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March 2021 – Ottawa
Catherine du Saint-Ives was peacefully enjoying her breakfast in the solarium when she heard the click-clack of heels behind her. Her big Persian cat, who was previously lounging on her lap as she read the newspaper, also heard the noise and jumped out of the way to hide as the door opened. Catherine turned around and saw her executive assistants come in, shell-shocked but trying to hide it for professionalism’s sake.
Catherine raised her brow and watched as they composed themselves to stand in front of her.
“Well?”
The older assistant – Ann-Marie – stepped forward to take charge of the situation. “Miss C,” she started, calling Catherine by the nickname everyone in the company calls her – really, Miss du Saint-Ives is such a mouthful and Madam or Ma’am reminds her of her mother. “We have a situation.”
Ann-Marie beckoned the younger assistant, Eloise, closer. The younger woman turned the iPad around to her and pressed play. Catherine was confused at first: A man who introduced himself as Hayden was spouting off some greeting. It was terribly gauche, and Catherine was about to demand the full details when she saw it.
Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander. Kissing.
She looked up at her assistants, both faces now expressionless. She looked down again, frowning, deep in thought. She rewound the video and assessed, analysed, and evaluated.
Catherine handed the iPad back to Eloise. Her eyes were twinkling, and Ann-Marie had worked under Catherine for more than two decades now, starting as an intern, and knew that while subdued, this look meant something interesting would be afoot. She braced herself.
“Call Jean-Luc and Etienne,” she instructed, naming her younger brothers. “They should be awake by now. Tell them to be here no later than eight in the morning. And tell Franco,” – the company’s chief of finance – “to get his little derriere here in Ottawa by lunch time today. Take the company plane.”
As Ann-Marie and Eloise carried out orders and left the room, the big Persian left its hiding place and continued its snuggles on Catherine’s lap. “Pierre, mon amour,” she cooed at the salt and pepper cat. “Our lovely Centaurs are about to have a generational run.”
As Catherine settled again, contentedly petting Pierre, she turned to her right, where a modest-looking white urn sat on top of the mahogany side table. “Pour toi, Alexandre. Tout pour toi.”
An hour after Ottawa found out – Montreal and Boston
The news hit East first.
Montreal was swift to act. Regis Dubois, owner of the team, directed Hollander’s benching. Head coach Thierrault was only too quick to agree. Fucking queers, he thought, spoiling this beautiful sport.
***
Across the (metaphorical) sea, Boston laughed out loud. True to tradition, the owner enjoyed chaos every now and then. He’s just glad it wasn’t coming from his own backyard.
Rozanov, that son of a gun. Also, who knew Hollander had that in him? That media-perfect boy, touted as a hockey god —
Boston had to stop laughing then. Because while he was a true Bostonian who encouraged crazy shenanigans, he was not a complete knucklehead.
A worry starting to form, he shot a message over to New York.
BOS
Seen it?
NY
Yes…
OTT and MTL got good publicity opp now
Sucks for us
BOS
You think Dubois sees it that way?
NY
He’d be dumber than I thought if he doesn’t
Why?
What are you thinking?
BOS
I think Dubois really is that dumb
It took New York the whole five minutes to reply.
NY
Fucking damn it
Well, if New York was able to work it out (and the five minutes were probably him making moves), Boston needs to start putting their ducks in a row.
Damn it, Montreal.
April 2021 – Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, Washington
PHL
What the fuck is Dubois playing at?!
PIT
We don’t know anything for sure
PHL
Owens – look me in the eye and tell me Dubois is the smartest man alive.
PIT
Williams
Wills
W
I am fucking furious, too.
Do you know how many brand sponsors have not reached out to renew their contracts yet?!
But all we have are speculations
DC
Owens, I have to agree with Wills here.
Dubois is a fucking idiot
I have long-term contacts who have all told me they are “discussing”
That’s BS term for they’re waiting to see where Hollander ends up
PHL
Marty, I knew this since day 1
Put all hopes and dreams on Hollander
Forget that hockey is a team sport
Drop Hollander for a little homoeroticism
But what do we do, huh?
Can’t show much reaction
Will only show panic
PIT
And you’re not fucking panicking?
PHL
There is some panic
DC
Big O, if Hollander does leave MTL
Where do you think he’ll go?
And where do you think the brands will go?
PHL
I did hear the OTT trio are making moves
PIT
Thanks for that
Really big help here
PHL
Just saying we might suffer a little bit
But MTL will have it the worst
Dubois is too stupid to see it
May 2021 – Detroit and Tampa
DET
Heard from Gatorade yet?
TAM
And why should I tell you?
DET
Not the time, Tampa boy
Have you or have you not heard from Gatorade?
TAM
Stop calling me Tampa boy you Detroit codger
And no
Haven’t heard
DET
Wow so all brands are just waiting to see what’s happening huh
TAM
Fuck Dubois
And FUCK Crowell
DET
Ohh look at Tampa boy being spicy
TAM
Fuck you too
July 2021 – Seattle, Los Angeles, Vancouver
SEA
Well it’s official
LA
Who the fuck thought this was a good idea
All generational talents in one fucking team
Fuck everyone involved
VAN
Talked to Dubois last month
That guy really is hmmm
Special
LA
Of course, he doesn’t see the big picture
I had to call in an emergency boxing session tonight with my PT
This is stressing me out
SEA
Crowell’s old ass too
Whatever happened to fiscally conservative, socially liberal?
VAN
Am in talks with other owners
They’re not happy at all
Crowell may need another job
LA
Agreed
OTT trio are the only ones happy
SEA
Ah well
At least we’re not in East
Heard from Wills
Lots of panic business-wise and game-wise
VAN
Shit some sponsor contracts renewed late with us
Probably trying to see if OTT will sign with them
LA
Same here
Heard Gatorade dropped Tampa and Detroit
Went all in with OTT
SEA
Boston told me they’re gearing up to make Montreal pay
And they as in BOS and other teams over there
LA
Fair
No one else in East will probably make it to Finals
But what does Boston mean?
SEA
Who knows?
That crazy fucker has his ways
VAN
Heard from San Jose just now
SJ finds this fun
But also behind firm discussions with Crowell for later
SEA
We have that gala dinner end of month right?
Organised by Crowell?
LA
Yeah
See you there
End of July 2021 – Las Vegas
Roger, despite the headaches of last season, felt good about tonight. No further problems have been caused, and players who were a nuisance last year have kept to themselves for the rest of the year. Good, he thought, this is a league for men.
He felt especially proud of the way the Hollander and Rozanov business worked out. They’re in the same team, projected to rake in double the business for any match they play. People would want to see that. And Roger couldn't care less about the exact reasoning of why people want to see that. And then, a new rivalry has been born courtesy of the events: Ottawa vs Montreal. That, his board said, will be the meal ticket. He has already directed people to ensure sales are maximised in any way possible.
As he worked on his bow tie, he even whistled a tune. Tonight, he is hosting a gala dinner for league owners and top sponsors. His buddy, Kelley, owner of the Toronto team, messaged him, looking forward to this. The Dallas Kent affair has been handled as best as can be. These women, Kelley told him, just want to be certified WAGs.
Another buddy, Dubois, was eager to meet with him to discuss the next steps for the 21-22 season.
He hoped to rope in the Ottawans but those three were also…inconvenient. Coming from older money than anyone in the league – hell, Canada – the du Saint-Ives have made it clear that the league needs them more than they need the league. The worst team title notwithstanding, they can pull out anytime they want, even in the middle of the season and cause chaos in line-ups and sponsorships. Yes, they’ll be fined, but Roger suspects it won’t matter to them.
The siblings have consistently stood behind their players. In Roger’s eyes, this would be heaven-sent if Ottawa would just sign or draft traditionally-leaning players.
But fine. He can make it all about the business.
He took a deep breath to stave off a forming headache. Tonight is a good night, he repeated to himself. Drafts went smoothly, trades have gone by, inks are dry on paper… The 21-22 season will be just fine. And this gala dinner is here to mark that auspice.
*******
This dinner was off to an ominous start was the first thing Dubois thought of. Firstly, he was forced to walk from the parking lot to the venue. A backlog of limos and expensive cars littered the drop-off area, and he couldn't care less what was causing it, just that he was getting impatient. He needed to talk to Crowell, damn it.
Second, when he greeted San Jose, he was met with something lukewarm.
“Hmm,” the guy said as he shook his hand. “Interesting year, eh?”
Dubois smiled politely. SJ was usually bubbly and all smiles, much like Santa Claus. Now, though, he could tell that there was like a veil over him. And he can’t even say anything. The Hollander-Rozanov thing WAS interesting at the very least.
“Yes, yes.” Was all he could reply. Before he could exchange pleasantries, the guy looked over Dubois’ shoulder and seemingly saw a friend. SJ left Dubois standing there, awkwardly, as he boomed in his usual tone, “Cecil! You big doofus. How’s Tampa?”
Dubois was flabbergasted but tried not to let it show. As he watched, he saw Cecil look over at where he was and, pointedly, turned away.
Huh.
The third ominous sign happened as they were waiting to be seated for dinner. He was talking to Crowell and Florida when he felt a prickling at his nape.
He tried to ignore it for the rest of the time Crowell was talking to him. But the heat was there. Poking, prodding, and scratching at the littlest of his pores. Had it been five minutes later, Dubois was sure he would have burst into flames.
Thankfully, Crowell excused himself, and Florida also went to socialise in another part of the room. When he was left alone, Dubois turned around to see what or who it was.
He was met with the sight of Buffalo and Dallas. The two were standing next to each other — carrying the air of ex-military men, which was apt as the two came from old military families and grew up together — nursing their drinks. Dallas was almost sitting on the centre table, one hand in his pocket. Buffalo stood rigidly.
Both were glaring at him.
If looks could kill, or so they say.
Saving face, Dubois puffed his chest and nodded at them and went the opposite direction. Seriously, what the hell? In his escape, he saw a group formed by a few bigwigs and joined them.
Dubois tried to fish for information. Why the hell did some of these sponsors take longer than normal to renew their contracts? And why did a number of them not renew at all? Gatorade, for one, dropped two teams and doubled its offering to Ottawa. It’s damn Ottawa, Montreal was ahead in the rankings.
But none of these people would give him further information. They kept the conversation shallow and did not broach business at all. Did not even give him an opening to insert those talks.
As he was mulling over everything, Dubois noticed a commotion at the entrance. A spike in excitement. He looked over and saw three people, led by a slender woman who had always reminded Dubois of that elegant lady from that animated cat movie he saw as a child. The men behind her look similar to her but with bigger bodies and taller.
The three, usually subdued and having always carried themselves with regal poise (there’s probably some truth to the rumour that the three were descendants of the nobles who were able to leave France with their wealth intact right before the Revolution started), were all smiles as they greeted everyone in the room.
“So glad to see you du Saint-Iveses!” Greeted Crowell and took the woman’s hand to kiss it. “Miss du Saint-Ives.”
“Crowell,” came her greeting.
Crowell then shook the men’s hands afterwards.
As the trio moved around the room, in different directions, Dubois saw how everyone went to them. Even the sponsors he was talking to basically abandoned him in favour of one of the Ottawans.
Chagrined — this was a much, much different reception from the previous years — he walked away to get a drink.
The dinner dragged on, too. Being sandwiched between Buffalo, on his left, and Jean-Luc du Saint-Ives, one of the Ottawa trio, on his right, did not help his situation one bit. Buffalo was pointedly ignoring him, opting to chat with the person right in front of him instead.
“Ma sœur tient à vous remercier,” came from Jean-Luc, his French sounding different from Dubois' Quebecois.
“Your sister wants to thank me?” Dubois parrotted as a question. “Mais pourquoi?”
“Oui, mon ami,” the other man smiled. Somehow, Dubois was not comforted by it. “You have made Ottawa very happy, non?”
That statement was made a little too loudly, and he felt the room shift towards their side. From the corner of his eye, Dubois saw several heads turn while others tried not to but their ears were perked up.
Before he could reply to that, another person caught Jean-Luc’s attention and the other man turned to them. And while Dubois could get away from that particular conversation, a certain mood from different corners of the room still emanated towards him.
*******
“Ottawa gearing up well for next season?” New York asked as he sidled up to stand next to Etienne du Saint-Ives. Dinner was done, and the guests are now mingling for more drinking and chatting.
“Oh, have you not heard?” Etienne started, a smirk already halfway formed. “We have Hollander now, too.”
New York winced at that. “So I’ve heard.”
“Big sis,” the man gestured in the direction where his sister was, talking to a sponsor. “Cat, she moves fast.”
“I will admit that your sister is most likely the smartest person in here.”
Etienne nodded. “Well, we can only thank Dubois for being the way that he is, oui?” He held out his glass for a toast. New York reluctantly clinked his glass.
*******
“Miss du Saint-Ives,” Roger said as he intercepted her. Catherine has seen him hover and knew he wanted something. She finally got bored of making him wait, and so deliberately stepped out so this could be done and over with.
Her brothers knew how she hated this guy. Hated this place full of overbearing men.
“Roger,” she emphasised his first name. “Lovely dinner.”
If Crowell noticed her use of his first name, he didn’t show. She had never permitted him familiarity with her, and she had never granted him respect. “Glad you could make it this year. And all three of you?”
In the past, Catherine would not want to be in this place and so would always send her brothers to deal with any league-wide formalities as much as possible, end-of-season gala included. But tonight, in particular, she’ll want to see everyone’s faces as they squirm under her too-sharp eyes. Maybe next July, too.
Catherine acquiesced and slightly nodded her head. “A joyous occasion, non? You have made it so very interesting for us over in Ottawa.”
The words were delivered levelly, with a smile even, but she could see the implications of it hit Roger all the same. To his credit, the man brushed it off.
“Miss du Saint-Ives, I hope it is in everyone’s best interests, yes?” and there it was, what Catherine hated the most. The sly smile, cunning look, and poison threatening to spew at the tip of his tongue.
But she has spent decades expertly throwing those back to these men, growing up with the kind of father she had. Catherine smirked. “It certainly is in Ottawa’s best interests.” Her eyes flickered over his shoulders to see that a few other owners were within earshot. Upon hearing that, their unintended audience stilled ever so slightly. “I hope it’s in yours, too. In the long run.”
She leaned back to look at him properly. Puzzlement filled his features, and Catherine’s smile deepened. He’ll get it eventually, if the other owners haven't clued him in mid-season.
Her brothers caught her eye from across the room, waiting for her signal. She raised her brows at them, and they both turned to escort her out.
“I look forward to next season, Crowell.”
And with that, she neatly stepped around him and left.
*******
Dubois was in the men’s room, hands gripping the counter as he tried to make sense of what was happening outside. He really couldn’t fathom it. Was everyone in on a prank?
Before he could think further, the door opened and in walked Boston.
Great, just great.
Boston spotted him and sauntered towards his direction. Dubois watched the man’s movements through the mirror, and instead of going straight to him, the man settled against the wall parallel to where he was.
Hands in his pockets, Boston eyed him with that ever-present mirthful look. “Dubois,” he greeted.
Dubois nodded at him.
“Crazy season, huh?”
“That’s an underestimation,” he started when a thought occurred to him. “You – I know you Boston people are crazy – but did you know about Rozanov and Hollander?”
Boston held his hands up. “We were as shocked as you are. But Rozanov moving to Ottawa makes so much more sense now. We in HQ just thought he was somehow able to have an affair with one of the du Saint-Ives. Good-looking lot, even though older than him. And they’re rich as sin.”
Dubois deflated at that. In hindsight, he should have kept tighter control of his players. Well, plans are in place for that now.
“Still, Dubois,” came Boston’s voice again. “Letting go of Hollander?”
Something in Boston’s voice made Dubois sharply turn his head. “He was not a good fit –”
“Save the fucking PR to the media.” Dubois flinched at the sudden change in Boston’s easygoing tone. This one cut through like a knife. Boston closed the gap between them, and because the other man was taller, Dubois had to look up. “Do you know what you’ve done?”
Dubois stared and stared. He let Hollander go. And Hollander is now in Ottawa with his –
Boston saw the realisation hit the shorter man. “Oh, now you see.” He walked over to the sink and started washing his hands. When he was done, he turned to Dubois again. “You might need a restructuring, Dubois. The people outside those doors are not happy.”
With a smile, he left. Dubois, once again, gripped the sink counter.
September 2021 – Ottawa
Catherine was in the solarium enjoying her breakfast. Today, the 21-22 roster of Ottawa Centaurs will have their first official practice. Weibe was cautiously confident this year, which was good enough for her.
She knew everything about this current team, from the players to the coaching staff to the ones in admin. Jean-Luc called her a stalker while Etienne worried about legalities, but Catherine had to make sure she was building a good team with good people, ones she won’t mind carrying the Ottawa Centaurs name, win or lose.
All in the name of Alexandre.
She looked to her right and picked up the urn and thumbed the scripture engraved. Alexandre Pierre du Saint-Ives. October 10, 1971 - June 3, 1991.
Her twin.
He was older than her by a few minutes, but she has always been the bossy one. The smarter one. The one who dragged her brothers to do her bidding. They were the best of friends, only having each other before Jean and Eti came into the picture. People in their circle don’t play happy families, and all marriages were of convenience.
Alexandre was sweet with a kind heart. Even as children, Catherine understood the importance of protecting Alex. Her brother, who was so damned good at hockey that that is all he ever wanted to do. He did not care for the family business, which their father, big man, overbearing and manipulative, severely frowned upon.
It was a miracle that their father agreed to found the Ottawa Centaurs. Catherine may have put it in her father’s head that this would be a good exposure for them and all the business dealings they could have by diversifying this way. And won’t it be even better publicity if his firstborn son were part of the team?
It was a good year. Everything was peaceful, and everybody was happy.
At the end of the 90-91 season, though, Alex was…outed. In the worst possible way.
Photos of him engaging in extra-marital relations with another man found their way onto her father’s desk.
The action was swift. Even when remembering it now, Cat still feels like it was a nightmare. Except it was all very vivid.
Pandemonium descended into their mansion. Screams, shouts. Glasses breaking. Sounds of their father’s fist connecting to Alex’s skin. Of Alex pleading their father to stop hitting him.
Cat tried to get through the door but was forcibly stopped by several household staff. Jean-Luc and Etienne watched in horror, bundled up in each other as they cowered by the steps. Their mother stood stoically on the side.
Alex was sent to the family chalet up in Switzerland. Located high up in the mountains with no way of getting out, not only because of its location but also because of the many watchful eyes surrounding him. Cat was closely guarded to ensure she didn’t go rescue him.
And then, a week later, Alex was…gone.
The year that followed was a blur. She was so angry, and she was grieving. She lost her twin, and her parents didn’t seem to care. It was all kept from the media, and absolutely no one was allowed to bring it up. Cat did not even know about Alex, and now she will never get to ask him. Guilt ate at her every time.
There was no funeral service for her best friend. An urn was instead quietly brought back and sealed in the family crypt.
When her parents passed ten years later, Catherine made sure they were in the deepest depths of the crypt. Then, she brought Alex out of the darkness and put him here in the solarium so he would always be in the light, having breakfast with her every day, just like when they were kids.
And Cat thought of all those like Alexandre. Of those who weren’t able to step into the light.
Of those who were.
She hoped she could create a space where they are protected the way Alexandre should have been. The way she should have protected him that night.
“Pour toi, Alexandre. Tout pour toi.”
Outside, the sun rose.