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i. June 17th, 1985 – Paris
Yuna, Leanne, and Marcie were on time to catch their train to Nice. Early, Marcie insisted as they sat in the station awaiting boarding, but Yuna felt that anything less than a half hour early was cutting it fine. After the debacle that saw them almost miss their ferry across the English Channel because Leanne got Portsmouth and Plymouth mixed up, Yuna had taken it upon herself to be in charge of keeping the group on schedule.
Missing a train would be disastrous, in Yuna’s opinion, because they only had two weeks in Europe before they returned to Montréal, where summer internships and real life awaited. She wanted to make the most out of this trip. This time next year, she’d be a university graduate and (hopefully) will have turned this summer’s 12-week internship with RBC into a job. This whirlwind tour with her girlfriends through England, France, and Italy was one of her last opportunities to experience being young and fun, and any unexpected change to their itinerary would throw her plans for fun off entirely!
“I still think you should have gone home with that Jacques guy,” Leanne was saying.
“His name was Jean, and he was, like, thirty,” Yuna said with a wrinkle of her nose. They sat on a bench in Gare de Lyon, twenty minutes ahead of boarding.
“So what? The point of travelling is to make connections with locals and fellow wanderers.” Marcie leaned forward. “A night with a sexy, older Frenchman? Sign me up!”
“We can get that in Montréal,” Leanne said. “Besides, I think Yuna’s still hung up on her hockey guy.”
“What?” Yuna snapped, but both girls at her side were grinning now.
“David Hollander,” Marcie sighed and mocked swooning.
“Shut up! I’ve talked to him, like, once!”
“After he spent an entire semester of Stats 340 staring at you!”
“He did not,” Yuna insisted, but she knew she was blushing. Marcie and Leanne exchanged a look. “Shut up!”
“Yuna, he’s totally into you. He almost tripped over himself when he saw you at that party.”
“I’m not dating a hockey player.”
“Why not?” Leanne insisted, grinning. “You’re the biggest Metros fan I know!” Yuna rolled her eyes.
“Hockey players are stupid. I could manage one, or be an agent, or run a powerplay better than Lavoie, but I could never date one.”
Marcie groaned. “You don’t have to marry him, Yuna. It’s the nineteen eighties. Women are liberated now! You can have a bit of fun with a strapping stay-at-home defenseman if you want, and then you can find someone serious in finance.”
“And Hollander seems sweet,” Leanne added. “He actually shows up to class, so he can’t be the stupidest guy on the team.”
“You only think he’s smart cause he’s got those glasses,” Yuna scoffed. She felt warm all over.
“Oh, my gosh, you’re blushing! You love his glasses, don’t you?”
“I’m going to the bathroom!” Yuna announced, standing up and willing her cheeks to cool down. She stormed away from her friends, who were both giggling.
David Hollander had indeed approached her at a party at the end of the semester. He’d been wearing the glasses which, okay, she did quite like. She had also liked the red ballcap he wore backwards and the way his sandy hair stuck out the sides of it. She’d cursed herself for already having a drink in her hand so that when he offered to get her a beer, they both looked at her full cup and blushed. He asked her how she thought the Stats final had gone, and then she asked him why his coach never changed up the power play formation, and then his teammate came and tugged him away and she lost track of him for the rest of the night.
Yuna entered the women’s bathroom still thinking of Hollander. It wasn’t like she was pining after a guy she barely knew or anything. He was handsome – so what? There were lots of handsome guys at McGill. But maybe she’d run into Hollander on campus in September and maybe he’d remember her and–
“Blyat!” The foreign curse and the clinking sounds of glass and metal stirred Yuna.
The girl at the mirror was Yuna’s age, maybe a little older, but she may as well have been a different species. She was tall and elegant, her legs in sheer pantyhose that disappeared into a white wool skirt that matched her blazer. Her perfectly coiffed hair was golden and her wide, bright eyes were rimmed with slightly smudged mascara. She’d been crying. Yuna felt like a child in her high-waisted jeans, hair pulled back with a scrunchie, beside this glamorous European goddess.
The girl’s makeup bag had spilled out onto the countertop. She scrambled to collect her things, knocking a tube of lipstick and a vial of perfume to the floor. The perfume shattered and the girl at the mirror squeezed her eyes shut in frustration. The scent was floral and sweet.
“Hey,” Yuna said, leaning down to pick up the lipstick and the small pieces of broken glass. She tossed the glass in the garbage bin and set the lipstick with the other makeup on the counter. “Are you okay?”
The beautiful girl–a model, surely–blinked at Yuna and then said something Yuna couldn’t understand. Russian, maybe. Definitely eastern European. “English?” Yuna nodded. The girl smiled. “I am no good. But is better than French for me.” She stuffed her powdered blush into her makeup bag. “Thank you. Sorry for mess.” She frowned down at the small puddle of perfume.
“It’s okay!” Yuna smiled. “Are you okay?”
“Is fine.” She forced a wider, toothier smile.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she said. “Just sad to leave Paris.”
“Me too! I love it here.” Yuna said. “Are you on vacation?”
“Like holiday? No. I had…,” the girl mumbled something in probably-Russian. “I do not know word. Dance trials.”
“Oh, like an audition!”
“Yes,” the girl looked down. “No good. Father said last try.”
“Aw, no!” Yuna cried. “Don’t give up. I bet you’re awesome.”
The other girl shook her head. “Is time to go back to Moscow and be married. Father and mother have it all arranged.” She grimaced. “He is…” Yuna didn’t need a translation to know what that facial expression meant.
“You should stay,” Yuna said. “Just don’t go back. Stay and dance. It’ll all work out!” It’ll all work out was not Yuna’s usual approach to life, but she meant it this time.
An announcement came through on the scratchy intercom and the girl at the sink sighed. “Is my train.” She gave Yuna a look of resignation. “Thank you again. Friendly American.”
“Canadian,” Yuna corrected as the girl walked out. She paused at the door and left Yuna with a warm smile.
Yuna looked at herself in the mirror. She was envious of the elegance and beauty she’d just witnessed and she was relieved to not be pressured into marriage so young and to be allowed to pursue her dreams, even if her dreams were to work at a bank and maybe settle down and start a family one day. And maybe one night with David Hollander and his glasses.
She frowned at her reflection. She should go after the girl and get her name and address, in case she ever left the USSR for good and wanted a contact in Canada. This was the sort of connection Leanne and Marcie had been going on about. This was what made travelling special. At very least, Yuna could tell the girl that she didn’t have to get married. It was the nineteen eighties! Women were liberated!
Yuna left the bathroom and looked around, but the other girl was gone. The speaker system crackled again. The train to Nice was about to start boarding.
ii. March 4th, 2000 – Ottawa
Sveta and her mother did not usually get to watch Papa play on the road. She’d been to countless home games in Boston, but this trip up to Canada was a treat. Mama said that one of the Ottawa Centaurs was a friend of Papa’s from home, and they would all go out for a special dinner the following night.
She hoped there would be sushi at the special dinner with the Russian Centaur. Sveta liked sushi more than traditional Russian food. Maybe there would be kids at the dinner the next evening. It would be nice to have some more friends back in Moscow, where she spent her summers. Ilya was devoting more and more time to the hockey rink and she sometimes got bored watching him practice trick shots on an empty net. When her father retired at the end of this season, she would be living in Moscow full-time and would need friends who weren’t unruly hockey boys with messy hair.
Tonight, though, she stood at the glass during warm-up in her VETROV 18 jersey and watched her father turn away friendly fire from his teammates. He waved at her and she giggled and waved back. The Ottawa arena was newer than the one in Boston, but there were fewer banners in the rafters.
“Mom, I want to watch the Cens!” A little boy in a Montréal Metros jersey of all things sidled up a few feet from Sveta and her mother. Sveta knew that Montréal was Boston’s biggest rival, so she had no idea why the boy and his mother were standing at the Raiders’ end of the ice for warmups.
“Shane, I just want to show you– look, there he is.” The boy’s mother pointed at Danny, one of Papa’s teammates. “Daniel Preston is half Chinese!” The Metros boy looked up at his mother, apparently bored, but she was watching Danny with keen interest.
“Who cares if he’s Chinese? We’re not even Chinese. And I thought you hated Boston!”
“I don’t hate anyone, Shane. Hate is a big word.”
“You say it all the time.” The boy was now watching Danny, too, though. Sveta looked over at him properly. He was cute, for a boy in a Metros jersey at a Centaurs-Raiders game. His mother was blinking a lot, like she might cry for some reason.
“Sveta,” Mama said in Russian. “Time to go to our seats. We will sit with Marya and her daughters tonight!” Sveta waved once more to her father and followed her mother up the concrete stairs.
iii. December 28th, 2009 – Ottawa
David left his son in the hotel lobby, satisfied that Shane was feeling confident and focused for the following afternoon’s match-up against Finland. It was a treat for the Hollanders that the World Juniors were being held in Ottawa this year, though it was odd for Shane to be staying at the Marriott instead of at home. He imagined it felt like the highest-pressure staycation ever for Shane, though the boy had been nothing but stoic just now as they’d each enjoyed a turkey club.
The hotel happened to be only a few blocks from his office, so David had enjoyed an off-day lunch with his son, who was looking and acting more and more like a grown man every day. He was broad and tall and calm under pressure, poised to lead Team Canada to gold. This time next year, his shoulders would be carrying the weight of expectations of the entire city of Montreal. No big deal.
David exited the hotel and his cheeks were immediately met with a midwinter wind. It was chilly outside. He held the door for an approaching figure.
Okay, so maybe compared to Ilya Rozanov, Shane didn’t look quite so grown up. The Russian boy was both taller and wider than David’s son, and the way he flicked his cigarette away as he stepped toward the hotel entrance gave David the impression that he’d been smoking for a long time. Silly habit if he wanted to be the best hockey player he could be.
Russia had beaten the Americans last night, but Rozanov did not look happy. He was frowning at the pavement when he reached David and nodded. He said something that was surely ‘thanks’ in Russian, and David smiled.
“Nice game last night!” David said cordially. Rozanov turned and frowned, eyes flicking briefly toward the maple leaf embroidered onto David’s toque.
“Sorry?” His accent was thick. David felt bad. Maybe Rozanov spoke less English than he realized, and he had just confused the kid.
“Against the states,” David said. “You played well.” It felt like the polite thing to say when you saw a teenager looking so sullen. Besides, even if Rozanov seemed a bit of a hothead, if there was one kid in this tournament who might be able to relate to the pressure Shane was feeling, it was this guy. Rozanov blinked at him.
“Thank you,” he said with a bit of apprehension. “But… overtime. We got lucky.”
“Nah, you outplayed them,” David smiled. “But you boys have no chance at beating Canada this year.” He chuckled and waved half-heartedly as he left, unsure if Rozanov would take the light ribbing well or not. The walk back to the office was chilly, but David was buoyed by the time with his son, and the sense that Shane was going to win his country a gold medal this year and send Rozanov home crying into his cigarettes.
iv. November 12th, 2014 – Los Angeles
Rose was pretty sure that Xander was more interested in her co-star, Luke, than he was in her. Luke was straight and cheating on his long-term girlfriend, Viv, with their other co-star, Petra, so there was little chance of Xander getting what he wanted. And zero chance of Rose getting what she wanted. She’d really thought Xander had potential!
They’d been out three times, and each time, Xander had suggested doing a ‘group hang’ with her colleagues. He was a personal trainer, so he asked her for details about Luke’s workout routine, insisting that she should pass his number along to Luke, just in case he wanted some tips.
Xander, Luke and Petra had blown her off tonight, which Rose couldn’t bring herself to be upset about. The club was more fun with her hair and make-up girls, anyway.
They danced and drank and Rose forgot all about Xander. She was having a great night, grinding up against her friends and handsome strangers. She felt a hand on her hip and she leaned back into a solid torso. The club was dark, but when she glanced up and back at him, she could tell he was hot.
Before Rose could turn around and get a proper look at her suitor, his phone buzzed in his front pocket and he pulled it out. Rose couldn’t help but let out a noise of indignation as his hips stilled and he opened up the messages right in front of her. He either didn’t hear her or didn’t notice.
Jane: You’re probably busy in some LA club but Hayden’s hurt and didn’t come on the trip.
Jane: Which means I’ve got the room to myself and Raleigh is boring..
Jane: And I’d like to come on this trip. Haha.
Rose’s bottom lip fell in shock. The fingers not gripping her hip typed out a ‘give me 20 mins.’ She turned to shove the man away tell him to go fuck himself, but he had already let go and left, tucking his phone in his back pocket as he slipped away. His silky white shirt disappeared into the crowd.
What was wrong with people!? Was every guy on the planet either gay or a total douchebag, or both? Poor Hayden, being cheated on by Jane. Poor Viv, being cheated on by Luke. Poor Rose, being strung along by Xander and danced with by some jerk! She stormed over to the bar and demanded a shot of tequila. She was sick of LA guys and wannabe movie stars and sleazeballs who would rather sext ‘Jane’ in Raleigh than dance with Rose fucking Landry! Somewhere out there, there was a man who wouldn’t let her down. Right?!
v. January 15th, 2020 – Toronto
Jessica’s friends had been thrilled when half of the Ottawa Centaurs’ roster had walked into the bar. She got it– hockey players are hot! It’s just that you kind of get over the fantasy of dating a hockey boy when he dumps you as soon as he’s drafted into the big leagues.
She didn’t begrudge Shane, really. He was a nice boyfriend, far more respectful than the ones she’d had since. A little too respectful, if she was honest. But he had been sweet and polite and her mother still tutted when she saw him on TV. “He could have been my son-in-law,” she’d say. “You’d have had such gorgeous children, Jessica.”
“Jess!” Demi called, dragging a smiling Centaur with her. “This is Nick! He and his friends just beat the Guardians in a shootout.” Demi beamed with pride at this accomplishment.
“Hi, Nick,” Jessica nodded. She didn’t know who Nick was. He was not a good enough player for her to have heard his name. Honestly, the only Centaur that she was really aware of was–
“Rozanov!” Nick cried, grabbing the arm of his passing teammate and tugging him into their conversation. “This is Demitria and her friend Jessica.”
“Wow,” Demi said. “You nailed the pronunciation, Nick.” They stumbled together back toward the crowd, half kissing and half dancing.
“Yikes,” Jessica said. Rozanov looked at her.
“She is okay?”
“What?”
“Your friend. She is not too drunk, yes?” Jessica stared at him. Rozanov looked between her and the Nick-Demi makeout that was happening in front of the entire bar. “Nick is good guy. But I can take him home if you think–”
“Oh, God, no this is the best day of her life!” Jessica laughed. “Are you kidding? Making out with an NHLer is, like, a dream come true.” Rozanov raised his eyebrows and shifted slightly away from her. “Ew, no.”
“Ew!?” Rozanov laughed. “Wait, I am ‘ew’?” He stabbed a finger to his chest, mouth agape.
“No, you’re hot. Obviously,” Jessica said. "I just am so not interested in getting involved with a hockey player ever again. Even for the night, which I think is how long you tend to keep anyone around, eh?”
Rozanov’s eyebrows went even higher. “Wow,” he said. “Okay.” He said the word funny, like ‘okie’. It was pretty cute, Jessica had to admit.
“No offense.”
“I take none. I am actually in very serious relationship, so you do not have to worry.”
“Uh huh,” Jessica said.
“What do you mean, ‘uh huh’?”
“I mean, lots of hockey players are in serious relationships and that doesn’t stop them.” Jessica looked at him. “And you’re kind of notorious.” Rozanov’s smile appeared both pleased and guilty.
“I have been tamed,” he shrugged. “Is this why you don’t want to be involved again with a hockey player? He was a cheat?” Jessica snorted into her drink.
“God, no, he was just more interested in hockey than he was in me. We were teenagers and so not meant to be together, but no, Shane was not sneaking around behind my ba–”
“Shane?” Rozanov asked, eyes wide. “Shane who?” Jessica grinned and nodded. Sue her, she had Ilya Rozanov staring at her. There was no chance in hell she’d go home with him, but she could bask in the glow of a stupidly hot NHL superstar’s rapt attention for a few minutes.
“Yep. That one.”
“No.”
“His first, I’ll have you know. I sort of feel like I should get the Order of Canada for that, right?” Rozanov was staring at her in awe, the way everyone did when she revealed to them that she and Shane Hollander had lost their virginity to each other. His lips opened and closed a couple of times like a fish.
“You are serious.”
“I wouldn’t lie about that!” Jessica said.
“How was he?”
“Not your business!” Jessica shook her head. The answer was ‘not great’ but Shane had always been respectful and well-meaning in their physical efforts together. She didn’t want to go around bad mouthing him to his arch-rival.
“Bad, then.” Rozanov’s hand came up to cover his mouth. He looked gleeful.
“He was good, actually,” Jessica snapped. “Really gentle and confident. You’ve seen how soft his hands are on the ice.” Rozanov scoffed.
“Okay.”
“I mean it.”
“I do not believe you.”
“Whatever,” Jessica said, though she pulled Facebook up on her phone and scrolled through her photos. “Here, look.”
It was a photo taken before spring formal. Shane’s hair was swept to the side, the remnants of a playoff bleach job marred by his dark roots. His smile was flat and unconvincing. She remembered his parents telling him to smile more from behind the camera. Jessica’s hair had been curled and pinned back and her dress had rhinestones on the straps. She remembered hoping that the sex would be magical that night, but Shane had left her with only a brief and sloppy kiss in the car before he dropped her off home. They broke up weeks later.
Rozanov grabbed at her phone. He swore in Russian. “He is blond?” Blond was a strong word for Shane’s burnt, crisp hair.
“It was for the playoffs.” It was some junior hockey thing. Shane complained about it because it had taken multiple goes with the bleach for the colour to appear remotely yellow atop his jet black hair.
“Will you send me this?” Rozanov sounded downright ecstatic.
“No!” Jessica snatched her phone back.
“Please. I need this photo.” Rozanov actually clasped his hands together, begging. “Did he win prom king?”
“There was no prom king. It was just a school dance.”
“I did not think Shane could dance,” Rozanov beamed. “I will tease Hollander about this next time we play Montreal. Thank you, Jessica.”
“Don’t!” She cried. “I don’t want Shane thinking I go around gossiping about him.”
“No, it is fine.” Rozanov waved a hand at her. “Is not gossip if you are saying he is good in bed and can dance and you show everyone adorable pictures. He will be happy, I think.” He chuckled to himself. “Prom king.”
“He wasn’t prom king!” Jessica reiterated. “And I mean it, don’t use any of this as chirping material. Shane’s a decent guy.” God. She shouldn’t have said anything, let alone to Ilya Rozanov of all people.
“Okay, okay. Promise.” He held a hand to his heart. “I will not use any of this as chirping material on the ice against Montreal.”
When Jessica left the bar, she spotted Rozanov tucked away in a corner with the phone to his ear, a wide grin across his face as he spoke. She hoped that he would keep his word and not poke fun at Shane. Unceremonial dumping aside, he didn’t deserve to have his ex-lovers spilling secrets to his rivals. Besides, she’d heard a few rumours from friends of friends about Shane that she definitely didn’t want Rozanov to catch wind of. Jessica hoped, if Rozanov said anything to anyone, that her insistence that Shane had been a good fuck would help him keep any secrets he wanted kept.
vi. May 18th, 2026 – Copenhagen
The store Natalya and her friends poked through was nearly indistinguishable from the other souvenir shops they'd already browsed. There were rows of little mermaid statuettes and bicycle-shaped magnets and handheld Danish flags.
Their chaperoning professor had given them an afternoon of freedom to shop around in the blocks surrounding the hotel where the class was staying. It was a nice hotel, because Natalya went to a nice school, because her uncle’s trust could pay for it.
The Scandinavian class trip wasn’t the most exotic one offered by the school. Some of her friends had gone to Japan last year, and the boy’s soccer team had toured through Italy. But Natalya was happy with her choice. Stockholm and Copenhagen were chock full of excellent thrift stores and quirky museums. Even the history tours they did as a class were pretty interesting.
Olga and Mila were debating what to bring back to Moscow for their boyfriends and Natalya drifted further into the store. She didn’t want to bring anything back for her father. He was an asshole and he had no interest in trinkets or Denmark. Her mother might like a snowglobe, but when Natalya picked one up to check the price, she had to stop herself from gasping aloud. Scandinavia was cool, but shit, it was expensive. Maybe she’d come back here when she turned eighteen and gained access to the trust from her uncle that currently paid for her schooling. She could buy snowglobes for everyone she knew, then, and maybe even go to university here in Copenhagen. London, too, she liked the sound of. She even sometimes considered America or Canada. She’d be free. She’d still go back, of course, to see her mother. But she could handle Christmases in Moscow if the rest of her year was elsewhere, far away from her controlling father and their sad little house.
“What about this?” Across the table of trinkets, a man was lifting up a book about vikings. He was handsome and familiar, and for a moment Natalya thought that he might be an actor, and then it hit her.
Shane Hollander wore a Team Canada vest. His cheeks were dotted with freckles and there was the slightest hint of grey in the hair of one of his temples. Natalya stared at her… what was he? Her uncle, she realized. By marriage, sure, but still her uncle. It was only when the other voice responded that she realized who he was with.
“Ah, yes, Arthur will love this.” Ilya said.
Natalya had seen photographs of him over the years. She checked in on his Instagram frequently, though she had never been brave enough to hit the follow button. He looked much the same as he had the last time she’d seen him in person. A scar from a high-stick to the chin. A few more wrinkles from years of smiling. There was a splint on his left arm–he was only in Copenhagen to watch his husband play in the World Championships. She’d seen banners up for the tournament around town all weekend, but the chance of this had not crossed her mind.
“What about for the twins?” Shane Hollander said, frowning about this apparently huge decision. “Ruby might like a copy of the Andersen stories, but I don’t know about Jade.” Natalya watched in awe at the ease with which her uncle Ilya tucked himself beside Shane Hollander and inspected the copy of the Hans Christian Andersen fairy tales that a girl named Ruby might like. Did he used to do this for her, before he left forever? Spend time in Boston toy stores picking out gifts for her?
“We will find something else for Jade,” Ilya said. “Didn’t she say she wanted a knitted balaclava? Apparently the Danes are best at this.” Shane hummed.
“Talya, let’s go!” Olga said loudly in Russian, Mila at her side by the shop’s door. “There is nothing good for Misha here, we are going next door.”
Ilya looked up at the Russian. So did Shane. Did he speak Russian? Both men smiled at the girls by the door and then at each other. “Comrades!” Ilya said quietly.
“You go ahead,” Natalya called. “I’ll be five minutes.”
“Professor said not to split up,” Mila said with a frown, but Olga was rolling her eyes and tugging her away, telling Natalya that they’d see her soon. When her friends were gone, Natalya looked back to her uncle, who was now staring at her. His eyes raked her face, disbelieving.
“Hello,” she said, tears springing to her eyes before she could stop them. "Uncle Ilya?"
“Natalya? Little baby Talya?” Her name was so familiar from his lips that it almost took her breath away. She had been five, maybe six the last time she had seen him the day of her grandfather’s funeral. Ilya used to pick her up and swing her around and sing pop songs gently to her like they were nursery rhymes. She nodded. “No. You are too tall.” He looked close to crying, too, as he smiled at her in shock.
“Natalya?” Shane Hollander said, looking between them as Ilya stepped around the table and swept Natalya into an impossibly tight hug. “Your niece Natalya?”
“Yes, I am your niece,” Natalya nodded and smiled at Shane when Ilya finally let her go and stepped back with a sniffle. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Hollander.”
“Hollander-Rozanov,” Ilya corrected her as his husband said, “Shane.”