Chapter Text
“Do you think Ottawa won tonight?”
“Let’s see.”
Shane had spent his professional career under the relentless command of Coach Thierault and the very worst that hockey culture had to offer. Now, he would never have to enter that locker room again. Never again be on the receiving end of blustering outbursts from his former coach or sneering dismissal from his teammates. At least not as part of their organization. But Shane categorically hated the unknown. He’d spent years learning how to survive in that filth, thrive even, if you considered the three Stanley Cups he won in the midst of it. The environment wasn’t pleasant, obviously, but it was a known entity. The Ottawa Centaurs had three years of Ilya’s influence and three decades of existence without a single Cup.
The day of his contract signing, Coach Brandon Wiebe met Shane in the lobby of the practice rink with a vigorous handshake and aggressively direct eye contact. Shane and Ilya had agreed he should go alone as a show of professionalism, but his fiancé would be pacing around and making a mess Shane would inevitably have to tidy.
Coach Thierault was squat and balding, but he capable of looming over a room and blanketing it in his displeasure. Wiebe was ruggedly handsome, like he spent his off-seasons in the wilderness hunting moose.
“Shane Hollander. It’s an honor to have you with us. I’ve followed your career closely, you’re incredible to watch.” Wiebe’s eyes crinkled at the corners from the weight of his smile. The wattage of it was almost impressive.
“I’m excited to be here, Coach. Rozanov speaks highly of you.” The measured smile came automatically, the one Valerie had spent a rookie season helping him calibrate. He wasn’t sure if he should call Ilya by his first or last name at this point. Would drawing attention to his relationship seem unprofessional? Ilya had said he should just meet Coach Wiebe and see how he felt.
“And of course, congratulations on your engagement. Wedding in a couple weeks, eh? So thrilled for you two.” He sounded so genuine that Shane could only blink at him and nod in acknowledgment. He wasn’t used to people in the hockey world actually being in favor of his relationship. Tolerating it, maybe. Never celebrating it. “The way you came to us is obviously unconventional, but I hope you’ll find what you’ve been looking for here. I want you to know that you and Ilya have my full support, and the support of the entire Ottawa Centaurs organization.”
“We both appreciate that.” He paused–he wondered how much Wiebe had heard about the true reasons he left Montréal, wondered if he even wanted him to know. They approached the stairs up to the rink and Shane was grateful for an excuse to look at his feet while they climbed. “I don’t know how much Ilya told you about my time in Montréal, but I didn’t leave on the best terms. I’m glad to be somewhere that doesn’t hold my relationship with my fiancé against me.” He turned his head to assess his new Coach. Wiebe’s eyebrows nudged together and his lips pressed tight. Ilya must have shared something with him, or maybe Wiebe had just seen enough during his own career to know how bad it could get.
“As far as I see it, your relationship is the reason I have the two best forwards in the league on my team,” Wiebe said. “Hell, you can renew your vows at center ice before every game if you want to. I’m ordained.”
“Thank you, sir, but I’m just here to play hockey.” Despite the brush off, his shoulders lowered with his next exhale and he released the tightness in his jaw.
“And aren’t we damn lucky for that.” Wiebe pushed open the door to the rink and waved him inside. Embarrassingly, Shane was surprised that the arena smelled just like every other rink he’d played at. He’d thought walking into a new practice rink would prickle him the way things that were just wrong often did. His life had been thrown in a blender the past couple months, but the blast of cold air in his face felt like coming home.
They entered on the concourse, above the spectator stands. He moved towards the railing and took in the miniature arena. For a practice rink, it was quite beautiful. He was used to rinks that felt almost subterranean, with windows only bordering the very top of the high walls. One entire length of the Centaurs’ practice rink was against glass, three stories of it. It flooded the ice in natural light. He bit his lip before he could ask about the safety of giant windows in a hockey arena. It had to be special glass.
Below him, arena seating ran in alternating rows of black and red, enough to host a few hundred spectators. The only signs of wear and tear in the rink were puck scuffs on the boards and some smudges on the glass. The ice was freshly zambonied, so recently it was still slick. The Centaur at center ice gleamed under a layer of water. Jesus, it was definitely the dumbest logo in the league. But even then, he felt nostalgic. The last time it had been his logo, it was on his twin size bedsheets and plastered all over his walls.
In his peripheral vision, Wiebe leaned against the railing. “I think you’ll like playing for Ottawa, Shane,” he said quietly. “We have a great group of guys. Ilya has turned things around here. He’s led this team beyond what I imagined we could be capable of. But with you here? I think we have a shot at the Cup. Maybe not this year, but soon.” Shane gave a jerky nod and stared hard at the logo in front of him. He wanted to say something. Wanted to reassert his professionalism and express his gratitude, but his mouth wouldn’t open. Wiebe sighed and curled his hands around the railing. “I know how it can get. I can only imagine what it was like in your old room, but it won’t be like that here. I wouldn’t stand for it. Ilya would draft waivers himself if he caught wind of someone having a bad attitude.” God, that was so Ilya. He wouldn’t hesitate to buy a bigot an economy ticket to Buffalo. “The guys here idolize you. Half the guys in the locker room grew up watching you.”
“Way to make me feel old, Coach.”
“Not a bad thing! They think you’re the second coming of Gretzky. I swear.” Coach Wiebe raised his hands in surrender. “And Ottawa loves you. You’re their hometown star, no matter who you played for. People in this city already own your jersey. Even my own daughters–Centaurs coach’s kids, mind you–begged for your Montréal jersey. We’re all proud of you, Shane.”
The lines of the ridiculous centaur in front of him blurred just slightly. He tilted his head up and blinked a couple times until his vision was clear enough to read the banners of retired numbers hanging from the ceiling. There was space for more up there. It could be nice to have his number among them, to be the last #24 on his childhood team.
“Thank you,” he finally said, straightening from the railing. It was an inadequate response but Wiebe didn’t seem to be offended.
“Let’s head up.” Wiebe turned and gestured towards the elevator. “The GM, your agent, and a couple of our socials people are waiting on us, we’ve kept them long enough. The GM probably won’t breathe easy until pen hits paper.”
Shane signed his eight year, $81.24 million contract with the Ottawa Centaurs in an office overlooking the logo on his new practice ice. He initialled every page with sharp, efficient movements. Each page felt like a deadbolt unlocking. The extra fifty thousand a year had been a surprise negotiated by Farah, but for once he wasn’t complaining.
There, on official Ottawa Centaurs letterhead, were his and Ilya’s numbers side by side. His heart clenched with what might be hope. It was more than he’d allowed himself to wish for. This was a declaration of acceptance. The look of touched surprise when he first read the updated figure would probably be the softest he'd ever looked in a promotional photo. He decided then that Farah would be getting a fifty thousand dollar bonus every year of his contract. He owed her a second house, after all.
“Okay, boys!” Coach Wiebe blew his whistle. “I hope you all had a restful summer and are ready to step it up this season. This is our Cup to lose, we have all the pieces for a great team. Now it’s our job to make them fit.” That might be wishful thinking, considering the team had barely snagged a Wild Card position last year and hadn’t even breathed on the Cup in franchise history.
“We got Hollander!” Someone shouted to a round of cheers and enthusiastic stick taps. They were all gathered in a semicircle around their coach, kneeling on the ice and executing half-hearted stretches.
“Okay, everyone calm down. I know we’re all excited–” He was cut off with more hollering. “Jesus Christ, just get it all out now. You have two minutes, use it wisely.”
“We’re stacked, boys!” That came from Tanner Dillon, the quickest to climb to his feet and pump a gloved fist in the air. He used to be Ilya’s right wing, but he’d been replaced by Troy Barrett on the top line. They had met for the first time that day, so Shane had yet to get a read on him. He seemed in good spirits despite a rough previous season. Whether that was genuine confidence or just start of season excitement remained to be seen.
“I’m so glad Ottawa drafted me,” Luca Haas leaned on the board and kicked his skate almost dreamily. The downside to being a top draft pick was getting scooped up by one of the worst teams in the league. Teenage Shane was jealous that Luca had cheated the system.
“Might be the first time anyone has ever said that. Look at us, Hollander, we are healing generational trauma.” Ilya clapped Shane on the back with a grin. Everywhere Shane moved, Ilya drifted after him like a personal moon. That wide, heartstopping smile Shane had fallen in love with hadn’t left Ilya’s face since they hit the ice. In fact, this was the first time he'd seen Ilya this unguarded in public. Was this because Shane was there, or was Ilya just that close to his teammates?
“Yeah, my trauma, don’t forget I grew up a Centaurs’ fan.” He prodded Ilya in the side with the handle of his stick. “Not one Cup my entire childhood. It was tragic.”
“That will change now, we were just waiting for you. You’re welcome. Ottawa boy must bring home Ottawa’s first Cup.” Ilya clasped the back of Shane’s head and tapped their helmets together. His eyes were intense and he lingered a fraction of a second too long.
“Hollander.” Evan Dykstra, a top defenseman, skated to a stop in front of Shane and grabbed his shoulder. “I don’t know what illicit substances the Montréal front office was on, but holy shit, we’re glad to have you here.” There was a passionate chorus of “Fuck Montréal!” followed by “Thank you, Montréal!” Jesus, had anyone ever been this excited to have him on their team? He'd joined Montréal so green that there wasn’t much fanfare from his teammates. As he got older, there was nothing new to celebrate. He was already synonymous with the team itself.
“Do you think we should send them flowers or something?” Barrett laughed. “They practically handed the two best players in the league to us.”
Wyatt Hayes snorted and pulled his goalie mask to the top of his head. “Might be a nice break from the flaming bags of dog shit the rest of the league is probably sending them for putting you two on a team together.” The team erupted in laughter again. One side of his mouth tipped up but his eyes were open a little too wide.
For Shane, Hockey (capital H) was serious business. It was reviewing game footage, analyzing spreadsheets, running drills. Preparing for Hockey involved diligent nutrition plans and optimized conditioning in the gym. It had never included this much joking around. The Voyageurs had never done this much joking around. And the Centaurs hadn’t won a Cup in three decades.
“I’ve been getting nonstop texts.” Bood barked a laugh. “Everyone I know from other teams has been threatening me like I personally did this. I would hate to be a Montréal player right now, they’re probably getting tomatoes thrown at them in the streets.” His voice dropped to a stage whisper. “You ever been cussed out in Québécois?”
“As they should be.” Ilya skated to the center of the circle. His eyes flicked to Shane briefly, cataloguing his expression. “But we are not going to talk about Montréal right now. We focus on us. We have the best player in the league on this team.” He paused for dramatic effect. “And Hollander’s here now too.” Shane batted him with the blade of his stick, earning a sly smirk.
“Rozanov’s right, boys.” Coach Wiebe clapped his clipboard loudly. The team sobered up instantly, kneeling back down or leaning on their sticks. There it was. They were capable of locking in, he thought with relief. “Hollander, we are thrilled to have you here. And let’s not forget to give a big welcome to our rookies: Anders Holmberg, right wing; Felix LaPointe, left wing; Logan Young, center. I trust you will all help them find their footing.” Some murmured welcomes and glove muffled claps sounded from the team. “We’re gonna try out some new lines. Rozanov, Hollander; I know we talked about one of you moving to wing, but Shane, I think you at second line center makes the most sense for our depth. The Bood-Rozanov-Barrett line has been gelling nicely, I don’t want to pull that apart right now.” Shane felt his stomach drop, he'd been foolishly hoping to play on Ilya’s line. Had even resigned himself to learning how to wing for him. Even worse, he hadn’t been on the second line since his rookie year. He swallowed and nodded sharply. “I would count on both of you being on the power play unit, so do practice winging for each other, see what works. Haas, I know you play right, but I want you on the second line with Hollander and Dillon, do you think you could move to the left?”
Luca was nodding emphatically before the words were fully out of his mouth. “Absolutely, Coach. I haven’t played left wing since Juniors, but I can get up to speed.” Dykstra and Chouinard thumped the kid’s shoulders in support.
“Good, we’ll try Haas-Hollander-Dillon. And just for fun, rookies! You’re a line now. LaPointe-Young-Holmberg. Let’s see how it goes.” The rookies jostled each other, grinning. Shane wasn’t sure if the all rookie line was a serious consideration or just a way to develop the three together, but he questioned the wisdom of a line without the stabilizing leadership of a veteran. Either way, it wasn’t his place to say anything anymore. “Dykstra and Chouinard, you’re staying a D pair, you did well together last year. We’ll figure out the rest over the next week. No one get too comfortable. Okay, everyone take two laps and then we’ll get started.”
The first couple practices went well enough as they adjusted to the new roster and shook off the summer rust. Shane was thoroughly impressed by Luca’s ability to score from impossibly deep angles and pleasantly surprised that Tanner was nearly as fast as he was. Shane could already see the play: a stretch pass through the neutral zone the moment he drew their D, Tanner gone before they could recover, Luca ready to bury it from an angle no one else would even attempt.
But it was still an adjustment. He'd played on the same line with Hayden and Gagnon for years. You couldn’t recreate a bond like he had with Hayden in a few short weeks. He always knew exactly how his former wings would shoot before the puck was even on their stick. The three of them had been so familiar that they could distinguish the rhythm of each other skating mid-game. All any of them had to do was tap the ice or call for the puck. It was automatic.
It was nothing like that with his new line. Luca and Tanner were unpredictable to him. Pucks were arriving too slow or in the wrong place and his second guessing made his passes to them unreliable. Shane found himself burning focus just to locate his linemates on the ice. In Montréal, he just knew intuitively where they would be and where they would end up when the puck arrived.
They were like metronomes ticking at different tempos. Occasionally they hit the same beat and it felt like he was playing his game again. A perfect play where Tanner read his mind or a scrimmage ending in an unstoppable slapshot from Luca. They weren’t there yet, not nearly ready for the start of the season, but there was promise.
The Centaurs’ home opener started with a dramatic production, complete with smoke machines, strobe lights, and an announcer who sounded better suited for a wrestling match. As probably the most anticipated introduction of the night, he stood towards the back of the line. Just in front of Ilya and Bood, the last to go as captain and alternate. He leaned forward with his stick braced horizontally across his thighs and took several deep breaths. Ilya, in contrast, was bounding down the hall. He had a unique pregame tradition with every player on the team.
With Luca, he executed a lengthy choreographed handshake that he'd tried to explain was from a Lindsay Lohan movie she starred in with herself. “Love you, Lushka!” Luca was Ilya’s favorite of the younger players, something he made no secret of. Shane too was fond of Luca for being a support for Ilya before they were public. His was quieter, given Luca had no idea they knew about the fanart.
He and Dykstra briefly shadowboxed with exaggerated bobbing and sound effects. “Love you, Dykstra!” He stopped to knight a crouching Hayes with his stick before reaching Young, who extended his arms out for Ilya to pat down like TSA. “Love you, Hazy! Love you, Youngster!” All the rookies and younger players had their own elaborate ritual. The more veteran players mostly got variations of a jumping hip or shoulder check. But everyone got a “love you.”
For a notorious psychological terror on the ice, Ilya was remarkably affectionate with his teammates. It was a departure from everything Russia. Shane had never been able to shake off an expectation like Ilya could.
When Ilya made it to the end of the line, he skipped Shane, bumping his chest against Bood’s as they both whooped.
Finally, he turned to Shane. The rest of the team was still preoccupied hollering and hyping themselves up. Bood stepped forward to give them a little privacy at the back of the line. Ilya’s energy simmered. He faced Shane and held the back of his helmet, tapping their visors together. His eyes practically glowed as they bored directly into Shane’s. Hesitantly, because they were in public and Shane still had a habitual aversion to PDA, he reached up with one glove and wrapped it around the back of Ilya’s head.
“Game one of eighty-two.” He whispered for Shane’s ears only. “Now we earn. Our. Cup.” Shane’s mouth curled into an affectionate smile.
“Our Cup,” he murmured back. “You and me.”
“Me and you.” Ilya returned with a tone far too husky for present circumstances. Ilya gave the back of his helmet a final tap and they released each other with secret smiles.
Contrary to what hockey media was speculating, Shane actually had no plans to attempt a coup on Ilya’s captaincy. The preservation of his marriage aside, Ilya filled the role like he was born for it. He regaled the team with speeches that made Shane’s skin prickle with the need to pound the ice. He hyped them up with shameless enthusiasm that Shane could never muster. He worked them hard during practice, but always with a levity that made even the most demanding drills feel fun. It made Shane’s teeth itch when practices fell off the rails or focus shifted away from the hockey of it all. Ilya was innately lively and chaotic. The team relished it. Shane had fallen in love with it. Partially because they were traits he did not have, and never would.
Ilya adored his team and made sure they knew it. Shane had asked him why he told the players he loved them so often. Ilya just shrugged and busied himself with the dishes, not meeting his eyes.
“Maybe they do not have anyone else to say ‘I love you’ or tell them they are proud. It would have meant a lot to me to have that, I think. So I try to do for them.” Something tightened in his chest at the thought of what Ilya had missed out on. He made a mental note to say it more.
The roar of the arena began to rise as the announcer’s voice echoed around them. Bood returned to his place between them and draped an arm around each of their shoulders.
“Let’s go, boys,” he said. Shane and Ilya each wrapped the closest arm around Bood’s back, clasping each other’s jerseys in their fingers. They stayed that way as the rest of the team was summoned to the ice one by one. Shane counted the beats between the rise and fall of the crowd. “You’re up, Hollzy, don’t do anything embarrassing like faceplant in front of all your adoring new fans.” They released each other with a final squeeze. Shane stood just beyond the sight line of the crowd. Everyone kept telling him how excited the city was to have him and logically he knew that was true. The numbers didn’t lie. For probably the first time in years, the arena was completely full; tickets to attend his homecoming had sold out within a day. But he'd been taught by hockey media to fear the inevitable fall. He was already worried about disappointing them.
As if sensing his moment of hesitation, Ilya pressed his lips against Shane’s ear from behind. “Ya tebya lyublyu.” And then he was forcefully shoved forward into the ever growing roar of the crowd.
“Shaaaane Hooollaaaanderrrr!” He couldn’t even hear the announcer bellow the last part of his name as he surged onto the ice. He waved at the crowd and lifted his stick in salute, skating a slow circle around the ice. The crowd was loud. Definitely louder than he'd ever heard this building before. Not as loud as the Bell Centre could get. That was one thing he’d give Montréal. The Ottawa fans seemed to be wildly enthusiastic in their support for an infamously terrible team. A lot had changed since his childhood. He'd been one of very few diehard Ottawa fans as a kid.
He'd played dozens of games here over his career, but it was different being on the home team. The crowd he'd once been a part of was now cheering for him. The professional, measured smile he defaulted to in the public eye loosened to a genuine grin. There were giant cutouts of his face bobbing in the stands. His eyes caught on signs pressed against the glass with Welcome home, Hollander! and We love you, #24! How had so many people already gotten ahold of his Centaurs’ jersey? He even saw pops of his blue Voyageurs jersey, one with the Centaurs’ logo sloppily taped on top. His smile turned incredulous.
He slowed by section 124, right behind the penalty box. Ten rows up he found his parents in the same seats they’d held season tickets for his entire life. Yuna and David Hollander were both on their feet, his mom sporting a brand new Shane Hollander jersey and his Dad in the Ilya Rozanov jersey he'd purchased three years ago, the second they became available. They were cheering, proud of him in the same way they’d been his entire career, and he was still enveloped in the weight of their support. When their eyes met his, their cheering intensified. His mom swiped tears from her cheeks and grabbed her husband’s arm. His dad wasn’t crying, but Shane could see the shine in his eyes all the way from the ice. It struck him how special it was that they got to sit in their seats and watch their son be welcomed to the ice with a standing ovation. In a rare public show of emotion he tapped his glove to his heart and pointed to them. His dad returned the gesture immediately, grinning. It took his mom a little longer, but she too pressed a hand to her heart and then blew him a kiss, smile broad but watery. They were probably on the jumbotron, but he didn’t care if the whole world saw this moment, it was still just theirs.
He finished his circle and skidded to a stop on the blue line where the rest of his team, sans captains, was already lined up. He bumped his fist against Troy Barrett’s offered glove next to him.
“I’ve never seen this place so packed,” Barrett said into his ear, over the roar of the crowd. “Ottawa has lost their minds for you, man.”
Shane grinned back. “It’s really good to be home.”
As the Alternate Captain, Bood was the next to be called out (to noticeably less applause). He gave a perfunctory wave to the crowd before pulling up next to Shane and tapping their sticks together.
“You ready?” Bood asked.
“Very.”
“Did you see the rookies on your way over? They look like they’re about to pass out.” Truthfully, Shane hadn’t seen much of anything beyond the flashing lights, smoke, and crowd. “Poor guys thought they were safe from an audience coming to Ottawa.” Shane leaned forward to scan down the line. The three rookies at the end were rocking from skate to skate a little too rapidly to be natural. Shane waved his stick in their field of vision until all three pairs of wide, anxious eyes met his.
“Have fun,” he mouthed slowly, pointing at them with a gloved hand. “You earned this.” He was met with shaky smiles and nods, but the jittering slowed.
He wanted things to be different for them. No one had ever reminded him that it was a game and to enjoy it. He hadn’t had much fun during his first MLH game; he'd been too focused on making sure every movement, every decision was perfect. From the second he first touched the puck, the sports reporters had gripped their pens, ready to pass judgement. Was the reality of his play living up to the mythology of his potential? Was he collapsing under the pressure of the pro league? Had Montréal made a mistake picking him?
Shane had been perfect that first MLH game. He'd scored once and assisted on another two goals. The announcers and sports writers had nothing but high hopes for him. It had gotten more enjoyable after a while, once he'd cemented himself as a high calibre player who deserved to be there. But in retrospect, he wished he'd actually taken in the moment during that first night. He'd been so focused on solidifying the future of his career that he never got to celebrate the start of it.
“Iiiillllyaaaa Rooozzanovvv!” The announcer’s voice dropped to a throaty growl and the cheers of the crowd picked right back up. Shane swung back around to watch Ilya hit the ice at a dead sprint. He glided in a wide arc, stick raised high, lips curled in a barely there smirk. He spun around and shot Shane a blink-and-you-miss-it wink, mouth widening a little at whatever he saw written on his face. He came to a hard stop on the other side of Bood, spraying them both with snow.
“Really, Roz?” Bood swiped his gloved hand over his face and across the front of his jersey.
“Just keeping you on your feet!” Shane didn’t bother correcting his idiom. He'd always found it charming when Ilya misspoke–even when his former teammates had made fun of his English. Ilya reached his stick around Bood and tapped Shane on the back of his skates. “You look good in black, Hollander.”
“You too, Rozanov.” And he wasn’t lying, Ilya looked like he belonged in the black and red jersey. The dark colors made him look devilish and dangerous, an embodiment of his play style. As long as you ignored the goofy Centaur on their chests (and he was aware his husband had influenced this opinion) the uniforms were pretty badass.
They stood, heads bent, through a decent rendition of the National Anthem. His focus narrowed in a Pavlovian response to the familiar song. Faintly, he heard someone call the captains over for the ceremonial puck drop by a local Olympic athlete. He'd already taken a step forward when Bood gently blocked his shins with his stick. He froze, praying no one else had noticed his very literal misstep. He gave Bood a grateful look for saving his dignity.
Bood just shrugged. “You’re a well programmed hockey robot, Hollzy, you’ll break the reflex eventually. Just be sure to keep the rest of your hockey habits. The city will thank you.”
He didn’t take the opening faceoff, obviously. Was it weird to feel a little jealous seeing someone else across from Ilya? For years, whenever they were on the same ice faceoffs had been their thing. The only place in the real world they could be nose to nose, whispering flirtations right in the open.
Ilya’s line was shaping up to be deadly for their opposition. He was everywhere all at once, his stick handling was absurd, he played a gritty game. Barrett and Bood were equally massive physical presences. They were an intimidating line to go up against. They looked like a fourth line of grinders but played like the top offensive forces in the league.
Shane waited with fond impatience, Ilya always took long shifts at the start of a game, something about intimidating the enemy with his stamina. Finally, ninety seconds in, Ilya gestured toward the bench for a line change, his eyes never leaving the play. Shane felt a tap on his shoulder from Assistant Coach Jim Moore.
“Hollander line, up next!” He called. Shane stood and threw a leg over the board. His head swivelled to follow the puck and track the players. Dykstra held the puck behind their net to give the forwards time to hustle back to the bench. Shane was already skating through the neutral zone by the time the bench door slammed shut behind the changing line. He received a sharp pass at center ice and took off. Tanner and Luca were with him, a half step behind as they crossed the blue line. Toronto’s defense was focusing on him. Rightfully collapsing in to cover him. He was the biggest threat on the ice and they knew it. It stifled his chances, which rankled, but they were underestimating the goalscoring abilities of his linemates. He could capitalize on that. He waited until the last possible second, Toronto’s defensemen nearly on him, then he fed the puck under their outstretched sticks towards Luca. He didn’t look over to see if it connected, but a second later the puck clanged against the crossbar. Tanner was on it, positioning for a rebound, but the Toronto goalie held the puck down, waiting for the whistle.
Shane glided to the faceoff dot for his first draw of the game. He may have been in unfamiliar colors, but this was hockey. This was what he knew. The numbness in his body eased with a wash of certainty. The crowd stomped their feet like a drumroll. He readjusted his mouthguard before crouching across from the Toronto center. His eyes flickered to his opponent’s and he held his stare until the guy swallowed and looked away. The guy was young, Shane didn’t even know his name. It was an easy draw to win. He snapped the puck back to Dykstra and repositioned himself in the center slot.
“Hey, hey!” He called for the puck. Dykstra sent it sailing over to him. He one-timed it, using the momentum of the pass to power his shot. But the goalie read it and dropped to his butterfly. The play was whistled down and Shane heard his coach call for a line change. Not his best shift, by any means, but it could have gone worse.
His first goal came late in the second period. It came towards the end of a shift, both sides were gassed, but Toronto got sloppy.
“One more, boys!” He commanded his line, and they followed. They darted quickly through the neutral zone and were set up before Toronto could get a full line change. The guys who had been heading off were forced to turn back around to defend, they were exhausted. Shane and his guys were running on more than adrenaline though. They cycled, Luca carried the puck to the center slot, swapping places with Shane. Luca sent the puck to Tanner, who faked a shot and instead passed the puck cross-ice to where Shane was waiting at the faceoff dot. He slapped a perfect one timer. It would go in, he was certain of it. It sailed top shelf, right over the goalie’s left shoulder. A beautiful play, textbook. The stands erupted. The goal horn blared throughout the arena.
Shane heard his teammates yell, sticks thrust in the air. He didn’t have a chance to look around before his new linemates tackled him into the glass with a hug. He heard sticks pounding on the boards and the distant roar of his husband. A sound he could pick out anywhere.
“All I do is win, win, win, no matter what!” Their goal song was wonderfully, overwhelmingly loud.
“Fucking sick, Hollzy!” Tanner hopped up and down on his skates for a moment.
“Great assist, man, beautiful fake.” He patted Tanner’s helmet affectionately.
“First goal as a Centaur, how does it feel?” Luca asked with stars in his eyes. Before he could answer they were joined by Fionn Boyle and Mikael Laine, the on ice defensemen during the goal.
“Nice one, boys!” Boyle crowed.
Tanner and Luca pushed him forward to lead them to the bench. His team cheered at his approach and held their gloves out for him to bump as he skated by. Ilya’s grin was extra fierce. Shane continued forward to give Wyatt a hug.
“Keep it up, Hazy.”
“First of many, Hollzy!” He tapped Wyatt’s pads with his stick and received a pat on the ass when he turned back to the bench. The goal song was still going.
Their third line–the rookie line–headed to center ice and congratulated him as they passed. He settled in on the bench, squeezed some water into his mouth, and watched the replay of his goal on the jumbotron. It was a good goal, a classic Shane Hollander goal. The audience hadn’t quieted since the second the goal horn sounded. He took them in, they were all on their feet, jumping, high-fiving and hugging each other, chanting his name. His ears rang from the sheer volume in the arena. They were fucking pumped.
“Hollander. Hollander!” His husband, of course, from two people down.
“Yeah, Rozanov?”
“That was very sexy! Do it again!” Shane laughed out loud, too amped up to be concerned about optics for the moment.
“Why do I have to do everything myself? You try scoring,” he said.
“Okay. Next shift, I score. It will also be very sexy.” Ilya met his challenge with an anticipatory grin.
“Sure, Ilya.”
Ilya scored his next shift. And he didn’t admit it out loud, but it was sexy. Shane nearly blushed when Ilya hit him with a devastating wink as he high-fived the bench.
The final buzzer sounded on an imperfect game by the Centaurs. Passes failed to connect, shots pinged off the crossbar more than they went in, and Shane missed the familiarity that came from playing on a line with the same men for years. But they managed to pull out a 3-1 win. The crowd celebrated even as he ticked through every moment that went wrong. But for the moment, this was enough for Ottawa, so it would have to be enough for Shane.
He searched the uproarious crowd for his parents and found them right where they always were in section 124. Later, he and his mom would dissect the game footage together, picking apart every turnover and missed scoring chance. But right now, she was glowing with pride, shaking hands with the fans nearest them. He recognized some season ticket holders he'd grown up cheering with. His dad didn’t take his eyes off him and had his fists high in the air.
He'd grown up in a split team household: his mother a Montréal fan, himself and his father rooting for their hometown. But hockey obsessed Yuna Hollander had abandoned her beloved Voyageurs the second they had betrayed her son. For a decade on top of that, he'd been in an inter-team relationship. He warmed at the thought that for the first time, he and his entire family were rooting for the same team. Even if that team had the dumbest logo in sports.
Ilya drove them home in his candy-apple red Porsche Cayenne. Or as Ilya had proclaimed: “Centaurs’ red. To show team spirit.” Shane had rolled his eyes at the ostentatious purchase, but he still felt guilty about Ilya selling his entire sports car collection to move to Ottawa. It was no Ferrari and could safely handle Ottawa winters, so Shane figured it was a decent compromise. While he was personally mortified by how eye-catching the color was, Ilya loved being recognized zipping through the downtown streets. Shane pretended to tolerate Ilya’s driving, but secretly he enjoyed being able to relax in the car as much as Ilya preened about driving him around.
The adrenaline from the game was draining from his body. He settled deeply into the plush leather seats and leaned his head back. Ilya didn’t put on any music, after a game Shane needed quiet to recover.
“Good first game?” Ilya questioned.
“Yeah. I mean we won,” Shane said, stating the obvious. Ilya turned his head to the side and looked at Shane with narrowed eyes.
“Who are you and what have you done with my husband?” Ilya teased. “I counted six turnovers by your line tonight. Many missed shots and dropped passes. Shane Hollander would not be happy with this.”
“Hey, the rest of the team had issues too.” He sighed. His line was in rough shape, that was apparent. But the problems didn’t start or end there. “I don’t know what Wiebe was thinking sending a line full of rookies into their first NHL game alone.”
Ilya shrugged. “Ottawa does things differently. Coach wants the rookies to bond as a unit, to support each other. Like hazing? But not bad.”
“You’re saying Coach wants the rookies to trauma bond?”
“I do not think he wants them to be traumatized.” They sat quietly for a minute. The only interruption was the rhythmic click of the turn signal (Ilya still refused to call it anything but a “blinkah”). “What do you think of Haas and Dillon?”
“Haas is still a kid but he plays like a veteran. He’s got great instincts. He’s gonna be a top scorer for us soon. Dillon’s fucking fast. He was keeping up with me at game pace, I’m not used to having linemates that quick.” Shane paused his assessment to figure out the right phrasing. “But he’s getting in his own way. I’m not sure he even gets how fast he is. He’s forcing passes and reaching for pucks he’s already beaten everyone to if he just waited a second longer. I’ve seen it in practice and again tonight.”
”You are second fastest player in the league,” Ilya smirked at him knowingly. “Him keeping up with you is very big deal. He wasn’t right for my line, we play very physical, but I think maybe he is good fit for you. Get Haas to keep up and no one can outskate you.” Shane felt a buzz in his sternum.
“I think with a little more figuring each other out, we could get there. It’s not their fault we’re not clicking yet. They’re both just kids and they’ve been thrown in the deep end with a new center.”
“Yes, well. That ‘new center’ is Shane Hollander, I think they will be okay.” Ilya deadpanned. Shane fought a smile. He reached down and laid his hand on top of Ilya’s where it rested on the gear shift. He intertwined their fingers and pulled Ilya’s arm into his lap.
“It’s nice being able to cheer for your goals. Spent years being pissed off when you scored on the same ice as me and now I get to celebrate with you. Might even be more fun than competing against you.” Shane flickered his eyes up to his husband’s.
“Yes. It’s very nice.” Ilya gave him a soft look. “We can still compete for most goals on the team. And most penalty minutes. Most fights?” He raised a hopeful eyebrow at Shane. “Would be hot to see you in the penalty box. I could join you.” His voice dripped with innuendo.
“Ilya. Under no circumstances would we ever fool around in the penalty box.”
“You are so boring, Hollander.” Ilya heaved a dramatic sigh, but the way he gently squeezed Shane’s hand gave away his tenderness.
“And you need to stay out of trouble. We’re supposed to be on the power play. If you keep getting sent to the box we’ll never get to play together.” Shane scolded.
“I’m a good boy, Hollander! I will be very good this season, for you.” With his dirty blonde curls and the streetlights accentuating the hollows of his cheeks, he did look quite angelic. “And you give me reward, yes? When I stay out of the box?”
“Maybe.” Probably. The wicked look on Ilya’s face suggested he knew the answer to that. He lifted their joined hands and pressed a kiss to the back of Shane’s. Shane dropped his head back and relaxed. He could get used to driving home from games together. Dissecting the game out loud instead of by himself. It felt like he had an equal, a true teammate in all things, for the first time in his career. It could be lonely at the top, thank God he fell in love with the only person up there with him.
Red taillights mapped out the street ahead of them. The car lit briefly every few seconds as they passed under a streetlight. The Rideau Canal reflected the lights of the city. Shane was reminded of his childhood, dozing off on these same streets to his parents’ hushed conversation and quiet jazz. He reached over, turned on the radio, and fiddled with it until he heard the riff of a saxophone. Neither of them said anything more, Ilya not even taking the prime opportunity to make fun of Shane’s music taste. They had earned a little boring, Shane decided.