Chapter Text
October 2021
Monk’s was unusually quiet, even for a Wednesday evening, and Alex was sitting across from Rozanov in a booth in the main dining room, one half-drained bottle of beer on the table in front of each of them. The upbeat new Olivia Rodrigo song was playing from the speakers overhead, but the music hadn’t made a dent in the foul mood hovering over their table.
On Alex’s part, a run-in with her Barnburner colleagues had her reeling, even from way up here in Ottawa. “Sorry, I’m not very good company right now,” Alex said, taking a sip from her bottle. She pushed her glasses down her nose, then up again.
Rozanov shook his head. “Is okay. I am no better.”
It wasn’t hard to figure out where the mood had come from on Rozanov’s part, either. The backlash against their outing in March had finally started dying down toward the end of the summer, once there was finally nothing left to say about a wedding that hadn’t counted any journalists or homophobic idiots among the attendees. But now that the season had started and the hockey world was confronted by a couple of married men playing for the MLH in matching jerseys, it had returned full force.
“Steph has this thing where sometimes you can let the air out of a bad mood by just getting one bullshit thing off your chest. Maybe we could try that and then we'd both cheer up?”
“Okay.”
“You first.” Alex adjusted her glasses.
Rozanov’s mouth pressed into a line. He thought for a moment, then shook his head. “For me is not just one thing, though. Like, every ‘one thing’ is small and stupid. But if I take them all together they are—” He held his arms out wide to show the expanse of it. He blew out a sigh through puffed cheeks.
Alex gave him a sympathetic nod. He had a point. Just in the last few days, it probably would have been a tossup between one of Hollander’s former teammates saying he wasn’t missed in the Metros locker room, and Fred Campbell referring on-air to the online conversation about whether Rozanov and Hollander’s two-week benching had been sufficient disciplinary action.
“What is your ‘one thing’?” he asked her.
For Alex the choice couldn’t have been clearer. “Have you been following the allegations of sexual assault at the 2019 Prospect Cup?”
“A little. There is something new?”
“No, but my colleagues at Barnburner were making jokes about it in our fucking group chat earlier today. I don’t want to repeat what they said, but trust me, it was pretty terrible.”
Rozanov’s eyes darkened. “Mm. Not good.”
“Like, they all know they have precisely one female colleague, and they know I’m in the chat even if I don’t say anything. But it doesn’t stop them.”
“Your colleagues suck, Alexandra Chernenko,” Rozanov offered.
“Mostly, yeah,” Alex admitted. She fidgeted with her beer bottle, running the heel over the surface of the table, tracing a circle. “But the worst part isn’t even anything they said, it’s that I know they’re just being, you know, hockey bros? You and I both know there are worse things being said in locker rooms across the MLH. Anyway, don’t mind me. Stuff like this just always makes me kind of hate everything and everyone for a while.”
“Yes. I understand this.”
“Why do I still love this sport so much, Rozanov? It’s sure not because of the paycheque.” She aimed an index finger at him. “Maybe that’s your excuse, though.”
“It does not hurt.” He angled the heel of his bottle at her.
Alex sniffed out a laugh. “I bet.”
His eyes landed on the table, then slid back up. “Is fun,” he said with a shrug. “Despite everything? Hockey is fun. I would miss it if it—” He made a sweeping gesture with his left hand, followed it with his eyes. “Was over.” He hid his grimace behind his bottle, took a drink.
A little pang of sympathy rang through Alex. It still seemed deeply unlikely that it would ever come to that—they were Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander, after all—but she had certainly been unpleasantly surprised by the hockey world more times than she could count this year.
For a long moment they both just sat, listening to the music and to the quiet snatches of conversation from the other tables. Rozanov was turning the beer bottle over and over in his hand, looking hard at it, as if he could glean something from it.
“I have good memories of Prospect Cup,” he said, finally. He took another drink.
Alex rolled her eyes. “Yeah, well, sorry to ruin your happy on-ice memories by talking about some of the bullshit that goes on behind the scenes.”
He didn’t respond to that. “Is where I met Shane, Prospect Cup,” he said instead. “Off-ice.” He was staring now, not at Alex but beyond her, at the air somewhere in the middle of the room. A little smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
“That doesn’t make up for—” The significance of that look came to Alex suddenly: a jolt that made her sit up straight. “Wait. What are you saying?”
His gaze snagged on Alex’s, held it. He raised an eyebrow.
In all their conversations over the past few months, Rozanov had never once talked about the tabloid elephant in the room, and when Alex had asked explicitly about their relationship timeline in the context of their sit-down interview for Barnburner over the summer, Hollander had quickly headed her off at the pass by saying that they’d decided to keep their early history private. “In—in 2008?”
“Mm.” He lifted his chin, kept his eyes on Alex.
“You were seventeen,” Alex said. “Both of you.”
“Yes.”
“Wow.” Alex had been that age then, too, and in her last year of high school in Ottawa. She’d barely started dreaming about working in sports journalism. “I was only half-paying attention then, but I definitely remember that the hockey world was all over the two generational talents in the same draft class.”
“Yes, everyone was curious about us. We were also curious.” His little smile spread into a grin.
Alex blinked. “Holy fuck, Rozanov.”
He started to laugh: little breathy chuckles. There wasn’t even a hint of embarrassment in his eyes.
Alex shook her head. “The International Prospect Federation would freak if they knew this. You know that, right? Bet they’d find it more horrifying than the sexual assault, too.”
Rozanov wagged a finger at her. “Was not what you are thinking, yes? We just shook hands. Talked. Chirped, a little bit.” Then he rolled his eyes. “But…was mostly what you are thinking. A year or so later.”
“When I was that age, I was still trying to convince myself I was straight.” Alex let out a tight breath through pursed lips. “God, that must have been so messy.”
“In the beginning, was just exciting. Was ‘messy’ only later.” He shrugged. “For me, at least. Shane maybe found it messy.”
“My god. I sure wasn’t kidding when I wrote that you two have known each other for a long time.”
“Mm.”
The unexpected gift of a confidence settled into Alex, making her feel lighter. She could still feel the bad mood’s grip on the back of her neck, but something had already started loosening, like a post-sleep stiffness that just needed to be stretched out with a few slow rolls of her shoulders.
“Hey, can I ask you a question?” she found herself asking. She straightened her glasses and gave her hair a quick scrunch. “Not for work, just for me.” She patted her bag. “My phone’s put away.”
“Yes,” Rozanov said, without even a beat of hesitation.
This was something that had gnawed at her for years now, but it seemed like the time had come to ask. “Back when I interviewed you about your decision to leave Boston and sign with Ottawa, I had the impression that you were disappointed in me for not figuring out why.”
“Oh?” There was a little twitch of surprise between his eyebrows.
“Of course, whenever I thought about it at all rationally, that sounded, you know, crazy. But I couldn’t shake the feeling.”
Alex watched his face, but he wasn’t giving anything away. “Hm,” he said.
“I was disappointed in myself for not being able to figure it out, too,” Alex admitted. “So it was easy to convince myself that I had to be projecting. But now that I know you a little, the idea feels…less crazy, if you know what I mean. So I have to ask. Were you disappointed? Do you remember anything about this?”
Alex left a space for him to respond, but he just sat there, his eyes lifted to the ceiling, like he was sifting through the memories. “I don’t remember what I felt that day,” he said finally. “But I remember what I felt, in general. During that time.”
The silence returned, and Alex let it grow. The bar was playing some piano ballad now, and Alex’s skin was crawling with questions, but she just waited. Listened.
Rozanov took another drink, brought the bottle back down to rest on the table. “Before Scott Hunter, I thought: Shane and me, we can’t have anything. Just—” He waved his hand in the space between them. “Too impossible. Then Hunter did what he did, and I saw it differently. We both did. You know this, yes?”
“Yes.” This was well-worn ground for them, bits of history that had already appeared under Alex’s byline.
“We made a plan,” he continued. “Or…Shane made a plan, I said yes. I will leave Boston and come play in Ottawa. You know this. And we will make a charity. ‘Change the narrative’ so if people see us together they will not just talk about how weird this is because we hate each other. We didn’t tell you this part exactly because—” He gestured again in the air between them: a little circular motion. “But I think you know this too?”
“Right.” They definitely wouldn’t have wanted her to publish that there had been any reason to found their joint charity beyond a good old-fashioned desire to give back to the community.
Rozanov drew in a long breath. “Last thing was: we will hide until we retire.”
Alex’s eyes widened. “Whoa.”
He gave his head a little shake. “I thought: if I can be with Shane, I will do all these things. No problem. It sounded easy. For years, we could not be anything. I thought: this will be so much easier.”
“But it wasn’t,” Alex said. “Wasn’t easier.” She remembered how it had been suddenly so much harder to be away from Steph after deciding to make things real, and there hadn’t even been a closet involved.
He gave her a sharp nod of confirmation. “The last year in Boston was…” He pushed out a little sniff of a breath. So hard. Even after I came to Ottawa, it felt bad. Like—like the secret was so heavy it will crush me.”
Something twisted in Alex’s chest: a little quiver of emotion winding through her ribs. Intellectually she’d known all along how difficult it must have been to try to build a life while keeping a relationship secret, but it still hit hard to hear him talk about it. “Closets are for clothes.”
Rozanov’s mouth turned up, just a little. “Yes.” Then his smile flattened. “And also for me, for many years. That wasn’t Shane’s fault.” He shook his head. “Anyway. Shane was mostly fine, I was mostly not fine. But I said yes to this plan. So I mostly said nothing.”
Alex and Steph had joked a lot back then about how miserable he’d always looked on the ice, assuming it had been about losing. “That sounds awful.”
He didn’t respond to that, but she could see him swallow. “Many times I thought: I can’t tell anyone. But if someone else tells, it’s okay. Like maybe…a journalist.” Their eyes met.
That made a fucked-up sort of sense. “I see,” Alex breathed.
“So…I don’t know what I thought when we talked in that coffee shop in Boston.” He raised one shoulder in a stiff shrug. “But maybe it was this.”
“It’s funny, that’s kind of how it did end up happening in the end. Not a journalist, but still someone else.”
He gave her a little smirk. “Yes. Was very funny.”
Plenty of people had found the whole thing funny, but Alex hadn’t imagined either of the guys had. “You weren’t secretly Brad, were you?” she asked.
“No,” he said, grinning now. “I like this idea, though.”
They both laughed, just a little. Alex felt her shoulders relax the rest of the way, finally sliding back into the spots where shoulders are supposed to go.
“Shane was—he was not okay, after,” Rozanov said quietly. “And I would not hurt him like this. But I was fine. More than fine. Inside, I was relieved. Excited.”
“Then I’m extra sorry I didn’t figure it out. Back in that Boston coffee shop, I mean.” Alex looked up at the ceiling, a little quiver of embarrassment running through her. “Instead of spinning my wheels for three years, only to feel like a dumbass in the end.”
“Ah, but you would never tell, if you learned something like this. I know this about you now. So that would be no good anyway.”
“I guess that’s true,” Alex said with a shrug. “Thank you for telling me all this now, though.” She meant it. He could easily have laughed off her ridiculous question, but he’d taken it seriously.
He nodded. “Is good to talk about it, finally.”
Alex wasn’t sure what time it was, but she had a half-finished preview of the upcoming game sitting on her laptop, and it was calling to her. “I guess I should probably get going.”
Rozanov tapped his phone, glanced at it, made a little face. “Yes. Same.” He drained the rest of his beer, set the bottle on the table. He stood, grabbed his coat. “Tell your colleagues they suck.”
“I won’t be doing that, but I appreciate the sentiment.” She tilted her head at him. “If I don’t see you before then, good luck against Philly, eh?”
He pulled his arm through one sleeve of his coat. “Pff, good luck wishes are worth nothing. You should wear a Cens jersey, bring us real luck. Maybe one with Rozanov.” He winked at her.
Alex shot him a weary look. “I won’t be doing that either, Rozanov. I don’t own any players’ jerseys.”
“Yes, yes, you are a journalist.” He rolled his eyes. “Very professional.”
“I mean, I’ll be cheering for the Centaurs inside my head, at least?” She planted her elbows on the table, steepled her fingers. “But only because a win is always a whole lot more fun to write about.”
“I will settle for this,” he said, buttoning his coat. He headed for the door.
“Get some sleep,” Alex called out after him. “And no overtime, okay?”
He looked back, gave her a little salute.
Alex finished the last of her beer. She pushed her glasses up her nose, stood, grabbed her coat.
“Chernenko.” It was a woman’s voice from behind her, familiar.
Alex turned to face her. It was Tracy Tremblay, the Centaurs’ current beat reporter at the Ottawa Citizen, alongside a half dozen other roles. She was around fifty, and she was wearing a green wool coat.
“Hi,” Alex said.
“You heading out?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Let me walk you to your car.”
Alex felt a pinch of tension between her eyebrows. This was random. They were colleagues, sure, but not really walking-each-other-to-the-car colleagues. “Okay.”
Alex grabbed her bag and pulled her coat on as they headed for the door together. Tremblay had been working at the Citizen since Alex had been in elementary school. She’d even come to speak to a class that Alex had taken, back when Alex had been a journalism student at Carleton and Tremblay’s shoulder-length hair had been more dirty blonde than grey. Though Alex wasn’t sure Tremblay would remember that.
The night was crisp, with just a few flakes of snow in the air, as if fall was beginning to give up the ghost and let winter trample all over it. A steady stream of headlights made their way down the main road beyond the parking lot, and a cold gust of wind hit Alex in the face with surprising force. She’d grown up here, but she’d lived in New York long enough now that she still had trouble making herself remember to pack a toque in October.
Alex pointed herself toward the SUV that Dad always loaned her when she was in Ottawa, and Tremblay followed, keeping pace. “So. You two were looking cozy,” Tremblay said.
It took Alex a moment to realize what Tremblay was even saying. What the fuck? Alex stopped walking. “Me and Rozanov?”
Tremblay came to a stop as well, stood in front of her. “Yeah.” She had at least three inches on Alex, and Alex was suddenly feeling all of them.
“Uh, he’s married?” Alex’s voice was high, pinched.
Tremblay’s expression was unreadable. A car pulled slowly past them through the parking lot and out onto the road.
“Kind of famously, even?” Alex’s hands clenched into fists at her sides. “Also, you might remember that I’m a lesbian.”
Tremblay rolled her eyes. “Cool it, Chernenko, I’m trying to help you.”
Alex glared at her. Another gust of wind singed her ears, and she hunched down into the collar of her coat.
Tremblay’s expression was annoyingly neutral. “The kind of story you wrote about them over the summer can be especially intense. They had to put their trust in you, and you had to earn it. Working on something like that together is the kind of thing that can make your relationship feel almost like a friendship. But you can’t actually be his friend.”
It hit Alex like a slap. She gave her head a shake. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Wasn’t it?”
“I mean, we get along. We’re the same age, and we both love hockey. And yeah, we started getting to know each other when I wrote that piece about them over the summer. But just now? That was just, you know, shooting the shit.”
“Oh yeah?” Tremblay folded her arms. “What were you talking about?”
A jolt of electricity shot through Alex, head to toe, and her mental map started rearranging itself. She rifled through her memories of the conversation with Rozanov, traced it back through to the beginning. The realization settled across her shoulders: neither of them had talked about anything at all that she could share. Suddenly Alex couldn’t feel her own face, and it wasn’t just because of the wind.
“You don’t have to answer that question. But if you can’t tell me what you were talking about because it was the kind of thing he would only share with a friend, then you need to spend some time thinking about where this relationship might already be heading.”
Alex flinched. “I’m a journalist,” she said, her voice sharp, shooting sideways at Tremblay through the night air.
“I know you are,” Tremblay said with a nod of confirmation. “And don’t get me wrong, you can be his friend and still be a journalist. But you can’t be his friend if you want to cover his team.”
There was nothing Alex wanted more. She’d already wanted the beat with an intensity that had scared her when she’d asked Larry for it, and she wanted it even more now after watching them play for a few weeks. “I want to cover the Centaurs,” Alex said.
“Glad to hear it.”
“There’s so much to say about this team right now.”
“I agree. It’s the best beat going all of a sudden. Do you want to keep it? Because if you don’t, I’m sure Barnburner has five or six overgrown frat boys who are itching to replace you.”
The very idea of any of those guys stepping into this beat right now sent Alex’s blood galloping through her: red and hot. “I want to keep it,” she said, keeping her voice carefully level.
“Then you need to back off.”
Alex squinted against the wind. Just ten minutes ago everything had seemed so simple, but now the whole world suddenly felt like it was spinning off-kilter. She flexed her feet, stood on her tiptoes.
Tremblay held Alex’s eyes, unwavering.
Alex relaxed her feet, came back down to earth. “Yeah, okay. Message received.”
“Great.” Tremblay said with a nod. “We’re still good?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Alex said. She held up both hands in front of her: a surrender. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. You okay?”
“Yeah, I guess—I’ve just got to think about what to do next.”
“You can call me if you need to.”
“Thank you,” Alex said again, and this time she could feel just how much she meant it. “I appreciate that.” She let out a long, even breath. “Actually, while I’ve got you here, can I run something by you?”
“Sure.” Tremblay slid her hands into her coat pockets.
“I’ve had this story kicking around in my head for a while. It’s about Rozanov and Hollander. Going back years.”
“A profile? Isn’t that kind of been-there-done-that for you?”
“No, not a profile. It would be an analysis of their game. And, you know, how the relationship has influenced it through the years. Not just on the Centaurs, but before then too, when they were on different teams.” Although Alex was probably going to have to think hard about that part of it in light of what Rozanov had told her tonight, god.
Tremblay’s eyebrows inched up, skeptical. “Got any examples?”
“Well, the one everybody’s already talking about is the power-play goal from the season opener, where Hollander kind of magically seemed to know where Rozanov was going to be. There have been a bunch of other examples like that already this season, too, although they weren’t quite as dramatic.”
“And when they played on opposing teams?”
Alex thought for a moment. “The one I remember most clearly off the top of my head is from Rozanov’s last season in Boston. Hollander was barrelling down the ice, stickhandling his way past the opposing defensemen in that signature Hollander style, but Rozanov knew just where he was going to go and stole the puck away so fast it was like he was using chopsticks.”
“Hmm.” There was a little spark of interest in Tremblay’s eyes.
“Right? Because Rozanov isn’t exactly known for that kind of defensive move, but against Hollander it was like he could read his mind.”
“How would you show that it’s about the relationship without just making assumptions?”
“By not cherry-picking. By looking at it as a regular feature of their gameplay that’s there even when it’s not the kind of move that makes highlight reels, and has been there as long as they’ve been together. Tracing it through.”
Tremblay was smiling now. “Sounds like a lot of work.”
Alex echoed the smile back at her. “I’m up for it.”
“I like it.”
“Yeah, well, please don’t steal it?” Alex said with a grin. “It’s the kind of thing I could write anytime, of course. But it might be worth starting to work on it now. Kind of as an analytical counterpoint to all the rumour and speculation that’s out there at the moment.”
“It would take you a while to finish it alongside all your other work. Which is also a ready-made excuse to back off a bit without giving him whiplash.”
“Right. And it’d be a purely analytical piece, so I wouldn’t need to get comment from the two of them.”
Tremblay rocked back on one leg. “Sounds like you know what you need to do, then.”
“Thanks.” Alex inhaled a breath, held it, let it back out. “And thanks again for the, you know. Gentle slap upside the head.”
“Thanks for being receptive.” Tremblay stepped away, headed toward her car. “Have a good night.” She gave Alex a wave before turning all the way around.
Alex’s mind was buzzing as she walked the rest of the way toward her dad’s car. She sat in silence as she let the engine warm up, running everything through her mind again, flexing her hands around the cold steering wheel.
She nodded to herself. She could do this.