Chapter Text
Yuna Hollander lived for perfection. Everything in its proper place, in its proper order.
She was a wife to a wonderful man, a mother to an amazing son. She was good at her job, and it was fulfilling beyond measure. Her life, the life she had built, was filled with all the regular day-to-day mundanity that anyone else had, but there was a bigger picture just on the horizon. A hockey dynasty built through her and David because of Shane, for Shane. And it was coming to fruition through her son's talent, dedication, and because of her perfect plan. This was why the past few years had been so content for her.
Smooth sailing, as the saying went.
It was 2018 and Shane had just finished his two weeks off, another silent retreat at his cottage, which was good, he deserved the rest. And Yuna was so glad that he asked for that, that Shane was getting better about asking for what he wanted. He had even told her about a charity he was thinking of starting. And now he was off to London to enjoy Wimbledon for a week, the Rolex sponsorship secured and maintained for another year. Montreal was looking good, she suspected there would be another cup in their future. And Shane, oh her Shane, looked happy. Happier than she had ever seen him. He seemed more relaxed? Comfortable? Confident? She wasn't going to question it too much, this summer was just the eye in the storm before the craziness of the season took over. She was just going to enjoy this moment where everything was as it should be.
Which was why a wrench was thrown into her perfect plans, or at least that what she would later suspect.
She was on the highway traveling back home, her backseat neatly packed, reusable bags stuffed to the brim half from the local farmer's market, half from the good Asian grocery store downtown. Even after almost ten years of Shane living out of the house, she couldn't break the habit of over shopping for a hockey kid's appetite. Not that Shane had ever been good about bulking for the season. But still, she had it all there, ready for him if he needed it. Gosh, he wasn't even home this week, but she had bought his favorite pears, just in case he drove down this weekend when he got back.
Yuna was humming along with a familiar song on the radio when an unknown number popped up on her car's dash. She never really got spam calls. The internet protection system that she had splurged on was too good, saving her from the annoyances she refused to deal with. Cars flew past her as she pulled off the highway and onto more familiar suburban streets lined with trees.
Yuna didn't think about it before accepting the call.
"Is this Yuna Hollander?" A voice called over the car's speakers.
"This is she."
"This is Terry Parker with the Ottawa Centaurs."
"Okay..."Yuna said.
The Ottawa Centaurs? Why was the Ottawa Centaurs calling her? Had she called in a favor for Shane so he could get some ice time when he came to visit? She normally used a smaller home rink, but maybe? But why would someone from the team itself be calling? And Terry. Terry Parker. The name rang a bell somewhere down the line of the memorized hockey personal she knew. But Parker wasn't their main staff or marketing team, he was physiotherapy or something else. Wasn't he?
"I'm calling to inform you that Ilya Rozanov got hit today at our optional practice. He's at the Ottawa University Hospital with a concussion and probably a few bruised ribs."
Rozanov. Why were they calling her about Rozanov? He had transferred to Ottawa a few months ago. Definitely the biggest upstart at the end of the season. She had always figured he would be a thorn in Shane's side for all eternity at Boston. It hadn't made sense when he had made the trade, asked for Ottawa specifically, if her insider gossip was correct. But what connection did the Ottawa team, did Rozanov, have to her?
Yuna clutched at the steering wheel and turned into a track of homes and pulled over. Hopefully this strange mistake of a call would be resolved, but she was not driving while it happened.
"Mr. Parker, I'm a little at a loss here," she said, fiddling at a loose piece of thread on her steering wheel. She would need to cut it off carefully so it wouldn't continue to unravel around the leather.
"Oh," surprise dotted the man's voice, "You're his emergency contact."
"His emergency contact."
Yuna knew those forms. She had helped Shane fill them out with Montreal, with every travel team he had ever been a part of, every youth camp, and every field trip. Her name listed first, then David, then her sister's.
"I mean I thought it was a bit strange, if you don't mind me saying, but there you were." There was a shuffle of papers as if Terry was looking for the paper on the other end of the line.
Yuna tried to piece this together. Was this a joke? Another way to get at Shane? But by the sound of Terry's voice, he didn't seem in on it. It seemed like a real call. Calling her to Rozanov's bedside at the hospital.
Paperwork was a formality. How her name got on said paperwork was another story.
Yuna knew hockey players. They never thought they were going to be injured. They had this strange, childish complex where they believed they were invincible. It was a trait Rozanov certainly had in buckets.The man would never assume he would ever get hurt. Why would he put her name on a form in the hopes of a prank down the line?
And how? How had the man gotten her number? Why would he have it, why did he track it down? Who did he get it from? Sure, there were probably a slew of people he could put them in contact with one another, the hockey world wasn't that large. It was too strange. Tracking her down seemed too labor intensive for just a prank that might or might not even happen.
There was only really one person who wouldn't require bureaucracy to hand over the number...
Her mind trailed off as more impossibilities spiraled out. She couldn't make sense of it. She didn't want to make sense of it. Yuna needed a plan. She needed to take this one step at a time.
"You said he was at Ottawa?"
"Yes in the neurology department. He's stable," Terry cut in as if thinking that was something she would care about.
"The main hospital?"
"There's no reason to worry. This call was just a formality." Terry paused, chuckling, "He also thinks he can drive home tomorrow, which we're trying to discourage him from."
Yuna pinched the bridge of her nose. She wasn't going to get any information without seeing the man himself. Yuna looked to her backseat calculating perishables and deciding she probably would need to run home first. "I'll head over in half an hour."
"Great, I'll call ahead and get you clearance."
"Thanks, “she said somewhat absently.
"I'm sure he'll really appreciate it. He's still adjusting here. I'm glad he has someone to rely on. We weren't sure, er," he said stalling as if not sure he should continue his ramble, "We weren't sure if he had anybody to watch out for him."
A memory flashed through Yuna. The fuzzy image of a tall stoic young adult, a boy really, standing ramrod straight next to a balding man. That was the first and last time she ever saw Ilya Rozanov with his father. He had passed last year, hadn't he? Did he have other family in Russia or otherwise? And now here he was in Canada, hours away from teammates who probably resented him. Far from any of the friends he had made, with maybe a month under his belt with a new team, a new city. A familiar feeling crept up Yuna's spine. An older memory she refused to process.
"Thanks again Terry," she said her voice filled with manufactured cheer before blipping off the call. Yuna Hollander put her head in her hands. What was she going to do? Yuna Hollander's life was categorized through calendar dates and spreadsheets and careful notes. Where was she supposed to put this. This, Ilya Rozanov was not in the plan.
***
Yuna peaked through the slightly ajar hospital door. There he was. Ilya Rozanov.
The man was asleep, thank God, his mouth slightly open. He looked younger in a way she hadn't seen since Shane's rookie season. Yuna hadn't realized how tightly Rozanov clenched his jaw in interviews. If she was in charge of his management, she would tell him to loosen his face a little, expand his image by softening his look. Why did he barley have any brand deals anyway? Well, it wasn't her problem.
Rozanov stirred, lips pressing into a thin line of pain, and the boy was gone again. Every chirp played across Yuna's mind like a VCR tape, play, stop, rewind, repeat. Ilya Rozanov was not just the rival to Shane Hollander, captain to the Boston Raiders, Ilya Rozanov was the instigator to the entire hockey world. He was the one who liked to get under every player’s skin. And nobody could argue against it because he was neck and neck with Shane every year in the point race. Again, his cockiness not always the best from a brand angle.
Yuna had already gotten the rundown with the doctor, all his personal medical details freely given to her as his emergency contact. Yuna had listened to it all, arms tight across her chest. Bruised ribs, sprained ankle, concussion. Would be skating again by the end of the month. Rozanov needed to stay at the hospital overnight, just to keep an eye out for internal brain bleeding, but was otherwise free to go in the morning, barring that he had someone to check on him every few hours. She knew the routine. He needed someone to keep him off the screens and off his ankle.
Bastard didn't even have the decency to get seriously injured and out of the start of the season. Not that it would matter much, not with Ottawa unfortunately. Ottawa was Shane's team, not hers. Would Shane still be secretly rooting for his hometown this next season with Rozanov on the roster? She hadn't asked him that yet. What else hadn't she been asking her son?
A nurse stepped around Yuna with a friendly nod and woke Rozanov working through the regular vitals checks. Yuna held back, feeling lost on the threshold. She didn't belong here. But she had been summoned just the same.
The nurse patted Rozanov's arm, "Any lightheaded-ness."
He shook his head. It was more a loll really, his eyes half-lidded as if he couldn't bear the fluorescent lighting.
"Don't fall asleep yet," the nurse said, "Someone's here to see you."
The young man didn't look, eyes already closing. He probably thought it was a teammate or his coach. Did he not care? But it was now or never, Yuna thought. She stepped into the room, the nurse pulling the door shut behind them.
"Good afternoon Mr. Rozanov," Yuna said.
Rozanov shot up in bed, eyes snapping onto Yuna. It was an intense gaze, but not the one she was used to. It was not the calculating look of a hockey player; it was something else entirely. Something Yuna refused to place.
"Um," his eyes flashed down to his hands and back up, "Hello, Mrs. Hollander."
Yuna felt herself close to laughing as she crossed the room, his eyes tracking her. Many people called her that, sure. But the intonation, the nervous blue eyes, it reminded her more so of a friend being brought home for a playmate. A kid speaking to a grown up not sure of the rules but still understanding he was supposed to make a good, polite impression on her.
"We've never officially introduced ourselves to each other," Yuna said. "I wasn't sure you knew who I was."
Rozanov cringed at her tone, but he held himself upright in bed, the same stiff posture she had seen all those years ago standing next to his father.
"I did not want to meet you like this." His accent was thicker than it had been in recent years, probably from the concussion, but the words were careful and sure. "Please, won't you sit down," he finished gesturing to the chair at his bedside.
"I think I want an explanation first."
His mouth pulled into a tight v as he bit his bottom lip inward. His entire body was clenched, but not in the same way Yuna had seen with her own son. Shane clenched up inwardly. He was a puppet with broken strings that didn't want you to know he couldn't hold himself up. Rozanov, the clenched fists, the straight posture, and his careful, sure eyes, this was the look of a dog who was waiting to see if he would be kicked.
Yuna didn't care. She wasn't going to back down. And anyway, she had seen this man on the ice. Rozanov could take a punch or two from her. She wasn't the threat here. Yuna leveled him with a stare. She could wait him out.
It didn't take long for him to break.
"You should not have been called. You did not need to come here."
"Then why was I your emergency contact." Yuna said it straight. David had said she was too blunt often enough. He was the one to soften her, to remind her to breathe, to tone down the intensity. Most of the time she appreciated it. But she also liked bluntness. It meant honesty. It meant she could fight for what she wanted without being coy. And right now, she wanted to get to the end of this conversation and be done with it. But something else, a sudden freezing fear was also inside her now, flipping her stomach. She wasn't sure she wanted to know the truth. Not really.
Rozanov sighed in defeat. "I'm sorry."
"Still doesn't answer my question."
He looked away, then back at her from the corner of his vision. His fists traveled up the blanket, pulling into his stomach. Why was he being so cagey about this? You know why, a little voice told her.
"I'm in new city. My friends are far away," a dark look passed over his face. "My manager is pissed at me right now. They did not want me here on this team." His next words came out like he was somehow pained by stating them, "I had no one else who lived here to put down."
"And you thought I would be appropriate," she leveled him with a raised eyebrow.
It came out in a rush then. "It was Shane's idea."
Shane. Not Hollander, not like he always referred to him in interviews or on the ice. It was Shane.
"I suggest you walk me through this one," Yuna said finally taking a seat, the squeak of the chair the only sound in the room. "If Shane and you are...friends. Why would he tell you to put me down and not himself."
There was a small cruel smile on the man's lips then. The posturing instigator was back, but Yuna could see the mask, and she could also see something else hiding behind that look. "You know why we could not do that."
We. We. The word rang clear in Yuna's mind. She wished she had a drink. A strong one.
She settled for a scoff. "Don't I bring up any questions?"
"My coach asked when I submitted. I told truth. Shane and I are starting a charity soon, you know this." He reached up, thumbed at a necklace chain tucked under his shirt. Yuna hadn't known Rozanov's involvement, Shane had left out that little detail. But she nodded her ascent as his questioning look.
"Sorry, this part is lie," he continued "I told my coach Shane put me in contact with you since I needed new management here. Relation to the signer. That is what forms like this say, yes? I put you down as manager. Shane seemed to think once he told you I needed help that there would be no stopping you from taking over."
Yuna couldn't help her outburst then. "You really think that after all of this, you antagonizing Shane for years, I would manage you?" The comment rang out like a slap across Rozanov's face. Was he really that surprised? Yuna was the one who was surprised. Rozanov friendly with her son? Getting ready to start a charity? A sinking feeling hit her. What else didn't she know about Shane?
A muscle ticked in Rozanov's jaw. She could see his eyes darkening then, closing off.
"I still don't understand," she said. She needed to get a handle on this. She could see he was close to shutting off entirely. And the biggest question was still sitting there between them.
Rozanov sighed, nostrils flaring out, "It is for Shane to say."
Oh.
Yuna nodded taking that in. The familiarity. That "we" came back to her mind. Yuna would not name this. Not out loud yet. But she knew. She understood. She nodded her acquiescence again. It was her turn to look away then.
"Look," Rovanov said, his voice quite but firm. "We are careful. We know how this...friendship looks. There are no photos, nothing on our phones, nothing to identify this."
Yuna tucked away the small part of herself that threatened to ache, instead she crossed her legs and leveled a stare at the man. "How long has this been going on? How long have you been keeping this."
Rozanov closed up again, "I will not explain this to you without him."
She didn't like this, not one bit. But Rozanov was firm in her protection of her son. She could tell that. It was for Shane to say. She could see why that was important. "I appreciate your stance Mr. Rozanov."
He softened, tension falling off his shoulders. They was no comradery not yet, but Yuna felt understanding pass between them. Yuna looked at her watch. It was already five. Ten in London. Sitting out in the sun all day, in all likelihood Shane was asleep already. She would have to wait till the morning to discuss this. But Yuna didn't really have to be told, did she.
"Ilya. Please call me Ilya."
"Ilya," she repeated.
They looked at one another shy and tentative. Ilya Rovanov. First draft pick, the same age as her son. The Boston Raider's star center. The instigator, the womanizer, the bad boy of hockey, trying hard not to lose his posture against his hospital pillows and fall back to sleep. A little bit of that unsure teenager was slipping back into focus.
"I'll let you rest," she said standing, "And I'll get you a change of clothes."
"Is not necessary. I will go home tomorrow."
"Well," she said a smile tugging at her lips, "Lucky for me, someone else drove you here. I'm guessing your car is still at the rink?"
"Is okay. I will call a ride share."
Yuna slipped the phone out of her back pocket and waved it at him. "Nurses gave me your wallet, keys, and phone when I came in."
A small smile settled on Ilya's lips. He accepted defeat by falling back into the pillows. She wanted to reach out, pat his knee. But a knot still tugged inside of her. This was a traitor, the man she hated. That her son hated. Or at least she thought he hated.
"Do you need address?" Ilya's said, his eyelashes fluttering with the heaviness of sleep.
She raised her eyebrows. "I've already spoken to your coach."
"Shane said you were sharp, tough."
"And I can also pack a hockey boy's bag. Done that enough times to count."
"Thank you," he said his voice gone completely soft.
Yuna felt herself stiffen. This was just too surreal. Too mundane.
"No problem," she said. But it wasn't true she could feel so many problems coming up to the surface. Yuna excused herself and made sure to shut the door softly behind her.
A phone buzzed in her pocket. A new text flashed across Ilya Rozanov's screen.
Jane: Goodnight❤️
Jane. Yuna bit at her bottom lip and slipped the phone back into her pocket.
We have been careful, Ilya had said. Jane. Shane. Something very small broke just under her rib cage turning into a chasm.
What was the plan now?