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Shane Hollander was exhausted, but in a good way. Practice had been intense—Montreal was pushing hard for the final game before the playoffs began, and the competition within the league was fierce, especially between him and the incredibly aggravating, but infuriatingly talented, and privately charming Ilya Rozanov.
He pulled his sleek black SUV onto the lightly snow-dusted road. The drive home was short, barely ten minutes from the their practice facility to the townhouse he rented . He fiddled with the radio, landing on a country station.
He was just in time to hear the first notes of "Tennessee Orange" by Megan Moroney drift through the speakers, and he couldn't help but smile. It was one of those simple, catchy songs that stuck in your head, and he lowered the volume just slightly so he could hear his own voice.
Mom, yeah I'm calling, I've got some news
Don't you tell Dad now, he'll blow a fuse
Don't worry I'm doing okay
I know you raised me to know right from wrong
It ain't what you think and I'm still scoring goals
Just never thought I'd see the day
I've never felt this way
I met somebody, and he's got light eyes
He opens the door, and he don't make me cry
He ain't from where we're from, but he feels like home
Yeah, he's got me doing things I've never done
In hockey, they call it a "sin"
but I'm wearing Boston Black for him
That line hit him hard and he thought about their seemingly arbitrary team colors differently: Shane in the fiery red and blue of the Montreal Metros, Ilya in the Raiders signature black that defined their professional lives and had fueled their public antagonism since being drafted, but in that moment, he didn't care what the world believed.
He knew the truth. And it was more powerful and important than anything. Even though the whole world thought they were enemies, two figures in a high-stakes, dramatic feud that sold jerseys and filled seats.
But he knew, despite his feelings, that for his sake, their sake, and especially Ilya's sake, there was nothing to be done but keep up appearances, no matter how much it tore at his heart.
But in the quiet hours they sometimes stole together, when they were just Shane and Ilya, the truth was staring them both in the face; try as they did to refute it, they could feel their connection was something terrifyingly real.
He took me to his apartment last Saturday
And I wore the shirt off his back to watch the game
Sure wasn't Ottawa, but I
Fell for him under those arena lights
I met somebody, and he's got light eyes
He opens the door, and he don't make me cry
He ain't from where we're from, but he feels like home
Yeah, he's got me doing things I've never done
In hockey, they call it a "sin"
but I'm wearing Boston Black for him
Shane stopped at a red light, idly tapping his fingers on the steering wheel as the instruments played between the chorus and the next verse. Much like the obvious theme of the song, he was also doing something that went strongly "against the grain", but he could no longer really make himself feel guilty about it. With every interaction between himself and Ilya, the intense feelings grew stronger, becoming exponentially more challenging to deny.
Mom please, forgive me, I like him a lot
Hell, I'm learning the words to old Russian songs,
And he's got a smile that makes me forget
I've always looked better in red
Shane suppressed a bitter laugh. If anyone, let alone his mother, knew what was really going on with his "rival," it would be nothing short of an actual fucking nightmare. Even still, despite his fear of discovery and the shitstorm it would bring about, overshadowing his career and life as he knew it; there was just something about Ilya, well a lot of somethings really, that made it impossible for him to keep his distance, even when he knew everything that was at stake, it just paled in comparison to the look in Ilya's eyes when they were together and the way he made Shane feel like he was exactly where he was destined to be.
But I met somebody, and he's got light eyes
He opens the door, and he don't make me cry
He ain't from where we're from, but he feels like home
Yeah, he's got me doing things I've never done
Shane knew he had one more round of the chorus before his brief musical escape from reality was over, so he put all his bubbling feelings into the final few lines as he pulled onto his street.
I met somebody, and he's got light eyes
He opens the door, and he don't make me cry
He ain't from where we're from, but he feels like home
Yeah, he's got me doing things I've never done
In hockey, they'd call it a sin
And I'll still make sure Montreal wins
But I'm wearing Boston Black for him
Yeah, I'm wearing Boston Black for him
The song slowly faded out as he pulled into his driveway and when he cut the engine, the sudden silence drew his attention to the low hum of his own breathing.
He sat for a moment, the setting sun painting the interior of the SUV in shades of purple and gold before he let out a short, heavy sound that was half sigh and half scoff.
Georgia Red and Tennessee Orange, nothing but a cute song about crossing sport rival lines for the sake of love, sung by a young woman with a sweet and carefree voice, meaningless to the rest of the world, just another distraction to momentarily occupy the mind during trivial tasks.
But to him, it meant so much more. Because those people who didn't pay much attention and just idly hummed the song as they did laundry or drove to the grocery store, or played with their pets would never understand how incredibly fucking hard it was to want to be with someone so much it hurt, while at the same time knowing that it would bring about the end of everything you both had worked your entire lives for in a matter of seconds.
As the all too accurate weight of his spiraling thoughts bearded down on him, Shane rested his forehead against the steering wheel, and before long, a dark, dry chuckle escaped him. He was being childish, and selfish, and unbelievably ridiculous.
He was Shane Hollander, the Golden Boy of hockey, a straight, clean-cut Canadian star who was the face of more than half a dozen luxury brands worldwide, he had no business thinking such things about any man, let alone Ilya.
Certainly not, the Ilya Rozanov, an overtly aggressive, shit-talking, womanizer of a Russian powerhouse, at least in the public eye, who was equally beholden to the reputation of his team and their decades old intense rivalry with Montréal, not to mention the immense pressure of his culture and family for him to pulverize anything that could potentially jeopardize his rise to the apex of MLH fame and the legacy and power it would bring them.
Their secret, whatever it was—this strange, intense, soul-baring thing they were building-could never be real. Not in MLH. Not with his parents, who still held their rivalry as strict fact, and especially not with the world watching their every move with baited breath, just waiting for their next best-selling headline, no matter who they had to emotionally terminate to get it.
When he put it in perceptive like this, even Shane knew, their little arrangement, and any feelings that may or may not be delicately tied to it, paled in comparison to what they both stood to lose, if any fragment of it ever came to light.
And that sharp realization hurt more than getting hit with a barrage of hundred kilometer per hour pucks as they flew toward the crease.
Shaking his head and seemingly coming back to reality, he grabbed his hockey bag, the heavy strap cutting into his shoulder as something deeper than physical exhaustion settled deep in his bones.
He pushed through anyway. Just like he always had, just like he always would.
"Get a grip, Hollander," he muttered to himself as he extricated himself from the car before nearly slamming the door and heading toward his front door and back to his safe, sterile existence where the only thing that kept him up at night, was calculating the precise angle to win another goal.