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“Hey, time to get up, Piker!”
“Hng?” Hayden says intelligently, trying to pry his eyes open to figure out who the fuck is trying to wake him. It’s not Shane, that’s for sure, because Shane tends to wake him by coming back from his run.
It turns out to be a guy who’s faintly familiar – dark skin, close-cropped black hair, and a wide smile. Smithson? Maybe?
Hayden has no idea what the fuck this guy is doing in his hotel room when he’s pretty sure he went to bed last night opposite of Shane.
“C’mon, Pikey-boy – last game before you’re going to be an All Star, baby! Ready to kick Hollander’s ass?”
“What?” Hayden gets out. It’s the only word he can think of, because none of this is making sense. Shane had been nominated for the ASG this year, and Hayden hadn’t been voted in by the fans – not that he’d wanted to, since he’d rather spend the time off with Jackie anyway.
Maybe-Smithson rolls his eyes. “Dude, did that chick last night suck your brains out your dick? I know you’re slow in the mornings, but man, this is something else.” He laughs, and Hayden decides right then and there that he a) does not like this guy and b) still has no fucking clue what he is talking about. Did he suffer a concussion at some time during the night? “Anyway, I’m going to breakfast, and you should really be a good captain and show up, too. Hangover or no, you have a duty.”
“I’m not hungover,” Hayden protests, even though he feels like he might be. He’s also not Captain, but that’s somehow the least weird thing about anything.
Maybe-Smithson laughs again. “I watched you chug those drinks yesterday, you cannot fool me. Anyway. Food!”
Hayden sinks back into his pillows, and just stares at the ceiling for a moment. What the fuck.
For lack of a better thing to do, he googles. It’s the first thing that comes to mind, and –
He is listed as a participant for the 2017 ASG. Is an Alternate, even, not that it means too much. The Captain for Team East? Shane Hollander, wearing Raider’s black-and-yellow in his headshot.
The world makes even less sense. Fuck.
He clicks on Shane’s name, which takes him to his player bio. Shane Hollander, it says, next to the Raider’s Logo, #24 | C. There is a dramatic picture of Shane, his number prominently on display but looking so very wrong in the Raider’s regalia. Everything else looks alright… Except it lists Draft: 2009, BOS (1st overall).
Hayden blinks.
That’s – that’s impossible. It cannot be.
With numb fingers, he opens a new tab. Types in Ilya Rozanov. Gets no useful results. He adds Boston, but that, too, does not yield anything. He pinches himself, but the world… the world does not change.
He has woken up in a world where he is apparently captain of the Montreal Metros, Shane plays for Boston, and Ilya fucking Rozanov does not exist.
Hayden stares blankly at the wall for a long second. He has to be dreaming. Except – he remembers watching the highlights for last night’s games on his phone before going to bed, where Rozanov scored a hat trick against Dallas and then had made a snide comment during post-game interviews about being excited for All Stars, and Hayden… Hayden had fallen asleep wishing Rozanov didn’t exist.
And it seems like that wish has come true.
It wasn’t supposed to feel so hollow.
Hayden makes it to breakfast, endures the ribbing, and tries not to think about how he cannot find Jackie’s contact in his phone. Can’t find pictures of his kids, either, and instead a whole folder of nudes from different girls that make him feel nauseous. Who is this Hayden Pike?
Someone who never met Shane Hollander, it seems. Well, that’s not true – they are apparently rivals, but from what Hayden sees during another quick search, he cannot fault this Shane for not liking him much. Shane had latched onto Hayden when they’d both joined the team, and Hayden had never questioned what it had done to him, except he suddenly doesn’t have to wonder. Because apparently without Shane around, Hayden has turned into an asshole. Not Dallas Kent-levels of reprehensible, but he’s apparently known for partying, for leaving with another woman every night.
Right. Shane had been the one to suggest the bar he had met Jackie at, hadn’t he? He had also gently egged Hayden on so he would actually talk to Jackie. Without Shane, Hayden would not be with Jackie. Having proof only makes him feel more nauseous.
He makes it through morning skate, tries his best to fall into plays with his linemates – Shane isn’t at the centre, but at least Hayden is still part of the Metros with their familiar play styles – and then gives himself an hour to freak out before he makes himself focus on the game.
Which is nothing to write home about, but since it isn’t a shitshow, Hayden will take it as a win.
And then he’s on the plane to Tampa, where he will be on a team with Shane Hollander. His rival. His nemesis.
Hayden leans his head against the airplane window and closes his eyes, and tells himself his eyes are burning from the dry air of the plane.
Hayden had thought he’d prepared himself for seeing a Shane Hollander who isn’t his friend.
He’s wrong.
Shane is there at the bar, and Hayden sidles over before he can think better of it.
“Hey, man.”
“Pike,” Shane says coolly. He looks different – smartly dressed in a three-piece suit, yes, but his hair is slicked back and his face unreadable.
“So…” Hayden starts lamely, casting around for something to say. It’s uncanny. Wrong. Bad. “We’ll be on the same team, huh?”
“No getting off the ice if we have to play together?”
“What?”
Shane gives him a slightly contemptuous look. “Weren’t those your words? I’d get off the ice if I had to play with him?”
Hayden swallows. “Uh –”
“Well, for all our sakes, I hope you will remember your sportsmanship.” Another look, and then Shane grabs his water and turns away, and Hayden barely manages to make it to the washroom before he’s throwing up.
What the fuck has he done?
He stumbles back to his room in a daze, locks the door behind him, and sits down.
This isn’t his Shane. This isn’t him, either. He’d thought – well. He hadn’t actually envisioned anything like this happening at all, but if he had, he’d have expected things to be better.
Not for Shane to look like the perfect hockey robot and yet be full of contempt. Not for himself to be someone worthy of contempt. Which he is, without a doubt. Not for the hole Rozanov has left in this universe to be so palpable, so far-reaching even after a mere thirty-six hours in this off-kilter universe.
“I take it back,” Hayden says. He isn’t even ashamed when his voice cracks, when his eyes burn again. He cried when he said I do to Jackie, when their kids were born – he can admit he’s crying now, mourning the life he apparently has thanks to Ilya Rozanov. “Whoever you are, you’ve made your point. I owe Rozanov – owe him Shane and Jackie and –” He thinks of Shane, all alone at that bar. Thinks of what his google search had yielded yesterday: Shane at the top of the league, a lonely golden throne. No one to quarrel with. No one to fight against. He cannot imagine how lonely that is, except apparently this Hayden is similarly lonely and turned to women and alcohol. “– I owe him myself. Fuck. I’ve learned my lesson.”
Nothing happens. No bang, no flash, just Hayden in his room with the sudden, undeniable knowledge that this is fucked up.
He ends up crying himself to sleep.
“Woah, are you still sleeping?” a familiar voice asks, pulling Hayden from sleep.
He jerks upright, because – “Shane?”
“Yeah, man – and you’ll miss breakfast if you keep languishing. Vacation starts tomorrow!”
It really is Shane, sweaty and smiling and perfect. Hayden could cry.
“I’m so glad I have you.”
Shane laughs because it sounds sarcastic, but Hayden means it. More than Shane knows.