Chapter Text
Chasing athletic excellence is a lonely, disciplined path. It demands strict self-control and good judgment, which is why it usually precludes waking up in a strange bed with a phantom ice-resurfacing machine performing figure-eights inside one’s skull.
Shane issued a low groan of wretched despair and pressed his face deeper into the pillow, only to find that the linens carried the scent of expensive hotel detergent mingled with a cologne--he sniffed cautiously--that was most certainly not his own. This olfactory revelation served as the second indication that his life had veered into the realm of the catastrophic, the first being the simple, nauseating misfortune of having woken up at all.
He was not, by any reasonable standard, a drinker. He consumed perhaps three beers a year, each selected for its lightness and accompanied by a conscientious rotation of water. He had never before understood why the protagonists of cinema felt the need to dramatically declare that they were “never drinking again,” yet as he lay there in the blinding morning light, he found their sentiments to be entirely reasonable and, in fact, the only logical response to a hangover.
When he finally mustered the courage to pry open a single, stinging eye, the first thing he encountered was a lone black dress shoe perched precariously on the nightstand. It was not his. Shane’s stomach lurched as he continued his grim inventory of the room, noting a suit jacket discarded on the floor that was also decidedly not his size, and a mobile phone charging on the far nightstand adorned with a small sticker of the Boston Bears logo. Most damning of all, however, were the rumpled sheets on the opposite side of the mattress, which still held the warm, lingering impression of another body.
As if to satisfy some cruel sense of irony, the memories of the previous evening began to filter back into his consciousness in a series of unfortunate vignettes.
***
The Hartwell Foundation Gala was an annual October fixture that Shane had always regarded as a scheduling error. At such a point in the year, the season was still fresh; nevertheless, he attended because he found it impossible to deny his agent, Farah’s, insistent requests, and because the foundation performed commendable work supporting youth hockey programs across the continent. He had spent the initial hour navigating the assembly on a weary social autopilot, shaking the hands of various donors whose names he would immediately forget and nodding through conversations regarding the Voyageurs’ seasonal prospects, of which he had already endured a dozen nearly identical variations.
“Shane, bro!” J.J. exclaimed, materializing at his elbow and extending a glass of water. “You look like you want to leave desperately.”
“This is just my face,” Shane replied, though he took the water with a gratitude he was unwilling to voice aloud.
“Yeah, but it’s your specific face that means you’d rather be literally anywhere else.” J.J. studied him. “What’s the over-under on you lasting until dessert?”
“What do you want, J.J.?” Shane asked, neatly sidestepping the question.
J.J. pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Can’t a devoted teammate offer hydration out of the pure, selfless goodness of his heart?”
“In your case? Not really,” Shane frowned.
J.J.’s grin widened, unabashed. “Okay, fine. I’m just saying, you might want to adjust your expression before you scare off the donors-”
Suddenly, J.J. paused, his eyes darting toward the distant verges of the room. He leaned in conspiratorially, lowering his voice to what he likely imagined was a secretive whisper, though it remained quite audible to anyone within a several-yard radius.
“Don’t look now,” he hissed, “but Rozanov’s here.”
At this revelation, Shane’s jaw did not drop, nor did his composure fracture. He refused to yield to the impulse of the moment. Instead, in a deliberate, somewhat desperate effort to avoid locating the aforementioned Ilya Rozanov, Shane determined he must immediately find Rose Landry. Fortunately, the crowd parted just enough to reveal her standing near the bar, looking beautiful in a deep-red gown that seemed to demand the attention of everyone in the room.
She was precisely the kind of person Shane’s parents had been inquiring about in that gentle but persistent manner common to parents of twenty-six-year-old men who had never, to their knowledge, been in a serious relationship. They never phrased their concerns so bluntly, preferring instead the deceptively simple, “Are you seeing anyone?” which truly meant, “Why are you not seeing anyone?” and, deeper still, “We want you to be happy,” which meant, underneath all of it: “We want you to be okay, sweetheart, whatever that looks like.”
The thing was that Shane’s parents were fundamentally, almost painfully, good people. They were of that rare, kind-hearted breed who had dutifully driven him to every pre-dawn practice at four in the morning, never once uttering a word of complaint regarding the pungent, life-altering aroma of hockey equipment that had inevitably permeated the family car. When his mother asked about the state of his personal life, her curiosity was born of genuine love rather than a desire for judgment. She simply wished for him to possess that which she and his father shared: partnership, companionship, and the profound comfort of returning home to a person who truly knew one’s soul.
And Shane wanted that too. He did. Which was why he had been so pleased when he met Rose Landry three months earlier through a mutual friend at a film premiere afterparty.
She had proven herself, almost immediately, to be the most effortless conversationalist he had encountered in years. She was warm, humorous, and entirely unintimidated by his professional stature--a circumstance Shane deemed only equitable, given that she was a celebrated actress in her own right. She possessed that rarest of gifts: the ability to laugh at his words without that subtle, performative edge that so often tainted his social interactions with those who recognized his face from the sporting journals. She did not treat him as Shane Hollander, the formidable Captain of the Montreal Voyageurs; she treated him simply as Shane, a slightly awkward young man who was doing his level best to navigate the world without tripping over his own feet.
He liked her with a sincerity that was both comfortable and uncomplicated, or, at the very least, he had managed to persuade himself that this was the case. However, he had committed the tactical blunder of mentioning her existence to his mother during one of their customary Sunday telephone conversations. The specific, rising intonation with which his mother had repeated the name “Rose Landry?” should have served as a sufficient warning of the perils to come. Since that fateful afternoon, his weekly calls had become a permanent theater of maternal investigation.
“So, have you asked Rose out properly yet?” his mother would inquire, her voice carrying that specific lilt that signaled she was already mentally picking out a dress for a hypothetical wedding.
“We’ve hung out a few times,” Shane would reply, leaning heavily on the plural to imply a sense of progress he was not entirely sure he had achieved.
“You know what I mean, Shane.”
He did, in fact, know what she meant. He had been summoning the necessary fortitude to ask Rose out--to really ask her, with the formal promise of dinner and the implicit acknowledgment that the engagement was, undeniably, a date--for several weeks. Tonight appeared to be the quintessential opportunity for such a venture. They were both present, both elegantly attired, and both presumably in possession of high spirits. The setting was undeniably romantic, the lighting was mercifully flattering, and the stars were aligning, or performing whatever celestial maneuvers stars typically undertake when they wish to encourage human romantic overtures.
Shane drew a steadying breath, adjusted his tie with a final, nervous tug, and began his trek across the crowded expanse of the room.
“Shane!” Rose cried, spotting him well before he had even completed his approach, which produced in him that slight disorientation often caused by the sight of genuine delight directed at one’s own person. “You came!”
“I come to these every year,” he replied, and when she laughed as though he had said something charming, he decided he could certainly work with such a reception.
They conversed for the better part of an hour. She inquired about the season opener with a depth of interest that transcended polite small talk, eventually offering a sharp observation about the team’s forechecking that suggested a mind far more analytical than he had anticipated.
“I thought the neutral zone coverage was a bit loose in the second period,” she remarked, swirling her wine with a thoughtful air. “Especially on the left side. Is that intentional, or is that just how Theriault likes to run the system?”
Shane blinked. “That’s… Theriault’s actually been trying to push a more aggressive forecheck, but it leaves us vulnerable on the transition. You really know hockey.”
“Of course! I have two brothers, so I grew up watching games,” she explained with a pretty smile that indicated many childhood afternoons spent in a hockey rink. “I like the strategy more than the fighting, though. Don’t tell anyone.”
“Your secret is safe with me,” Shane replied, his own smile widening.
As she continued to speak, Shane found himself contemplating that this was exactly the life he was supposed to want. Rose was beautiful, intelligent, and unfailingly kind. She would slide neatly into the architecture of his world, a presence at Sunday dinners with his parents, and a steady chapter in the future he had been outlining for himself since he was old enough to imagine one. In fact, he could see the progression: the invitation extended, the dinner at the Italian place Hayden swore by, the thrill of reaching for her hand across the table, and, God, the sweetness of a goodnight kiss at her door. He could even picture introducing her to his parents, his mother’s unmistakable delight, and the deep, settling relief of finally having a clear, respectable answer to the question that seemed to follow him everywhere: who, exactly, he intended to build a life with?
He had even prepared a specific version of the sentiment he intended to deliver next, a declaration designed to be direct without being overwhelming, for such was his preferred approach to most matters of the heart. The words were there, poised on the tip of his tongue, waiting for the perfect lull in conversation. He stood on the very precipice of speaking when, without the slightest warning, Ilya Rozanov materialized at his shoulder like a sudden, unwelcome thunderclap in an otherwise clear sky.
“Hollander.”
Shane’s entire body immediately experienced a sensation that he would describe, if forced to under oath, as heightened situational awareness. Every nerve ending seemed to fire at once, a full-body alert system responding to a threat that his conscious mind had not yet fully processed. His spine straightened, his shoulders tensed, and his jaw clenched with an audible click that he fervently hoped remained undetected by his companions.
“Rozanov,” Shane said, though he remained steadfastly facing forward, acknowledging Ilya’s presence through sheer force of will while maintaining his focus on Rose.
“Is a nice event,” Ilya remarked, stepping into Shane’s periphery, eventually forcing Shane actually to look at him.
Which, as it turned out, was a mistake.
Because Ilya Rozanov in a tuxedo was, from a purely objective standpoint, a great deal of information for any one person to manage. The garment was expertly tailored to accommodate the formidable breadth of his shoulders, and his hair had been styled back from his face, revealing the angles of his cheekbones and the perpetual suggestion of amusement that lived in the corners of his mouth. His bow tie was situated at a slightly crooked angle--not enough to appear sloppy, but just enough to suggest he had tied it himself rather than allowing someone else to do it for him. It was a detail that somehow conspired to make him appear more composed, rather than less.
Shane experienced a brief, disorienting moment in which his brain attempted to catalog this data while simultaneously insisting that it was entirely irrelevant to his current objectives.
“Rose,” Shane said, finally retrieving his voice from wherever it had fled and determinedly redirecting his attention to the woman at his side. “This is Ilya Rozanov. He plays for the Bears.”
“Oh, I know who you are,” Rose replied, extending her hand. “Rose Landry. I’ve seen you play. You’re very talented, Ilya.”
“I know also who you are,” Ilya said, accepting her hand and offering a handshake. “I have seen your work. Is very good. You are very good.”
“Thank you,” Rose replied, looking genuinely pleased by the recognition. She turned back to Shane. “He’s charming.”
“He’s something,” Shane muttered, the word tasting particularly bitter.
Ilya’s attention snapped back to Shane. “You are here together?”
The question hung suspended in the air like a face-off waiting for the puck to drop. Shane could feel Rose’s gaze upon him, and he was acutely aware of the significant weight of whatever his answer might imply. This was the definitive moment; he could say yes, he could claim her in the eyes of the public, and he could finally begin his descent down the long-anticipated path he had meticulously laid out for himself. It was the safe choice, the right choice, the choice that would make his mother buy a new hat.
“We’re just talking,” Shane said.
From the edge of his vision, Shane caught the faint recalibration of Rose’s expression before it smoothed seamlessly back into a practiced social smile.
“Ah.” Ilya let the syllable linger, the pause that followed dense with everything left unsaid. His mouth curved, not quite into a smile. “I will not interrupt, then.”
“You already are,” Shane pointed out.
“I will not interrupt more,” Ilya amended, and now the expression had blossomed into a full, undeniable smirk.
What followed was, by any reasonable measure, the longest ten minutes of Shane’s life. Ilya did not retreat. If anything, he settled deeper into their conversational orbit, as though he decided he belonged exactly here, in this corner of the universe, and nowhere else. He was effortlessly charming--Rose had been infuriatingly right--and every smile, every comment, only made Shane want to seize the nearest heavy object and launch it across the ballroom.
Ilya inquired about Rose’s current cinematic project with interest. This conversational gambit soon led to a joke regarding the absurdities of method acting, delivered with such impeccable timing that Rose laughed with unbridled delight. The sound echoed through their immediate vicinity, drawing the curious glances of nearby guests. Ilya even offered a compliment regarding Shane’s recent hat trick against the Scouts, though he simultaneously implied that the opposing defensive line was composed of nothing more than stationary traffic cones. It was an assessment that functioned as a compliment while, in spirit, remaining quite the opposite.
“The third goal was nice,” Ilya said, tilting his head in that particular way of his that indicated he was both offering a laurel wreath and a patronizing pat on the head. “The defense, they are giving you much space. Is like skating through children. You are very good when things are easy.”
“I seem to recall beating you in our last matchup,” Shane replied, his voice maintaining a level of evenness that belied his internal irritation.
“You are remembering wrong. We win 4-3.”
“In overtime,” Shane countered. “After we dominated the regulation play.”
“Is interesting interpretation,” Ilya replied, his voice smooth and utterly devoid of doubt. “I remember scoring the game-winning goal while you were watching from bench.”
“I was on a line change-”
“Convenient excuse.”
“You remember incorrectly, then!”
“I never remember wrong,” Ilya stated, and the unshakable certainty in his voice was nothing short of infuriating. Shane knew--he knew with absolute, unwavering conviction--that Ilya was intentionally misremembering the sequence of events for the sole, petty purpose of provoking him.
Rose watched this exchange, her gaze ping-ponging between the two men with increasing fascination.
“You two have quite a dynamic,” she observed, and there was a particular quality in her tone that Shane found deeply disturbing.
“We’re rivals,” Shane asserted, his voice overlapping with Ilya’s more resonant declaration of, “We have history.”
“History?” Rose arched a single, perfectly groomed eyebrow. She clearly found Ilya’s choice of vocabulary as remarkably strange as Shane found it misleading.
“He means on the ice,” Shane clarified.
“I see,” she said, and the faint curve of her smile made it abundantly clear that she saw far more than that.
Finally--finally--Ilya excused himself with a small nod, offering the cryptic assurance that he would “see you both later, yes?” before vanishing into the crowd. Shane watched his departure for exactly one second too long before forcibly redirecting his attention back to Rose.
“He’s really charming,” Rose said again. She took a delicate sip of her wine, her gaze lingering on the space Ilya had only just vacated. “Am I repeating myself?”
“Yes,” Shane replied, not bothering to soften it.
Rose’s lips curved faintly. “You don’t like him, Shane?”
Shane adjusted the cuff of his sleeve. “Well, as I said. We’re rivals.”
“Mm,” she hummed.
Under that silent scrutiny, Shane sought refuge in the simple, defensible act of ordering a drink. He did not, strictly speaking, intend to get drunk, but his resolve was immediately tested when J.J. reappeared. The bar, J.J. insisted, stocked a collection of whiskeys so exceptional that ignoring them would constitute a criminal offense. Shane accepted the logic and sampled no fewer than five, though his sober self would later struggle to account for the impulse. Given his rigid habits and careful limits, the tally marked a notable departure from character.
In this significantly altered state, Shane was suddenly reminded that he had been working up the courage to ask Rose Landry out properly for several weeks. He was currently discovering that the primary characteristic of intoxication was its uncanny ability to masquerade every catastrophic impulse as a stroke of divine inspiration. Texting your ex? Great idea. Telling your coach what you really thought about his zone entry strategy? Fantastic idea. Confessing your feelings to the woman you’d been pining over for months?
It was, in his estimation, the best idea he had ever conceived in his twenty-six years of existence.
Emboldened by approximately seven thousand units of alcohol, he decided that the hour had finally arrived to be spontaneous, bold, and exactly the sort of man who pursued his desires with vigor.
The memory of what followed was, unfortunately, somewhat blurry around the edges. He had labored under the distinct impression that Rose was still by his side, that J.J. had at long last made his exit, and that Ilya Rozanov had failed to return, creating what his clouded mind perceived to be a vacuum of perfect, romantic opportunity. Thus, he had leaned in and whispered a confession that his drunken intellect believed to be remarkably smooth.
“I think I like you,” he had said--or rather, he was reasonably certain he had said.
He recalled the surprised intake of breath and the manner in which the figure had turned toward him. He remembered thinking, with a fervor only possible through the lens of expensive whiskey, that this was the definitive moment, the glorious culmination of all his intentions. And then he was kissing them--or, to be more exact, he was attempting a kiss, though his physical coordination had been significantly impaired by the evening’s libations, rendering the maneuver more of a clumsy collision than a cinematic embrace.
He attempted to summon the physical details of that encounter, hoping to find the soft, familiar comfort he had anticipated. And yet.
The more he lingered on the memory, the more the facts began to rebel against his expectations. He recalled the distinct, slightly abrasive texture of a tuxedo lapel beneath his fingers and a scent that possessed a masculine profile. There had been a disconcerting sensation that something was fundamentally askew, much like the prickling realization of having worn a shirt inside out for several hours before noticing the error.
…Wait.
Rose Landry had been wearing a dress, for fuck’s sake, and most certainly not a tuxedo, just as she had been enveloped in a fragrance of something floral and costly rather than a deep, woodsy cologne. Furthermore, Rose was considerably shorter than he was, a disparity that had necessitated a distinct downward tilt of his head during their earlier conversation. In the memory of the kiss, however, he had not leaned down at all; rather, he had leaned up just slightly-
***
Shane sat bolt upright, heroically ignoring the sensation of his brain sloshing about within his skull like lukewarm soup in a thermos, and surveyed the hotel room with a new and horrifyingly lucid understanding of his surroundings.
“No,” he whispered to the empty air, his voice emerging as a desperate croak. “No, no, no, no, no.”
At that moment, the bathroom door swung open to reveal Ilya Rozanov, who emerged amidst a dramatic cloud of steam. He was clad in nothing but a towel secured precariously about his waist and a smile that could only be described as smug. His hair was wet and slicked back, with stray droplets of water still clinging to the obscenely defined contours of his chest and shoulders--a sight that rendered him the quintessential image of every straight girl’s fantasy and Shane’s personal nightmare made flesh.
“Good morning, Hollander,” Ilya remarked, his Russian accent lending the greeting an almost musical quality. “You are awake, finally. I was thinking maybe you are dead.”
Shane’s mouth opened and closed in a manner similar to a landed fish experiencing its final moments of consciousness.
“You look terrible,” Ilya continued, moving toward a suitcase--which Shane recognized with a jolt of alarm as his own--resting upon the luggage rack near the window. “Is okay. I get you breakfast? You need food. Is helping with hangover.”
“What,” Shane finally managed to utter, his voice barely audible above the ringing in his ears, “the fuck.”
“Ah, he speaks!” Ilya exclaimed, already rummaging through Shane’s belongings. He held up a pristine white shirt and shot Shane a questioning look; Shane, bewildered and still desperately negotiating with his own pulse, gave a reluctant, jerky nod of consent. “I was worried. Last night, you were very talkative. This morning, nothing. I think maybe you are having- what is the word? Regret?”
The word ‘regret’ failed to encompass the truly apocalyptic scale of Shane’s current state. In the grand hierarchy of human error, ‘regret’ was the mild chagrin of forgetting to floss, or perhaps the digestive uncertainty that followed the consumption of terrible sushi. It was, however, an inadequate term for the sensation of waking in a hotel room in the company of one’s fiercest rival, having apparently delivered a drunken confession and a face-to-face collision to him instead of to the woman for whom the sentiment was actually intended.
“Why are you in my room?” Shane demanded, pointedly ignoring Ilya’s provocations as his voice rose to a pitch considerably higher than he had intended. “Why are you- why are you wearing a towel? Why is it so messy- why are any of these things happening?”
“You really do not remember?” Ilya asked, his fingers lightly, almost thoughtfully, brushing his own lower lip. His expression was currently situated somewhere between amusement and fondness--a development Shane found profoundly alarming. Ilya Rozanov did not deal in fondness. Ilya Rozanov dealt in arrogance, irritation, cutthroat competitiveness, and the occasional, grudging respect that he dispensed like a miser parting with gold coins. “Is interesting.”
“What’s interesting?” Shane heard himself ask, even though every survival instinct he possessed was screaming that he did not, under any circumstances, want to know the answer.
“You confessed to me,” Ilya continued, his voice dropping to a confidential, silk-smooth register. “You said you like me. And then you try to kiss me.”
Shane’s vision tunneled until the room was little more than a blur of expensive wallpaper. “I what.”
“You kissed me,” Ilya repeated, speaking slowly as though Shane were particularly dim-witted, which at this moment was probably accurate. “Well, you tried. You are a very bad kisser when drunk, Hollander. There is too much tongue and not enough… how you say? Finesse? So.” His smiled. “We practice later, yes?”
“We are not practicing later!”
Shane scrambled out of bed, heartened only by the discovery that he was, at least, still wearing his boxer briefs. He snatched his trousers--which had been unusually and meticulously folded upon the nightstand--while his hands shook.
“Did we actually, um, kiss?” Shane stammered after a heavy moment of silence, his dignity retreating with every syllable he uttered. “And um… did you and I- did we-”
Ilya’s grin widened, transforming into something positively wolfish, and for a terrible, heart-stopping moment, Shane was certain he was going to say yes. He feared they had committed some irreversible act, a singular event that would fundamentally alter the trajectory of their lives, their reputations, and their respective careers--a thought so harrowing he felt a sudden, fleeting urge to open the hotel window and simply step out into the void.
Then, to Shane’s utter bewilderment, Ilya laughed.
“No,” he said, and the relief that flooded through Shane was so intense it made him lightheaded. “No, I am fucking with you. I stopped you last night. You asked me to help you to your room, and I say okay, but only to sleep, because you were far too drunk for anything else. I give you water. I make you take aspirin. I put you in bed and sleep in the chair.”
He gestured toward the armchair by the window, which was indeed draped with a pillow and a rumpled blanket--details Shane had entirely failed to notice during his initial, frantic state of panic.
“I stayed there until you were asking, very nicely, if I am coming to bed too. And I say yes, but only sleeping.”
As Ilya crossed his arms, the smugness briefly faded, replaced by a rare flash of something earnest that made Shane feel profoundly small.
“I am many things, Hollander, but I am not like that. Okay?”
Shane had been so thoroughly preoccupied by the perceived horror of his situation that he hadn’t stopped to consider what Ilya had actually done. Ilya had helped him. He had ensured Shane reached his room safely, had provided water and aspirin with a level of foresight Shane himself lacked, and had even slept in a cramped armchair to ensure his rival didn’t succumb to the indignity of choking in his sleep.
Ilya had, by every reasonable and irritating definition, taken care of him.
Shane swallowed with great difficulty. “Okay,” he replied, his voice possessing an uncharacteristic quietude. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed- I’m sorry.”
Ilya’s expression softened ever so slightly. He proceeded to pull the shirt over his head, an action Shane found deeply unfortunate, as it forced him to contend with the enduring mental image of a shirtless Ilya Rozanov occupying his hotel room, water droplets still clinging to his skin in a way that should not have been as distracting as it was. Having completed his dressing, Ilya ran a hand through his damp hair and regarded his companion with a measured gaze.
“Is okay. You are having a very bad morning. I understand.” He paused for a moment, and that smile returned, smaller than its predecessor but no less devastating in its effect. “And also, you like me, so I guess this can be forgiven.”
Shane opened his mouth with the full intention of correcting this egregious error. He prepared to explain that a catastrophe of identity had occurred, that his confession had been intended for the lovely Rose Landry, and that whatever Ilya believed to have transpired was founded upon a misunderstanding of truly historic proportions.
But.
As he looked upon Ilya, who stood there wearing Shane’s own clothes and smiling as though he had secured a victory of great and lasting consequence, Shane was struck by the horrible realization that to provide a correction would be an act of unthinkable cruelty. Ilya was operating under the distinct impression that Shane harbored a secret affection for him--an idea that seemed to bring the man a visible sense of contentment. To reveal the truth would necessitate admitting that Shane had been so thoroughly incapacitated by whiskey that he had confused a six-foot-three Russian athlete with a five-foot-six actress, a revelation that promised to be equally humiliating for them both.
Consequently, Shane performed the feat at which he was most adept: he swallowed the truth whole, even as it burned.
“I need to go,” he announced, donning his own shirt with jerky, uncoordinated movements. His hands were shaking, and he hated that Ilya could probably see it. “I have a flight to catch.”
“Is not until tomorrow. I am checking.”
Shane froze in the act of buttoning his shirt. “How on earth do you know my flight schedule?”
“You tell me last night. You tell me many things, actually,” Ilya said. “You keep saying I have nice eyes. And you ask me many questions about Russia. You want to know if I am liking Boston, if I am missing home, if I am having someone special waiting for me. You are a very chatty drunk, Hollander. Is cute.”
At that moment, Shane became certain that his end was near. He envisioned himself expiring within the four walls of this Montreal hotel room, leaving behind a tombstone that would inform posterity that Shane Hollander had confessed his heart to the wrong person and subsequently perished from his own embarrassment.
“Then I’ll just go get breakfast,” Shane said, snatching up his jacket and phone with hands that continued their frantic trembling. “Alone. I suddenly need to be very, very alone.”
“I can come with you-”
“No need!” Shane interjected, his words tumbling out in a panicked rush. “You should probably leave a little later so no one sees us together. But… um, thanks. For not taking advantage. And the water. And the aspirin.”
“You are welcome,” Ilya replied, watching him with an inscrutable expression that Shane found himself unable to decipher. “Shane.”
Shane paused, his hand already gripping the door handle. Ilya never addressed him by his given name; it was always ‘Hollander,’ a surname usually delivered with varying degrees of mockery or irritation depending upon their proximity to the ice.
“Hollander,” Shane corrected weakly.
“Hollander,” Ilya amended, though his eyes made it abundantly clear that he knew exactly what he was doing. “You are forgetting shoes.”
Shane looked down. He was, indeed, standing entirely barefoot on the expensive hotel carpet. The dress shoes he had worn the previous night were lined up neatly beside the bed, likely placed there by the same man currently observing his slow-motion collapse.
Without daring to meet Ilya’s gaze, Shane grabbed the footwear and fled.
***
Shane had nearly persuaded himself that the Montreal Incident was a freak anomaly of fate that would eventually recede into the obscure corners of history, taking its place among other things he preferred not to think about, like that time in junior league when he had accidentally scored on his own goal.
He also entertained the fleeting hope that Ilya Rozanov might possess the discernment to realize the confession had been entirely insincere. Or, at the very least, that Ilya would treat the entire affair as a magnificent joke to be deployed as verbal ammunition during their usual on-ice skirmishes. This was a significant admission, given that Shane usually harbored a profound and abiding hatred for the man’s persistent chirping.
This comforting delusion endured for exactly nineteen days.
On the twentieth day, the Voyageurs arrived in Toronto for a matchup of such national importance that the Canadian sports media had devoted approximately seventy-three hours of coverage to analyzing every possible angle. It was exactly the sort of engagement that demanded Shane be at the absolute zenith of his capabilities, which was why he found himself utterly defenseless against the arrival of a floral arrangement.
The event transpired during the morning skate. Shane was occupied with edge drills, his mind focused entirely upon the geometry of his blades against the ice and the satisfying drag of steel on frozen water, when a member of the arena staff approached the bench. Coach Theriault, observing the intrusion, beckoned Shane to the boards with a whistle.
“Hollander!” he called out. “You’ve got a delivery.”
The scraping of skates ceased instantly as the entire team drifted to a collective, expectant halt. Twenty-two pairs of eyes turned toward Shane.
He skated toward the perimeter, where the bewildered staff member stood clutching a massive bouquet of sunflowers. Their bright yellow faces appeared almost aggressive in their cheerfulness, clashing violently with the stark white of the rink and the utilitarian gray of the arena seats. There had to be at least two dozen of them, a golden explosion in a world of ice.
“Uh,” Shane said, addressing no one in particular as he stared at the vibrant display.
“Holy shit,” J.J. interjected, gliding closer with the opportunistic speed of someone who smelled a burgeoning gossip. “Shane, are those flowers? Are those sunflowers? Someone actually sent you flowers at a morning skate?”
“I can see that,” Shane managed to grit out.
“Dude!” Hayden joined the gathering congregation of teammates, his eyes wide with great delight. “Who’s the lucky girl? Is it Landry? Did you finally work up the nerve to ask her out properly?”
Internally, Shane’s monologue devolved into a series of incoherent, high-pitched screams; externally, he maintained an expression of carefully cultivated neutrality. He reached out with numb fingers to pluck the small card tucked among the stalks, silently praying that this was an elaborate prank--that J.J. had orchestrated this entire farce for reasons known only to his brain.
The message within was composed in a hand that could only be described as hostile, featuring blocky letters that seemed to shout from the paper:
GOOD LUCK TONIGHT, HOLLANDER. TRY NOT TO EMBARRASS YOURSELF TOO BADLY. YOUR ICE TIME IS LOOKING SLOPPY LATELY. MAYBE YOU ARE DISTRACTED? I AM THINKING ABOUT YOU.
“Oh my god,” Shane whispered.
“What does it say?” Hayden demanded, reaching for the card.
Shane crumpled it in his fist before Hayden could make contact. “Nothing. It’s absolutely nothing.”
“That is definitely not nothing,” Hayden countered, his eyes scanning the massive, golden bouquet. “Who on earth sends sunflowers?”
“Someone with terrible taste,” Shane muttered, though he could feel his face burning with heat.
The primary difficulty of the situation lay in a singular, buried fact: once, during an inconsequential interview years ago--so long ago that Shane had nearly forgotten about it himself--he had mentioned that his mother had cultivated sunflowers in their garden throughout his youth. It had been a mere throwaway comment in response to a question about his childhood, something about what he associated with summer and home. The interviewer had been doing some kind of puff piece about players’ roots, and Shane had offered up the memory like a sacrificial lamb to get the interview over with.
Apparently, Ilya Rozanov possessed a memory as formidable as his slap shot.
“Please, take them to my hotel,” Shane instructed the staff member, because he found it quite impossible to continue his practice while a gargantuan floral audience judged him from the sidelines.
J.J., meanwhile, was grinning with the unbridled joy of a man who had just witnessed a miracle. “Dude, you have to tell us who they’re from! I didn’t even know you liked flowers.”
“No,” Shane replied firmly. “We’re not doing this. We have a game tonight. Focus on the game.”
“But Shane-”
“Game, J.J. Game.”
He retreated toward center ice, attempting to ignore the way his teammates were whispering and laughing among themselves like a gaggle of teenage girls who had just discovered their friend’s diary. He strove even harder to ignore the way his heart was performing a series of complicated, unwelcome maneuvers within his chest, which felt suspiciously like excitement and was therefore deeply inappropriate.
Ilya Rozanov had sent him flowers.
Ilya Rozanov had remembered that Shane liked sunflowers.
Ilya Rozanov was, apparently, not treating the whole thing as a joke.
Shane was so fucked.
***
The flowers, though they had rendered the entire team dangerously invested in Shane’s personal affairs, transpired to be merely the opening salvo of a much larger and more terrifying campaign.
Two days later, Shane’s phone vibrated with the insistent buzz of a message from an unrecognized number. He was in the hotel gym, midway through his post-practice cardio routine, when the notification appeared on his screen.
Unknown: Is me. Ilya. You are playing in Vancouver next week yes? Good luck. Try not to lose too badly.
Shane stared at the glowing screen, his heart rate spiking for no reason other than the treadmill. Then, because he was evidently a glutton for his own destruction, he typed a reply: How did you get my number?
The response was immediate.
Ilya: You give me. In Montreal. You are making me promise to text you. You say you want to stay in touch.
Shane closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the cool display of the treadmill. It was now a matter of record that the intoxicated version of himself had not only surrendered his phone number but had actively solicited further communication. His drunk alter ego was apparently a saboteur, working with tireless dedication to dismantle the carefully constructed life of his sober counterpart.
Ilya: Why are you not saving my number? I am hurt.
Shane: Don’t be ridiculous.
Ilya: He responds! I was thinking maybe you are ignoring me.
Shane: I’m not ignoring you.
Ilya: Good. Because I am not a person who is ignored.
Shane could practically hear the arrogant curve of the man’s voice in the text, could picture the smug expression that would accompany these words. Every instinct of self-preservation suggested that he should cease this correspondence immediately. He should block the number, throw his phone into the nearest body of water, or perform literally any action other than continuing to engage.
Instead, his thumbs moved of their own accord.
Shane: The flowers were unnecessary.
Ilya: You do not like? I can send different flowers next time. What do you prefer? Roses? Is very traditional but I can do traditional.
Shane: There’s not going to be a next time.
Ilya: We will see.
And then, because Ilya was apparently possessed by a demonic desire to render Shane’s existence as complicated as humanly possible, he sent an image.
It was a selfie, captured within the confines of a gymnasium that Shane recognized as the Bears’ practice facility. Ilya was, predictably, shirtless, featuring only a towel draped about his neck and a grin that seemed specifically engineered to induce cardiac arrest in the beholder. His hair was mussed from exertion, a sheen of sweat caught the light in a way that should have been unappealing but somehow wasn’t, and his free hand was raised in a casual wave that suggested he’d taken this photo specifically for Shane, and no other purpose.
The accompanying caption read: Post-workout. Just for you, Hollander.
Shane stared at the selfie for a full thirty seconds, his cognitive functions completely suspended, before realizing the gravity of his fascination. He threw his phone onto the adjacent treadmill with a degree of force that far exceeded what was strictly necessary for the disposal of electronic property.
The device landed with an echoing clatter that drew glances from the handful of other people in the hotel gym--a businessman on an elliptical, a woman doing yoga in the corner, and one of the team’s equipment managers, who raised his eyebrows but had the decency not to comment. Shane promptly buried his face within his hands, attempting to draw breath while he endeavored to convince himself that the situation remained entirely manageable.
He reasoned that Ilya was merely behaving in his accustomed fashion, predictably cocky and overconfident, and probably doing so to throw Shane off his game before their next matchup. It could not, under any circumstances, signify a matter of actual substance or genuine interest.
Because Shane did not actually harbor any affection for Ilya Rozanov. His heart belonged to Rose. It had to belong to Rose, because Rose made sense. Rose fit into the life Shane had planned. Rose was the logical conclusion to the narrative he had been constructing since he was old enough to understand that professional athletes were expected to have girlfriends and eventually wives and children who would appear in tasteful holiday cards.
Driven by a sense of renewed and desperate purpose, he retrieved his phone, which was thankfully undamaged by its brief flight, and opened the message thread dedicated to Rose Landry. They had maintained sporadic correspondence since the gala, though their exchanges remained constrained to pleasant, surface-level observations that implied mutual respect without the burden of deeper emotional demands. Shane had previously suggested they meet for coffee when their respective schedules next aligned, to which she had responded with a noncommittal promise to consult her calendar.
That particular invitation had been extended nearly three weeks prior.
Shane remained fixed in a long and contemplative stare at the stagnant thread, his thumb hovering with a distinct lack of certainty over the keyboard. Eventually, he abandoned the endeavor, reasoning that he would message Rose later when he possessed the composure to craft something appropriately charming, and returned, as if drawn by some irresistible magnetic pull, to his conversation with Ilya.
The shirtless gymnasium selfie greeted him once more, radiating a level of self-assurance that was deeply offensive to Shane’s remaining peace of mind. Under the thin pretense of mere practicality, and convincing himself that it was necessary to identify his correspondent in any future professional communications, Shane proceeded to save Ilya’s number to his contacts.
He absolutely did not allow himself to linger upon the image for an additional five minutes before finally forcing his attention back to the rigors of his workout.
***
Dinner at the Hollander residence was, to put it generously, nothing short of sacred. Since the day Shane had first signed with the Voyageurs, his mother had set the table for three at six o’clock every Sunday evening, and she had made it abundantly clear that his attendance was non-negotiable. Short of actual hospitalization or a scheduled away game in a distant time zone, Shane was expected to appear, and thus he arrived at their home in the Ottawa suburbs at five forty-five, entering with the front door key he had never quite found the occasion to return.
“Shane, sweetheart!”
His mother emerged from the kitchen at the sound of the latch, wiping her hands upon a dish towel before pulling him into an embrace that smelled of the same lavender soap she had favored for as long as he could remember. She eventually pulled back to study his face.
“You look tired. Are you sleeping enough?”
“I’m sleeping fine,” Shane replied, offering a smile that he hoped looked convincing rather than merely exhausted.
“Hmm,” she murmured, a sound that suggested she did not believe him for a single second but would graciously table the discussion for a more opportune moment. “Your father’s in the den. Go say hello while I finish up.”
The dinner that followed was a culinary monument to tradition, consisting of roasted chicken with potatoes and green beans. It was the same meal his mother had prepared for twenty years, primarily because it remained one of Shane’s favorites and she saw no earthly reason to fix what was not broken. They sat in the dining room at the heavy wooden table that had hosted countless homework sessions and somber conversations regarding Shane’s future. This domestic peace lasted until his mother set down her fork and adopted the specific, melodic tone that indicated she was about to broach a subject she had been dwelling upon for the better part of the week.
“So,” she began, leaning in with a look of polite but lethal curiosity, “how’s Rose?”
Shane had been in the process of cutting a piece of chicken and nearly sent his fork skittering across the porcelain at the mention of Rose’s name. He wondered how one might possibly explain that he had mistakenly confessed his deepest sentiments to Ilya Rozanov instead. There was simply no delicate way to mention that Ilya was now marking every team practice with a delivery of flowers and punctuating Shane’s days with a stream of relentless, digital chatter.
“She’s fine. I think. I haven’t actually talked to her in a while.”
“Oh?” His mom’s eyebrows rose with interest that felt remarkably like a cross-examination. “I thought you two were… seeing each other?”
“We’re not-” Shane struggled to articulate the truth, which was that he had been pursuing Rose with a great deal of theoretical interest but a distinct lack of actual follow-through. “It’s complicated.”
“Complicated how?” his dad asked.
“We’ve just been busy. Different schedules. You know how it is.”
His mother set down her fork with a click, giving Shane her full attention, which made him want to sink through the floorboards and seek refuge in the basement. “Shane, sweetheart, you know we don’t care who you date as long as you’re happy. Rose seems lovely, but if you’re not interested-”
“I am interested,” Shane said, the words tumbling out with haste. “She’s great. She’s perfect, actually. It’s just- timing.”
“Timing,” his mother repeated. “Well, don’t wait too long. A woman like that won’t stay available forever.”
***
The vintage ginger ale arrived at Shane’s apartment on a Monday.
Shane knew the sender’s identity long before he disturbed the tape upon the box. After all, there was only one individual in his life with the audacity and grandiosity required for such a gesture; he was also the only person with both the means and the motivation to track down Shane’s address. This breach of privacy should have been a matter of grave concern, but, in some inexplicable way, it was flattering.
Inside lay a case of a specific brand from a local Ottawa brewery, an artisanal soda that Shane had mentioned but once during a podcast interview three years prior. He remembered the occasion only vaguely, for it had been one of those promotional obligations his agent had insisted he perform. He recalled sitting in a hot studio, discussing his pre-game rituals, his favorite culinary delights, and other such minutiae that he had assumed no one in the civilized world actually cared about.
Apparently, he had been mistaken.
A note was affixed to the top of the case, its message once again rendered in that bold, unapologetic hand that Shane was beginning to recognize as distinctly Ilya’s:
HEARD YOU LIKE THIS. IS HARD TO FIND BUT I AM RESOURCEFUL. DRINK WHEN YOU ARE THINKING OF ME. (WHICH I AM GUESSING IS OFTEN.)
Shane stood in his doorway, clutching the paper as a sensation of distinct peril began to unfurl within his chest. Ilya was paying attention, he was continuing to catalog forgotten preferences, and he was exerting an alarming amount of effort to ensure that Shane felt… well, he was not entirely certain what he felt, other than increasingly cornered.
His phone buzzed.
Ilya: You get the package?
Shane: How do you even know where I live?
Ilya: Internet. Is not hard.
Shane: That’s vaguely stalkerish.
Ilya: Is romantic. You Canadians, always so worried. In Russia, we are more direct.
Shane: This isn’t romantic.
Ilya: You are keeping the ginger ale though yes?
Shane cast a lingering look toward the case before glancing toward his recycling bin, which was entirely too small to accommodate a rejection of Ilya’s advances on such a magnificent scale. He could, theoretically, cast the entire offering away; he might carry it down to the building’s communal refuse area and dispose of it. He was well aware that he should do precisely that, for it would be the only sensible course of action for a man who definitely did not wish to encourage further attention from Ilya Rozanov.
And. Yet.
Even as he formed this virtuous thought, his hand was already reaching for one of the bottles with a will of its own.
Shane: ...Yes
Ilya: Good. :)
Shane stared at the smiley face for a protracted moment, his mind struggling to reconcile the character on the screen with the man he knew on the ice. Ilya Rozanov, a man who regularly checked opposing players into the boards with enough force to rattle their ancestors, had just sent him a goddamn smiley face.
Shane took a long, cooling drink. The liquid tasted exactly as he remembered it, with a sweetness and a nostalgic bite that made his chest ache with unwanted fondness. He hated that Ilya had remembered such a trivial thing again, and perhaps most of all, he hated the fact that he was already reaching for a second bottle.
***
The next complication arrived in the form of a game against Boston.
Shane had been preparing for this particular matchup with that peculiar fervor that arises only from the knowledge that one is to share the ice with Ilya Rozanov for the first time since the events in Montreal. He had practiced his neutral expression in the mirror and mentally rehearsed every possible interaction. He had planned his responses to anticipated chirps and provocations, constructing elaborate scenarios in his mind and determining the optimal way to maintain his composure in each.
What he had not prepared for, however, was Ilya blowing him a kiss during the national anthem.
The incident occurred as both teams took their positions along the respective blue lines, hands over hearts, facing the banners with the solemnity expected of professional athletes. Shane remained focused on maintaining a posture of absolute rectitude, projecting a reverence for the ceremony he hoped would mask the fact that he was thinking of little else but Ilya Rozanov, who stood less than fifty feet away across the frozen expanse.
It was then that he felt it, that quality of attention that causes the hair on the nape of the neck to rise. He glanced to his left, an involuntary movement he regretted the instant it was executed, and found Ilya staring directly at him.
Ilya smiled and pressed his fingers to his lips before extending them toward Shane in a gesture that was utterly unmistakable.
Shane--quite matter-of-factly--flushed before he could stop it. He snapped his attention back to the flag with such sudden force that he nearly gave himself whiplash, acutely aware of J.J. standing in visible shock beside him.
“Did he just-” J.J. whispered, his voice hushed with disbelief.
“Shut up,” Shane hissed through a fixed and frozen smile.
“He absolutely just blew you a kiss, Shane.”
“I said shut up.”
“Do you want me to punch him?”
“As much as I’d like that, we’re gonna get suspended.”
The game that followed proved to be the most vexing sixty minutes of Shane’s career. It was not a matter of the score, for the Voyageurs triumphed 4-2, with Shane himself recording two assists. It was a result that ought to have validated his rigorous preparation. However, Ilya had spent the entirety of the evening within Shane’s immediate orbit.
With every shift and every face-off, the man was there. Ilya haunted every transition up the ice, offering a smile or a comment delivered in that accented English, which seemed to transform even the crudest insults into something resembling flirtation. Shane found himself losing the battle of wits most decisively.
“Is nice pass, Hollander,” Ilya remarked during a face-off in the second period, his voice pitched low enough to escape the ears of the officials. “You are trying to impress me?”
“I am attempting to win a hockey game,” Shane replied through gritted teeth, his grip tightening upon his stick.
“Can be both things, no?”
Shane won the face-off, but it felt like losing.
Later, during a skirmish against the glass where they found themselves pressed together in a tangle of limbs and equipment, Ilya spoke again.
“Your skating is looking better. You are taking my advice, yes?”
“I have taken no advice from you,” Shane countered.
“No? Is strange. I am thinking a lot about your technique. Maybe you are picking up through photosynthesis.”
“What? That’s not how photosynthesis works,” Shane said, frowning in genuine confusion.
Ilya’s mouth curved slowly. “Ah. You are thinking about me enough to correct me,” he observed, pleased with himself. “Is cute.”
By the arrival of the third period, the targeted nature of this attention had become so pronounced that even the most unobservant of Shane’s teammates had begun to take notice.
“Dude,” Hayden remarked during a particularly frantic line change, his eyes wide with a level of speculation that Shane desperately wished to physically remove from his face. “What is actually happening with you and Rozanov?”
“Nothing is happening.”
“He’s been targeting you all game. Like, specifically you. I don’t think he’s said more than five words to anyone else on our team.”
“He targets everyone,” Shane replied, though the conviction in his voice was fraying at the edges. “That’s what he does. That’s his thing.”
“Shane, he’s been-”
“Drop it, Hayden.”
But Hayden, possessing a heart as persistent as it was troublesome, did not drop it. Indeed, it appeared that none of his teammates intended to let the matter rest. Shane could feel their collective scrutiny every time he shared the ice with Ilya; he could sense their growing awareness that something highly unusual was afoot.
Upon the conclusion of the match, Shane checked his phone only to find three new messages awaiting his attention:
Ilya: Good game. Next time I will try harder. Cannot let you think you are better than me just because you win once.
Shane stared at these messages, his thumb hovering over the keyboard in a state of profound indecision. He was torn between wanting to respond and the sober knowledge that any reply would serve only to nourish Ilya’s appetite for further communication. Before he could make a decision, a fourth message materialized upon the screen:
Rose: Hey saw you’re in Boston, I am too! Shoot me a text if you want to grab that coffee?