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The meeting at Rolex headquarters in New York went so well that Yuna Hollander actually became suspicious halfway through it.
People did not simply agree with each other that quickly in business. Especially not when millions of dollars, international campaigns, luxury branding rights, athlete image contracts, and Shane Hollander’s carefully maintained public persona were involved. Normally there were three rounds of negotiations, two passive-aggressive lunches, one fake smile from somebody in finance, and at least one executive who used phrases like “market synergy” while pretending they understood hockey.
But today?
Everything moved smoothly. Too smoothly.
The senior vice president from Rolex practically shook her hand before dessert arrived.
“We are very excited to continue the partnership with Shane,” the man had said warmly. “He represents precision, discipline, elegance. Honestly, he is one of the easiest ambassadors we have ever worked with.”
Yuna smiled politely.
That part, at least, was true.
Shane never caused scandals, never got drunk in public, never fought in clubs, never posted stupid things online, never cheated sponsors, and somehow managed to remain one of the most famous athletes in North America while still acting like an awkward university student accidentally trapped inside an NHL superstar’s body.
When the meeting ended two hours earlier than expected, Yuna walked out of the building into the gray Manhattan afternoon feeling strangely light.
For the first time in months, she had free time.
She originally planned to stay in New York until Friday, maybe visit some galleries, maybe shop a little, maybe force herself to relax for once, but suddenly the idea of going home early sounded much better.
David would be surprised.
She smiled to herself while entering the car waiting for her outside.
He deserved a surprise.
Her husband spent most of his days buried under government reports and Treasury Board meetings, and lately they barely had proper time together because Shane’s schedule had become absolutely insane during playoff season.
Maybe she would come home tonight, order food, open wine, and spend one peaceful evening with her husband without talking about contracts, hockey analytics, or endorsement campaigns.
That sounded perfect.
At the airport she changed her ticket with only minor inconvenience.
The woman at the desk typed quickly.
“The only available earlier route is New York to Boston, then Boston to Ottawa.”
“That’s fine.”
“Your layover is short.”
“I prefer short.”
The woman smiled professionally.
“Well, hopefully the weather behaves.”
Yuna glanced outside at the darkening sky.
“Yes,” she said calmly. “Hopefully.”
On the plane she tried calling Shane.
No answer. Not surprising.
Her son had informed her two days ago, in the exact same tone somebody might use to announce they were buying toothpaste, that he would be attending a “silent retreat”.
Yuna still had absolutely no idea what that meant.
“Silent retreat where?” she had asked.
“Somewhere quiet.”
“With who?”
“Nobody.”
“How long?”
“A few days maybe.”
“Shane.”
“What?”
“You are twenty-nine years old and somehow still answer questions like a kidnapped Victorian child.”
“I’m trying.”
“You could try harder.”
“I know.”
And that had been the entire conversation.
Yuna sighed softly now while staring at her phone.
She loved her son more than anything in the world, but sometimes worrying about Shane felt like a full-time occupation.
Not because he was incapable.
God no.
Shane was brilliant. Disciplined. Kind. Loyal almost to a fault.
But emotionally? Socially?
It was like watching someone attempt to solve human interaction through advanced mathematics.
He understood systems better than feelings.
He memorized patterns. He studied expressions.
He rehearsed conversations before interviews.
And despite being one of the most famous hockey players alive, despite the endorsements and magazine covers and screaming fans, Shane still became visibly uncomfortable when waiters asked him unexpected questions.
Yuna worried constantly that he was lonely.
The relationship with Rose Landry years ago had lasted barely four months before collapsing quietly and awkwardly.
After that?
Nothing. No girlfriends. No dating rumours.
Nothing except hockey, routines, ginger ale, and isolation.
Sometimes Yuna feared Shane would spend the rest of his life alone because nobody would understand him deeply enough.
The thought broke her heart.
By the time the plane landed in Boston, the storm had become violent.
Rain hammered against the windows hard enough to blur the lights outside into smeared gold and white.
People around her were muttering nervously.
Phones buzzed.
Flight attendants moved quickly.
Then the announcement came.
“Due to severe wind conditions, all departing flights have been temporarily cancelled.”
Groans filled the cabin immediately.
Yuna closed her eyes briefly.
Wonderful. Just wonderful.
Inside the terminal chaos spread fast.
Lines formed instantly. Hotel desks overflowed.
Airport staff looked close to emotional collapse.
Yuna tried calling David. No signal. Again. Nothing.
Then Shane. Nothing there either.
The network was clearly failing under the storm conditions.
She exhaled slowly and adjusted her coat.
Fine. One night in Boston.
Tomorrow morning she would take the train to Ottawa.
Not ideal. Still manageable.
Except the weather outside seemed determined to personally ruin her evening.
Forty minutes later Yuna stood outside beneath freezing rain while every taxi in existence apparently vanished from Earth.
Cars crawled slowly through flooded streets.
People shoved umbrellas into each other.
Wind attacked from every direction.
Her expensive shoes were destroyed.
Her hair clung wetly to her face.
“This,” she muttered bitterly while dragging her suitcase through water, “is how serial killer documentaries begin.”
No taxis stopped. No rideshares accepted.
Hotels nearby displayed NO VACANCY signs.
At one point she genuinely considered sleeping in the train station.
Then rain intensified even further.
“Oh for the love of…”
A car suddenly pulled sharply beside the curb near her.
Not just a car. An absurd car.
Low, black, expensive enough to fund several university educations.
The driver door opened immediately.
A tall man stepped out into the rain.
Curly light brown hair already getting soaked. Blue eyes widening in recognition.
“Mrs. Hollander?”
Yuna froze.
“Oh my God.”
Ilya Rozanov looked equally shocked.
“What are you doing here?”
For several seconds they simply stared at each other through the rain like two people who had accidentally walked into the wrong movie.
Of all people. Of all nights.
Ilya blinked first.
“You look like drowned business executive, yes.”
Yuna let out a disbelieving laugh despite herself.
“I could say the same thing about your driving.”
“I drive beautifully.”
“You stopped in the middle of the street.”
“That is Boston tradition.”
He grabbed her suitcase before she could protest.
“Come. You will freeze.”
“I’m looking for a hotel.”
Ilya laughed immediately.
“No hotels.”
“There must be hotels.”
“Fashion week event downtown. Everything booked. Rich people everywhere. Terrible perfumes. Very tragic.”
“I only need one room.”
“No rooms, Mrs. Hollander.”
Yuna crossed her arms.
“I can manage.”
Ilya stared at her soaked clothes.
“You are literally dripping.”
“I noticed.”
“Come inside car before pneumonia attacks you.”
Normally she would never accept. Never.
This was Ilya Rozanov. Shane’s biggest rival.
The loud, reckless Boston Bears captain who chirped reporters, collected tabloid scandals like trophies, and once mocked Shane during a live interview by saying he had “personality of depressed accountant”.
Yuna disliked him on principle.
Yet standing here now, freezing in the rain while he looked genuinely concerned, refusing help suddenly felt childish.
Reluctantly she entered the car. Warmth hit instantly.
“Oh thank God.” she whispered.
Ilya grinned while getting back behind the wheel.
“You see? Russian engineering.”
“This is Italian.”
“Same suffering.”
Yuna laughed again before she could stop herself.
Interesting. He was… surprisingly charming.
During the drive they talked easily. Too easily.
That surprised Yuna most. She expected arrogance.
Instead Ilya seemed relaxed, funny, oddly considerate.
He asked about the Rolex meeting.
Asked whether David still worked impossible hours.
Asked whether Ottawa winters were still “psychological warfare”.
At a red light he repeatedly checked his phone.
“No network,” he muttered. “Stupid storm.”
“I can’t reach my husband either.”
“I tried messages too.”
Yuna raised an eyebrow slightly.
“Girlfriend worried?”
Ilya nearly choked laughing.
“Mrs. Hollander, if I had girlfriend she would already murder me.”
“Ah. One of your many admirers then.”
He snorted.
“Media says many things.”
“That usually means they’re true.”
“Sometimes. Sometimes not.”
Something in his tone shifted briefly there.
Not defensive. Just… tired.
Yuna watched rain slide across the windshield.
“You know,” she admitted carefully, “you’re very different than I expected.”
Ilya smirked.
“You expected horns?”
“I expected louder.”
“Oh, I can become louder.”
“I don’t doubt that.”
Another grin.
Then silence settled comfortably for several minutes. Oddly comfortably.
Yuna found herself relaxing.
Maybe she had judged him unfairly.
Yes, he was aggressive on ice.
Yes, he enjoyed provoking people.
But underneath all that performance there seemed to be intelligence there.
Warmth too. Unexpected warmth.
Then they pulled into an underground parking garage beneath an expensive modern building.
Ilya grabbed grocery bags from the backseat.
“You bought groceries in middle of apocalypse?”
“I needed food.”
“What food?”
“Frozen dumplings.”
“That’s it?”
“And cereal.”
“You live like a divorced university student.”
“I live like athlete with depression, yes.”
Yuna stared at him.
Ilya burst out laughing.
“I joke. Mostly.”
The apartment itself was beautiful. Minimalist. Modern.
Huge windows overlooking storm-covered Boston.
But strangely… lived in.
Not the sterile bachelor penthouse Yuna expected.
Blankets on couch. Books stacked sideways.
Two coffee mugs near the sink. A hoodie tossed over a chair.
Before Yuna could look further, a voice suddenly came from deeper inside the apartment.
“Ilya?”
Yuna froze instantly. The voice sounded nervous. Concerned.
“Ilya, are you okay? Why were you gone so long?”
Yuna’s heartbeat stopped. No. No way.
Impossible.
The voice continued.
“The weather got worse and…”
Yuna knew that voice.
Every mother on Earth would recognize her child anywhere.
Her eyes widened slowly.
Ilya went completely still beside her.
“Oh…” he whispered in Russian under his breath.
Then louder:
“Подожди минуту.” (“Wait a minute.”)
Silence.
Yuna turned her head slowly toward the hallway.
Then she saw it.
A hockey jersey draped carelessly over the couch.
Montreal Metros captain jersey. Shane’s.
Beside it sat folded sweatpants she had literally bought for her son last Christmas.
And next to those…
Ginger ale. Six cans.
Yuna looked at Ilya very slowly.
Ilya looked like a man moments away from being executed publicly.
“Mrs. Hollander.” he began carefully.
Footsteps approached.
Then Shane walked into the living room and stopped dead.
Absolute silence.
Shane stared at his mother like his soul had left his body.
Yuna stared back.
Shane wore oversized sweatpants and one of Ilya’s hoodies.
His hair messy.
His freckles visible.
He looked horrified.
“Oh my God.” Shane whispered.
Nobody moved.
Rain battered the windows dramatically in the background like the universe itself enjoyed theatrical timing.
Then Shane spoke again very quietly.
“You weren’t supposed to be in Boston.”
Yuna blinked once.
“You weren’t supposed to be in Ilya Rozanov’s apartment.”
Fair point.
Ilya rubbed both hands down his face.
“This is maybe not ideal situation, yes.”
Shane looked physically ill.
“I can explain.”
“Oh, I certainly hope so.”
Another silence.
Then Yuna pointed weakly at the jersey.
“You have matching laundry.”
Somehow that made everything worse.
Shane made a strangled noise.
Ilya closed his eyes.
“Please sit down.” Shane said desperately.
Yuna remained standing.
“How long?”
Neither man answered.
Yuna narrowed her eyes.
“How long?”
Shane swallowed hard.
“…Ten years.”
Yuna stared.
“Ten.”
“Yes.”
“Years.”
“Yes.”
“You’re telling me that for TEN YEARS the two of you have secretly dated while publicly acting like mortal enemies?”
Ilya raised one finger slightly.
“To be fair, sometimes we are mortal enemies.”
“That does not help.”
Shane looked ready to faint.
Yuna suddenly remembered every hockey game interview, every dramatic on-ice fight, every media headline.
Her brain struggled violently to reorganize reality.
“You fought each other on national television.”
“Yes.” Shane admitted quietly.
Yuna pressed fingers against her forehead.
“This cannot be real.”
“It is real.” Shane whispered.
The vulnerability in his voice made her finally look properly at him.
Not terrified of being caught having sex.
Terrified of losing her. Terrified she would hate him.
And suddenly Yuna understood.
Every hidden glance.
Every strange emotional reaction during Bears games.
Every unexplained silence.
Every “silent retreat”.
Oh God.
The silent retreat was apparently Ilya’s apartment.
Yuna slowly sat down.
“Okay,” she said faintly. “Start talking.”
The explanations came awkwardly at first. Painfully awkwardly.
Shane and Ilya sat on opposite ends of the couch like schoolboys awaiting punishment.
Apparently they first met during the summer before rookie season.
Apparently Shane hated Ilya immediately.
Apparently Ilya flirted specifically because Shane became flustered so easily.
Apparently one commercial shot together became a hookup.
And apparently neither of them ever stopped afterward.
“At first it was not serious.” Ilya admitted carefully.
“We were young.” Shane added.
“Young people do not usually maintain decade-long secret relationships.” Yuna replied.
“We tried breaking up once.” Shane muttered.
Ilya looked offended.
“You broke up with me.”
“You emotionally disappear for three days every argument.”
“You yell in three languages.”
“You deserve all three.”
Yuna stared. This sounded disturbingly domestic.
“And nobody knows?”
“Not publicly.” Shane said.
“What about teammates?”
Ilya shrugged.
“Some suspect probably.”
Yuna frowned.
“Your father thinks Ilya is emotionally unstable.”
“I AM emotionally unstable.”
“That’s not helping again.”
Yuna leaned back slowly.
This was insane. Absolutely insane.
Yet while they argued quietly beside each other, something became increasingly obvious.
They loved each other.
Not casually. Not secretly-for-fun.
Deeply. Comfortably.
Like people who had built entire lives around each other in hidden spaces nobody else could see.
She noticed small things.
How Shane automatically handed Ilya water without looking.
How Ilya kept checking Shane’s expressions constantly.
How Shane relaxed whenever Ilya touched his wrist briefly.
Oh. Oh no.
They were disgustingly in love.
Yuna suddenly laughed.
Both men stopped immediately.
“What?” Shane asked nervously.
“I spent YEARS thinking you hated each other.”
“We do sometimes.” Ilya said.
“Stop saying that.”
“It is healthy relationship activity.”
“You bodychecked him through glass.”
“That was playoff atmosphere.”
“You gave an interview calling him an overgrown mosquito.”
“He started it.”
“I called him arrogant.”
“You called me illiterate.”
“You ARE nearly illiterate.”
“I SPEAK THREE LANGUAGES.”
“Badly.”
“Still counts.”
Yuna burst into helpless laughter again.
The sheer absurdity finally overwhelmed her completely.
All those years.
All those dramatic rivalry montages on television.
Meanwhile apparently these idiots were going home together afterward.
Unbelievable.
Then suddenly another thought hit her.
Her eyes narrowed slowly.
“Oh my God.”
Shane immediately looked alarmed again.
“What?”
“You used your rivalry for marketing.”
Silence. Absolute silence.
Ilya looked away. Shane looked at the ceiling.
Yuna pointed accusingly.
“You manipulated the NHL.”
“No.” Shane said weakly.
“You absolutely did.”
“Maybe a little.” Ilya admitted.
“You sold hatred.”
“It tested well with audiences.”
Yuna stared at them in disbelief.
“You monetized unresolved sexual tension.”
“We prefer ‘competitive branding strategy’.” Shane mumbled.
Yuna nearly fell sideways laughing.
“I raised a criminal mastermind.”
“You raised two.” Ilya corrected proudly.
Hours passed surprisingly quickly after that.
The storm continued outside. The network still failed.
And somehow Yuna ended up eating frozen dumplings in Ilya Rozanov’s kitchen at midnight while listening to her son and his secret boyfriend argue over which one first said “I love you”.
“It was him.” Shane insisted quietly.
“It was absolutely you.”
“You cried.”
“You also cried.”
“I had concussion.”
“That is not romantic excuse.”
Yuna watched them with growing disbelief and reluctant affection.
This was not temporary. Not shallow. Not reckless.
This was real. Painfully real.
And for the first time in years she saw something she had always feared Shane might never truly have.
Ease.
Shane looked comfortable here. Happy.
Not performing happiness. Actually living inside it.
He smiled more in three hours than he usually did during entire family vacations.
Yuna’s chest tightened unexpectedly.
All this time she worried he would end up alone.
Meanwhile he had quietly built an entire secret life.
A ridiculous life.
But still.
A life filled with love.
Eventually Shane spoke quietly while helping clear dishes.
“You’re not angry?”
Yuna looked at him.
“My son is in love with someone who clearly worships him despite being catastrophically annoying. Why would I be angry?”
“I am not catastrophically annoying.” Ilya protested from couch.
“You bought six different mustards.”
“Flavour diversity is important.”
Shane looked down nervously.
“I should’ve told you.”
“Yes,” Yuna agreed softly. “You should have.”
“I was scared.”
That honesty hurt.
Yuna stepped closer and touched his cheek gently.
“Shane, sweetheart… I was only ever afraid you’d never let anyone love you properly.”
Shane’s eyes immediately became suspiciously shiny.
Across the room Ilya looked away politely toward the windows.
Then Shane muttered quietly:
“Well. He’s very persistent.”
“I pursued him magnificently.” Ilya agreed.
“You stalked me at rookie events.”
“Romantically.”
“You stole my protein bars.”
“You married me emotionally after second year.”
Yuna blinked.
“Emotionally married?”
Shane froze.
Ilya burst into laughter so violent he nearly fell off couch.
Shane looked ready to die.
“Ilya.”
“Mrs. Hollander, your son once got drunk in Vegas and declared we were spiritually married because we accidentally wore matching black suits.”
Yuna stared at Shane.
Shane covered his face completely.
“And you stayed with him after that?” Yuna asked Ilya.
“I found it adorable.”
“It was humiliating.”
Yuna sat down again weakly.
“This family is exhausting.”
Then finally the mobile network returned. All three phones buzzed simultaneously.
Messages exploded across screens. Missed calls. Notifications. Weather alerts.
David’s name appeared immediately on Yuna’s phone.
She answered at once.
“David?”
“Oh thank God,” her husband said instantly. “Where are you? I’ve been trying to call for hours.”
“I’m okay.”
“Shane disappeared too.”
Across the room Shane made a choking noise.
Yuna looked slowly toward him.
Ilya was already silently laughing again.
“Well,” Yuna said carefully, “funny story.”
“Mom.”
“I’m in Boston.”
“Boston?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Flight transfer, then storm.”
“Are you in a hotel?”
Yuna looked around the apartment.
At Shane. At Ilya.
At the disaster sitting before her.
Then a terrible idea entered her mind. A truly terrible idea.
And suddenly she smiled.
“No,” she said calmly into the phone. “I’m staying with Shane.”
Then she continued:
“And Ilya.”
Silence. Deep silence. Dangerous silence.
Finally David spoke slowly.
“…Why are Shane and Ilya together?”
Yuna took a deep breath.
Looked directly at her horrified son.
Then at Ilya, who was visibly trying not to laugh himself unconscious.
And finally she delivered the sentence that would probably emotionally damage her husband forever.
“Well apparently,” Yuna said sweetly, “the NHL’s greatest rivalry has included sleepovers for ten years.”
From across the room came the loud sound of Shane physically dropping his ginger ale can directly onto the floor.