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Blaise, a defenseman, number 29, was twenty-two when he watched Shane Hollander walk into the league and absolutely dominate it. It was such a change of pace from the previous two years that Montreal spent crashing and burning alongside his teammates, and he was not afraid or obtuse enough to minimise Hollander's impact. Hollander had carried them to the playoffs that year and had never really stopped. Six years later, he had not only expanded Blaise's love for hockey but had also allowed him to touch the Stanley Cup largely because of him.
After being teammates for six years with a prodigy player, you would think he’d know a lot about the guy. But Blaise really did not. He doesn’t think any of the other players know jack shit about Hollander except Pike and JJ, and that friendship had taken years to earn.
Hollander was… quiet. Controlled. He did everything with precision, from the way he would fold his jersey after a game with the precision of someone who’d done it a thousand times before, which he had. The edges met perfectly, the fabric would be smoothed flat under his palms until not a single wrinkle remained, to his accuracy with a puck, to his fucking boring diet.
The guy was weird. But Blaise liked him anyway.
They got along well, all things considered. They were both on the same side. Neither enjoys crowds nor a rowdy party. They were both quiet guys. Nodding at each other over a card game, communicating mostly through silence and mutual respect. So when things got intense, they’d grab a cab together back to the hotel. Usually sat in silence, but the familiarity of it was nice, knowing that he wasn’t the odd one out - or at least not the oddest in the group.
And then a couple of years passed by. Shane, through the years, had picked up a few labels. He was labelled to be obsessive, a neat freak, never going out and having fun, never getting laid, when finally, a bullet drops. A name. Lily.
At first, Blaise didn’t pay much attention to it at first. Hollander was private, aggressively private. So the idea that he has a 'someone' didn't feel... real, almost. It felt more like a rumour someone had made up to poke at him.
But months went by, and the name stayed. Years continued, and yet the name followed. Shane Hollanders alleged girl ‘Lily’, who, after years of watching, definitely lived in or close to Boston.
Shane didn’t talk about it, ever. Not when rookies with too much ego made crude innuendos or a teammate whose mouth was one day going to get them in trouble ran his mouth. Shane would, at best, tense up and ignore them. Maybe a shrug or a grunt, but he never gave anything up.
There was no face of this alleged Lily, no photos, no stories. No offhand complaints or comments or bragging the way most guys would. No slip-ups. There was barely confirmation she existed outside of Hollander's shy smiles when he looked at his phone - assuming that even was 'Lily'.
The only indication of the realness of it was the one thing that everyone on the team knew. Whenever the team went to Boston, Shane would disappear. Not in a suspicious way, he never missed practices or broke curfews.
He'd be there for team meals and meetings. Then, suddenly, he would be gone. No drinks, no missed team dinners, no meaningless wandering with the rest of them around the city after one too many drinks.
Blaise won’t admit it because it's selfish, but he missed when Shane Hollander was single, so he’d have a copout to get out of drinks. He could no longer argue that “if the captain doesn't have to, neither do I.”
No, he was hit with a “got plans, “or “tired,” and a jacket pulled on fast, and whoosh, he was gone.
The first time they witnessed it, they were, of course, in Boston. They were lounging around when he saw Shane whip out his phone. He reads it, once, twice, his lips twitch, and then he's muttering, “Gotta go, plans.”
Thankfully, he was gone before he could hear the rest of the ream chirping. “Ooooh lala,” someone sing-songed, “Bet it's Boston girl.”
The thing was that it never stopped after that. Blaise witnessed it for years. “Texting Boston girl again? She's gotta be good, bro.” “man's got a secret life,” “damnnn hollzy getting some!” When Shane was around to hear it, he never reacted. Just kept his face forward, jaw tight. Sometimes his ears would go red, but nothing more.
Blaise paid attention. Because yes, Shane never rose to it, never played along, but he never denied it either. He’d huff, shake his head, and leave. Which, of course, made it worse.
It took a while for Blaise to catalogue every reaction Shane gave. At first, he assumed he was embarrassed about it. But then he realised that it wasn’t just Shane not playing along, he’d go still like his body was shutting down, and his brain was on a sprint.
The way Shane's shoulders would tighten a fraction, like he was bracing for impact even when the jokes were light. Like when the teasing wasn't funny to him, but not because he wasn’t embarrassed.
But because he was afraid.
Blaise recognised that kind of fear. The kind that came along with loving someone the world didn’t have permission to touch.
After that, Blaise began to notice more, and it opened up a whole new world about Shane. He’d clock other details too. Shane didn’t text casually. When he texted, he was focused. Intent. His phone was angled away from any straying eyes, thumbs moving fast like there was a clock ticking down.
And god did Boston change him.
When they were on flights, warming up, god, even watching from the bench, it was obvious that playing Boston was different for Shane. His energy spiked restlessly. Somehow, he would play even better, which seemed impossible, but he would spit out hattricks like they were nothing.
They’d be sitting on the bench, Shane's knee jiggling up and down like he was trying to outrun his own thoughts.
“You good?” he had asked him once, not looking at him so as not draw any attention.
“Yeah,” Shane said too fast. Which meant no, but also meant please don't ask me again.
Blaise hadn’t. Some things weren’t yours to push. Some things needed to be offered when they were ready.
So he kept his head down and filed it away.
Because after his eight years in the NHL, he had come to learn there were two types of secrets. The kind that everyone knew but pretended not to - who partied too hard, who hated their coach, who absolutely shouldn’t be allowed near Twitter after a loss. And the other kind. The kind that sat quietly, careful, and protected.
He remembers after Hollander's fourth year - his sixth - where, by this time, all the guys all knew Hollander had a special someone after JJ had 'Lily' and 'years together.' Pike, who looked like he was about to commit a crime. But he remembers, they had just won against Buffalo when a defenseman noticed Hollander.
And of course, he has to open his fucking mouth. “You,” he said, pointing at Shane. “Anyone notice how Hollander's phone never leaves his hand anymore?”
He watched as Shane stiffened. Barely, not noticeable. But the fractal pause where Shane’s thumb hovered over his phone like he was regretting everything, his face losing its colour, and Blaise felt physical pain watching it happen.
“It's not new either, boys,” a guy added.
He followed Pike's enraged glare towards JJ because he was how they got them there. Of course their had been jokes and chirps passed around the locker room, especially over Hollander and his alleged sex life. But until then, most of them were just jokes, really, a bit crude, but harmless because genuinely none of them were sure if Lily was a real person or just a way to annoy the guy.
But now, they knew, it was real.
The guys' laughs rippled through the room, but Shane didn't laugh. Neither did Blaise or Pike.
“You’ll all be celibate or something. Gotta think about Hollander's girl to get it up or something? Obsessed freaks you lot are.”
The room paused. Shane blinked.
"oh fuck off, Blazy boy," and then, simple as that, the conversation moved on, new jokes and chirps about something or another, the previous tension slipping away.
Shane shot Blaise with a quick, puzzled look. Something between. What the fuck. Blaise didn’t look back. He kept his posture loose and bored like it was the most obvious explanation in the world.
He waited until most of the room cleared before either spoke again.
Shane was sitting there, phone face down now, jaw tight like he'd been holding his breath.
“That was unnecessary,” Shane muttered, but it came out unsure, like he couldn't understand why someone was standing up for him, and Blaise wanted to wrap Hollander up in a blanket and bubble wrap so no one would ever need to be subjected to the look of devastation on his face, his eyes wide, bambi looking with unfallen tears. And gosh.
He didn’t look Hollander in the eyes - neither of them was good at that. “It was… preventative?” he sounded uncertain.
Shane exhaled slowly, "didn't realize it was getting like… this.” The sentence went unspoken. Blaise knew what he was talking about. How the guys were bordering on being disrespectful, they would chirp like they deserved to know when they absolutely did not.
“I did,” Blaise said. “Stupid cunts with no respect or boundaries for their captain.”
Shane swallowed. His hands curled into his sleeves. “I hate that I'm this bad at hiding it.” Blaise does not allow himself to make a face because he did not expect Shane to say that, to even imply the realness of it.
So definitely real. Lily. Blaise still feels like he's missing a big piece of the puzzle.
“You’re not bad,” he said gently. "You're just not built for lying about something you care about.”
Shane let out a shaky huff. “That's not reassuring.”
“It is,” Blaise replied seriously. “Means it's real.”
That shut Shane up. But only for a minute.
Stupid nice Canadians. “You didn’t have to do that,” Shane spoke quietly. And seriously, Blaise needed to meet this Lily girl and give her the shovel talk because he might genuinely consider murder if someone hurts him.
Blaise shrugged.
“... why did you?”
Blaise did meet his eyes this time. “Because everyone deserves one thing the league doesn't get to touch,” he gave a sad smile. “And because you’d do the same for me.”
Then he nodded. Just once. “Yeah, I would.”
They walk out to their cars together, and they wave a silly goodbye despite knowing they’ll see each other in 12 hours for morning practice, but Hollander trusted him now, trust earned the hard way, but Blaise hoped Hollander knew he could trust him.
After that conversation, Blaise realised that Shane's lily fell nicely into that second category. Blaise had never met her, seen a picture, or heard her voice on the phone. But she existed in the way Shane existed when he thought no one was watching - softer, distracted, and privately happy.
Blaise kind of admired it, really. Fucking weird, but who was he to judge? If she were some normal girl, not a celebrity or just shy, he could understand the silence.
So yeah. Lily existed.
And then, he gets traded to Boston.
He gets the news during Practice, pretty shitty, but he’ll live.
He gets a few hugs and a pat on the back.
“Maybe you'll meet Hollander's mystery girl.” Blaise smiles automatically.
“Hmm?” he said. Gouging the rook's opinion.
The guy laughed, “Oh, come on, man. Boston. Shane. You know.” The guy rolls his eyes.
And sure, Blaise knew of her. “She real?” he prompted despite knowing that she definitely did.
The guy just laughed, “Man vanishes past a dead every time we’re there. Either she's real, or he’s running an underground drug trade.”
The trade is abrupt, like all trades are. One minute he's in Canada, the next he's unpacking in his new apartment in fucking Boston.
Blaise has been a part of the Boston Bears for less than 24 hours, and there are already striking differences. Boston’s locker is much louder than Montreal's. And there, in the centre of it, is Ilya Rozanov.
Rozanov is impossible not to notice, always has been. He's loud, would give a big grin, ferociously talented, and absolutely incapable of doing anything quietly (or so he thought). He filled spaces like he’d been born for it. The complete fucking opposite of Hollander.
Which is why he found it so… strange how often Rozanov wasn’t paying attention.
He was loud, yes, and partied hard on occasion. But some days, Rozanov would be off to the side. Phone angled away carefully from prying eyes, smile gone and private.
And that smile looks familiar.
Then he heard the name.
Jane.
“She's in Montreal. His girl,” Marleau said, wiggling his eyebrows and smirking like he knew something no one else did, “She makes even a Russian blush.”
Rozanov snorted and gave Marleau the middle finger, but he didn't deny it.
He learned within his first year that Jane lived in Montreal. They were long distance - whatever they were, Blaise still wasn't certain enough to label it. And Jane was important.
Rozanov, for all the media news around him labelling him as being a bit of a manwhore, a proud one at that, was quiet about the whole thing.
He didn't talk about her much, which Blaise thinks is weird because Ilya - loud, theatrical, allergic to subtlety- was quiet when Jane came up, but he doesn't actually know the guy. But when he does say a frankly disturbing innuendo about her or a simple comment. Blaise swears he's been here before. The answers are smooth, careful. Defensive in a way that didn't match his usual bravado.
Rozanov's girl. She had clearly been a constant for a while. The jokes came easily, and the way they spoke about her was… careful, almost. Blaise didn’t know if it was because the guys respected Rozanov enough or if they were terrified of their captain/ Blaise thought it was because it was obvious how much happier and better he played after being with this Jane girl.
Of course, Blaise didn't connect the dots right away. There were lots of long distance relationships within the league.
Still, though, something about it scratched his brain.
Jane was a ghost, like Lily was a ghost. All they knew were names and location, and even those were skewed.
Ilya, who's dramatic and loud and probably too unashamed, went very quiet, would even fucking blush when Jane came up. Shane would shut it down harder. Short answers if they were lucky, tight shoulders.
But it wasn’t that that opened his eyes to it; it wasn’t even the night he spent watching every game Hollander and Rozanov have played against each other, not even the memories of watching Shane's eyes flicker to Ilya more often than he realized, how Ilya would only really, really smile when he was pissing Shane off.
He slept on it for three fucking months. And god, he was such an idiot. He thought they might be best friends or even fucking the same girl.
Then Ilya walked in one day to practice, late and distracted. He pulled out his phone, smiled at it, a small and private and almost shy and fucking hell it was disgustinly real.
Blaise glanced down to where Ilya had dropped his phone on the bench beside him. It turned on, the screen lighting up. Blaise glanced down without really meaning to.
Jane
Lily?
Shut the fuck up, you asshole.
Oh
Oh
That night, he didn't sleep much. He missed pucks and skated into the gate.
He wasn’t conflicted about it. It's just that this secret was massive. It wasn't just about privacy; it was literally about safety and survival.
And it all clicked into place. Hollander, neurotic and too hyper aware, who always braced as if the world was about to take something from him if he wasn't careful enough. Ilya, who, against his whole personality, was tight-lipped.
Jesus, for fucking years. He felt sick.
So, after frankly a Shane Hollander level of overthinking and far too many sleepless nights Blaise thought about letting it go, but he wanted to tell Ilya that he knew. Well, he was thinking about it. He was going that day they played Montreal, but then fucking Marleau had to go and fuck it up.
They lost. Ilya was completely out of it. When he was on the bench, he was biting his nails; when he was on ice, he was all over the place, messy and uncoordinated, and Blaise wanted to cry. They clearly loved each other; you don't hook up for years in secret, text constantly with private smiles and not care for each other, and Ilya had just watched him crumple. Blaise was surprised Ilya hadn’t thrown up.
He got benched for the last 10 minutes, during which Ilya spent every one shaking his knee.
And so, he does what he can.
It's been three minutes since the game ended, and Ilya has already changed. He keeps staring at his phone with a crushed, anxious look. The guys don't really see it. Marleau is a bit subdued, but he doesn't notice Ilya's state.
He nudges Ilya’s shoulder with his own, Ilya’s panicked eyes meeting his.
“What?” he says harshly, but it comes out as a whisper.
“Hollander, he's at Montreal Central Hospital. Third floor, room 325. He's okay, concussed and something with his collarbone, but he's awake,” he whispers it. Courtesy of being nice and knowing Pike.
Ilya caught Blaise's eye, opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Instead, he gave a small nod.
He definitely does not look up Shane and Ilya on Twitter that night. In the same way, he does not discover what Hollanov is, and definitely did not follow the fan account with his burner.
He sees Ilya three days later for their away game, nothing changes, and that’s good; he doesn’t want it to. And nothing does, Ilya doesn't bring it up, and neither does Blaise. Not for four and a half months. And he gets cornered.
You know,” Ilya asks. Blaise thinks about faking confusion, but Ilya really can look the part of a terrifying captain.
He swallows around the lump in his throat. “Yes.” Silence. “I know,” he said calmly.
He watched Ilya take a step back and breathe out. He leaned back, staring at the ceiling. For a terrifying moment, Blaise thought he‘d fucked it. That this would go badly, be explosive, and go irrevocably wrong.
But it doesn't. Which is nice, Blaise liked the shape of his nose too much thankyou.
“Huh,” Ilya says before his head drops back down to look at him. “How?”
“Spent six seasons with Hollander. I’ve heard about Lily. Then I got traded, came here, and heard about your Jane. took me a long time to connect the dots. It wasn’t until I saw your phone - which was not on purpose - that I realised.”
Ilya nods just once, “So you know about…?”
“I know about Jane, yes,” he said, “and Lily.”
“Fuck.”
Blaise lets the silence encompass them. It's not awkward, it's just –
Then Ilya barks out a laugh, “Jesus, Shane is going to lose his mind,” he points at Blaise, “because of some terrifyingly psychic and observant man.” Blaise almost misses the entire conversation after hearing Ilya call Hollander Shane. It was so unlike him. They were Hollander and Rozanov to each other, to fans, to the media, to their teammates jesus.
Relief hits Blaise hard. “I'm not going to tell anyone,” Blaise quickly clarified. Outing someone isn't really his thing. “I just– Shane's a friend. And you’re well, you, but I wouldn’t.. Do.. that.”
Ilya looked at him, really looked at him, something vulnerable flickering through him before he stood up straight. “You have questions?” he asked.
“So many,” Blaise responds honestly. And really, there are a thousand. How long? How? Rose fucking Laundry?
Ilya nods once before looking away, “I can't answer them.”
“And Blaise knows that. He has questions, of course, but he doesn't need to know. “I know.”
“Okay,” and Ilya breathes out a bit of tension.
“Okay.” Blaise mimics. He gives Ilya a smile that conveys he’s cool with it. He won't tell anyone. Ilya has more than himself to protect, more than his image and career.
He allows himself to get high that night. Laughs to himself about the craziness of it all. Wanders who else knows, if anyone else knows. Shane and Ilya were… complicated. Whatever existed between them was layered with history and something clearly close to devotion.
Jesus Christ.
They've just lost to Montreal months later, when Blaise is finally leaving. He's tired, and he feels shitty, like you always do after losing a home game when he is accosted in the hallway. Ilya pulls him away from leaving, pushing him in a different direction, and Blaise fumbles, nearly tripping up when he gets pulled into a room with Shane.
What the fuck. Is he going to die? Is he going to get threatened? He hopes they consider giving him money if they want to buy his silence; he really wants to buy an aga.
“He knows,” Ilya points to Blaise. He feels like he’s in a fucking sitcom or cartoon. He's pointing at him like a kid telling on another kid.
Hollander's head snapped up, “knows what?” His voice falters, and his mouth opens into an oh shape before closing. Then his eyebrows clench in, and he looks angry, except it's kind of adorable.
He watches as they seem to have a conversation through their eyes alone.
“Jesus?? You told him? Ilya, what the fuck, what part of the secret do you not understand?” Shane rambles on.
Ilya puts his hand on Shane's shoulder, pulling forward just a little, before a hand comes out and holds Shane by his chin. Blaise has known about Ilyaandsane for a while now, but seeing it in person was…
“I didn’t tell. He found out.”
They look at each other in the eye for at least 20 seconds. Blaise didn't know how to tell them he was claustrophobic, and this room was far too cramped. Fuck.
Shane nods, then turns to Blaise.
“How-” he doesn't finish.
Shane stood rigid, eyes fixed now on the floor.
“You’re not-” his voice cracked, and he saw Ilya's face harden with distress. “You’re not going to tell?”
Blaise shook his head. “I won't be the person who makes your worst fear come true.”
That's all it took. Shane folded in a second, the second. “I didn't want anyone to know. I just, I wanted one thing that was mine. And- and, the league…” he gives a sad smile.
Blaise just gives a small smile. There's nothing else to say. He had just watched them talk with their eyes, hands brushing like it was instinct, and yeah. This was worth protecting.
He goes to leave first, but not before looking back. “You're both allowed to have something good. Don't let anyone take that from you,” then he left.
Nothing changes, really, which is a relief. They didn't suddenly become best friends or hang out. There weren't any more awkward conversations or threats, and luckily, there were no more small rooms. He doesn’t ask about what they thought of Hunters coming out on live national television because….
But Blaise can’t believe how blind they all are to Shane and Ilya. They weren’t obvious in the conventional way. They didn’t hold conversations, especially not during or after games or where a camera may linger. But they did, through their eyes, a brush of an arm, a chirp. And their fucking chemistry on ice is unprecedented. The all stars game made that obvious months before, and what Blaise originally thought was just the two best players finally having someone of their level to play with, but no, this was so much more. That chemistry doesn’t just blossom from nothing.
And all Blaise can think is that they must have been in love the whole damn time.
So when Blaise wakes up to find breaking news that Ilya has signed with Ottawa, he's not surprised. He scrolls through the comments of fans who are trying to work out the logistics of the move. Why has one of the best players moved to a losing team? Blaise just shakes his head. They’ll never understand. He smiles for them. Cheats on his diet and drinks a hot chocolate with far too much whipped cream in it in their honour. He thinks the devotion between Shane and Ilya is terrifying. At this point, Blaise has known about them for over a year. Not long, but long enough to see that whatever they have together is a forever type of thing.
By the time 2018 comes around, Blaise is in his tenth year of professional hockey. He’s seen a lot, made friends, made memories. He’s still at fucking Boston. He's not sure how much longer he can stick it out for. He’s not old by definition, but sometimes he wakes up and struggles to find the motivation to get up. He doesn't have anybody; he doesn't really want one. He has a dog, three cats, and six fish. He’s happy and content with his life, mostly. Hockey, which was once the forefront of his life, begins to trickle into the back of his mind.
So, he decided to finish his contract. He has a couple of years left; he can make do with that, and then, he'll be done.
It's 2021, and Blaise is in his last season with the Bears when he wakes up one morning to his phone on fire. He thinks a lot of things, but none of them are even close to the truth. He opens Twitter, a regret as always, and his heart fucking drops.
He did cry into his pillow. The video of Shane and Ilya kissing is everywhere. Admittedly, he typed out some rude things to Pike, but deleted them before he sent them. It wasn’t his place, and he knew Pike was Shane's best friend.
When he walks into practice that day, he’s happy to see that the guys don't really care. Blaise didn’t know what to expect, whether they’d be assholes about it or try to compensate for their more or less offensive use of… swear words.
He hears a player chime in, “Who would have fucking guessed though? Hollander and Roz. Jesus." He doesn't say anything. Doesn't tell any of them he knows, he knew. Instead, he just nods along, agreeing.
“Yeah, I can't imagine wanting to tell anyone. I mean. They've been the pinnacle of rivalry for hockey for the last what? Decade.”
“Besides,” someone adds, “some guys in the league are cunts, and the commissioner, someone needs to take him out.”
The guys laugh, but there is an undertone of worry. Marleau, a good friend of Roz’s, asks, “Anyone heard anything from them, either of them?” his eyes travel around the room.
“Uh, yeah,” Blaise decided to admit, figuring he should quell the obvious anxiety and tension in the room. “Roz said he was okay, and that Shane will be okay.”
“That it?” someone butts in.
He's not sure if he should continue, but ultimately does anyway. “Umm yeah, mostly but also that Ottawa are cool with it, but, uh,” and it's hard to continue, “Shane’s team not so much.”
Silence.
“Heard from Pike also coach is going to bench him.”
“WHAT?!”, “They can't do that,” "he's their best player!", a mix of anger and concerns is heard, and against his will, Blaise smiles at it. These guys are good men.
“Yeah, it’s fucked up, actually. So uh, when we play them, what? Next week, let’s…” he tilts his head, finishing the sentence without having to say it out loud.
The guys agree, some clapping each other on the back.
“That's fucked, man. Hollander carried that team to three Stanley Cups, and their what? Pushing him out.” Marleau says.
He's right. It's outrageous.
“Think we could nab him?” someone jokes, trying to break the ice.
“You guys should consider reaching out to them both, saying you support them. It might be nice to hear,” and they all nod, like they're mentally setting a reminder.
The media does not relent on its questioning; articles pour out quicker than he’s ever seen. He manages to outrun them for a powerful four days before he is subjected to them.
“Blaise, you're one player who played with both Hollander and Rozanov. Do you have anything to say?”
“They’re both incredible players to play with. Dedicated and hardworking. I mean, the 4 Stanley Cups between them says enough,” he states. His voice doesn’t crack or falter; he stands strong like he’s sure of himself, which he is.
“Ah, uhm, I mean yes, of course, but I was talking more about the recent news about them being… together.” The way she stumbles over the word together‘ like she can’t understand it. And maybe she couldn’t, but Blaise could get that. The love they had for one another was a rare find.
“Like I said. I’ve played with both of them, separately and together. They’re incredible players and have dominated the league for over a decade now. Their personal and private lives are none of my business, and clearly, it hasn’t affected their careers.”
“So, you’re saying that you don’t think that their relationship impacted their performance on ice.”
Blaise might bang his head against a wall, might fake faint to get out of this conversation. Have none of them watched hockey for themselves?
“No.”
“So, they wouldn't, oh, I don't know, throw a game.”
Blaise laughs, caught off guard. But he's fucking livid. They dare to undermine their fucking years of dedication, years of giving everything they have just because they loved each other.
“I think, ma’am, if you have watched one game, you know the answer to that. They love playing each other because they are miles better than the rest of the league players. They're the only ones to challenge each other. And there is nothing they enjoy more than beating each other. I mean, think of the bragging rights,” he trails off, laughing to himself.
Before the reporter can butt in and ask any other nonsense, Blaise continues, “I just think it’s an insult to both of them to question their decorated careers because they happen to love each other. I don't believe the players, or anyone in the league, or reporters such as yourself, should use this as a weapon or to diminish their achievements because I think, despite what players or fans think about this, at the end of the day, they are the best the league has.”
The woman stares at him in silence. Blaise stares back.
“You don’t think it's a shock.” he looks to see if there's an exit, but he sees his teammates being bombarded at the door, and fuck. She’s trying to gauge whether Blaise knew.
“A shock?” he pretends to ponder, his eyes moving up towards his head, his head does a slight dance left, right, then left again. “I guess.”
“You guess,” she repeats. “That’s all.”
“Yup. That’s all.”
“You don’t think they should have told you?” Blaise closes his eyes slowly and breathes out a loud sigh.
“No. its none of my business. Never was and still isn’t. Neither of them owes anyone anything. We won games, and they bought me drinks. I don’t need to gush over secrets with teddy bears.”
“But…”
“Look, I’m sick of this conversation, and I want to go home. I have cats to feed and fish to confess my sins to. I think this,” his hands fly about, “- this line of questioning is ridiculous. So what Hollander and Rozanov are in a relationship? Hoo hah, I don’t really care. And I’m not offended they didn’t tell me.” He mutters under his breath, "although these reactions, it's clear why they kept it a secret,” before continuing, "okay, I'm leaving now, byebye." and he walks away.
Shane
Hey, Roz is with me, just wanted to thank you.
Saw that interview; it meant a lot, what you said.
Blaise
No worries, man.
I'm sorry about all this shit.
And fuck the media, don't listen to their bullshit.
Blaise, number 29 of the Boston Bears, retires the year that Shane makes his move to Ottawa. And he’s fucking thankful he did, he would not have wanted to play against those two together. What a fucking pair.
He does, however, wake up to a wedding invitation.