Chapter Text
Everyone had been following that “EU All-Stars” team on their rampage across North America. Everyone had heard the talk: the “death” of the North American game and all that.
Shane, for one, wasn’t actually all that against a game less focused on the physicality of it all, but even he could say that the crackdown on hitting was getting a little crazy, especially in the junior leagues. Obviously, you’re not trying to have, like, peewee and bantam players throwing down; those years should be spent learning and perfecting your technique. But high schoolers and up, well, they’re gonna fight. There's just no stopping it. At least it's a relatively healthy way of getting out their aggression if fostered correctly.
Plus, half the fun of playing hockey was factoring in the unpredictability of your opponents and teammates when emotions were running high. Challenging yourself to try to predict how they’ll act when things aren't going their way. That was the whole point of chirping, wasn’t it? To rile up your opponent to the point of doing exactly what you wanted them to do. Shane wasn’t too good at that part, but therein lies one of the great parts of being on a team with one, Ilya Rozanov.
If Shane wanted to play a game all about math and statistics, he’d play golf.
So, to have everyone and their mothers all talking about the death of the North American game, only to have a bunch of Europeans come through and kick North America’s ass in their own game. Even Shane could say he was pretty fucking ticked off.
Ilya was worse, though.
Ilya knew the European game. He’d played the European game. Hell, he knew one of the dudes on the EU team from his junior days. A dude he affirmed to be awful at hockey, and the only reason he made their junior team was because he was so big the other team couldn’t half reach to get the puck from him, and no amount of scraping or roughing could knock the guy off course; trying to board him felt like slamming into the boards yourself.
He apparently also had some vague connection to the team's coach, Teppo Maki, via some friend of a friend’s dad’s brother type networking, and the guy was a notorious asshole and would spare not time nor vocal cords in telling that to anyone who would stand still long enough.
Needless to say, it was pretty big news in the Centaurs’ locker room when they announced they would be extending their tour to include a conglomeration of senior whale shit hockey players from Northern Ontario.
Coach Maki’s explanation that the reason they did that was that he was hoping they might actually be challenged just added to the blood-boiling nature of the whole affair.
Most of the Centaurs were born and raised Canadians and proud of it, and those who weren’t still grew to love their new home and could even manage a bit of Canadian patriotism when the occasion called for it. (Ilya, for example, had immediately changed his ringtone to O’ Canada as soon as he was officially a citizen. He practically lived in his Team Canada jacket from the Winter Olympics, and once he got past the initial shock of it, he actually reveled in how boring he had become since his “switch to the maple side”.) So as soon as they heard this Finnish asshole speak, on live television, with such blatant arrogance, as if he didn’t really believe this team could beat his.
Of course, they probably couldn’t.
Anyone who kept up with shitty energy drinks at this point was more than familiar enough with the Canadian team’s coach, a guy known only as Shoresy (no one was super sure what his actual name was. There were loads of conflicting statements, some saying he didn’t even have a legal first name, some saying he legally changed his name, but there was no record of what to. There was barely even a record that this guy actually existed to begin with, so fuck it, he wants to be called Shoresy? Call him Shoresy.)
Shoresy had been a BroDude Energy favorite topic for the past few years, ever since he pulled a truly shitty team out of the depths of a shitty hockey league. He had been going relatively viral on the super-niche hockey side of TikTok lately for one interview he did as an analyst with BroDude, in which Ilya was name-dropped along with loads of other notorious hockey players.
“Ok?” Anik, the BroDude rep conducting the interview, intoned. “What's the biggest problem? And don’t say the crackdown on fighting.”
The camera cut to Shoresy. “The crackdown on fighting?” He all but rolled his eyes. “That's old news. It's the crackdown on hitting.”
“On hitting?” Anik seemed confused.
“Yeah, next ya won't be able to take slapshots.”
Shane snorted at that.
“You heard it here first!” Anik said, looking toward the camera.
“And a big, BIG problem is diving.”
Shane and Ilya couldn’t agree more on that front. They had spent more than a few evenings watching whatever non-pro hockey was being televised that night, shouting into the void that kids were faking injuries, like half of hockey culture wasn’t the overwhelming willingness to play hurt.
“How are they cracking down on hitting?” Anik circled back.
“Well…look at junior hockey in Canada today; actually, look at the World Junior tournament.” Shoresy stumbled a bit for an appropriate example to make his point. “Every hit is a penalty now. It’s their new strategy to get hitting out of the game.”
Anik interrupted, “Who’s they?”
“If ya hit,” Shoresy continued, undaunted, “you take a penalty. You take a penalty; ya hurt your team. You don’t wanna hurt your team,” he tilted his head pointedly, “so ya don’t hit.”
It was a sound strategy: change the rules to get the game you want. But it would take all the fun out of the game. Shane shook his head as the video went on.
After a pregnant, pointed pause, Shoresy went on to say, “Got us playin’ the European game, now.”
Anik’s eyes widened at that. “Ooh, careful,” she hummed.
“No, no, no, no, no,” Shoresy backtracked, “There's lots of tough Euros.”
“Kronwall.” Anik listed.
“There's lots of Euros that hit.”
“Rozanov.” Anik continued, in the bit that put this interview into Shane and Ilya’s periphery.
“It’s just—the European game was always about speed and finesse.”
Another thing Shane and Ilya couldn’t disagree with. For all his big, brutish, bullying nature on the ice, his willingness to knock someone out, Ilya was fast. He was one of the fastest skaters in the league (Shane was faster, but there was a reason they didn’t compete in the same categories at the All-Star Games anymore). And Ilya had finesse; it's one of the big things that slingshot him up the rankings of the greatest players of all time. His innate fucking ability to not only barrel through but, when the situation called for it, practically dance his way through a sea of opposing players who wanted nothing more than to see this cocky Russian on his ass.
“The North American game was about size and grit.”
“Traditionally, sure,” Anik added, flippantly, trying to keep a back-and-forth going where her input really wasn’t needed.
“Like a massive part of the success of Canada and U.S. hockey on the international stage has been the hitting. The physicality. The guarantee that if you play us, we will HURT you.”
“Ok, take it easy.”
“But with the new rule changes and the crackdown on hitting, they got us playin’ the European game now.”
“And how do we stack up against the Europeans at the European game?”
“Well, surprise, surprise! They’re better at it than we are.” Shoresy announced sardonically, “But what do you expect? They took away our tools.”
“I see.” Anik nodded.
“Keith Primeau, Keith Tkachuk," Shoresy started his own list of players, “Ryan Price, Brendan Shanahan, Cliff Marleau.”
“Scott Stevens,” Anik offered.
“Yes! Captain Crunch. These guys are world-class hockey players, and these guys will fuck you up.”
“Eric Lindros.”
“The new rules cut the nuts off players like that now,” he shrugged, “and that's the biggest problem with hockey today.” Anik, for once, had nothing to add to that. The camera focused on Shoresy as he looked directly into it. “The North American game is dying,” he said with a kind of certain finality that made Shane’s skin itch. Then the video ended.
Various clips, angles, and commentaries of that interview had made their way through the hockey community. Shane and Ilya must have been sent the same link by twenty different people. Cliff was all but blushing at being called a “world-class hockey player” in the same sentence as the likes of Scott Stevens. Shane, ever petty, just told him that he knew how hard Cliff could hit a guy, even when he hadn’t set out to.
So when it was announced that BroDude would be covering the EU All Stars vs the NOSHO North Stars live, no one could pass up a chance to watch the guy who managed to read modern hockey to filth rock the shit of everyone’s least favorite exhibition team.
Which meant, come game time, the Hollander-Rozanov household was packed to the brim with vindictive hockey players and coaches and their wives and Yuna Hollander and, like, three dogs. Even Scott and Kip Hunter made the trip from New York, a much further trek than Hayden or Ryan had to endure, and the Boston Bears were already in town for a game they had the next day, so several of them showed up, including their coach, just for the fuck of it.
“God, I can’t remember the last time I played in an outdoor rink,” Marleau mused as he plopped back down in his seat with a plate piled high and a fresh beer in his hand.
In the expectation of nearly fifty people milling about their living room, Shane and Ilya had gone ahead and dragged every single chair in their house into the area. Every surface in the vicinity was being used as a table or a seat. Half the rookies had been sequestered to the floor, having to fight off the dogs to protect their food. Some people had taken to balancing themselves on the back of the couch. Bood had LaPoint sitting on the floor in front of him and was using his head as a makeshift table.
Shane and Ilya had claimed the loveseat and did not worry about someone stealing their spot because it was their house and they were providing the food (with help from Yuna and Jackie, of course) and the entertainment, and if someone had an issue with the hosts having their guaranteed seats, they could get the fuck out.
Still, all this seating, but once the anthem was over and the North Stars turned to face their opponents, not a single person stayed sitting when every single one of them dropped their gloves.
Shane would feel bad about the noise, and he still did, but he had already warned their neighbors about this get-together and could only hope they heeded his words and prepared accordingly.
Everyone was extremely disappointed, though not the least bit surprised, when they cut to commercial after the first real punch was thrown.
When they came back, announcing they would start fresh, everyone looked to have been appropriately thrashed. Sure, the Europeans gave as good as they got, but they were hit pretty damn hard.
The game continued quite frustratingly. The EU kept scoring while the North Stars kept…not…doing that. Still, they were fighting back. Every given chance, they were checking and boarding and chirping and just generally fucking with the EU. By the end of the first period, they were 2-0 for the Europeans, and they were looking absolutely worse for wear for those two points they had.
“Well, they would be closer if not for that big fuck-off goalie!” Hayden complained, waving his bottle aggressively toward the screen.
“Fucking, duh,” Hayes shot back from across the room. “That's the point of a goalie.”
A chuckle rumbled through the group as Hayden rolled his eyes. “That's not what I meant, and you know it.”
“I agree with Hayden.” Yuna was walking about the room, picking up empty bottles and plates, much to Shane’s chagrin as he followed her, doing the same. “Their only real grace is their size. An average height of 6'5" is nothing to scoff at, but their defense is full of holes. Cedarstrom is having to pick up way more slack than Michaels.”
“Right as always, Mrs. Hollander.” Conners, the goalie for the Bears, raised his glass, and nearly everyone else in the room followed suit.
“But that should be, like, more embarrassing for Michaels, then, right?” Luca said from the floor, where he was rubbing Anya’s belly, "Because he, theoretically, has less coming at him than Cedarstrom, so the fact he’s let in two and Cedarstrom is sitting on a shutout. That's–” He cut himself off with a grimace.
“I dunno,” Conners and Hayes said at nearly the same time. Hayes went on, “If I had to block shots from those monsters, I might accidentally let a couple in too, you know?”
Conners agreed, “Yeah, those dudes are fuckin’ crazy. Came down from Jotunheim just to level the fuckin’ continent. Michaels is doin’ pretty good, all things considered.”
“And more to Pike’s point, Cedarstrom is just a big fuckin’ dude; he fills more of the net at a time, so the fact that they haven’t got more goals in on Michaels.” Hayes exhaled sharply and took a swig of his drink.
“Yeah, I’ll drink to that one,” Conners added.
Ilya came up behind Shane, grinning, and grabbed his husband by the shoulders, jostling him a bit. “Awwww, look at the goalies getting along," he mused, manhandling Shane back into a seat.
The second period continued much the same.
“How did the ref not call that!” someone exclaimed at #14, very obviously tripping #47.
He was answered in kind, “I think the refs want to see the fuckers go down just as much as we do.”
Everyone broke out in cheers when #98, Sylvestri, barreled into Cedarstrom so hard that it knocked the goal out of place and was subsequently tackled by half the EU team.
The EU only got one point in that round, but it was still one more than the North Stars had managed all game, so it wasn’t looking bright.
“Talk about just, fuckin’, killing some guys!” Marly called back to where Ilya was, in the kitchen. When he actually turned to his friend, he saw Rozanov getting seconds. “Are you getting more lasagna?!” He said, outraged. “After you fuckin’ told us to pace ourselves because there was only so much?! You’re over here getting fucking seconds of Yuna Hollander’s world-famous fucking lasagna?!”
Ilya shrugged. “I am allowed; she is my mom.” Shane popped his head up, eyebrows scrunched together, at that, which only served to make Yuna laugh.
“More to my point, dude! You can have it all the time. I don’t live here!”
“But she only made it because all of you were coming over.”
“Yeah, so we should get more than just one serving.”
Ilya scoffed, “I saw your plate, Marly, you got more than one serving already.”
“Oh, fuck you, Rozy!”
Yuna leaned over to whisper to her son, “Do you think it's a good time to tell them I have another dish in the fridge?”
Shane just made a face and shook his head. "Nah, let ‘em fight it out.”
Period three started with the EU at a lower energy level than they had been seen at for their entire tour, and that alone was enough to have the entire room on the edge of their seats.
Cedarstrom was still blocking shot after shot, but the players were getting knocked down and taking longer and longer to get back up. Meanwhile, the North Stars were maintaining themselves. Michaels was absolutely not letting the puck in, and their defence was barely giving the EU a chance to even try.`Then, after another seven minutes of tossing the EU around on the ice, the North Stars finally, finally scored their first goal.
The cheers of everyone filled the room. People who had stepped out to the patio for a cigarette, or just to get some air, came running to the doors, already shouting. Shane prayed his warning was enough for them not to get a noise complaint.
After that first goal, the once impenetrable Swedish wall let in another two goals without his team managing even one, tying them up at 3-3.
Everyone was fucking ecstatic. This was the closest game the EU had faced all season, and they were this fucking close to losing.
There were three minutes left in the game, and the North Stars were fucking crushing it.
That was, until #3, Diaby, ran past #56, barely even touched the guy, let alone checking him, and #56 dropped to his knees, claiming an elbow to the jaw.
Everyone was on their feet, once again, shouting, as though they could be heard all the way from Ottawa, that that was a fucking dive. Even the TV commentators were calling a dive, but the stripes had spoken, and #3 would serve a two-minute penalty for elbowing.
The last minute whittled down with the EU on a power play, and they were so fucking close to going into overtime. So fucking close. But fucking magically, with mere seconds remaining, the EU managed their first goal of the period and their last of the game, giving them the win, 4-3.
“What a fucking joke!” Ilya called out, much along the same vein as everyone else.
The only reason nothing was thrown or broken was that everyone in attendance had too much respect for Shane and Ilya to go around breaking their shit. Not that they would have been too terribly mad. They understood. That display was an embarrassment to the entire fucking sport.
Even Shane, who was usually pretty subdued and analytical about watching hockey, was seething, shouting profanities at the screen.
They ended up muting the postgame as everyone grumbled amongst themselves while they got ready to go home.
Later, after the sun had gone down and everyone had gone to bed, Shane and Ilya had just finished cleaning up, and they dropped themselves onto the couch. The image of Anik Archambault and Shoresy filled their TV, and they unmuted it to see what they were saying.
“...a clear embellishment from Hakohrju.” Anik started.
“Diving’s part of the game now,” Shoresy responded, quite dejected.
“Unfortunately so, but that’s an especially ugly way to lose.”
“Yeah, I hate losing, but…”
“I hate losing, but?” Anik repeated, shocked, “Since when is there a ‘but’ on the end of that sentence for you?”
“Well, sometimes there’s more important things.”
“Like what?” Shoresy said nothing, maintaining his cool air. “Like beating a cocky opponent into submission?”
Shoresy nodded, smiling, just slightly.
Anik went on, “Our cameras caught you saying ‘thank you’ to Teppo Maki in the handshake.”
“Yeah.”
“What on earth were you thanking that embalmer-looking douchebag for?”
Shoresy readjusted himself in his seat. “I was asked a question recently, and I didn’t have an answer.”
“What was the question?”
He inhaled sharply. “A buddy of mine asked if I would rather lose honorably or win dishonorably.” He pulled one of his hands out of his pocket to scratch his nose, then, as he let out his sigh, he shoved his hand back into the warmth of his bright blue coat pocket.
“Teppo gave you your answer?”
Shoresy just nodded, looking more like he was nodding his head to a beat than nodding yes to a question, but still.
Shane quietly rested his head on Ilya’s shoulder as he switched the channel, the interview all but over.
“That was a good game,” he said, just thinking out loud.
“Mm, yes, very exciting,” Ilya agreed. He pursed his lips. “Too bad they lost to those fucking divers,” he huffed. "The game is hockey, not swim.”
Shane huffed a laugh. “Yeah, but, I mean, I guess that wasn’t what the game was about anyway, you know?”
“Right. The coach, Shoresy, he said it right.”
“Would rather lose honorably.”
Ilya nodded. “Maki’s team may have won, but no one fucking likes them.”
“They play the game to win at all costs, not to have fun.”
They fell into a companionable silence, ruminating on their thoughts about the game, the one they just watched as well as the one they played for a living.
Neither of them was near retirement, by any means, but they also weren’t getting any younger. There were plenty of reasons to crack down on hitting in any sport.
Shane had watched this year's National Senior Hockey Championship, hosted in Sudbury, and he saw well enough how playing the game as hard as people like Shoresy, like Ilya, where that could land someone. As good as North American hockey was, its players had a much earlier expiration date.
But still, those kinds of players had more heart in the game than any diver could pretend to (at the same time as pretending to limp away from a fake check).
After a while, Shane asked, “You think Shoresy would want to coach at Game Changers?”
🏒
Life after the EU game was…uneventful. To say the least.
It was the first winter in God knows how long Shoresy had gone without playing hockey, and he didn’t even get to “coach” for most of it. They managed to rip those Euros a new one before they even rang in the new year!
Which left the rest of the season…boring.
It wasn’t all bad; hell, it wasn’t even mostly bad. He still got to kick it with his buds, crush beers, and piss around on the ice just for the hell of it. They would go to their Blueberry Buddies’ games when they could. And to top it all, he had this great fuckin’ thing going with the hottest girl in Sudbury.
She was great, the kid was great, and they had been seriously working on Shoresy moving in with her.
The only real conflict on that front was who was gonna get a solo room in the apartment or who was gonna sleep on the couch. Neither of which was really Shoresy’s problem, because he wouldn’t be living there, but he still liked to crush beers with ‘em while they fought it out.
“Alls I have to say, b’ys, is that as the oldest in this here group, I should be needing the more comfortable sleepin’ arrangements.” Hitch shrugged at Goody’s and Dolo’s outrage.
“Eh bien, je ramène plus de filles à la maison, alors j'ai besoin d'un vrai lit.” Dolo shrugged as well.
“I’ll drink to that." Goody raised his bottle to Dolo's. "Girls are unbelievable.”
“Well, I don’t see why ya don’t just go ahead and put a third bed in the living room, or like get a pull-out couch or something.” Shoresy decided to throw his two cents (five cents, no more pennies) in.
“Well, because we got someone all out in the open like that,” Hitch reasoned, “where the front door opens to, say I’m bringin’ a girl home, and Goody here’s already gotten a girl home, me and my girl are gonna run into Goody and his girl and that, there, could cause quite a bit of awkwardness, now couldn’t it?”
“Settle down.” Goody took a swig of his drink. “Why am I automatically in the living room?” he asked, after a moment of thought.
“Because if it was Dolo you were walkin’ in on, you’d just end up feelin' sorry for yerself.” Shoresy grinned, and Dolo raised his glass to his, and they clinked together over the table.
“Alright,” Hitch rolled his eyes.
“Well, I’ll have ya both know, Goody is a kicker,” Shoresy added, “so beware if either of you ends up rooming with him.”
Their very important conversation was interrupted by Nat, slamming open the door to the Laughing Buddha and making a beeline for their table, chanting, “Holy shit!” the whole way.
“Well, hey there, Nat! Anything we can do for ya?” Shoresy said loudly so she would maybe quit saying “holy shit” like it was goin’ out of style.
Her eyes shot to him. “Shoresy! Holy fucking shit, Shoresy!”
“Yeah!” he tried to match her tone, excited and kind of exasperated. “I’m right here! It’s pretty awesome!”
“I just got off the phone with Yuna fucking Hollander!”
Which would sound pretty exciting if he knew who the hell that was. He just raised his eyebrows, pointedly, hoping she would elaborate, unprompted.
“Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov are coming here to ask you if you want to coach at their hockey camp!”
Shoresy wasn’t sure if his mouth was already open or if his jaw actually dropped, but he was a notorious mouth-breather, so really it could have been either.
“What the fuck? Are you for real?”
“Ye—" "Huh?" “Yes! Apparently, they’re on their way to Sudbury right now, but she wanted to call ahead because she wasn’t sure if we were doing anything with the Blueberry Bulldogs, fundraising-wise, with the whole prospect of getting that ACH expansion, but I guess Hollander and Rozanov just really wanted to meet you? Or something?”
Shoresy had no words. The fact that Hollander and Rozanonv not only knew of him but were actively coming to Sudbury, fucking Ontario, because they just really wanted to meet him was fucking insane. Like, they were no Gretzky, whom he had already met, and Gretzky said he was really cool. Gretzky said that, number 99, Wayne Gretzky, but, like, no biggie. But still! Two of the best active players in the show, in the whole fucking sport, not to mention two of the most famous gay people to ever be gay and also play sports.
Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov, reigning fuckin’ Stanley Cup champs.
Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov were coming to Sudbury to meet Shoresy, because they…wait.
“Wait, what? The fuck? Why, ho-how did they even like…what??” Shoresy was floundering; he knew he was, yet he just couldn’t find it in himself to care at the moment.
Nat shrugged, her phone still in her hand. “I don’t know, I guess they watched the EU game and just really liked what they saw? They liked your whole…philosophy? Or something?”
“Tabarnak, bel homme!” Dolo reached across the table to smack Shoresy on the arm, shaking his still shellshocked form. After that, the accolades came pouring in.
“Well, lookit that, old man! Knew you had it in ya!”
“Fuckin’ hell yeah, bud. Fuckin’ unbelievable.”
“Shoresy, do you have any idea how big this is?”
“I think he must have, Nat,” Hitch answered for him. "The old man can hardly make a thought, let alone get one out where we’re to.”
“I think, fuckin’, I’m over here like having a stroke or something. Like, it's that or all those conkies are finally catchin’ up to me.” Shoresy said once he finally found his bearings. “Wait, when are they getting here?”
“That was the main thing Yuna Hollander called about. We’re supposed to meet them at the rink tomorrow, around noon.”
That left Shoresy in an awkward position, crushin’ beers ways, because on the one hand, what a fuckin’ way to ring in an unreal opportunity. On the other hand, did he really want to deal with a righteous hangover while meeting Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov? Un-fuckin’-likely.
So while they spent the rest of the evening celebrating, Shoresy, begrudgingly, paced himself.
🏒
When he got home, he practically ran up the stairs.
Laura was already getting ready for bed and was completely unfazed when he threw open the bedroom door with no regard for the safety of the wall behind it. Just the sight of her alone, standing there in the bathroom in a t-shirt and underwear. He had to physically hold himself back from picking her up and spinning around because, God, that woman was somethin’ else.
“Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov are coming here, to Sudbury, to ask me if I wanna coach at their hockey camp!”
That actually seemed to catch her off guard. She froze in the middle of brushing her teeth, and her eyebrows shot up.
“That's fuckin’ crazy, right!?”
Laura silently spat out the toothpaste still in her mouth and rinsed before leaning against the threshold of the bathroom, arms crossed and a grin on her face.
“That's really exciting.” She said, cool as a fuckin' cucumber, Jesus fuckin’ christ, that woman.
Shoresy couldn’t help but pull toward her; she was just so magnetic.
“Ya know this things in Ottawa." He grinned as he met her at the bathroom door. He leaned against the wall to mirror her, “‘nother week it’s in Montreal. Figured maybe we could go together.”
“Yeah?”
“I could take you out for some big-city Korean food.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Brush up on my French. Ya thought I was cute now? Wait till I’m talkin’ all Quebecois like.”
“You’re adorable.”
He grinned like a maniac and, in the worst accent known to Canada, said, “J'accepterais volontiers un coup de pied dans les couilles d'un âne furieux, rien que pour avoir la chance de te brosser les cheveux.”
Laura bit her lip to keep from laughing. “I told you,” she moved past him, feigning apathy, “that kind of flirting doesn’t work on me since you told Wayne Gretzky you slam your nuts in an elevator door for a handshake.”
Shoresy followed her to bed. “Yeah, but you think I'm cute.”
She sighed, “I really do. You gonna get under the covers?”
“You ever just look at someone and you just wanna kick your feet and twirl your hair?”
Laura finally let herself laugh fondly. “Goodnight, Shoresy.”
🏒