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After the wedding, Shane and Ilya jet off to Ibiza, where they spend two glorious weeks wrapped up in one another. They sun on the beach and swim in the ocean and thoroughly test out all of the surfaces in their rented villa. Shane loosens his obsessive grip on his diet enough to enjoy the seafood, and Ilya even coaxes him into a club one night, where he is able to finally dance in public with his husband in his arms. (Shane is, of course, a terrible dancer, but it’s the thought that counts.)
They return to Canada, to their cottage, both much browner and relaxed, flushed in the warmth of their love. Shane’s freckles have multiplied, spiraling across his face and shoulders, and Ilya’s curls have lightened to a pale golden halo.
After the first night of collapsing into bed and attempting to recover from jet lag, Yuna and David drive over the next afternoon to return Anya and stock the fridge. The newlyweds greet Anya with kisses (Ilya) and belly rubs (Shane), and the four humans sit down to a casual lunch of salad and sandwiches while Anya naps between their feet underneath the table.
Shane and Ilya share the parent-appropriate version of their holiday, and Yuna and David catch them up on what they have missed. Ilya and Shane had been on a strict social media diet while away, to avoid comments on their marriage and to allow for true relaxation.
The sandwiches are all but demolished when Yuna finally raises the topic they had all been dancing around.
“The contract negotiations are going as well as to be expected,” she says. Shane had happily left the whole matter in her hands while he ran off to Spain. “We should have something on paper this week.”
Shane nods as he chews slowly and thinks, Ilya’s hand rubbing his thigh. Some of the tension loosens from his shoulders.
“The salary is going to be a problem, I know,” Yuna says, “the cap being what it is.”
Shane shakes his head, sharing a glance with Ilya. “We have plenty.”
“You deserve what you’re worth,” Yuna says, pursing her lips.
“Well, there’s all of the endorsements too,” Shane says. “It’s more than enough.”
“Is fine. I provide for my husband,” Ilya says. His eyes meet Shane’s, and they’re both smiling, unrestrained. Husband. They are husbands now. It's still a new and thrilling thought.
“You have to think about your future, Shane. Ilya,” Yuna presses. "Hockey isn't for forever."
“And that’s why we have had an aggressive investment plan since Shane was signed,” puts in David. He reaches to place a hand on his wife’s, and she deflates a little.
“It’s the principle of the thing,” she says.
“We get to be together,” Shane says. “That’s the only principle that matters to me.” Ilya’s smile is blinding. “Besides, we’ll have to sell the Montreal house, and between that and upcoming endorsements, we’ll make it up.”
David rises to clean up the plates, and Ilya springs up to help.
“Mom, you did fine,” Shane says. “I’m sure whatever the contract looks like is going to be great.”
***
It is not, in fact, great.
Shane flips through the stack of papers on the table four days later. He knew his mom and his lawyer were both going through the same materials with a fine-toothed comb, and they would talk him through it all during their scheduled meeting tomorrow, but he preferred to read them himself. He had requested that hard copies be couriered to the cottage, because holding them in his hands is the only way it feels real. Ilya putters in the kitchen while he pages through them, hovering, but trying to give Shane space to read and process.
He had expected the hit to his salary, obviously. Ilya’s own salary had taken a big bite out of the salary cap, so of course Shane’s was cut substantially. The No-Movement and No-Trade clauses are as he required, the other terms are largely what he agreed to. It’s not a great contract, but it’s the best that he could have expected. The Centaurs' GM responded to and included all of the terms and language Yuna and his lawyer had required.
The problem isn’t really the contract itself. It’s the note that the GM included, paper-clipped to the cover sheet. This isn’t technically a contractual obligation, but it’s giving him greater pause than the massive hit to his salary.
He pushes back from the table and sighs. Ilya’s focus snaps to him.
“Well, how is it?” Ilya says, coming over to rub his shoulders.
“Contract’s fine, as long as you’re comfortable with being the breadwinner.” Shane slumps under Ilya’s talented hands.
“I can do that,” Ilya says, “you can be trophy husband. Only have to sit around and look pretty. You are already very good at it.”
Shane snorts. “I’m not becoming a WAG, Ilya. I still have to play.” He sighs, rolling his head on his neck.
“So what is it then?” Ilya asks.
Shane taps the note on top of the stack of paper. “I’m going to have to change my jersey number.”
Ilya’s hands freeze, and he leans down to interpret the GM’s tight scrawl.
“They can’t make you do this. You are Shane Hollander, number twenty-four.”
“Players change numbers all the time.”
“The big names don't. You don’t,” Ilya says. “I don’t.”
Shane groans and pulls away, putting his head in his hands. “It’s not a big deal, I know it’s not. But there can’t be two twenty-fours on the same team.”
They had both known it, in theory, but hadn’t thought about what it would mean—there was a rookie on the Centaurs who currently wore number twenty-four on his back. Sören Lundgren, nineteen, two years in the AFL and now just coming off his rookie year on the Cens. Swedish, soft-spoken, often shadowed Luca.
“I am captain, Ilya says, “I make him change it.”
“No, no,” Shane says, “you can’t do that. He was on the team first.”
“But you are Shane Hollander. He would do it if I asked. Hell, he might do it on his own, once he knows you’ve signed.”
Shane sighs deeply and heaves himself to his feet, pacing back and forth in the kitchen as Ilya watches, giving him space to think.
Shane stops, pivots, stares through the window towards the lake.
“I thought I’d spend my career at Montreal, you know?” He’s talking to himself as much as he’s talking to Ilya. “I thought one day my jersey, with that number, would get raised to the rafters, retired, maybe. If I played well enough. If I was good enough. That that would be my legacy, as much as the cups and everything else.”
Ilya comes alongside him and wraps an arm around his waist. Shane leans in, his head on Ilya’s shoulder, his eyes on the lake.
“That number is—was—me for so long.”
Ilya hums in acknowledgment, but lets Shane think. He can sense the wheels turning.
After several long minutes, Shane shakes himself a little and turns towards Ilya, who wraps both of his arms around his husband’s waist, pulling him close.
“I thought Montreal would retire that number. For me. Because of me,” Shane says slowly, “but maybe I should retire it myself. I don’t want that legacy to follow me here, to Ottawa. Fresh start, right? I was always lying about myself, my life, always scared, when I was in Montreal. They never saw the real me, never wanted to see the real me. Maybe it’s better to start fresh?” He sounds uncertain.
Ilya thinks about it for a moment, and then asks, “Do you want my number?”
“What?” Shane steps away, shocked. Ilya reels him back.
“I give you everything, you are my husband. You want a number that has meaning, you can have mine. I will take a new one, I do not care about such things.”
“Yes, you do,” Shane says, “I know you do.”
Ilya makes a very Russian sound of disagreement, shaking his head. “I care less about it than you, and I care about you more. You gave up so much already. I can give you my number.”
“I don’t want your number.”
“Ah, you think there is something wrong with my number?” Ilya says archly, and Shane pushes him, laughing.
“No, no. But it’s yours, and—” he ducks his head, “—I’d miss seeing it on the ice.”
Ilya can’t resist leaning down to kiss his husband at that, and they get a little distracted. The question of jersey numbers is left to the side, for the moment, in favor of more pleasant things.
***
That night they are sitting curled up together by the bonfire, drinking hot cocoa and talking about nothing, when Ilya brings it up again. Shane hadn’t wanted to talk more after their afternoon conversation, but both of their minds have been picking away at the problem all day.
“I have idea,” Ilya says, and Shane hums a question. “For your number. You will not let me make rookie change number, so you need new number. You do not want my number even though it is best number, yes? You have a problem with eighty-one?”
“No,” Shane says, smiling, “eighty-one is a great number. But it’s your number. I wouldn’t take it from you.”
“Well, you are my husband now, and husbands are supposed to share things,” Ilya says. “What’s mine is yours, yes?”
“Yes,” Shane says slowly, “but we can’t share a number. There can’t be two players on one team with the same number. That's just the same problem all over again.” Then he gasps and shoots up in a panic. “You’re not thinking of retiring, are you?”
“No, no,” Ilya says, and Shane huffs out a breath in relief, sinking back into his seat. “But. Maybe we can still share. I am eighty-one. You can be eighteen. We share the numbers—one, eight. The same but different.” He grins, pleased with himself.
Shane says it to himself, testing it out. “Eighteen. Shane Hollander, number eighteen.”
“Is good?” Ilya asks.
“Hm…” Shane thinks, then stiffens. “Oh! Eighteen plus eighty-one, that’s ninety-nine.”
Ilya does the math himself. “Yes, is ninety-nine.” Shane’s face looks struck by this. “Ninety-nine is not bad, I know Mr. Perfect Hollander would prefer perfect one hundred, but ninety-nine isn’t too bad—”
“No,” Shane cuts him off, “it’s not bad, it’s—you know who wore that number, right?”
Ilya’s knowledge of hockey minutiae is not as deep and boundless as Shane, who lives and breathes it. “No, who is it?”
“Gretzky,” Shane breathes.
“Ah.”
“It’s retired league-wide. He’s, you know—” Shane flops his hand around, wordless. “—so it’s, you know. Auspicious.”
“Aus-what?”
“Ah, um. Lucky.”
“Lucky is good, yes?” Ilya plants a kiss on Shane’s head. “You and me together, we are like Gretzky. But better because there are two of us.”
“Yeah,” Shane seems a bit dazed. “Yeah.”
“You like it?”
“I think I do.”
“Okay,” Ilya says, and pulls Shane closer.
***
Two weeks later, Shane signs the paperwork in the Centaur’s main office, Ilya and Yuna by his side. He passes a piece of paper to the GM on the way out. It contains only the number eighteen, written in big, bold numerals and underlined.
Two months later, Shane and Ilya take to the ice together, in Shane’s first exhibition game during the pre-season. The crowd cheers wildly for Shane as he glides onto the ice and then, as he turns and his new number is revealed, they go silent. Shane Hollander, number eighteen for the Centaurs.
Harris takes a picture, black and white, of Shane and Ilya on the ice after the game. They stand with their backs to the camera, shoulder to shoulder, no space between them, so that their names become a single string: HOLLANDER ROZANOV. Beneath their name(s), a perfect numerical palindrome: 1881.
Years later, both jerseys hang side-by-side from the rafters, the players and their numbers retired together, a legacy realized.