Work Text:
i.
The day it all comes out, Karl Samuelsson is at his lakehouse in southern Sweden. It’s evening, and Mona is falling asleep in front of the firepit they installed last year. Karl jumps to his feet when he reads it, spilling the half-drunk can of beer he’d set at his feet and promptly forgotten about. He lets the beer spill over the deck. “Holy shit,” he says in Swedish. Mona is frowning up at him.
“Is everything ok?” His wife speaks in English, her mother tongue. Her Swedish is perfect now, living here for years now after Karl's retirement, but she defaults to English when she’s worried.
“Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov are–,” he starts, but he doesn’t know what to say. Kissing? Dating? Playing a bizarre prank on the hockey world? No, the statement isn’t a joke. Karl knows it’s not a joke. He’s known for years. He never thought they’d actually come out with it. Though, he supposes, scrolling still, they didn’t seem to have a choice in the matter.
“Oh, it’s a hockey thing,” Mona says, bored now. “Did someone get traded?”
“No, the trade deadline passed back in– no. Mona, I have to tell you something crazy, okay?”
Karl tells her. He tells her first about the FanMail video, and the fallout, and the statements, and she is suitably horrified and furious on behalf of these two hockey superstars she previously would have held no opinion on. They hit 'like' on Hollander and Rozanov’s joint statement, and Karl comments a thumbs up and a heart. He’ll shoot Roz a message shortly with something more meaningful.
They played together for less than half a season, at the very end of Karl's career and, it turned out, at the end of Rozanov’s tenure in Boston. Karl was traded to Boston after the All-Star break, part of a package deal for some added defensive depth. Mona remained in Denver for two weeks to organize the move, and Karl lived out of a hotel.
He liked being a Bear. It was a good room, a good group of guys. He expected Rozanov to live up to his shit-stirring reputation, but he found the boy to be focused and friendly. Loud, yes, the way a captain should be, and a non-stop yapper on the ice, but far from the cocky, arrogant, womanizing douchebag Karl had prepared himself for.
The fourth game Karl played with the Bears was in Montreal. He took himself to the bench during warmups, ducking down to tighten his laces, and Rozanov skated over seconds later, leaning back against the bench board, apparently unaware of Karl behind him.
“Still free later?” Rozanov said, and Karl almost looked up, confused, but someone else had already answered.
“Maybe.”
Rozanov hummed. “You’ve got a better offer?” Karl hazarded a glance up. Neither of them were facing him, so he had a clear view of the nameplates on their jerseys. ROZANOV. HOLLANDER. “Or will you be too sad after we beat you?”
“Fuck off,” Hollander said, but Karl could hear the smile in it. “Mom says stop cheating on the face-offs, by the way.” What the fuck?
Rozanov laughed. “She is giving me tips before games now? She wants me to beat you?”
“No.”
“Sounds like she might. She loves me.”
“Yeah, well,” Hollander lowered his voice, “that runs in the family, I guess.”
“Good luck tonight,” Rozanov said, and then he called Hollander something in Russian that sounded nothing like the wide range of chirps Karl had heard from his Russian teammates over the years (and from Rozanov himself over the past week). The word was gentle and loving, and Hollander tapped Rozanov’s skate with his stick before skating over to stretch with a pair of Voyageurs forwards. Rozanov pushed off a second later and Karl sat up, frowning.
He didn’t care, obviously. He had friends back in Sweden who were gay. His wife’s sister was bisexual. Karl really, really didn’t care about what anyone was doing in their private life. He wore the rainbow tape every year when his teams hosted their annual pride nights, and he did his best to remind the younger guys to stop using certain words when they were talking shit about the opposing team. Karl was neither talented, nor vocal, nor knowledgeable enough to be an important spokesman, but he was a comfortable, quiet ally. All of that was briefly called into question in an instant. Rozanov and Shane Hollander?
“Wait,” Mona asks when Karl is finished, “you knew?”
“I didn’t know. I suspected, I guess. I heard what I heard and made a few guesses, and then when Ilya moved up to Canada and they started that charity together, I thought, yeah. But I never thought it would ever– I thought they’d be more careful, I guess!”
“Karl! Don’t blame them for this!”
“I’m not!” Karl insists. “I just can’t believe it’s real. That’s a long time to keep a secret.” Mona worries at her lip.
“I hope that it’s a little bit of a relief for them, you know? Like, a small silver lining.”
Karl nods. He opens up Instagram and he and Mona craft a message to @ilyarozanovofficial. They’d only played together for three months, and Rozanov may be too busy and overwhelmed to be fielding messages from every former teammate this week, but Karl wants to add to the (hopefully) large chorus of positive messages in Rozanov’s inbox.
karlsam7: Hi Ilya. Sending you love and support from Sweden. You were an awesome teammate and a great captain, and I can see that’s still true in Ottawa. My wife Mona and I wanted to let you know that we are both with you guys. Always admired Hollander’s game and the work you two do. Proud to have played with you. Never change.
ilyarozanovofficial: thank you sammy!! sorry for the late reply. so many messages. love to you and mona, from me and my fiance.
ilyarozanovofficial: oops shane reminded me that we have not told people about our engagement. hope you don’t mind keeping a small secret for a few months ))
ii.
Camille thinks about the timeline and realizes very quickly that she is not delusional. She’s never said anything, obviously, because she knows she would have sounded crazy and on the off chance she was right, she would have been outing two strangers. So, she’s always kept this nugget close to her chest, wondering about it anytime the Voyageurs and the Centaurs appeared in the highlight reels she watches with her boyfriend.
She had been twenty at the time and working at a department store in downtown Calgary. It was busy because it was two weeks before Christmas, and it was almost time for her lunch break when a man cleared his throat and asked if he could pay at this desk.
Personally, she’d always been more of a Rozanov girl– she liked the crooked smile and the curls and the bad boy attitude. She’d known Hollander was cute, sure, it's just that he seemed so… nice. But here, only a countertop away from Shane Hollander, Camille was speechless. She understood it. He was beautiful. Bigger than she imagined, too. Perfect jawline. Freckles that sort of took your breath away. She felt her bottom lip fall slightly and then caught herself.
“Yes!” She said. “You’re… yes. Yep, you can pay here.” She did her best to keep it cool. The best hockey player in the world (yes, she’d sooner hook up with Ilya Rozanov, but anyone with sense knew that Hollander was the more complete player) was looking at her, his big dark eyes almost nervous as he slid the sweater across the countertop.
The sweater was expensive. Soft blue-grey wool and a high neckline. A small bear was embroidered on the breast. It was one of a limited run from a fancy designer that only millionaire athletes like Shane Hollander could justify spending money on.
She rang him up and asked him, out of habit, if it was a gift and would he like it wrapped.
“Oh,” he said. “Sure, yeah!” He brightened up.
“Is it for your dad?” She asked conversationally as she folded the sweater into some tissue paper and set it in the shiny golden gift box. Shane frowned.
“Yes,” he said, like it took some effort. Hockey players, Camille had thought at the time. She knew Hollander had at least one concussion under his belt. He left swiftly, then turned back around to thank her, and then swept away.
It was a cool story that she told everyone over the holidays until Christmas morning, when she opened up Instagram and saw a post from Ilya Rozanov.
The caption was simple: merry christmas everyone!
The photo was a mirror selfie of Ilya Rozanov, looking as gorgeous as he always did, grinning stupidly at the camera. He wore plaid pyjama pants and a blue-grey sweater with a tiny bear on the chest. Camille knew immediately that it was the same sweater Shane Hollander had bought from her. She thought at first that it was funny, the two of them having the same taste despite being so different. The location of the post was tagged as Ottawa, which made sense because that’s where Rozanov lived and played, and where Hollander was from. Shane Hollander had even liked the post, which was hardly notable because Hollander and Rozanov had come out as friends two years ago.
Camille put her phone down at that thought. Something had just occurred to her that she probably would never vocalize. Huh.
So today, she’s slapping her boyfriend on the arm and telling him she knew it, and he’s staring at her, wide-eyed, wondering how on earth she could possibly have “known” that Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander had been secretly dating for years.
iii.
Mark was stuck in traffic when he saw them and he’s stuck in traffic today. He’s ten kilometres outside of Oshawa, listening to the sports radio station pick apart the off-season moves of his beloved Toronto Guardians, when the hosts interrupt themselves to share some breaking news. They are clearly in shock, unsure of what tone to adopt, and one decides to just read the statement aloud in full. Mark sits upright.
He’d been an hour west of Ottawa in the summer of 2017 when traffic had slowed to a snail’s pace and the commuters and cottage-goers were forced to inch forward for a full forty minutes while an accident was cleared. It was at minute thirty-one that Mark had looked to his left at a practical SUV and seen a very bored looking Ilya Rozanov leaning a forehead against the window like a child. Mark stared.
He’d know that face anywhere. It was missing the obnoxious grin, and the Bears helmet had been replaced by a pair of sunglasses that pulled his curls out of his face, but that was definitely the same mug that shit-kicked the Guardians every time they faced off against Boston. Mark hated the guy, but he was more confused than hateful just now.
What the hell was Rozanov doing in rural Ontario? Why wasn’t he drinking himself stupid with some Russian supermodel back in Moscow? Before Mark could come up with any sort of answer, the driver of the car leaned forward against the steering wheel, jokingly slamming his head against it as Rozanov turned and laughed. Was that… Shane Hollander? Speaking of guys who constantly put up numbers against the Guardians…
Mark gawked out the window as Hollander– it sure looked like Hollander– reached a hand around the back of Rozanov’s neck and squeezed gently. A honk from behind him reminded Mark to move his car up. He glanced back over at Rozanov and then almost hit the bumper of the car in front. He shook himself and looked again, but the SUV had moved forward and Mark could no longer see inside.
Because he had no proof, and because he couldn’t be one hundred percent sure that it was Hollander, despite the Quebec plates on the car, and because it was probably none of his business, and because no one would believe him anyway, Mark had never mentioned it. When Rozanov had signed in Ottawa the following summer, he had wondered about it, but he kept his mouth shut.
Now, the sports radio guys are expressing support– uneasy, tentative, but still support. Mark is staring at the car ahead of him, blinking rapidly. Holy shit!
iv.
The first time Gavin had worked up the courage to join his colleagues for drinks, he’d told himself there was no pressure. Sure, he’d had a crush on Ava for over a year now, and maybe there were days where he thought it might be reciprocated, but there was no need to feel nervous about being squeezed into a booth beside her, or– God forbid– pressed up against her on the dance floor. No, his plan was to play it cool. Maybe he’d pay for a round, and maybe it would be loud enough that they’d have to lean close to hear each other talk. That would be enough for Gavin.
He pulled it off for the first half hour, leaning down to Ava as she described her sister’s chaotic love life. She grinned up at him and nodded when he offered to grab her another drink. Their colleagues were scattered– dancing, drinking, talking– and Gavin was happier for it. This was like a first date without the pressure of a first date.
He returned with two beers to find Ava smiling up at Cliff Marleau, a very handsome and very tall hockey player who Gavin instantly recognized because as a loyal Montreal Voyageurs fan, he hated every member of the Boston Bears with a fiery passion. Gavin stared, heart sinking, as Marleau leaned down to hear Ava’s reply to him. She was smiling up at him warmly, because that’s how Ava was. She was warm and smiley and friendly to almost anyone she spoke to.
A body knocked into Gavin and almost sent a beer flying. “Sorry,” the man said, and Gavin found himself face to face with Shane Hollander. His mouth fell open, thoughts of Ava briefly set aside. Shane Hollander! The man who had dragged the Voyageurs from irrelevance to glory. The reason Gavin had very nearly got an ill-advised drunken tattoo the summer prior. Shane fucking Hollander!
“Dude,” Gavin said. “I love you. You’re a legend!” Hollander stared at him, dazed. He looked drunk or high or both, and certainly not in the mood to speak to a fan.
“Huh? Oh, thanks,” Hollander nodded, blinking. He looked down and moved away.
“Gav!” Ava appeared at his side. “Where were you? I just got caught talking to some guy who didn’t know what a non-profit was.” She glanced over her shoulder and rolled her eyes before looking back at Gavin.
“Was he bothering you?” Gavin asked. He hoped not, because he was not going to win any fights against Cliff Marleau.
“No, he was nice enough. I told him I was here with someone and he moved along.” She smiled and Gavin’s heart flipped. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he said, glad that it was too dark for her to see him blush. “I just saw Shane Hollander.”
“The hockey player? No way!” Ava scanned the room. “Do you think Rose Landry’s here? They're dating, right? Come on.” She latched onto his arm and guided him through the club, searching for the actress.
“There’s Hollander,” Gavin pointed out. Hollander was standing on the dance floor alone, holding a drink and staring into space. No, not space. He was staring at Ilya Rozanov, who had his tongue in the ear of a beautiful blonde woman. Rozanov was staring right back at Hollander as his hips moved against his partner. Ava’s eyebrows knit together as they looked back and forth between the men. “That’s Ilya Rozanov,” Gavin said to Ava. “He’s, like, basically Satan.”
“If you say so,” Ava nodded. “Why’s Hollander looking at him like that? Why are they looking at each other like that?”
“They hate each other,” Gavin said, but that didn’t explain the way Rozanov pulled his lips from his date’s neck and stared at Hollander, nor the way Hollander looked like he was about to cry.
“They hate each other,” Ava repeated, sounding skeptical.
“Guys!” Their colleagues had found them. “Rose Landry’s here!” When they looked back, Hollander was gone and Rozanov and his date had separated. After a distant sighting of Rose Landry (with her boyfriend, Shane Hollander, back at her side) in the VIP section, Ava asked Gavin if he’d walk her to the train station.
Outside, Ilya Rozanov was smoking a cigarette. Gavin stared at him until Rozanov gave him a dirty look. He walked Ava to the station and she kissed him before she boarded her train home.
They’re married now, and Gavin practically sprints to the living room to tell Ava the news when it breaks. “Do you remember,” he says between heavy breaths, “the night you first kissed me?”
“Of course,” she laughs. “You thanked me.”
“No,” he says. “Well, yes. But, no. The club. Hollander and Rozanov.”
“Oh, yeah, of course. The hockey players who were secretly fucking,” Ava jokes. She calls them that lovingly, because she’s always been convinced that the staring in that club had been too intense to just be some sporting rivalry.
“Yeah,” Gavin nods, showing her the headline on his phone screen. “The hockey players who were secretly fucking.”
v.
Carol had been surprised when Ilya Rozanov had shown up at her hospital reception desk to check on Shane Hollander the morning after his injury. It wasn’t unheard of for opposing team captains to show this sort of sportsmanship, but Rozanov didn’t seem like the type. She had been even more surprised when she saw Rozanov walk back into the foyer after is visit, eyes wrought with emotion and face set as though he was holding back tears. “Mr. Rozanov,” she’d called. “Your visitor’s pass.”
“Oh,” he said, looking down at the card clipped to his belt. “Right.”
“Thank you,” she said as he slid it across the counter. “And thank you for coming. I know you boys are competitive, but it says a lot that you’d show up for our Shane Hollander today.” Rozanov stared at her. He really did look like he might cry.
“Your Shane Hollander,” he nodded.
“We love him here,” she smiled. Rozanov looked at the counter.
“Yes,” he said. “I understand why. He is very good.”
“He’ll be back up and ready to kick your butt again next season,” Carol smiled. Rozanov’s smile was polite, if forced. He walked away with his shoulders slumped. Carol frowned after him. Poor guy seemed awfully sad.
“What is his problem?” Dominique, a young nurse, nodded after Rozanov. “He’s the Boston hockey player, yes?” Carol nodded and Dominique leaned in, whispering in her thick Quebecois accent. “He was having a breakdown, almost. He sat down in a chair outside of Hollander’s room and cried, you know?”
“He cried?” Carol hissed. “Why? I heard the doctor say Hollander was fine.”
“He will be.” Dom shrugged. “Minor injuries. He was loopy from the drugs this morning, but he will make a full recovery.” Carol looked at the door that Rozanov had left from, remembered how she had felt the day her late husband had been admitted to the ER, and set that thought aside.
She texts Dominique the day they post the statement because Dom has the day off.
Carol: Link: Montreal Gazette: BREAKING– Voyageurs Captain Shane Hollander reveals secret long-term relationship with rival Ilya Rozanov
Carol: Did you see this? I wonder if they were together when Hollander was hurt…
Dom: I saw! My brothers are in shock but not me.
Dom: They must have been together!!
Carol: Poor boys. That is a big secret to keep…
Dom: My brothers say they want to support Hollander but think he should dump Rozanov for someone nicer.
Carol: Tell them that Rozanov was very polite to me at the front desk!
Dom: I don’t think that will make up for all of the playoff losses and cheap plays, but I will try to convince them!
vi.
James had been standing backstage with his headset and his clipboard, desperate for the show to run smoothly. His boss had fallen ill after the first award had been handed out, and suddenly he was in charge behind the curtains of the MLH awards. James didn’t care about hockey. He cared about his job. A man named Hollander was standing exactly he was supposed to be. Hollander, who James recognized from the photos he’d memorized in the planning and rehearsal process, was a very handsome man. His suit wasn’t tailored quite right and his basic, flat haircut didn’t do his bone structure any favours, but there was no hiding that sort of beauty. Another man, Rozanov, was missing, and Hollander was clearly annoyed by it.
“Where is he?” he said, more to himself than to James. He had started pacing. He looked, James realized, like he was on the verge of throwing up. Vomit was not something James wanted to deal with tonight. Hollander checked his watch and James followed suit.
“Wow,” a low, accented voice said. “Nice watch. They give it to you for free?” Rozanov had arrived. Another beautiful man. God, maybe James should watch hockey.
“Where the fuck were you? We’re on in five seconds.” Hollander hissed.
“Thirty,” James corrected, but neither seemed to notice him, and Rozanov was saying “Twenty five seconds,” closer to Hollander.
“What were you even doing?”
“I was busy.”
“With who?”
James knew that their award show skit played on some sort of rivalry that existed between the players. He didn’t know or care what the history was on the ice. But here, in their tuxedos, in the dark light just off-stage, there was heat in their exchange. These guys seriously didn’t like each other.
They walked out– Rozanov leading, Hollander speeding to catch up. James checked his notes. There was a commercial break after this award. The winner would be ushered off stage left and the presenters would leave stage right. He could breathe.
James glanced to the stage and saw that they’d reached the “selfie” bit of the skit. His boss had loved this bit. He had tried to explain how funny it was to James a dozen times, but whatever sports-based beef these two hockey players had was not something James could bring himself to care about. Until Rozanov’s hand trailed down Hollander’s spine. It wasn’t visible to the crowd. Only to James, who stared in confusion at the slow, intentional movement.
Hollander and Rozanov handed the award off to a balding man with an impressive mustache and shook his hand when he’d finished his speech. Hollander walked off the stage with purpose, head down, not noticing James or his clipboard. Rozanov was smiling as he followed Hollander. James stared after them. Watching as Rozanov looked up and down the hallway before following Hollander into the small backstage bathroom. James frowned. He waited and watched until Rozanov slipped out and Hollander followed behind a moment later, wiping his eyes. What?
James is in Saskatchewan now. He’s producing a feature on Regina’s efforts to make hockey more accessible for new Canadians. It’s a good feature, and he likes TV production way more than live events, and even though he doesn’t really care to watch sports, he enjoys working on features like this. But boy, Regina is a pretty boring town to be alone in.
He’s at a bar that the internet called a queer bar, but there is little about the place that feels particularly queer. It’s early, though, barely dinner time, so he gives the place the benefit of the doubt. Maybe the glitter and rainbow decor is saved for later. The TV is currently showing clips of two hockey players. Hollander and Rozanov. Speaking together at a press conference for a charity. Facing off against the other. Shoving each other after a whistle. Presenting an award together. James sits up and smiles, proud of himself for his work all of those years ago. Pulling off a major awards show with no boss and no major hiccups was a pretty big deal to him.
Only then does James read the chyron.
“What?” James says loudly, nearly spitting out his sparkling water.
“Yeah,” the guy beside him laughs. He’s doing a crossword at the bar, which James would think was pretty obnoxious if he didn’t like the guy’s glasses so much. He’s around James’ age, maybe a couple of years younger. He’s got dark curly hair and warm brown eyes. “Pretty crazy, eh?”
“Holy shit,” James laughs. He’d thought about Hollander and Rozanov on occasion, wondering what it was that he had witnessed between them that night at the MLH awards. Apparently, it had been pretty serious.
“My sister is freaking out.” The guy rolls his eyes. “We were both, like, completely in love with Shane Hollander as teenagers.” James laughs at this.
“My condolences,” he says.
“I’ll recover, I’m sure. At least now I know I had more of a chance with him.” James' neighbour grins and then holds out a hand. “Lyle.”
“James.”
“You local?”
“Work trip,” James says. “You?”
“In town for a funeral,” Lyle shrugs, and then holds a palm up before James can reply. “The good kind.”
James doesn’t know what that could mean, so he says nothing.
“What sort of work brings you to Regina?” Lyle asks, and James explains, going into too much detail like he always does. He stops himself when he realizes he’s started explaining exactly how they’re planning on cutting the final sections together. Lyle smiles, though.
“Are you from here?” James asks.
“Born and raised,” Lyle nods. “But I’m in Boston now.”
“Seriously?” James asks.
“Yes.” Lyle raises an eyebrow, amused. “Why would I lie about living in Boston?”
“No, I just… I’m going to be working in Boston for a few months this summer," James explains. Lyle nods and then pulls out a cigarette. James frowns. “I don’t think you’re allowed to smoke inside.”
“I know,” Lyle says slowly, half-annoyed and half-amused. He tucks the cigarette behind his ear. “I’m going to step out for a minute.”
“Oh, okay,” James nods. The other man is looking at him closely, like he’s making a decision.
“Want to join me?”
“I don’t smoke,” James says. He looks up at the screen, because his face feels hot. The news is now showing a clip of Shane Hollander speaking to the media as a teenager. The chyron is blunt in its description of what’s happened. James hopes that when he checks his phone later, there will be softer, kinder, more celebratory posts on his Instagram feed.
“That’s not what I asked,” the guy smiles. “I was thinking we could keep talking.”
James blinks. There’s no reason to say no. He walks out as the TV plays a clip of Ilya Rozanov kissing Shane Hollander’s visor in jerseys that James doesn’t recognize because why the hell would he ever have paid attention to the 2017 MLH All-Star game?