Work Text:
Shane was fuming. He knocked loudly on Rozanov’s front door for a third time, longer and harder than the last two times. Where was Rozanov?
Shane had been cautiously optimistic for today, as they had a rare opportunity to see each other on a non-game day, their Boston-Montreal game not until the afternoon the following day. And Shane had been keen to finally see Rozanov’s house for the first time, the entrance of which already looked impressive with tall ceilings and massive windows.
But Rozanov was either deliberately making Shane wait, or he had genuinely forgotten that he had invited Shane over, which might actually be worse than any intentional slight.
Shane rubbed his forehead as he leaned against the doorframe. He had a pounding headache, aching from the early morning flight, a draining practice and a head knock with Hayden during a scrimmage. He desperately wanted to lie down and had been hoping to do so on Rozanov, but that was looking increasingly unlikely the longer Shane waited here without response.
Shane huffed and tried the door a fourth time, promising himself that he had the self-respect to leave if Rozanov didn’t let him in soon.
“What the fuck are you doing here, Hollander?”
The exclamation came from behind Shane, Rozanov getting out of his car quickly from where he had just arrived in the driveway. His face was pale, mouth open in shock as he fumbled with his bag.
“Seriously, Rozanov? Why the hell did you invite me over at this time if you were out? You know I had to speed here from practice, don’t waste my time,” Shane sniped, secretly relieved that this just seemed to be a case of Rozanov’s bad time management and not something worse.
But Rozanov’s shocked expression did not ease into the familiar bickering that Shane was expecting. His brows drew down into an intense frown as he slowly made his way up to the doorway where Shane stood.
“Hollander, what the fuck,” Rozanov said slowly. His eyes flickered all over Shane’s face with an intensity that did not fit the situation at all. “I did not invite you. I would not…” Rozanov’s teeth clenched for a second before he continued, “what are you doing here?”
Shane felt unbalanced, like he had just been checked hard on the ice. He had had nightmares that went like this, Rozanov leaving him, ending this thing between them, deciding he could find better sex elsewhere. In the worst nightmares, dream-Rozanov revealed that he was straight, that they had never hooked up and Shane was just delusional and desperate to ever think they had. This moment felt horribly close to those dreams, and Shane pinched his hand hard as he backed a step away from Rozanov.
“You- you invited me. 11am. You wanted to show me your house, remember?” Shane said quickly, fumbling for his phone to pull up their latest texts. The bright screen made him squint hard, and he felt a lance of pain in his temple.
“Hollander,” Rozanov said urgently. “You are talking about November? Afternoon game, you are coming to see my house for the first time?”
Something about the way Rozanov said that was odd, but Shane couldn’t focus properly as he tried to input his passcode, still struggling with the glaringly bright lockscreen.
“Yes, of course that’s what I’m talking about, Jesus Christ Rozanov,” Shane said, impatiently swiping. There was something wrong with the date on his phone, but Shane didn’t have time to double check it before Rozanov’s hand clamped down on his wrist.
“You had practice this morning, Hollander. You hit your head?” Rozanov asked. What?
“I can see bruise here,” Rozanov continued, his free hand trembling slightly as he raised it up towards Shane’s brow. His hand hovered in the air next to Shane’s face for a second before falling limply to his side.
“Yeah, I guess. Collided with Hayden this morning, it’s fine though,” Shane answered, bewildered. Rozanov was a master at redirecting from conversation topics he didn’t like, but he usually redirected to talking about sex, not injuries.
“Is not fine,” Rozanov said, shaking his head. “Your coach is useless, your team doctor is useless, your friend Pike is useless.” Rozanov’s voice got louder and angrier with each person he listed.
“Hey-” Shane started to rebut but Rozanov continued angrily.
“You have concussion, Hollander. You are missing memories.”
Rozanov’s hand that was still grasped around Shane’s wrist now began to pull him gently towards his car.
“We need to go to hospital, get you checked by actual competent doctor,” Rozanov continued.
“What are you talking about?” Shane asked. “I’m fine, no issues. I’ve just got a bruise, nothing more.” Right? Surely he would know if he hit his head that hard. It was just…Shane glanced back down at his phone, where the date read January. Holy shit.
In shock, Shane let himself be pulled a few steps towards Rozanov’s car before he collected himself enough to grasp the situation.
“Stop,” he said. “You can’t take me to the hospital, they’ll wonder what we’re doing together.” Shane pulled his hand back and dug his heels in.
“It’s fine, Hollander, I’ll say I was at the rink for captain stuff, spoke to you there, noticed concussion that the rest of your team is too stupid to see,” Rozanov said. He opened the passenger door and gestured in impatiently.
Shane thought guiltily back to the practice this morning. He was fairly certain it was his own fault that no one noticed the concussion, he had minimised the injury, brushed off all concerns and questions from teammates and management, and hurried out of the rink before everyone else, desperate to get to Rozanov’s place quickly.
“The hospital will wonder why my team didn’t bring me in,” Shane tried again.
“Because your team sucks, Hollander, get in,” Rozanov said. He sighed when he saw Shane was still not moving.
Rozanov tried another angle. “I can say I saw you stumbling and falling in the car park when I got to the rink, so I understood you were worse than your team realised?”
Shane wavered slightly. “Won’t they think it’s weird that you brought me in, given the whole…rivalry?”
“I do not care,” Rozanov snapped. “Whatever fucking reason we give, I do not care, I am taking you to hospital.” His hand clenched around his car keys tightly. “I’m not leaving until you get checked by doctor.” With that, Rozanov got into his car, slammed the door hard and sat rigidly in the seat, waiting.
Shane gave up and made his way over to the car. Truth be told, he wanted Rozanov to be with him at the hospital. Shane felt uncertain and off balance. He hadn’t even realised he was concussed and missing memories, but Rozanov had figured it out immediately.
Shane wanted support right now, he wasn’t even sure he could handle calling a rideshare to get to the hospital at this point. His headache had gotten worse and despite his best efforts to the contrary, he found Rozanov a comforting presence.
The car ride started silently, Rozanov clearly still annoyed at how reticent Shane had been. But Shane wouldn’t let that stop him from getting answers.
“So what game is this, then?” he asked. Rozanov’s mouth quirked into the shadow of a smile.
“You are missing months of memories, yet of course you are focused on hockey,” he said wryly.
Uh, obviously. What kind of comment was that?
Shane pushed on. “How many games into the season are we?”
“It’s the last Boston-Montreal game before All-Stars. Second game match-up in Boston,” Rozanov explained.
“Right,” Shane said. “So I remember up until last Boston game? Did I come over to your house then as well?”
Rozanov’s shoulders inched up towards his ears. “Yes,” was all he said.
“And?” Shane asked exasperatedly.
“And what?”
“Fuck, Rozanov, obviously something has happened between then and now, for you to be so shocked to see me,” Shane snapped.
Rozanov huffed and sped up. “You have a girl,” he said shortly, eyes fixed on the road.
“I have a what.”
“A girl, Hollander. Presumably you know what a girl is, or do you need me to explain it to you?”
“Oh fuck off,” Shane retorted. He looked down at his hands, shocked. That didn’t make any sense. “That can’t be right.” Shane frowned to himself. “I wouldn’t – I don’t – I think…I’m – I’m gay…” he said, voice trailing off.
Where on earth had that thought come from? He had been adamant to himself for as long as he could remember that he liked girls. When had he suddenly decided he was gay?
Rozanov’s hands gripped the steering wheel tightly.
“You’re not too gay to date her,” he bit out. “Maybe you don’t like most girls. But you did typical Hollander move, found the most perfect, desirable girl in the world. Only the best for Shane Hollander.” It sounded like chirping, but the tone was far more bitter than Rozanov’s typical teasing.
Shane knew he should ask more about this mysterious “perfect” girl, but he felt oddly reticent. And besides, Rozanov’s reaction was far more interesting.
“Holy shit, you’re jealous,” Shane said. He grinned slightly, elated by the idea that the sharp jealousy and possessiveness he felt over Rozanov might be shared. He probably shouldn’t be so happy about that, given that Shane apparently had a girlfriend.
But she felt entirely theoretical in this conversation, whereas Rozanov was in front of him right now, desperately trying to hide blatant jealousy. He waited to tease Rozanov’s inevitable denials, but they didn’t come.
“You’re jealous over me,” Shane said again, when Rozanov didn’t respond.
Rozanov’s eyes flickered over to Shane. “You left me,” he said quietly.
Just as quickly as it came, Shane’s grin dropped. He had thought that if their hookups ended, it must have been Rozanov that walked away. Despite how often Shane told himself he would end it, he knew he could never follow through. But apparently he had.
“What happened?” Shane asked.
Rozanov shrugged, eyes fixed back on the road. “I guess you don’t like tuna melts,” he said. It had the cadence of a joke but without context it was nonsensical to Shane.
“I left you…because of a tuna melt,” Shane repeated.
“No, Shane,” Rozanov sighed. Shane? Since when did Rozanov call him by his first name? Shane’s heart rate picked up and he felt a bit queasy. What did it mean?
Rozanov looked back over to Shane and raised his eyebrow. “You are panicking, just like last time. Because I called you Shane. And you-” Rozanov hesitated before continuing, “you called me Ilya. Then you left,” he said flatly.
Oh. Fuck. Shane felt an echo of terror, wondered if it was a memory of the last time they had spoken. They didn’t do that. No first names, no promises, no messy emotions.
But Shane wasn’t as stressed about this revelation as he thought he should be. His dread and anxiety felt dulled, under a foreign layer of acceptance. It was like he had already come to terms with the situation emotionally, but he couldn’t remember reaching that acceptance so his brain was trying to convince him to freak out.
Shane fixed his gaze on his hands and tried to breathe deeply. This was too much thinking for his aching brain, and he couldn’t focus on whatever longer conversation he clearly needed to have with Rozanov. Ilya.
Ilya began fiddling with the radio, clearly done with talking. That was good for Shane, because even just keeping his breathing stable was a huge effort. They drove in silence until they reached the hospital.
***
Once in the hospital, Ilya went straight to the front to find help. Shane had been happy to wait at the back of the queue, but when speaking to the triage team Ilya had feigned concern and panic about Shane’s condition to get him seen faster.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Shane muttered to Ilya when he sat back down beside him. “You don’t need to fake stress about this, I’ll be seen soon enough.”
Ilya looked at Shane quizzically before rolling his eyes. “God, Hollander, you need to save every brain cell you have left.”
“Fuck off Rozanov,” Shane replied automatically, before thinking he probably should’ve been nicer considering all the help Ilya had given him so far. But Ilya just broke into a small smile at Shane’s retort.
They sat quietly in comfortable silence together until Shane’s name was called a short time later.
Shane stood and thanked Ilya carefully for his time, trying to insinuate that they should speak after the game without revealing too much in front of the doctor. Ilya just snorted and told Shane he would see him when he was discharged, which sent a wave of relief through Shane and put him at ease to leave with the doctor.
A barrage of familiar tests and scans followed. Shane was no stranger to concussion protocol, and he answered all the typical questions dutifully.
Wrapping up the assessment, the doctors explained that the situation was exactly as Shane and Ilya had already surmised. Moderate concussion with short term memory loss. Typical concussion protocol was to be followed, some painkillers, minimal screen time, someone to monitor him and no contact sport until he displayed improvement, which he could discuss with his Metros medical staff.
The most important thing that Shane was anxious to check was when his memories would return, which the doctors explained would likely be soon, but could also possibly be never.
This information sent Shane into a spiral. What was he supposed to say to his girlfriend? He had forgotten their entire relationship, and was still hung up on another person. Would they just keep trying to date until he developed feelings for her again? What if he never felt anything?
God, she would be crushed. Shane tried to imagine what he would’ve felt like if Ilya had forgotten him entirely, but it made his chest feel so tight that he stopped immediately.
The tight feeling didn’t loosen until Shane walked back out into the waiting room floor and saw Ilya sprawled in a chair, waiting for him. Ilya stood up immediately, checking Shane’s face and seeing the mixture of stress and relief there.
“What is the news?” he asked quickly.
The doctor looked briefly askance at Shane, asking if she was approved to reveal his medical information to a rival team captain. Shane confirmed this emphatically, as he was fading fast and he needed someone responsible to handle wrapping up the hospital discharge.
Ilya was surprisingly thorough in his conversation with the doctor, asking all kinds of questions about the care Shane needed, what could be done in the long term and the best ways to handle the memory loss to minimise stress.
At one point Ilya even took out his phone to take notes, which Shane found a mixture of endearing, embarrassing and completely ridiculous.
But the worst part was when Ilya started asking vague questions about when Shane could partake in “non-sport” physical activities, at which point Shane grabbed his arm, mortified, thanked the doctor and hurried them out of the hospital.
“What the fuck was that, Rozanov,” Shane hissed as he marched them to the car.
He waited until they were both in the car, doors closed to the outside world before he continued angrily, “Why would you ask that, we’re not having sex while I have a concussion!”
Ilya frowned. “Of course we are not,” he said. “I was asking for you. And your girlfriend.”
Right. The girlfriend.
Shane felt a wash of cold over him. He had completely forgotten her, again. And he felt guilty for being disappointed at Ilya’s of course not response. It made sense, Shane would never cheat on a partner. But at the same time, he felt desperately sad at the idea he would never have sex with Ilya again.
Ilya waited a moment longer, but Shane had nothing more to say, too caught up in his swirling thoughts. Ilya started the car and slowly exited the hospital car park, pulling onto the nearby freeway.
“Shane, I-” Ilya paused, eyes darting to Shane, then he tried again. “Hollander. You - you seem happy. With her.” He swallowed roughly and continued. “It’s probably…better this way.”
Shane felt a sharp pain in his chest. He had apparently been the one to end their hookups, but clearly Ilya wanted to keep it that way. Ilya had probably found a girlfriend himself with ease the second Shane had left his house.
“Of course,” Shane said hollowly. “I get it. We can both date women, you can-”
Ilya made a noise of frustration. “No, Hollander, you don’t get it. I’m not talking about girls! I’m talking about Russia. I have Russian passport, yes?”
Shane knew his confusion was showing clearly on his face, so Ilya continued.
“We can’t – I can’t- it doesn’t matter what I want, okay? You’re better off with her. Have fun with her, be in public with her.” Ilya pressed his lips together tightly, as if he’d said too much.
Shane’s mind was whirring. His conversation with Carter Vaughn and Scott Hunter in Sochi echoed through his mind, along with Ilya’s emphasis on Russia. Shane couldn’t dwell on the implications underlying Ilya’s other words without feeling lightheaded.
Almost despite himself, Shane started to pull together the beginnings of a long-term, multi-step plan involving all his knowledge of hockey, visas and Canadian immigration, before his fast thoughts came crashing to a halt.
His girlfriend.
How could he be thinking about plans with Ilya while he had a committed girlfriend? The amazing girl, who proved he wasn’t gay, who he could date in public, who apparently made him happy.
Shane nodded slowly. “I’ll call her, soon,” he said. Ilya’s hands tightened on the steering wheel, and he took the exit fast and sharp.
“But Rozanov…I can help you with your passport if you want. We don’t need to be hooking up for me to help you.”
The car slowed down minutely. Ilya was still looking intently at the road but his face had a vulnerable expression that made him look very young.
“If your memories come back and you still want to speak to me,” Ilya said carefully, “I would be very grateful for your help with my passport.”
“Okay then,” Shane confirmed. He couldn’t envision never wanting to speak to Ilya, but then again he also couldn’t envision having a girlfriend, so who knew what would happen if he recovered his memories.
Ilya pulled into the basement car park of the Metros’ hotel soon after, and texted Hayden from Shane’s phone to meet him in the foyer.
“Well,” said Shane awkwardly as he lingered next to Ilya’s car.
“Feel better Hollander,” Ilya said to the car dashboard, before peeling out of the lot with a squeal of tires.
Shane couldn’t bring himself to feel annoyed at Ilya for his abrupt exit. It had surely been an incredibly weird day for him, finding the man that dumped him outside his house and needing to take him to hospital.
Shane’s charitable thoughts towards Ilya lasted barely two minutes, until he met Hayden in the foyer and asked about his mysterious girlfriend.
He texted Ilya immediately YOU DIDN’T TELL ME SHE’S ROSE FUCKING LANDRY, to which he only received a smirk emoji in response.
****
After explaining the concussion situation to Hayden, Shane had to reexplain again to the Metros staff and provide documentation from the hospital.
They all looked disappointed and vaguely annoyed. Shane tried to apologize but they just shook their heads.
“Hollander, you’re scratched from tonight’s game,” coach Theriault said.
“Tonight?” Shane said, startled. Right. Because the afternoon Boston-Montreal game was in November. This was January, when they had a typical night game. Fuck.
Theriault nodded uneasily. “We’ll reassess in Montreal, see if you’re still confused.”
There felt like an undertone of snideness as he said ‘confused’, and Shane paused for a second. Maybe Ilya wasn’t totally wrong to criticise how the Metros handled his concussion. But Shane didn’t have the mental space to worry about that at the moment. He desperately needed to lie down.
***
After a whole afternoon of forced rest in total darkness, Shane was itching to check his phone and fill in the blanks in his memory. Hayden had been frustratingly unhelpful, and was now gone for their evening game.
The Metros staff probably shouldn’t have left Shane alone, especially with his phone, but Shane wasn’t going to be the one to point that out. He wanted to sneak some more illicit screentime.
Pulling his phone out quickly, Shane knew he had a time limit based on his headache looking at a screen. He should navigate quickly to his contacts and call Rose immediately, to let her know how he was before she saw him missing from the game.
But instead, Shane guiltily found himself navigating to his text chain with Lily. There were no messages since November, the last texts being Ilya’s address and the confirmation of 11am meeting time, just as Shane remembered.
Shane then moved across to YouTube, looking up the last two Boston-Montreal games. Where his favourite channel usually posted highlights of his games against Ilya, the last two match videos were titled “Lowlights of the Hollanov Rivalry”. Comments on the videos ranged from baffled to angry at the perceived drop in skills.
@bearsrulz
Ok, am I on crack or did Rozanov just become the worst Bears player by a mile?
@landry4president
Ummm Hollander must have a big dick because there’s no way Rose is with him for his hockey skills, jesus
@shilyalives
Hollanov divorce arc :(
@metrosmanz
Hollander out here looking like a baby deer wobbling on the ice
@sufferingcensfan
Ok maybe I was too quick to dismiss the Etsy witch curse theory, coz what the actual fuck is going on with these two?
Shane winced, half at the comments and half at his growing headache. He really should put the phone away now, but the comments were damning and he needed to know how badly he had been playing recently.
Just a few minutes into the lowlights reel and Shane felt incredibly sick. He and Ilya both looked pale and stiff on the ice. Passes to teammates didn’t connect, shots on goal were late or shockingly off target. When they bent at the faceoff circle, they didn’t speak and they didn’t even look each other in the eyes.
Jesus. No wonder Ilya had been shocked to see Shane today.
Shane’s headache was quickly becoming blinding so he locked his phone. He couldn’t bring himself to feel disappointed that he hadn’t contacted Rose. He would worry about that tomorrow.
For now, the most important thing he resolved to do was fix things with Ilya. Whether Shane got his memories back or not, he was determined to be on speaking terms again, if only for the sake of their careers.
Maybe, eventually, once he was back in love with Rose, the wild uncontrollable pull he always felt towards Ilya would stay limited to an acceptable level, contained to just the ice. And Shane could help Ilya with his passport, so that Ilya would always feel safe here.
***
The next morning, Shane’s alarm for his morning flight jolted him from vivid dreams. He tiredly ran a hand over his face, trying to clear his head of the lingering images of sandwiches, red hair and neon club lights.
Then he sat upright quickly. His memories were back. Disjointed, chaotic and incomplete, but he remembered enough.
Shane swiped his phone open quickly, navigating to his favourited contacts.
“Oi, no screentime,” Hayden said sleepily, to which Shane shushed him so intensely that Hayden startled fully awake.
“I need – just, give me a sec,” Shane said distractedly, opening the Lily text thread.
Shane: Thank you for your help yesterday. I’ve remembered now.
Shane: Rose and I broke up weeks ago.
Shane: Can we talk at All-Stars?
Shane gnawed at his fingernail as he waited impatiently. He was being ridiculous, he knew. It was 6am, Ilya wouldn’t even be awake.
Shane put his phone down, then picked it back up, then threw it onto the nightstand. He saw Hayden’s eyes widen in his peripheral vision and he muttered “Lily” to himself. Shane wanted to say something to defend himself to Hayden, but before he had a chance his phone buzzed and he scrambled to grab it again.
Lily: Yes
Shane felt a grin split his face. It was only one word. But after all that Ilya had said yesterday, and the fact that barely a minute had passed between Shane’s texts and the response….
Shane had a good feeling about All-Stars.