Chapter Text
Everyone has heard of the were-Zamboni on schoolyards and practice rinks, frozen lakes and hockey camp dorms. No one over the age of 10 believed in it, of course, but they all knew the story.
Sometimes it was a kid, sometimes a grown adult, but usually a teenager. Sometimes it started in Finland, others in Czechoslovakia, Canada, or “it started somewhere in the Soviet Union, no one knows where.” It was usually last seen in a nearby town or city in a neighboring province, territory, state, etc. It started in the 1970s, the 1950s, the 1830s (more than a century before the Zamboni existed was a bold choice, but kids on the U8 team didn’t know any better), but it was never a new phenomenon when it was being told.
Regardless of the exact details, the basic premise was always pretty much the same: Some hockey player, speed skater, or figure skater, etc., somewhere in the world wanted to practice all night long and wouldn’t get off the ice. Some Zamboni operator needed to get his job done and go home. He didn’t see the skater still out there. Or he saw but didn’t care. Sometimes, it was that he was driven mad by sleep deprivation after the nth day in a row of practice extending beyond midnight.
The story was that the skater refused to leave the ice for anything, even the Zamboni, and was hit by the vehicle. They were sliced up by the blade, run over, ground by the machinery, and the remaining pieces were melted by the hot water, their body integrated into the ice.
The skater’s soul was sucked up into the machine, haunting it forever. Then, every once in a random time period, the Zamboni, acting of its own accord, runs out onto the ice while people are still skating, sometimes even in the middle of competitions or games, and targets one skater to run over.
Usually, the target is the most serious, most dedicated person on the ice. Someone who takes their sport or artform a little too seriously, just the like the original skater. Someone expected to be the next Gretzky, or Kwan. The next household name. The Hollander.
The victim was never killed, not after the original skater. There was something about blood or cuts that healed instantly, but the main problem was one injury so severe they could never be competitive again. They would heal just enough to give them hope. Enough to get back on the ice and see improvement over the days and weeks and months. But never enough to go pro. That sliver of hope would haunt them forever. Keep them hanging onto a dream that would never become reality.
And then, once a month, usually on a full moon, sometimes a moonless night, sometimes it was once a year, on the anniversary of their accident instead, they’d sleepwalk to the nearest rink (or frozen body of water, the nearest skateable ice surface), transform into a Zamboni, and run over some idiot too dedicated to the ice to get off it at a reasonable hour.
Shane had never once believed the stories, not even when he was in kindergarten and still believed in Santa Claus and the gremlin that lived under his bed and would attack his feet if he left them dangling over the edge (turns out that one was just his neighbor’s cat who snuck into their house sometimes).
It didn’t make any sense. How would the warm water in a Zamboni melt someone? How many people were staying on the ice that late? What if the were-Zamboni didn’t live within walking distance of a rink or frozen body of water, especially in the summer? What about blizzards, did the curse give them magic powers to not freeze to death, or get blown away by high winds? Wouldn’t it make more sense if they transformed and then drove to the ice instead of sleepwalking?
And most importantly: how many were-Zambonis would there be by now if each one created a new one every month?
Shane was no math professor, but he was a walking encyclopedia of hockey statistics, and you had know your way around a calculator for that. He did the math and figured out that if the number doubled every month, the entire human population of the earth would be Zambonis in under three years. Or 33 years if it was annual. But there would be news stories about it once it hit the millions, so you’d hear about it from grownups, not just other kids.
By middle school, he was sure the legend was just about socially punishing the kids like him who gave it their all and excelled as a result. Shane was not about to apologize for being the best in his age group, especially when he worked so hard for it.
By the time he made it to the NHL, he had pretty much forgotten about the story, as had most of his peers. He hadn’t spared it a single thought for decades. Until he was preparing to win his 5th Stanley Cup, that was, when he was forced to think about it.
***********
It was 1973 and seventeen-year-old Linda was going to compete in her country’s figure skating National Championships in just a few days! She spent every waking moment preparing for this. Sleeping moments, too, if she was being honest. She had optimized her sleeping schedule according to a book she read on improving athletic performance a few months ago.
She had been practicing on the ice for hours and it was time for a break. She took her hot tea to her favorite spot, a little alcove near an exit hardly anyone knew about and no one ever used.
She and her friend Danilo, also a figure skater, used to hang out there a lot back when she used to just “hang out” before she’d gotten quite so serious about her skating. But her attitude had changed. She didn’t have time for friends right now, not when the biggest competition of the year was so close.
That was definitely the only reason she was avoiding him. It had nothing to do with the fact that she’d finally mustered up the courage to ask him out two weeks ago and he’d turned her down. She understood him, perfectly. He was right, neither of them had time to date. They had to focus on their skating.
Only, when she got to the alcove, Danilo was already there. With his back to the wall, and another skater, Jakob, crowding him in. Did Linda need to go get someone? Was Jakob hurting him? Then Danilo leaned forward and kissed Jakob.
No, this couldn’t be happening. It wasn’t right.
Linda couldn’t breathe.
***********
The Centaurs had just won the Eastern Conference Championship versus Pittsburg in five games (and yes, Shane was a little disappointed that it wasn’t a clean sweep) and were waiting for the cup finals to begin. They’d be playing either Vancouver or Colorado, there was at least one more game to decide.
Shane got to the practice rink nearly an hour earlier than anyone else. Well, excluding Ilya who was dragged along with him, but was taking his time finishing his coffee before changing into his gear. He wanted to enjoy a moment of peace before diving back into the fray.
He watched as Shane skated around a bit to warm up. He was so graceful. So strong. So fucking hot.
They’d been married almost three years, and Ilya still wasn’t over the fact that Shane was his, forever, out in the open. They played on the same team! Last year, when they won the cup, they kissed each other, in the same uniform, on the ice. Like any teammate kissing their WAG. Or SAP, as they were called on the Centaurs, since quite a few of them were men.
He’d just finished his coffee and was about to head for the locker room to get dressed when the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Something was wrong, but he couldn’t tell what. He felt fine, physically, he looked up but didn’t see any lights that looked like they were about to fall or anything. Shane appeared to be fine, too.
But then, at the opposite end of the ice a green Zamboni just… materialized. Or maybe it was one of those giant lawnmowers? No, why would there be a lawnmower on the ice?
He blinked a few times to make sure he wasn’t imagining it, but the mower/Zamboni kept looking solid and kept moving, slowly, in Shane’s direction. There must have been some mistake. Why was it on the ice when a player was already there?
Ilya shouted to his husband to get off the ice, but Shane didn’t seem to hear him. He tried to run out onto the ice, so he could get to Shane and pull him out of harm’s way, but he was thrown back when he tried to get over the boards. It was like there was some invisible barrier in the way. He ran around the rink to see if he could get to Shane, or get the driver’s attention, anything.
He was about to be in the driver’s line of sight and waved his arms frantically. But then he could see the seat, and there was no driver there. It was moving on its own.
He’d heard about this, but he’d never considered that it could be real. No one back in Russia believed it, even as kids. He shook his head, no time to think, he had to get Shane’s attention.
Ilya waved his arms again, pounded on the plexiglass, kicked the boards, but Shane didn’t seem to see or hear anything. He just kept skating.
Shane had been moving away from it at first, but then he turned a corner and started moving toward it. For a split second he made a curious face at the plexiglass to his right, but then looked straight ahead again, apparently still not seeing what was right in front of Ilya’s eyes.
And then it happened. Shane collided with the Zamboni and it ran him over.
Ilya’s heart stopped.