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When Shane had told Yuna about the need for a number change over dinner, she was incensed. She wanted to go back to his lawyer and agent and fight for his jersey number.
“It’s part of your legacy, Shane.” She would have already leapt to her feet to find her phone if not for David’s hand firm on her thigh under the table, keeping her in check.
Shane nods, then shakes his head. “Yes, well. But that was part of my legacy as a Voyageur. Maybe it’s best to leave it in the past.” Ilya, mouth full of noodles next to him, nods in agreement.
“But it’s your number, Shane,” she presses, her mouth a thin line, arms folded over her chest, food cold on her plate.
Shane pushes his food around his plate, not meeting her eyes. Ilya finally chokes down the too-large bite of pasta and reaches for his hand.
“It is still his number, Yuna,” he says. He’s speaking to her, but looking at Shane, watching his face carefully. “It will always be his number there. But a fresh start is good, yes?”
David, who had been characteristically quiet to this point, snorts into his glass of Pinot. They all turn to look at him.
“Well,” he says slowly, meeting each of their eyes in turn, “Ilya’s not wrong. It’s still his number. No one will want to play as twenty-four on the Voyageurs for a long time. Big shoes to fill.”
Ilya’s grin is wide. “The biggest.” Shane elbows him.
Yuna purses her lips. “It’s not the same as retiring the number.”
“No, it’s not,” David agrees, taking her hand, a mirror to their sons across the table. “But anyone who wears that number for Montreal will be compared to Shane Hollander. Possibly not forever, but for a long time. The number is all but retired.”
“And a fresh start would be—” Shane says, looks at Ilya, who nods, encouragingly. “Good. It would be good.”
Yuna sighs a little, but sits back in her seat. The whole table exhales, some of the tension released. She picks up her fork again, spearing a bit of cooked tomato on her fork. She carefully does not look at her son as she asks her next question.
“So what number will you playing under then?”
Out of the corner of her eye she sees Shane and Ilya exchanging glances, having one of those silent conversations with which she is so familiar. She cants her eyes to her husband, and they share their own conversation in mirrored twitches of their eyebrows and furrows of the forehead.
Shane exhales, sits up a bit straighter. “It was Ilya’s idea.” Ilya is positively vibrating next to him with barely restrained glee. “I’m going to play as eighteen.”
“Eighteen,” she says slowly, thinking. Shane is watching her with a blank expression that she knows is masking his deep desire for her approval. “The inverse of Ilya’s number.”
Ilya nods, his smile breaking out again. Shane ducks his head, blushes a bit.
“That’s certainly a statement,” David says, warmth in his voice.
“Mirrors on the ice,” she muses, and then—”Oh!”
Shane closes his eyes, knowing what’s coming.
“Ninety-nine!”
“What?” says David.
“Gretzky!” says Yuna.
“Oh, I see,” he says.
“Mom.”
“Shane.”
“Don’t even think about—”
“Think about what? I’m not—”
“Mom.”
Shane is glowing bright red across from her. Ilya is also glowing, but with happiness.
“Is perfect, yes?” He says, clapping his hands once. “Shane says is, is…auspicious.” He says the last word very carefully, sounding out each syllable.
“Indeed,” she says, and smirks, taking a sip of her wine.
Shane sighs. “Just, please, Mom. Don’t make a thing out of it.”
“I would never.” She can’t help the satisfied smile that she barely hides behind her wine glass.
“Like, no, you know, merchandise, or anything in the brand deals, okay? It would just be…” He gestures aimlessly, trying to find the right word. “—crass.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“Undignified. It would look so…so…”
“Presumptuous?” Ilya offers, and Shane turns to him, looking impressed.
“New Yorker?”
“Da.”
“Yes, that’s it. Presumptuous,” he says, running a hand through his hair, “to, you know, compare ourselves to—”
“To old man, yes, would be very unfair,” says Ilya, “to him. We are much better.”
“Ilya!” Shane says, pushing his husband, who just slides an arm around his shoulders, grinning. Shane turns back to Yuna. “Mom. Please.”
She holds his eyes for a long time over the rim of her glass, before setting it down with a clink.
“Fine.” She says, and he slumps, collapsing into Ilya. “No ninety-nines. No references to Gretzky. I promise.” He exhales. “For now.” His eyes widen, but Ilya keeps a tight hold on his shoulders.
“We can revisit it in a few years, maybe,” Yuna throws over her shoulder, as she gets up from the table, in search of another much-needed bottle of wine.
FIVE YEARS LATER
Yuna was a woman of her word, most of the time—at least when it was in the best interest of her family. There were no ninety-nines referenced or spoken of in any press materials or brand deals she approved on Shane and Ilya’s behalf, although, of course, she couldn’t really be held responsible for how the media preferred to talk about the “first husbands of hockey,” much less the fans. It never failed to make her smile when she saw a fan-made HOLLANDER-ROZANOV 99 jersey or poster in the stands. She even had one of her own, though she was careful to never let Shane see it. (llya knew about it, and, of course, approved.)
She had always had vague thoughts that this could be something pulled out during their eventual retirement, mobilized as part of building their joint legacy, but then an even better opportunity presented itself.
Ilya had just come back from his paternity leave, and it was the first time that their daughter, adopted less than one year ago, would be attending a game. Shane had fretted about the noise, of course, so her ears were covered in an excruciatingly researched set of toddler noise-canceling headphones. Mira was looking around in awe at the stadium, the faces, the ice, from her perch on David’s lap. They were sitting in the midst of the Centaurs family section, the energy around them warm and boisterous. There were more children present than there had been in previous years, and their excitement to see their fathers play was infectious. Yuna felt like a young woman again, despite her crow’s feet and gray hairs. Her right leg jiggled under her, at least until David nudged her with his own thigh. She was excited for the game and also for their surprise for her boys.
They had waved during warm-ups, and David had waved Mira’s tiny, mittened hand, but otherwise Shane and Ilya had been focused on their pre-game rituals. Shane had moved through his stretches and loops on the ice with his usual inner focus, paying attention to how his skates were feeling on his feet, the balance of the stick in his hand, the movement of the muscles in his body. Ilya had been all over the ice, hyping up his teammates, chirping at the rookies, and skating in fast arcs to shake the dust from his bones. Thirty minutes later, the team had disappeared back down the tunnel, moving like one organism.
Yuna hugs herself in the chill, feeling the growing excitement in the air as the stands fill. The music is blaring, and the lights are cycling to reset for the televised game. She watches as the cameramen fix lenses and murmur into their walkies, as the equipment managers settle tape and extra sticks into the benches, as the refs loop around the ice, warming themselves up and taking in the stadium, awash in red and black and the occasional rainbow banner.
Soon, the lights lower, the colors shining, the music swelling for the entrance. The team comes out in a stampede, each player hitting the ice on sure blades, rookies first, then the veterans, one by one. Then there’s her Shane, the black eighteen on his back, A on his chest, and he looks back as Ilya follows him, the C over his heart.
She doesn’t scream, because Mira is right next to her, but she stands, waving her hands, as the boys—men, really, fathers, now, but always boys to her—circle the rink, shoulder to shoulder, their blades moving in sync. David rises to his feet carefully next to her, and they both wave until they get their attention. Shane and Ilya glide to a stop in front of the family section, where all of the WAGs and partners and parents and children are grinning, excited.
Once the boys hve come to a stop on the other side of the plexiglass, ignoring the booming music and flashing lights, she and David turn around to reveal the backs of their Centaurs jerseys. It was tricky to get them custom-made, but the cost was worth it. They both read:
HOLLANDER-ROZANOV
100
She turns back in time to catch the look on Shane’s face—half confusion, half shock. Ilya is shaking his head, all of his teeth gleaming in the light.
Yuna turns to the side, and together she and David, ever so carefully, lift up Mira and turn her around, pulling down her tiny jersey so that her fathers can see it.
HOLLANDER-ROZANOV
01
Ilya is laughing, clapping, and Shane—Shane is struck dumb, eyes and mouth wide. Tears gather, and fall, and their teammates surround them, clapping them on the shoulder and back. Ilya hugs Shane, kisses his cheek, right at the edge of his helmet strap, and David holds Mira’s tiny hand up to wave at them again.
Coach must say something, or the announcers, or perhaps Bood pulls rank as the one non-distracted team member wearing the A, but eventually the crowd of Centaurs skates off to settle into their bench.
Yuna sinks back down to her seat with a contented smile. Even from across the rink she sees Shane watching her, still shocked. He catches her eye and shakes his head. You promised, he mouths at her.
She shrugs, grins, and then turns back to her perfect granddaughter, making sure that her ear protection is secure. She promised she wouldn’t do a thing with ninety-nine.
And Yuna keeps her promises, in precisely the way she intends.