”
“You forgot the part where I do not work in hockey, Shane,” she seethes.
“You are Sergei Vetrov’s daughter. He's the best goalie to come out of the USSR and you know hockey better than him and Ilya. Probably even better than me.”
It probably hurt him to say that, she thinks. She knows he is very serious about hockey.
He indicates right and guides them to the exit lane. They pass a sign that says Centaurplex next exit. “I’m not Ilya, Svetlana. I don't have the appetite to wait around for management to figure shit out.”
“He would be furious if you said that to him,” she points out.
“He would think I'm leaving him if I said that,” Hollander clarifies, critical of her assessment. “Which is why I'm saying it to you. You know I’d rather retire than hurt him, which is why I shipped myself to fucking Ottawa.” He pauses, chest heaving. She wonders how long he's kept that secret to himself. “And why I set up this interview. You can pull a better plan out of your ass with zero prep than Monty Blankenship’s put together in the six months since I signed.”
She nods. They didn't call him Captain Canada for nothing. He isn't the most charismatic, but he knows how to give a pep talk. “And what's in it for me?”
“Hopefully winning a cup, but if not, a massive signing bonus.” He pauses, reminded of something. "You, uh, might need an agent, if you don't have one.”
Cute of him to think that people just have those on retainer, but no.
“Yours and Ilya's will do. I take it she's in on this whole charade?”
“Her boilerplate contract is in the glove compartment,” Hollander admits guiltily.
She pops it open and there it is, along with a pen. A quick scan of the document tells her that this woman is a menace, but she's met Farah Jalali before. It makes perfect sense. “Fine.” She scrawls her name along the bottom. “I will do this interview. But I will not—” she cuts herself off sharply, waiting until he looks over at her, “Be signing a goddamned contract with the Centaurs until I talk it over with Yuna.”
“Okay,” he says, nodding. “I already made you both lunch reservations.”
“You are a devious little brat,” Svetlana tells him. “I have conditions.”
Shane looks over at her, grinning like the cat who caught the canary. “You will not live full time in Ottawa, and you want a travel stipend to scout the enemy. Done.”
This little… “And you will buy a new car from me before I quit my day job.” He will be purchasing the most expensive Maserati she can sell him.
December 24, 2019
5:53pm
Ottawa Centaurs ✅ @gocentaurs
Svetlana Vetrova has been named special advisor to the General Manager. #gocents
December 24, 2019 3:22pm
“What the fuck?” Hayden Pike looks at his phone screen, maybe tugs at his hair a little bit, coaches Arthur to please not say that in front of his mother, for fuck’s sake—damn it, he’d said it again—and dials Rozanov because, if he hasn’t said it enough: What the actual fuck?
“Hello?” Rozanov—Ilya, he supposes to himself (he really ought to try, seeing as Shane has gone and tethered himself to the asshole. He’d rather die than admit the guy’s actually just a golden retriever in the body of a six-foot-something Slavic douchebag, but that’s between himself, God, and Jackie), always sounds so surprised when Hayden calls him. To be fair, usually their conversations are limited to the physical and emotional well-being of Shane, but they’d worked together well enough at camp over the summer and Hayden is still irrationally upset that Shane had chosen him and Ottawa over Hayden and Montreal, even if he totally gets why he’s second fiddle in the scenario.
“You two compiling a fucking superteam over there?”
Now, in the spirit of honesty: Hayden’s only met Svetlana Vetrova once, at the press conference announcing the Irina Foundation. It was brief, a quick introduction in passing, mostly instigated by Shane with passive aggressive commentary by Ilya, but Hayden is not a fool. He has a wife and three daughters. God is very likely a woman because men are not cut out for world domination in the way that they are, and Vetrova seems like the kind of woman who could easily bring the league to heel.
“You are having stroke?” Ilya sounds confused. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
Hayden’s stomach drops. “Oh fuck,” he blurts.
“Oh fuck,” Arthur repeats in his high chair. There’s a yell of swear jar, swear jar from the girls’ bedroom and he’s one poorly timed commercial break in the Lifetime Christmas movie Jackie’s watching in their bedroom while playing Santa away from this going very poorly for everybody.
“Is that Arthur? You are teaching him swears already?”
“No, obviously not, he’s just smart like his godfather.” Giving Shane that role was like part curse or something because of all his and Jackie’s kids, none of them are as quiet and serious and scary-smart as he is. “Anyway, you been on social media recently?”
There’s a pause on the other side of the line, and quiet voice that can only be David. Ilya answers him with a muffled It’s Hayden, before he’s back to speaking into the phone. “It’s Christmas Eve, Pike,” he admonishes. “I am spending time with family. I only picked up because we are waiting for Yuna and Rose to come back from shopping or whatever it is they are doing.”
A loud beep in Hayden’s ear has him pulling the phone away from his ear. Shane Hollander shows up in big white letters, the phone’s screen illuminated by a picture of them champagne soaked and hoisting the cup over their heads. He watches as it rings out and realizes he’s very likely in a lot of fucking trouble. Rozanov—Ilya hasn’t mentioned Vetrova at all.
Oh fuck, he thinks, but manages not to say out loud.
“You know what, you’re right,” he says, because not fighting with Ilya is probably the quickest way to trip him up and get the fuck off the phone before he does something stupid. “Merry Christmas, asshole,” he says, hanging up before Shane sends somebody to murder him.
“Aah-hole,” Arthur tells him brightly.
God fucking damn it, Hayden thinks as a new voice says, “No, that was Uncle Ilya.”
He flinches, ducking his head as Jackie comes into the kitchen. She leans down, licking her thumb and swiping at a spaghettio red stain on Arthur’s face.
“Shane called you?”
“Oh, he called me, babe,” she says, jerking her dirty thumb in the direction of the swear jar. “Now pay up.
Hayden sighs, rising from his seat at the kitchen table to fish out his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. “Did you at least get the gossip?”
They trade places at the table. “Obviously. Unlike you, I saw the post like an hour ago. Shane and I were texting when you called Ilya and almost ruined Christmas.”
June 10, 2020
10:40pm
“I can play,” Hollander reassures them, like it’s completely normal to come back from the trainers on crutches, team doctor trailing behind him. He looks pale and jittery, like he’s in absolute fucking agony, but his voice is steady. “Crutches are just a precaution.”
Rozanov, fresh from the showers, sucks at his teeth, making a harsh sound. “We are certain of this?”
Terry nods. “It’ll hurt like a bitch but everything is where it’s supposed to be.”
Around the room, the guys who haven’t cleared out wince, muttering their apologies. Nick had been the ice when it happened, had held a front row seat to the horrific angle Hollander’s foot had been stapled to the boards by the Vegas forward.
Nick had been the one to beat piss out of the guy responsible. He’d taken that asshole out like the trash, but Holly hadn’t returned to the game. To be fair, he’d been hurt with only three minutes to go, but every second counts even when a reverse sweep isn’t involved. They’d managed to tie the game and come out ahead in regulation regardless. It was like someone had set Roz on fire.
“It’s alright,” Hollander insists. He plunks himself down on the bench beside Nick gracelessly. “Thanks for having my back, Chewie.”
His hands shake on his crutches, Nick notes. Hopefully Terry gives him something strong enough that he can actually sleep, and maybe for the flight back to Vegas tomorrow. Pain is one thing, but no rest this deep into a run is like a fate worse than death.
“S’what team’s for,” Nick tells him. When Nick had been concussed earlier this season, Holly had abandoned the play to keep Nick from braining himself on the ice for a second time. He doesn’t remember a lot of it, but he can hear the sound of Hollander’s voice, sharp and authoritative as he boomed for the refs to stop the fucking play.
Hollander moves the crutch in his right hand to his left to give Nick a fist bump, because Hollander only gives and accepts hugs out on the ice, like he needs his pads and gloves as a protective bubble. Guys need what they need, Nick supposes. Ain’t any of his business if it’s what works for Hollander.
He levers himself upright, because he’s not exactly undamaged himself, and heads for the showers. His split knuckles are a well earned addition to the shoulder thing he’s had going on since the second round. At least this new ailment is straightforward.
The shower is a quick, perfunctory thing, a couple of the guys having the energy to be merry, blasting music to make up for what they don’t have. He lets the hot water beat down on him for a couple minutes until he decides he’d much rather be horizontal, in bed and exactly six inches away from his wife—he loves her to pieces but there is only one position he can sleep in right now and it involves a pillow wall surrounding him on all sides.
He comes back out in a towel to Rozanov crouching between Hollander’s spread knees, looking up at him in concern. Terry is still a shadow in the doorway leading out to the hall, his expression grim. Most of the others have cleared out because they have a ten am flight.
“It’s a clean break,” Nick reads off Terry’s lips, which is not something you say about a sprain.
He pointedly looks away, but there’s not much he can do about the location of his stall or his street clothes, so he ducks his head and heads over toward them just as Hollander says, thickly, “I just need to sleep it off.”
“Sleep off a broken foot,” Roz mutters indignantly, shaking his head. “You are fucking impossible.”
“You love me.”
“That is the pain medication talking,” he corrects gently, though he casts a quick look around as if checking to see who’s listening. His expression is inscrutable, but his voice soft, almost tender. “But yes, of course I do, I tell you this after every game. Now be good for Nick and Terry. I am going to pull the car up to the door so you don’t have to walk.”
“You might want to flag security if you see them,” Terry tells Roz as he stretches through his own aches and pains. “They’ll be the quickest ones with a golf cart.”
He nods, ruffling Hollander’s damp, sweaty hair, and then he’s gone. Hollander leans back against the stall and exhales. “Fuck,” he says, eloquently. When he blinks at Nick, his eyes are tiny pinpricks of black nearly swallowed by brown.
“I see Terry hooked you up,” Nick comments mildly.
Hollander hums, eyes fluttering close. “Terry’s the best.”
“You won’t be saying that when the meds wear off,” Terry points out. In his left hand is a glove and the sealed sharp of whatever Holly’d been stuck with. Definitely got the good shit judging by the administration method. Hollander’s real strict about his body and what goes into it, so it’s not much of a surprise that pain meds zonk him more or less instantly. In his defense, Nick’s pretty sure he needs it. The fluorescent lights overhead are a bit revealing when it comes to sweat and tears.
“Nope,” he rolls his head on his neck to look over at Terry. “So enjoy it now.”
They both huff and leave Hollander to float in a drug induced haze for a couple minutes. Security rocks up without Roz, so Nick plucks the crutches out of Hollander’s limp grip and into Terry’s hands. “I’ll ride with him,” he offers, “Unless you think you need to—”
“Nah, that’s fine. Thanks Nick.” Terry loads the crutches into the backseat of the cart and chats idly with the security guard while Nick gets one arm around Hollander’s middle and drags him upright. He must be feeling fantastic, because he struggles more with his balance and staying awake than his gait, so whatever drug cocktail he’s gotten is definitely not going to work for gameday.
“Man, you’re lucky you got a ride,” Nick remarks as they wave goodbye to Terry. “You’re practically in outer space.”
“I’m like fucking Pluto, man,” Hollander faux-confesses.
When they pull up in front of a worried looking Roz by the doors thirty seconds later, all three of them are laughing their asses off.
“What is so funny?”
“Hollander’s a comedian, Rozy, you know this,” The security guard, an older gentleman named Marvin, tells him. Marvin’s all smiles, all the time, except when someone’s a problem. Then he’s actually the scariest man Nick’s ever met. He’s a retired homicide detective. He’d been too bored at home so he works arena security as a side gig. Wild shit.
“I do know this,” Roz confirms, grabbing the crutches and sliding them into the trunk. He turns back to see Hollander trying to pivot. Marvin’s got him by the shoulder and Nick’s about to help him get up, but Roz is quicker. He leans into Hollander’s personal space and says “I will pick you up now.”
Hollander clings to him like a drunk koala, arms around his neck while Roz’s loop under his quads. It’s weirdly graceful, like it’s something they’ve done before. He gets Hollander into the SUV with ease, even buckles his seatbelt for him.
Marvin honks the horn of his cart and pulls off, not needing to insert himself into the proceedings. He probably wants to get home too, Nick thinks, letting the arena doors close behind him.
“You two good?”
“Yes,” Roz says, patting Hollander’s cheek and shutting the passenger side door.
He looks woozy now, probably from the up and down and manhandling, but he manages to lower the window. “Thanks again, Chewie,” he says, holding out his fist.
Nick offers his own for a gentle bump, but Hollander makes explosion sounds and fans his fingers out.
“Hayd’s kids taught me that one,” he volunteers.
“Oh my God, he is so high,” Roz laughs, but then his gaze is on Nick and it’s alert, a little too sober for the lightheartedness of the situation. “Thank you,” he says, and then, “Maybe don’t take anything he said too serious, okay?”
Nick squints at him, trying to figure out what’s being said here. “Is this about the whole ‘you love me’ thing?” He shrugs. “You say that shit all the time. I know he’s out, but like—” Holy shit.
“Right,” Roz says, over the monumental fucking epiphany Nick is having. “Of course. Good night, Chewie.”
“See you tomorrow,” Nick answers. It’s the right thing to say, because the right thing is dropping it.
They have a cup to win in Vegas. And ultimately: whatever Hollander and Rozanov are to each other isn’t any of Nick’s business. That's what he'd thought over the summer, Roz’s phone in his hand, Hollander's cottage on his lock screen, and that's just how it is.
(But if anyone has a problem with it, they’ll have to go through him.)
December 29, 2019
12:15pm
Monty Blankenship, general manager of the Ottawa Centaurs, has always been a patient man. He’s gotten lucky, had some rather impressive players more or less fall right into his lap. He’s even gotten the club president to buy into changes to the front of house over the last few months: They’ve trimmed the fat while working on bulking up the team with help from the minors. They’re doing better. If they keep this up, they’ll be in the playoffs this year and make a deep run the year after. The Centaurs cup window isn’t quite open yet.
His assistant and brand new special advisor have informed him that this is not the case.
“If I’m remembering correctly,” he says, because he doesn’t pull his punches with Casey, “You were the one who wanted to fuck off this summer instead of looking into trades.”
“Hollander fell into your lap and you said the cup window was open,” Casey argues, “And then we didn’t make any trades or signings. I told you to shit or get off the pot.”
“The market was—”
“Yes,” Svetlana Vetrova says, investigating her manicure with disinterest. Her nails are lacquered with some velvet-looking red and black design Monty’s daughters would probably add to their pinterest boards. “The market this summer was shit,” she agrees, lulling Monty into a false sense of security. She taps at her ipad. “Technically you won free agency anyway. You have been drafting well, also. We have useful pieces.” She lifts her gaze and he realizes too late that she’s about to knock him down a peg. “What we don’t have is good leadership.”
“We have Rozanov and Hollander—”
“On the bench,” corrects Casey. Monty isn’t an idiot, he’s now certain they’ve discussed this without him. “I’m with Svetlana on this one, Mont. We essentially have two player coaches who are also our top performers and a bench of people who do exactly what they say. That isn’t coaching.”
Monty resists the urge to point out that Hollander has been railroading them since he literally arrived, seeing as he’s the one who came to them and also the one who insisted they ‘highly consider’ bringing her on as ‘at least’ a consultant.
“It’s terrible for their optics,” Svetlana continues. “November was a hard month.” There had been a seven game losing streak. “They both internalize blame. Trust me on this.” She pauses, looking at Monty, eyes narrowing. “Hollander doesn’t want to have to tell you people these things. You pay him to score sixty goals and put up at least one hundred points, not to run your hockey team. Ilya doesn’t have the same cunning, but he is abreast of all the issues. Hence my presence. I am also smarter than the both of them and have significantly fewer concussions. Lucky you.”
It almost sounds like her interview. To an outsider it would sound haughty and arrogant, but Monty’s been surrounded by arrogant assholes his entire career. He can tell the difference between that and confidence and Vetrova has the latter in spades. She’d walked into his office and said A little birdy tells me he wants to win now. Bring me on and I will secure his happiness and make us all a lot of fucking money, then proceeded to explain her philosophy on roster building, league talent and metrics, and how several subtle changes could very easily improve their position in their division—including a succinct order to start Wyatt Hayes, trade for a backup, and bury their current starter’s cap hit if they weren’t going to do anything about the blue line until trade deadline in March.
Less than a week later, it seems she’s done a full systems review and believes the head coach needs to go, if not everybody else on the bench.
Casey exhales. It’s not a sigh because she doesn’t hide her mouth behind her hand or sip her Starbucks demurely afterward.
“Do you two have recommendations?” He demands.
Casey nods, plugging in her tablet to the cable for screen sharing. It projects onto the massive television mounted to the wall. “We both compiled a list of top ten. There was some overlap, but we put our heads together, talked to the scouts, and narrowed it down to five.”
Three of them are coaches whose current or most recent roles weren’t even at the MLH or JHL level. Two of them are collegiate and one coaches fucking peewee in Ontario. One of them was a former player, on the radar for the wrong reasons. Christ almighty, he thinks. “Do I get a say in this?”
“Put together your own list and we will talk,” Svetlana tells him, like she and Casey are running the show. They are, he supposes, and it’s kind of a relief. If Vetrova is what gets Casey to finally take control of this franchise, it’ll make his decision not to seek an extension at the end of this season a much easier one to make. It ain’t no secret that the Dallas Lonestars’ president got fired after American Thanksgiving or that they’re holding out on replacing him until the offseason for ‘undisclosed reasons.’ He’d lied when Casey asked what he thought about it, but he knows he won’t fool Svetlana Vetrova for a second.
“No need,” Monty tells them. It ought to be their decision anyway. “We’ll interview the top three. If nobody strikes our fancy, we’ll move down the list from there.”
Svetlana nods. “Casey likes Brandon Wiebe. My top pick is Carson Blake.”
Of course Casey likes the fucking troublemaker, Monty thinks. Then again, a whistleblower who used to play in the league is probably good futureproofing. Hollander and Rozanov have been very careful about their personal lives being exposed, but that’s not a strategy that can last, no matter how good they are at pretending they’re best buddies.
“Whoever we bring in ought to fill in the assistant positions as they see fit,” he comments, which they both agree on. “Now which one of you is responsible for this potential trade list I got from the scouts and why the fuck is the top name on it Troy Barrett?”
May 18, 2020
2:26pm
“If this were Toronto,” Troy Barrett volunteers, his voice quieter than it’s ever been in all the years that Wyatt’s known him. Kind of figures, seeing as he’s been estranged from the asshole posse and there’s no one to hide behind, “Nobody’d be showing up for an optional skate this deep into playoffs.”
“You were a late add to the team and Toronto sucks,” Roz chimes from the corner. “Is no wonder this makes no sense to you. Hollander has them trained. You don’t stop showing up. Even the guys who are on maintenance are here. Is not about performance. Is about grit and determination. Cohesion.”
“Big word,” Holly pipes up, stalking into the room in joggers and a sweat soaked t-shirt.
“Fuck off, Hollander,” Roz says, trying to smack him on the ass with his towel.
“Kiss my ass, Rozanov,” he retorts as he strips down to his birthday suit, stopping briefly to fold his clothes up into a manageable little bundle and heads for the showers. He must’ve been in the weight room, the fucking animal.
Barrett stares at Hollander, following his movement with wide eyes.
It’s kind of been a thing. It’s only been a couple months since the Centaurs pulled the batshit move of trading for him, the Cents giving up a couple of prospects for Dallas Kent’s lackey-slash-lieutenant. Barrett seems okay, better now that he’s away from Kent’s brand of bullshit. He keeps to himself, stays quiet, but he gets like this around Hollander. Whenever Hollander doesn’t shy away from the very normal behavior of being in various states of undress in a dressing room designed for exactly that, Barrett just… freezes.
Well, that and he gawks at Hollander like being queer is contagious or something.
Wyatt isn’t really sure what to do about it.
He’s flagged it to Roz, because he’s not an idiot. Roz and Holly aren’t particularly subtle to anyone with eyes and two brain cells to rub together, and they’re practically a pride parade to anyone who knows a queer person, in Wyatt’s estimation. He knows a few.
(He also maybe walked in on them making out at the Game Changers Camp this summer, but that’s a story for another time.)
The point is that Hollander isn’t the one to come to with shit like this, even when it concerns him. He likes to come in, work hard, help the guys unlock their hockey chakra or whatever they’re calling it this week, and get the hell outta dodge when he’s finished putting himself and everyone around him through the wringer.
Roz is already aware, thankfully. He’d voiced his concerns to management at the time of the trade, not that the players have the power to veto such a thing. In its aftermath, he’d personally sat Barrett down to talk about the ways Ottawa wasn’t Toronto (thank fuck), and so far Barrett has promised to keep his bigoted opinions to himself, keep his head down, and play his game.
Except for this. Barrett's like a deer in headlights at the prospect of Hollander, stunned still in surprise like it’s a shock that the gays walk freely among them or something. Wyatt very privately hopes that if Hollander and Rozanov ever go public, he gets a front row seat to Troy’s reaction. It'd probably break his brain.
With Hollander gone off to shower, he inevitably recovers. Wyatt looks over to see Roz watching him too, eyes narrowing. There's nothing else Wyatt can do. Troy hasn't actually done or said anything wrong since arriving in Ottawa, even though that doesn’t make him trustworthy in Wyatt’s opinion. He grabs his mask and heads out. Maybe Roz doesn't want to address it when other people are watching.
His instincts are spot on.
“Whatever you are thinking,” Roz intones sharply, the words just loud enough that Wyatt can hear them from the stick rack on the dressing room side of the tunnel, “Stop. Hollander has boyfriend.”
“Shit,” Barrett blurts. He sounds embarrassed. “Am I that obvious?”
“No, probably not,” Roz allows, which what? Is Roz really suggesting— “But maybe stay in your lane,” he's told. There's a creak from the bench that runs the perimeter of the room as Rozanov rises.
“I didn't, I'm just—” there's nothing but silence for a long moment, then an audible sigh. “It's cool that he can just, like, be. Everybody’s just… fine with it.”
Of course they’re fine with it, Wyatt thinks. What Hollander does on his own time—and who he does it with—shouldn’t fucking matter. It would honestly do the sport some good to be forced to acknowledge the shit that’s always been here behind the scenes. Hollander and especially Roz have been open about mental health with their charity, and Wyatt doesn’t need his wife’s genius doctor brain to know that having to hide who you are to fit in with the fucking bullshit boy’s club that’s pro hockey would take a toll on exactly that.
“Well,” another voice, one that’s definitely not Roz or Hollander hedges, soft and bubbly and kind because Harris Drover is literally sunshine in a bottle, if you ask Wyatt, “We’re all just people, Troy. Just different flavors, or whatever. It really doesn’t need to be a big deal.”
He must take the most direct path through the room because he makes it to the outlet into the tunnel that Wyatt’s been eavesdropping from ahead of Roz. He makes eye contact with Wyatt, pride pins gleaming, and winks. There’s a new one on his jacket. It’s a little apple, rainbow striped and perfectly on brand.
“We know you’re trying,” Harris says over his shoulder. He thumbs thoughtfully at the apple pin. Maybe someone brought it back from New York after they’d sent the Admirals packing three days ago. They did call it the big apple, after all. “It might be worth it to tell them that.”
January 30, 2020
4:12pm
The distance between Toronto and Ottawa would be easily drivable if Troy had a car. Ottawa is a place where you need one, he’s learned. It’s a more inconvenient place (as opposed to Toronto or his hometown of Vancouver) which definitely factors into the unprovided reasons why his very, very secret movie star boyfriend dumped him via an Instagram message almost as soon as news of the trade became public, but Troy’s always believed in karma as a concept. He knows it was just camouflage, but… he also knows he chose a safe lane without any disregard for who he hurt.
And that’s the kind of thing that karma remembers when it pays you a visit.
He’d gotten the call from the Guardians’ GM, which was brief and impersonal, then his agent had called to say that the Centaurs wanted him in Ottawa as soon as possible. He’d packed a go bag, had his agent handle the particulars: first flight out, hotel, moving company, storage, list of conveniently located apartments to lease if he wound up sticking around, then left a message for his mom because it was just about midnight in Asia when he’d gotten to it and she was either raising hell with the locals or sleeping.
His dad had called him, too, but he’d let that call go to voicemail.
It feels like he’s blinked and now he’s here, at the airport with Rozanov and Hollander waiting for him at arrivals in what appears to be matching black winter jackets, beanies slung low on their heads. They’re arguing about something, shoving at each other, grinning like children, like best friends or maybe brothers.
This is a star-studded welcome, one befitting a player far more talented than himself, and as Troy realizes this, he remembers exactly what Hollander is. The now flavorless gum he’d been chewing to mitigate the way his ears always popped on short flights where the plan barely had time to level off turns to ash in his mouth. He swallows it on instinct, even though he knows he shouldn’t.
There hasn’t been a statement or anything, but Hollander is gay. Troy knows this because Kent had called Hollander the f-word after the rumor had spread last year and Pike had beaten the shit out of him. They probably thought he hadn’t heard, it would make sense considering how loudly Dallas was running his mouth after Pike had busted his nose, but he’d heard the way Pike had whirled around to face the bench and snarled which one of you fuckers was it? He’d been kind of quiet about it, but everybody on the ice had heard.
That game hadn’t gone great for the Guardians. Hollander scored two goals in as many minutes afterward, and Dallas had gotten fined the maximum allowed. It wasn’t enough to actually hurt, in terms of earnings and it had only made Dallas worse, which meant Troy had to escalate alongside him. He’d never actually called anyone a slur, outside of maybe himself, mentally, but… yeah.
Maybe five meters away, he watches as Rozanov notices him coming down the escalator, gear bag in one hand, backpack and rollerbag in the other. He elbows Hollander, whose smiling face melts into something serious, smoothing out.
Hollander probably hates him, which is fair. He can’t hate Troy any more than Troy hates himself.
Even so, the two of them meet him in the middle of the massive area designated for arrivals. Roz is first, waiting for Troy to release his roller bag before offering him a hand. Hollander goes next, and his grip is deceptively mild.
“We wanted to talk to you first,” Rozanov says when the pleasantries are done and they’ve walked outside into the brutal Ontario cold. “Off the record.”
Oh fuck, Troy thinks. He’s reminded of his earlier thought that Rozanov and Hollander are friends. They have a fucking charity together, for fuck’s sake.
He should have done a little more spiraling on the plane.
There’s a dark green luxury SUV pulled off to the side. For a moment, Troy thinks it’s one of those guys who Ubers because he bought a car he can’t afford. But as Roz opens up the trunk with the kind of casual comfort one doesn’t usually have with someone else’s vehicle and Hollander yanks the gear bag out of his hand to load, he realizes there’s something else going on.
That something else, which is Svetlana Vetrova, who gets out and moves to the front passenger’s side so that Hollander can drive.
Vetrova, who is, for all intents and purposes the executed will of the Centaurs’ general management, does not offer Troy a hand to shake. Her arms stay crossed over her chest.
“You are lucky,” it’s again Rozanov who speaks once they’re buckled in, Troy and Rozanov in the back. The car smells like sandalwood and leather wipes. “I wanted to invite Yuna Hollander.”
“Ilya,” Hollander rebukes. He meets Troy’s eyes via the rear view mirror. Whatever Troy’s face does makes him frown. “We just want to clear a couple things up.”
This is basically a kidnapping, Troy thinks. Blackmail. He’s being told in no uncertain terms that he has to agree with whatever they say.
“Svetlana is here because trade was her idea. And because I am maybe not so good with hostile negotiations.”
“Ilya,” Vetrova warns.
“We’re not going to hurt or threaten you,” Hollander insists, shaking his head. “You’re a damn good hockey player. You might be a homophobe, but you know puck.”
“You were acquired because you are a good player in Toronto’s shit system,” Vetrova takes over. She’s looking down at her phone, not back at Troy, but then her finger’s are flying over the touch screen built into the dash, inputting the address of Troy’s hotel. “And we want to win this year.”
“You’re crazy,” he says. It just kind of comes out of him. It’s better than at least four different alternatives. “This year?”
Rozanov’s voice is deep, each word weighted with intention. “This year,” he confirms. “You have until trade deadline to get your shit together. If you behave the way you did in Toronto, Sveta will tell them to trade you to Buffalo for two pucks and a roll of stick tape.”
Nobody expects him to answer. In fact, the car is dead silent save for the quiet intonation of the navigation. For one crazy moment, he thinks about telling the truth, but he isn’t sure anyone will believe him. Troy doesn’t think he would, in a reverse of this situation.
It’s all such a mess. Rozanov’s giving this weird look, like if he had super powers it’d be laser eyes and he’d burn Troy to a crisp. It’s like that Homelander guy, from The Boys.
Double fuck, Troy thinks. He’d forgotten that his new team’s goaltender is Wyatt.
April 5, 2020
4:32pm
The clock runs out while Detroit’s net is empty. Hazy’s still dialed, Dykstra on his back in the crease while Detroit’s guys try to send him, Hazy, and the puck into the net. They’re tenacious until the buzzer, but Ottawa has them beat four goals to three. It’s done. Their place in the division is set. It’s not at the top, but it isn’t the best team that wins, it’s the team that plays the best—or so Rozanov says.
He says a lot of shit. Zane can't possibly be expected to remember all of it.
Time slows down. He watches as the guys on the ice throw their gloves up in the air and they rain down around them like fucking confetti. They drop their twigs wherever they’re standing, clumping together and making a beeline toward Hazy. Hazy swipes a couple errant pieces of equipment out of the way with his paddle before he abandons it with a gentle plunk, laying it across the back of the net for safe-keeping so it doesn’t get kicked at or trip somebody up.
On the bench, Coach Wiebe—the team's newest member—fist pumps aggressively. It’s a staccato rush of breath, an aborted yell, and then he’s thumping Zane, Roz, and Holly on the backs, open palmed because they’re the guys directly in front of him. He's saying that's how you fucking do it boys, and let's fucking go as time spins back up to normal.
“I fucking told you,” Hollander is screaming in Rozy’s face. “I fucking told you!”
Roz has both arms around him. “The real work begins now, huh?”
“Damn right,” Holly says. He thumps Roz on the back and holds on as they both turn to Zane, smiling wide and triumphant.
“Playoffs baby!” Zane bellows at them both, jumping up and down, because how the fuck can he not when the enormous reality of the situation is finally dawning on him?
Next thing he knows they're hugging and stumbling over the boards and onto the ice and the sound from the stands filters in just a little bit, low and rushing like a fucking tidal wave about to swallow them up. He winds up slamming into Barrett and Chouinard, caught up in the crush of bodies, the whole team circling and yelling incoherently, slapping each other's backs and hugging and it's fucking magic.
Seriously.
Zane loves this city and this team. He's loved it since they drafted him, since it opened its arms to him, a punk-ass kid who had no idea what the hell he was doing. It's given him everything: his career, his fiance, a place to settle down and grow up all at once. He fucking loves this town. He’ll stay here forever if they let him.
Maybe he, like the rest of them, had gotten a little complacent about the whole thing, playing for a franchise that hasn't seen playoffs in a decade and hasn't made a real cup run in twice as long, but here, in this moment, surrounded by twenty guys screaming and maybe crying a couple unironic tears, he wants.
He wants to reward the city and its fans for waiting for them to catch up. He wants to take it to every other team in the league and show them why they're not good enough. He wants to win.
He hugs Hazy, who’s bright eyed and smiley, who says can you believe it? when their eyes meet.
Hollander and Rozanov are behind him. They hug Wyatt at the same time, Zane watching while drifting backwards toward centre ice to acknowledge the fans.
They are the real ones, he'll say after the game when he talks to the press. They are the ones who have shown up every night, not to mention those who kept coming even when the team hadn't given them much to cheer for. It's not something a lot of guys think about, but Bood does.
Cassie says it's why he's got the A on his chest: He understands the mantle, what it means to be a pro athlete. He knows that they're—the city, the fans—counting on him, them, the team.
He's gonna bring home the fucking cup, kicking and screaming if he has to. Just try and stop him.
June 12, 2020
10:20pm
Shane passes to Ilya without looking.
They barrel into the offensive zone with speed, fucking flying, charging the net like it's still regulation, not 2OT. Shane asserts himself in front of the Vegas net, getting shoved at by the other team's goalie. Ilya fakes the pass back to Shane from the wing but taps the puck through two unsuspecting opponents to Bood, who’s been forgotten in Vegas’ haste to cover the two superstars. He lifts it up and watches, head on a swivel, as it goes bar down and in from behind the goal line. It happens so fast: plink, plink, plunk against the crossbar and it's finally, finally done.
They fucking did it. It’s over. They’ve won.
It’s been six goddamn years, so maybe it takes him a minute to realize all of the above. He’s already moving, his body knowing what to do even if his brain is frozen, all static and unsilence, crashing the place behind the net where Hollander is hugging Bood and kissing the side of his helmet, calling him a fucking beauty, both of them holding out their arms for him to join them.
He fucking goes, and several things happen all at once.
He’s crowded by Dykstra and Chouinard, who basically slingshot him into Bood. He feels the thump of Shane’s hand on his shoulder, through layers of padding, and can’t really turn in the crush of bodies as the rest of the team reaches them. He’s being hugged on all sides, hands patting heads, guys coming in like goddamn wrestlers, arriving with flying leaps that smoosh them against the boards behind the net. The plexiglass rattles between them and the fans, who are screaming. He can’t really hear it, but he just knows.
Someone must have cleared the net because they’re all together now. Somewhere beyond the clusterfuck that is their entire team, Wiebe is yelling compliments and congratulations, alongside his two assistants.
The crush begins to let up, and Wyatt gets in on the action. He shouts, “I love you beautiful sons of bitches,” and gets countless oaths in return. When he speaks again, it’s to say, “You fucking warrior, Holly,” hugging Shane with his lanky body and trying taking a little bit of the weight off him.
Most of them thought it was a sprain, but they’d watched Ilya lace up his skate before the game while he bit his hand and looked away. Only a fucking maniac could play forty three minutes on a busted foot, Ilya thinks, equal parts horrified and fond of him.
“I can’t fucking feel it,” Shane promises, and he probably can’t because of the adrenaline, but he sags into Wyatt anyway. “So fucking proud of you boys,” he hollers, touching everybody within arm’s reach.
It’s funny. People always look at Ilya and see him and go that’s the guy. That’s the captain, the leader, the one who wrangles all the guys and keeps the team together. Maybe it’s true, Ilya is good at people. He’s good at seeing what they want and trying to make that happen for them. He’s good at reading them and understanding their secrets sometimes, too—he looks over at Barrett, who’s sobbing into the arms of Tanner Dillon and looking up like the heavens have some answer for him, like maybe he can’t quite believe that he deserves good things after everything he’s done.
Everybody looks at Ilya and assumes that he’s the leader. He wears the C, he’s the named captain, the one that goes into the history books. But when Ilya thinks about this year, when he looks back at how they’ve done things, he can’t help but think that they all got manhandled by Shane. Like he shoved them all onto this trajectory, ready or not.
Most people don’t realize that the C isn’t for the team. It’s for the fans. It gives them a focal point, tells them who the most important guy in the room is, for a time, an era, a window. But if you were to ask the guys in the room who the leader is, he has a feeling it would probably be split right down the middle between Shane and himself. Shane is the guy whose approval is hard fought for and hard won, he’s critical but fair, full of tough love. Ilya is the one who pumps them up, their greatest supporter, defender, and brother in arms.
It’s a good fucking system, he thinks. It works, obviously.
Time sort of skips. Abstractly, Ilya knows he shakes hands with Vegas’ players, that he tells them they fought well, that it was a good series. It was. Vegas played well, but not well enough. They had the depth, but not the force of will, and they couldn’t break Ottawa. Not in any way that matters, at least.
Next thing he knows, Crowell’s coming down on his stupid red carpet that nobody saw them roll out, pretending like the people around him don’t know how to do their jobs and require him to direct traffic while league staffers do all the work. Someone comes by to hand out hats and towels that read 2020 League Champions next to the Centaurs’ ugly as shit logo. It looks like the hockey playing centaur is trying to hack at the title. It’s so goddamn stupid looking. It’s perfect.
Ilya slicks a hand through his sweat soaked hair and shoves the hat on his head, looks up and finds that Shane’s got the hat on, too, but backwards.
He’s so fucking gorgeous.
They’re pulled together like magnets or gravity or whatever the fuck you want to call it. Nobody thinks twice about Shane saying I love you so fucking much, I mean it, and Ilya nodding, feeling Shane’s forehead press just above his neckguard, hot and cold thanks to the adjustable plastic part on the back of the hat, and answering, Thank you, I love you, we fucking did it. The cameras circle, and it’ll be on every sports channel for a week, talking about rivalry and brotherhood and whatever the fuck else.
The people who know will laugh, and the people who don’t will think it’s good sportsmanship.
When Shane eventually pulls back, they exchange a glance and a whole conversation happens with quirked lips and raised eyebrows. Ilya knows what he’s asking, and he shakes his head. They both look to Bood, who’s holding onto Dykstra and Chouinard, the three of them arm in arm as they set up for the cup ceremony, then back at each other.
“He deserves it,” Ilya muses. “Is very weird to be so in sync.”
“He does. And you love it,” Shane replies dryly, and it’s true. Ilya does. “But we both know the other reason.”
The other reason is that Ilya will absolutely not be able to control himself if he hands the cup off to Shane. Not like this. No matter how much he’s daydreamed about it, this—it’s not about them today. It’s not about the rivalry, either, no matter what video clips or sound bites the media wants. It’s about the whole team, how hard they fought to secure this victory. Shane and Ilya’s day will come.
Also, more importantly: Ilya will have plenty of time to kiss Shane under the cup. Between Shane and Sveta, this team will become a dynasty. Expect a three-peat. If Ilya kisses Shane here and now, on the ice, no warning, they’ll run the risk of someone referring to it as them pulling a Scott Hunter, which, over Ilya’s dead body.