Chapter Text
October 2015
It was a new season, and Montreal were playing and Noah wasn’t watching. They were building the stage for a fucking Ricky Martin concert, meanwhile over in Boston the Montreal team were on the ice. Since the Metros won the Stanley cup, though, this was the hottest ticket in town if you knew anything about hockey and tech, so Noah was in no position to turn down any gigs he was offered.
To add insult to injury, the head tech didn’t like commentary radio on during get-in. He was playing his usual classic rock mix over the built-in sound system, the tinny quality of the PA echoing Blue Oyster Cult through the centre while he and the rest of the guys plugged up the amps for the concert.
The end of the day rolled in and Noah grabbed his phone out of his locker. He’d had to leave it there to avoid checking it every thirty seconds (shh, he was no more weird than any hockey fan about this, shut up) and he was delighted to see another Montreal win. He loaded up the MLH official highlights video as he ran down the stairs to get onto the metro, and watched each goal and celebration over and over to see if the footage had caught any Hollanov content.
As soon as he was home, he threw his clothes into the laundry and launched himself into bed. Tomorrow was Sunday, so he didn’t have to be up early for his next call and so he could watch the match. His eyes tried to pull shut and he was fighting the exhaustion from his 14hours of work when he caught something very unusual on the footage.
The game was nearly over and it was clear that Boston weren’t going to make the win, when Rozanov slammed into Hollander against the boards. Either they didn’t realise it was right next to a camera position or they’d both managed to rattle their brains, because as soon as Hollander’s fellow forward picked up the puck ready for the final goal of the game, the famous rivals looked at each other and shared a massive grin, both of them flushed from the exertion and their eyes bright.
That wasn’t a look you shared with a guy who you hated. That wasn’t a rivalry kind of look.
If Noah was being realistic, he would probably say that it was a look shared between two players who simply loved the game. They had been aggressively shoved at each other for years, maybe they played up the rivalry for the PR while sharing a personal truce of some kind.
Maybe Tumblr was right.
January 2016
Every game between the Montreal Metros and the Boston Raiders was a sellout show, but there was something more electric in the air this evening. Boston had been clear cup contenders in the summer, and they seemed to take it personally that they were playing under the fresh new championship banner won by their opposing team. Every check was brutal, every pass contended, and both Hollander and Rozanov were on fire.
Noah had never worked so hard on the number two before. As soon as he was focused in on the puck there was another interception and it disappeared up the other end of the ice and he’d lost it again. When the first point was actually won — Marlow assisting Rozanov to score — he almost didn’t believe it was happening, and it was only a sharp “Camera two, keep it on Rozanov, Five you’re on Drapeau.” in his ear that meant he was sure the shot had gone in. Even the crowd seemed unsure, though the relatively small collection of Raiders fans were making more than their fair share of the noise in the arena, and he followed Rozanov on a victory lap. He skated to a stop in front of the Metro’s bench, and leaned over the boards to chirp at Hollander, who had apparently been swapped out for the last few minutes of the period. Noah couldn’t see what Rozanov was saying — his back to Noah’s camera position — but Hollander was glaring daggers in return, and Noah let himself zoom in on Hollander’s face for a moment.
Rozanov must have said something, because Hollander opened his mouth to return fire, then he seemingly caught the camera over Rozy’s shoulder — for a moment it felt like he was staring Noah dead in the eye — and then he pulled his glove off with his teeth, his lips clearly moving around the fabric, but his lips impossible to read. Noah pulled back out slightly and kept following Rozanov for a while as he laughed kept skating, holding his hands out for a high-five from his team before hopping the boards to sit on his own bench.
The rest of the game was just as intense, though the speed noticeably ratcheted up every time the rivals were on the ice together, and Montreal scraped a 2-1 lead in the last ten minutes of the third period to bring home another win.
Noah was quick to pack up his stuff and he found himself walking down a back stair to head out the crew entrance unusually early when he paused in the stairwell, hearing a familiar voice that he’d never really expected to hear outside of a press conference.
“Smug is not a good look on you.” Ilya Rozanov’s voice crept through the propped-open fire exit he’d been about to sneak through. Noah knew, vaguely, that this shortcut was through the end of the home-team locker areas, but it took him a moment to remember that it was, in fact, the home team area, and as such Rozanov should absolutely not be here.
“Yeah well, that’s what you get for only scoring once.” Hollander? His voice was less distinctive, but Noah peered through the gap in the door to see, and sure enough there was Hollander and Rozanov, close enough together that if it was just their faces in the frame he’d think they were about to face-off again. But their whole bodies were barely inches apart, both of them still slightly damp from their post-game showers, and wearing thin underarmour shirts and pants that were, presumably, about to be covered by their post-game suits.
“Team celebration tonight, Captain?” Rozanov asked, his tone practically a leer.
“Short gathering at Hayden’s house. His kids have gone to—”
“I do not care about Pike and his children.”
“They’re having—”
“If I wanted to talk about Pike I would have asked to meet him in the back. Is what you want? Perhaps I should fuck Hayden instead.”
“Fuck you Rozanov,”
“Yes, is what I’m trying to get to.”
“I’ll text when I’m heading to the apartment. Don’t beat me there, I don’t want you waiting outside where people will see you.”
“Yes, yes. I will be in the dark wearing my hat and big coat and scarf and everyone will still know who I am because I am big famous hockey player.” Rozanov crowded in closer and spoke quietly, but it still echoed in the stark corridor. “And they will definitely suspect I am there to fuck big deal hockey player Shane Hollander.”
“Rozanov! Fuck’s sake!” Hollander whisper-shouted, and pressed his hands against Rozanov’s chest to separate them. Noah couldn’t help but notice that Hollander’s hands lingered on Rozanov’s chest for a moment before they dropped again. “Go back and console your team.”
“Yes, they are all too slow to keep up with me. Is only reason we lose. When I make them all as good as me you will never win because Montreal are also very slow.”
“Yeah yeah, dream on Rozanov.”
“When I am holding Stanley Cup you will say different story.”
“Fuck off.” Hollander said, but he was grinning and watching Rozanov walk away. Noah held his breath when he thought, for a moment, that Rozanov was going to walk right into his little hideaway, but he swerved at the last moment down another little-used corridor. Hollander watched him until he was out of sight, then sighed and started jogging back to his own locker room to, presumably, finish up his post-game rituals.
It was only when he could no longer hear either of their footsteps and just the distant jovial celebrations coming from the locker room that Noah felt like he could fully breathe again.
Holy shit.
Hoooooooooly shit.
They were…Rozanov and Hollander… and they were… fuck!
He couldn’t say anything. He’d had it beaten into him at college multiple times — he’d be in a privileged position in his career and might end up in a position to know secrets about famous people and it was his professional responsibility to shut the fuck up about it. If he was known to tattle he’d never work again.
He’d also had it beaten into him by Adam as well as several others — you do not out people without their permission.
Tumblr would explode. If he told them. Which he couldn’t. But he wanted to.
Could he even tell Sadie?
Noah scurried out of the Centre as fast as he could and dove into the metro, using the sporadic moments of connection at each station to load up commentary on the game. Everything was exactly as normal, nothing had changed for everyone else.
Everything had changed. Except… they didn’t talk like people who were doing something new. They chirped exactly like him and Sadie — teasing affection and comfortable ribbing that betrayed knowledge of each other. And not just professional knowledge either.
Fuck, he needed to calm down before he got home or Sadie would know something was up. He flipped his phone to his ASL learning app to try and totally stop thinking about hockey, but of course it was a special flirting lesson. ‘Well, I guess I can tell Sadie in sign exactly what Rozanov and Hollander are doing with their evening.’ Noah thought, and caught himself actually laughing out loud on the metro. The passenger next to him shuffled sideways as though trying to put distance between them, and Noah did his best to stifle the laugh.
He fought to sit still on the journey home, and when he finally arrived back at the house he burst in through the door to find Sadie and Adam sitting on the sofa, watching the start of the coverage of the Anaheim game.
“Hey, how was the game?” Adam asked. Sadie stood and kissed him on the cheek, keeping an eye on the TV as she did.
“Oh, you know. Always a good night when the Metros win.” Noah really hoped that his weird mood didn’t came out in his voice, but Adam’s head snapped around to look at him. At the motion, Sadie turned to focus on him as well, and she frowned. Fuck, he needed to control his face.
“What? Was there a problem? Did you get fired or something?” Sadie asked.
“No, no. Just, uh… nearly got caught coming out the shortcut by one of the players. Kinda rattled me.”
Sadie just frowned at him again, and he rapidly signed ‘later’. Sadie nodded and looked back at the TV, then he eyes widened and she looked back at him.
“Wait, when the fuck did you learn sign?”