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The elevator hums softly as it starts its descent from the eighteenth floor. A low mechanical sound that usually fades into the background. David Hollander barely notices it most of the time. Tonight, though, he notices everything.
The faint buzz beneath his shoes. The way the fluorescent lights flicker just slightly. The cold seeping through the thin plastic cup of ice in his hand, condensation already dampening his fingers.
It’s almost one in the morning.
David exhales slowly and leans back against the wall, eyes fixed on the glowing red numbers above the doors. Seventeen. Sixteen.
He hadn’t needed the ice. Not really. But Yuna had been curled up on the hotel bed with her tablet, replaying clips from the game. Insomnia nights were like that for her. She’d watch Shane skate again and again, as if repetition might soothe the worry lodged in her chest. David knew this type of night, he’d lived with it for years now.
So he’d offered to go find some ice. Something to do. Somewhere to go.
Yuna had smiled, soft and knowing. She always did. She understood when he needed a little quiet to think.
They were here to cheer on their son. Montreal versus Boston. Another chapter in a rivalry that seemed to define half of Shane’s professional life.
Shane had lost tonight. Not disastrously but enough to sting. Enough that David had seen it in the tightness of his smile at dinner, in the way he’d nodded along to conversation without really being present. He’d joked a little, but something about him had felt… distant. Distracted. He’d checked his phone constantly, thumb moving fast, attention slipping away every time the screen lit up.
David had noticed the name once. Just a glimpse.
Lily.
He hadn’t meant to see it. Hadn’t said anything. Still hadn’t told Yuna. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe because, for the first time in weeks, Shane hadn’t looked lonely? Part of him felt guilty about that but another part of him felt oddly relieved.
The elevator dings softly at the sixteenth floor, pulling David from his thoughts. The doors slide open.
David looks up automatically and freezes.
Ilya Rozanov stands in the hallway, illuminated by the harsh white light of a vending machine behind him. He’s holding two cans of ginger ale, one in each hand, and looks… disheveled. Hair rumpled, hoodie half-zipped with nothing under it, like he’d thrown it on without thinking.
For a split second, Rozanov looks just as startled.
They stare at each other.
David recognizes him immediately, of course. Everyone does. Even without the sharp lines of his game face or the bright lights of the rink, Ilya Rozanov is unmistakable for someone of Shane’s family.
“Oh… sorry,” Rozanov mutters after a beat, accent thick.
He steps into the elevator anyway, pressing the button for a lower floor. He doesn’t meet David’s eyes as the doors close, instead focusing intently on the floor as if it might provide guidance on proper elevator etiquette when trapped with your biggest rival’s father.
The doors close with a soft thud.
David blinks once, then twice. “Well,” he says mildly, because politeness has always come easily to him. “Good evening.”
Rozanov nods once, stiffly, murmuring something under his breath, in Russian David thinks. He stares at the floor like it’s personally offended him.
David steals a glance at him. On the ice, Rozanov is loud, flashy, arrogant in a way that makes entire arenas groan or cheer. Here, in the confined space of a hotel elevator at one in the morning, he looks… younger. Less sharp around the edges. There’s tension in his shoulders, though, coiled tight beneath the fabric of his hoodie.
The elevator continues downward.
Then it jolts.
The lights flicker once, twice, then go out completely.
The sudden stop throws David slightly forward. He steadies himself instinctively, while beside him Rozanov lets out a sharp curse, very definitely in Russian.
“Говно! What the…” Rozanov yelps, voice sharp as he stumbles back.
The darkness is abrupt and total. A second later, emergency lights click on, dim and yellow, casting the small space in shadows. The elevator is silent now. Too silent.
“Well,” David says again, calm as ever.
Rozanov spins in a slow circle. “What happened?”
David doesn’t answer but presses the emergency button.
Nothing.
Rozanov swears in Russian, words spilling out in a frustrated rush.
David presses the button again. Still nothing.
David steps back, hands sliding into his pockets as if this is a perfectly normal situation and not, in fact, him being trapped in a metal box with his son’s biggest rival at one in the morning.
Rozanov stops swearing long enough to stare at the panel. Then at David.
“Mr. Hollander,” he says, voice tight. “Why… why no one answer?”
David thinks about it for a few seconds, surprised that Rozanov knew his name. His wife Yuna is usually the one most people recognize.
“Likely a power outage,” David replies, already stepping forward. “These things happen. They’ll respond eventually.”
Rozanov pulls out his phone, hands shaking just enough that one of the ginger ale cans slips from his grip and clatters to the floor, rolling into the corner.
“No signal,” Rozanov mutters. “No Wi-Fi.”
“My phone is in my room,” David admits. “So you’re our lifeline.”
Rozanov slumps slightly, disappointment radiating off him.
David studies him for a moment. He recognizes that look. He has a son the same age. Fear doesn’t always look dramatic. Sometimes it looks like a world-class athlete gripping a phone a little too tightly. Being out of control and hating it.
“You know,” David says conversationally, “elevators are designed for situations like this. There are multiple braking systems. Backup power for lights. We’re safe.”
Rozanov looks at him. Really looks at him. “You sure?”
“Absolutely,” David says. “I wouldn’t say it otherwise and these emergency lights can last for hours.”
“Oh.” Rozanov nods slowly, some of the tension bleeding from his shoulders. “Okay. That… is good.”
David smiles faintly. “Let’s try again.”
This time, when he presses the button, a crackly voice responds almost immediately.
They explain the situation. Power outage. Their location. Two people. No injuries. The operator sounds apologetic but reassuring, firefighters are on their way but it might take a bit.
Rozanov suddenly leans forward, face close to the speaker. “Tell firefighter best hockey player in league is stuck in elevator!”
David doesn’t miss a beat. “Sorry,” he adds smoothly, “he means Ilya Rozanov. Not Shane Hollander.”
There’s an outraged sound from beside him just as the call ends.
“That is not true!” Rozanov protests. “You are very bad judge of hockey!”
David laughs, the sound warm and unexpected. “All right, all right. I admit Shane and you are both the best.”
Rozanov pouts. “That is not how ranking works.”
A moment later, his phone buzzes. His posture changes instantly, shoulders loosening as he grins down at the screen. “Wi-Fi back,” he announces, relief flooding his voice as he types furiously, thumbs flying. His expression softens into something private, fond.
David notices.
He lowers himself carefully to the floor, sighing. “We might be here a while.”
Rozanov panics immediately. “Are you okay? You sick?” He reaches out, gripping David’s arm as if prepared to physically hold him upright.
David chuckles. “I’m fine. Just getting comfortable.”
“Oh.” Rozanov releases him, embarrassed. After a second, he sits down too, back against the wall, knees pulled to his chest.
For a few minutes, they sit in companionable silence. Rozanov rolls the ginger ale cans back and forth absentmindedly.
“My son loves ginger ale,” David says after a while. “I think it’s basically an addiction, really.”
Rozanov smirks. “I know.”
David raises an eyebrow but lets it go.
They talk. Slowly at first, then more easily. About hockey. About the city. When Rozanov starts talking about the “boring” magazine The New Yorker, David is confused a bit but is happy to talk about one of his interests. Behind the brash attitude, Rozanov is actually pretty funny. David laughs, charmed despite himself.
Twenty minutes pass like nothing.
Eventually, Rozanov sighs dramatically. “How much longer?”
“Is someone expecting you?” David asks gently.
Rozanov hesitates, then nods, almost shy. “I was with someone… They got thirsty.” He gestures at the cans.
David smiles knowingly. “I was supposed to bring back ice but now…” he points to the cup full of melted ice. “Mind if I borrow your phone? My wife’s probably worried by now.”
Rozanov nods, quickly closing a text thread before handing it over.
David types carefully.
*Hi, this is David. I’m unfortunately stuck in an elevator, but fortunately with a very funny guy named Ilya Rozanov :) Firefighters should be here soon.*
After adding her number and hitting send, David realized that Shane must also know about the power outage in the hotel.
Without thinking too hard, he copy-pastes the text… and adds Shane’s number.
The number is already saved.
The name appears instantly.
Jane.
David stills.
Everything clicks into place with quiet certainty. David is a very calm man, not prone to jump to conclusions. But right now, the conclusion is difficult to avoid. Rozanov knowing his name. His love for the New Yorker. Shane’s love for ginger ale. It could be coincidence. Or just a player wanting to know everything about his rival.
The way Shane had smiled at his phone tonight.
At Lily.
David thinks about Shane’s relationship with the Boston player. Contrary to everyone else, Shane never says bad things about Rozanov. Well, except calling him arrogant and an “asshole”. But coming from Shane, David sometimes thinks it’s almost a term of endearment.
David knows Shane is always incredibly happy to play against Ilya Rozanov the only one the matches his level in hockey.
He thinks back on Shane’s previous relationships. He’s always had the feeling that maybe Shane wasn’t all that interested in women. But it was never his place to say anything. So he quietly and patiently hoped that one day, if Shane wanted, he could tell Yuna and him about his sexuality.
His son became successful and famous so young. That kind of pressure could be difficult sometimes. And what if Shane got hurt? What if he couldn’t play again?
Who could understand that life better than someone living it too?
David thought again about Rozanov, this brash, funny, kind and honestly, robably the only one who truly understands Shane’s world.
Yes. They could be a great pair.
David doesn’t send the message.
He hands the phone back.
Rozanov looks at the screen, then at David and pales.
David just smiles, kind and steady, and starts talking about hockey again.
Rozanov looks like he might combust.
Then there’s noise. Voices. Tools.
The doors open with the help of two firefighters.
Yuna and Shane are there, relief flooding their faces.
David steps out with Rozanov’s help, before turning and offering a hand. Yuna hugged him, joking about him always ending up in strange situations. Shane hugged him as well while trying, and failing, not to stare at Rozanov. Shane stepped back and asked quietly, almost breathlessly, “Are you okay?”.
David smiled, realizing immediately that this was not a question for him, or at least not only for him.
“Yes, we’re fine,” he said. “Just… a little adventure.”
A firefighter sets the ginger ales down.
David picks one up and hands it to Shane with a wink.
Rozanov freezes. Shane turns red.
Yuna stepped forward, tilting her head with that familiar, gentle smile. “And the ice? Are you feeling better now? Ready to get some rest?”
David glanced at her, at Shane, and even at Ilya, standing just behind, shoulders still a little tense. He nodded again, feeling a quiet satisfaction settle over him. “Yes,” he said. “Now I think we are all ready for bed.”
David let his arm slip around Yuna’s shoulder, glancing back once at Ilya with a faint, knowing smile before turning toward their hotel room.
Maybe being stuck in an elevator wasn’t such a bad thing after all.
Sometimes, being patient wasn’t just about waiting. It was about seeing, understanding, and letting the right moments unfold. Tonight, had been one of those moments.
He will just have to be a little bit more patient before Shane brings his boyfriend home.
He can do that.
David Hollander is a very patient man.