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Harris Drover was nervous.
Not normal nervous.
Not "I accidentally liked my ex's vacation photo from three years ago at two in the morning" nervous.
Not even "I just sent a tweet from the official team account and accidentally called our starting goalie a golden retriever" nervous.
This was a special category of nervousness.
The kind that made his stomach feel like someone had filled it with caffeinated butterflies and then taught the butterflies how to play drums.
He sat at his desk in the Ottawa Centaurs' media office, staring at the notes on his laptop.
ILYA ROZANOV.
The name alone felt expensive.
The biggest hockey transfer of the year.
Maybe the decade.
The future captain of the Ottawa Centaurs.
One of the best players in the NHL.
A man who generated headlines simply by existing.
And somehow Harris was responsible for making the entire thing look good.
"No pressure." he muttered.
Across the room, his boyfriend Troy Barrett looked up from tying his skates.
"You're talking to yourself again."
"I'm having a professional crisis."
"That's your fifth one this week."
"This one is legitimate."
Troy snorted.
"What's the worst that can happen?"
Harris slowly turned his head.
"Troy."
"Yeah?"
"The man we're talking about has personally started at least seven on-ice fights this season."
"Only seven?"
"That we know about."
"Fair."
Harris groaned and dropped his head onto the desk.
A few years ago he had worked on a campaign for Rolex.
That had been easy.
Stressful, yes.
Important, absolutely.
But easy.
The ambassador had been Shane Hollander.
At the time Harris had barely known anything about professional hockey.
Now he lived with a hockey player and could identify twenty-seven different penalties before breakfast.
Back then he had simply been introduced to Shane and expected disaster.
Because famous athletes were supposed to be difficult.
Demanding. Dramatic. Divas.
Instead Shane Hollander had turned out to be the sweetest human being Harris had ever met.
Awkward?
Very.
The man had once apologized to a chair after accidentally bumping into it.
But otherwise wonderful.
The biggest challenge during the entire commercial shoot had been supplying enough ginger ale.
Nobody knew how Shane consumed so much of it.
The man drank ginger ale the way normal people consumed oxygen.
At one point a production assistant had asked if they should order another pallet.
A pallet. Not a case. A pallet.
And Shane had looked genuinely embarrassed.
"Sorry."
The assistant had blinked.
"For what?"
"For being thirsty."
The memory still made Harris laugh.
The commercials had become wildly successful.
Rolex had been happy. Shane had been happy. Everyone had been happy.
Easy. Pleasant. Predictable.
Ilya Rozanov, on the other hand, was none of those things.
Every article Harris found about him sounded like it had been written by someone who desperately wanted to be sued.
ROZANOV SEEN LEAVING NIGHTCLUB WITH MYSTERY WOMAN.
ROZANOV SPOTTED WITH ACTRESS.
ROZANOV SPOTTED WITH MODEL.
ROZANOV SPOTTED WITH DIFFERENT MODEL.
ROZANOV SPOTTED WITH WOMAN WHO MIGHT HAVE BEEN A MODEL.
ROZANOV SPOTTED ALONE BUT TABLOID CLAIMS THERE WAS PROBABLY A WOMAN NEARBY.
It never ended.
The man collected scandals the way other people collected loyalty cards.
Which made the transfer even stranger.
Boston Bears were a better team. Everybody knew that.
Why leave?
Nobody knew.
That was suspicious.
Harris had spent three nights constructing theories.
Theory Number One:
Ilya had done something terrible.
Maybe he insulted management.
Maybe he punched someone.
Maybe he fought an executive.
Maybe he fought several executives.
Theory Number Two:
There was a woman involved.
There was always a woman involved.
Possibly multiple women.
Possibly a secret child.
Possibly several secret children.
By the end of night three Harris had a conspiracy board.
An actual conspiracy board. With sticky notes.
Troy had walked into the living room, looked at it for five seconds, and said:
"You know normal people watch television after work."
"This is research."
"This is insanity."
"It's professional insanity."
Then the meeting day arrived.
And everything became worse, because Ilya Rozanov was nice.
Suspiciously nice. Dangerously nice.
The giant Russian entered the conference room wearing jeans, a dark shirt, and a red baseball cap.
He was enormous. Not just tall. Large.
Like somebody had looked at a normal human being and said:
"What if we added another foot?"
He grinned when he saw Harris.
"Harris, yes?"
"Yes."
"Ilya."
His handshake nearly broke three bones.
"Nice to meet you."
"Nice to meet you too, yes."
The accent was thick. The smile was easy.
The blue eyes looked genuinely friendly.
Harris immediately disliked how much that complicated his theories.
Because villains were supposed to look villainous.
Not like golden retrievers disguised as hockey players.
They sat down.
For the first twenty minutes they discussed boring media topics.
Press conferences. Interviews. Photoshoots. Social media schedules.
Ilya listened carefully and asked reasonable questions.
Again. Suspicious.
Eventually Harris decided to investigate.
Casually. Professionally. Subtly.
"So…" Harris said.
"Yes?"
"What made you choose Ottawa?"
Ilya smiled.
"I like city."
That was not an answer.
Harris tried again.
"Anything specific?"
"Many things."
"Such as?"
"Things."
Harris stared. Ilya smiled wider.
"Oh, you're good."
"I am captain now. I learn secrets, yes."
That sounded vaguely threatening. In a cheerful way.
Which was somehow worse.
Harris shifted strategy.
"People are surprised you left Boston."
"People are surprised by many things."
"Such as?"
"You would be surprised."
"That's not helping."
Ilya laughed. A loud, booming laugh that filled the entire room.
"No."
Definitely hiding something. One hundred percent hiding something.
Harris wrote MYSTERIOUS on his notepad.
Then underlined it twice.
After another few minutes he approached the subject he had been dreading.
The women. Dear God. The women.
As a social media professional he was obligated to discuss reputation management.
As a human being he wanted the floor to open and swallow him whole.
"So..."
Ilya leaned back.
"So."
"There is another thing."
"Yes?"
"Your public image."
The hockey player nodded.
"Good image."
Harris coughed.
"Debatable."
Ilya looked delighted.
"Very debatable."
"Oh good, you know."
"Of course I know."
Harris opened a folder.
"Some of the tabloid coverage isn't ideal."
"Ah."
"There are... concerns."
"Women."
"Women."
"Many women."
"Many women."
Ilya nodded thoughtfully, then to Harris's complete surprise he shrugged.
"Not problem."
"Not a problem?"
"No."
"You don't mind changing that image?"
"No."
"Really?"
"Really."
Harris blinked. That had been far too easy.
Normally athletes argued. Defended themselves. Complained.
Ilya simply looked relieved.
"Actually easier now."
"Why?"
The grin that appeared on Ilya's face was enormous.
Proud. Happy. Almost smug.
"Because I have serious partner now."
Harris froze.
"Oh."
"Yes."
"Oh."
A partner. Interesting.
That explained absolutely nothing, but at least it sounded promising.
"A serious relationship?"
"Very serious."
"That's great."
"It is."
The smile remained. Warm. Genuine.
Completely unlike the reputation Harris had expected.
Interesting. Very interesting.
The meeting continued for another hour.
Eventually Harris collected contact information.
Phone number. Email address. Agent details. Emergency contacts. Backup numbers.
Everything.
By the time they finished, Harris felt surprisingly optimistic.
Maybe this would work.
Maybe the scary hockey superstar was actually a decent guy.
Maybe…
"Good meeting, Harris."
"Good meeting."
Ilya stood, then paused.
"You are good person."
Harris blinked.
"Thank you?"
"You care about people."
The statement sounded oddly serious.
For a second something complicated crossed Ilya's face.
Then it vanished. The grin returned.
"And you ask embarrassing questions very professionally, yes."
Harris groaned.
"I hate you."
"No you don't."
"I met you two hours ago."
"You don't hate me."
Unfortunately the giant Russian was right.
He didn't. That should have worried him.
It absolutely should have worried him.
Unfortunately Harris wouldn't discover how worried he should be until later that evening.
When he entered the backup phone number into his contacts and his phone immediately displayed:
SHANE HOLLANDER
Harris stared, then stared harder.
Then looked at the number again.
Then at the screen.
Then at the number.
Then at the screen.
Then screamed.
"TROY!"
His boyfriend nearly fell off the couch.
"What?"
"COME HERE."
"WHY ARE YOU YELLING?"
"BECAUSE SOMETHING WEIRD IS HAPPENING."
Troy approached cautiously. The way people approached unexploded bombs.
"What happened?"
Harris shoved the phone into his face.
Troy read the screen.
Silence. More silence.
Then:
"Huh."
"HUH?"
"That's weird."
"THAT'S VERY WEIRD."
Troy scratched his head.
"Maybe it's a typo."
"Right?"
"Probably."
"Definitely."
"Most likely."
They looked at each other.
Neither believed it. Not even a little.
And that was only the beginning.
For approximately three days, Harris Drover attempted to behave like a normal person.
This failed immediately.
The problem was that Harris had never been particularly good at ignoring mysteries.
Or gossip. Or mysteries that looked suspiciously like gossip.
The backup phone number situation should have been forgotten.
A typo was the most logical explanation.
An innocent mistake.
A boring administrative error.
Unfortunately Harris possessed the imagination of a caffeinated raccoon.
Every possible explanation immediately multiplied into fifty worse explanations.
By the second day he had developed an entire list.
Possibility One:
The number was wrong.
Possibility Two:
Shane had accidentally changed his phone number.
Possibility Three:
Ilya had accidentally written Shane's number.
Possibility Four:
Shane and Ilya were secretly roommates.
Possibility Five:
Shane and Ilya were secretly running an underground ginger ale smuggling operation.
That one made surprisingly little sense, which somehow made it more convincing.
"You need help." Troy informed him.
Harris looked up from his notebook.
"I need answers."
"You've drawn arrows."
"It's a diagram."
"You connected a can of ginger ale to the city of Boston."
"It could be relevant."
"It absolutely cannot."
Harris pointed dramatically.
"You don't know that."
"I do."
"You don't."
"I do."
"You don't."
"I live with you."
Troy sighed. A sigh that suggested he had made questionable life choices.
Which, to be fair, he had. He was dating Harris.
Three days later the Montreal Metros played the New York Admirals.
The game happened to be on television.
Harris and Troy were sprawled across the couch.
Troy was actually watching hockey. Harris was mostly watching people.
The difference was important.
The game itself was incredible.
Shane Hollander was playing like a man possessed. Or perhaps blessed by some ancient hockey deity.
His skating looked effortless. His passing was ridiculous.
At one point he threaded the puck through a gap that appeared to exist only in theoretical physics.
The commentators sounded emotional. The crowd sounded emotional.
The opposing team looked emotional for entirely different reasons.
"How does he do that?" Harris asked.
Troy shook his head.
"No idea."
"You're a professional hockey player."
"Exactly."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer."
The camera followed Shane during a stoppage. The captain skated toward the bench.
Freckles visible. Hair damp. Expression focused.
The audience cheered.
Then the broadcast switched briefly to the crowd. Thousands of faces.
Nothing unusual.
Then Harris sat upright so fast he nearly launched himself off the couch.
"Wait."
"What?"
"Wait."
"What?"
The camera angle changed. The crowd disappeared. The game resumed.
Harris grabbed the remote.
"Did you see that?"
"See what?"
"That guy."
"What guy?"
"The guy in the crowd."
Troy stared.
"That narrows it down."
"The red baseball cap."
"...the red baseball cap."
"Yes."
"There were probably fifty red baseball caps."
"This one was different."
"How?"
Harris opened and closed his mouth. He couldn't explain it.
It had simply looked familiar. Very familiar. Annoyingly familiar.
Then it clicked.
"Oh my God."
"What?"
"Ilya."
Troy blinked.
"What?"
"The cap."
"What cap?"
"The cap he wore during our meeting."
Troy stared at him, then slowly pointed at the television.
"You think one of the most famous hockey players in the world secretly attended a hockey game while wearing a baseball cap."
"Yes."
"Because you recognized a blurry hat."
"Yes."
"You are insane."
"Thank you."
"That wasn't a compliment."
Harris grabbed his phone.
"I'm writing this down."
"No."
"I'm absolutely writing this down."
"No."
Five minutes later he had added RED CAP QUESTION MARK to the conspiracy board.
Troy looked physically pained.
The following week things became worse. Much worse.
Because reality apparently decided to start contributing.
Harris was shopping for groceries. A perfectly ordinary activity.
He needed coffee. Milk. Pasta.
And approximately forty-seven snacks because Troy ate like a teenage bear preparing for hibernation.
He was halfway through the beverage aisle when he noticed someone reaching for a case of ginger ale.
Not unusual. Lots of people drank ginger ale.
Then he noticed the hand. Huge.
Then the arm. Huge.
Then the rest of the person. Extremely huge.
Harris froze.
Ilya Rozanov stood beside an entire shelf of ginger ale.
Not one case. Not two. Several.
An unreasonable quantity.
The amount of ginger ale being purchased suggested either a party or a medical emergency.
The giant hockey player noticed him.
"Harris!"
"Oh my God."
"Shopping, yes?"
"What are you doing?"
"Shopping."
"That's too much ginger ale."
Ilya looked down at the cart, then back at Harris.
"No."
There were at least twenty-four cans. Maybe more.
"It definitely is."
"No."
"It definitely is."
"No."
"Who drinks this much ginger ale?"
Something strange happened.
For a fraction of a second Ilya looked caught.
Not guilty, just surprised.
Then he recovered.
"Me."
"You hate ginger ale."
The answer escaped before Harris could stop himself.
Ilya raised an eyebrow.
"Who says?"
"You ordered coffee during our meeting."
"People can drink more than one thing."
That was unfortunately true.
Harris narrowed his eyes.
Ilya narrowed his eyes.
For several seconds they simply stared at each other in the middle of the supermarket.
An elderly woman pushed her cart around them.
Neither noticed.
Eventually Ilya smiled.
"See you later, Harris."
Then he walked away.
Leaving behind approximately enough ginger ale to hydrate a small village.
Harris watched him go.
Then looked at the ginger ale.
Then at the cart.
Then back at Ilya.
The pieces were beginning to fit together.
Unfortunately they were fitting together in a way that made absolutely no sense.
By that evening Harris had reached a conclusion. A terrible conclusion.
The kind of conclusion that only arrived after somebody spent too much time thinking.
He needed answers. Real answers.
Not theories. Not blurry baseball caps. Not suspicious beverages.
Answers.
Fate, apparently exhausted by his nonsense, provided an opportunity two days later.
Harris was leaving the Centaurs practice facility. Ilya was arriving.
The giant Russian parked his SUV. Stepped out.
Adjusted his sunglasses and immediately noticed Harris standing there.
"Harris."
"Ilya."
"You look concerned, yes."
"I have questions."
"Oh no."
"Oh yes."
Ilya laughed. The sound echoed across the parking lot.
"What kind of questions?"
"The weird kind."
"The weird kind are dangerous."
"I know."
"Should I be worried?"
"Probably."
That only made Ilya laugh harder which was honestly rude.
Harris crossed his arms.
"I need you to answer something honestly."
"Okay."
"Why do you have Shane Hollander's phone number?"
The laughter stopped. Immediately.
Silence. A very interesting silence.
The kind of silence that lasted maybe two seconds.
The kind that somehow felt like twenty years.
Then:
"Ah."
Ah.
Not confusion. Not surprise.
Not "Who is Shane Hollander?"
Just:
Ah.
Harris pointed dramatically.
"THAT'S AN ADMISSION."
"I admitted nothing."
"You admitted an ah."
"That is not evidence."
"It absolutely is."
Ilya rubbed his face.
For the first time since meeting him, he looked genuinely nervous. Actually nervous.
The realization nearly knocked Harris over.
Because if Ilya Rozanov was nervous, then something big was happening. Very big.
"Tell me." Harris demanded.
"No."
"Tell me."
"No."
"Tell me."
"Harris."
"Tell me."
Ilya sighed. A long suffering sigh.
The sigh of a man who had probably spent years dealing with impossible situations.
Unfortunately for him, Harris Drover was more persistent than most journalists.
And significantly louder.
"Harris."
"Ilya."
"Harris."
"Ilya."
"This is ridiculous."
"Correct."
Another sigh. Then another. Then another.
"I cannot believe this."
"That's not a denial."
"No."
"Wait."
The word escaped before Harris could stop it. His eyes widened.
The parking lot vanished. The world vanished.
Every clue crashed together inside his brain.
The phone number. The baseball cap. The ginger ale.
The strange smile when discussing a serious partner.
The transfer. The secrecy.
The fact that Shane Hollander happened to live considerably closer to Ottawa than Boston.
"Oh."
Ilya closed his eyes.
"Oh my God."
"Harris."
"Oh my GOD."
"Harris."
"HOLY SHIT."
Several nearby players turned around.
Ilya looked ready to throw himself into traffic.
"Harris."
"YOU'RE DATING SHANE HOLLANDER."
A long silence followed. A very long silence.
A silence so complete that Harris could hear a distant car alarm three streets away.
Eventually Ilya opened one eye, then the other. Then he looked upward.
Possibly asking the universe why this was happening.
When he finally spoke, his voice sounded resigned.
"Maybe we should have this conversation somewhere private, yes."
And that, Harris realized, was not actually a denial. Not even close.
The first thing Harris did after hearing Maybe we should have this conversation somewhere private, yes was stare at Ilya for approximately fifteen seconds.
The second thing he did was point.
The third thing he did was accidentally point with both hands.
"YOU ARE."
"Harris."
"YOU ARE."
"Harris."
"YOU ARE DATING SHANE HOLLANDER."
Ilya sighed.
The sigh of a man whose carefully protected secret had just been destroyed by a social media manager armed with a grocery-store observation and entirely too much free time.
"Get in car."
"THAT'S A YES."
"Get in car."
"THAT'S ABSOLUTELY A YES."
"Harris."
"YOU MOVED ACROSS THE COUNTRY FOR SHANE HOLLANDER."
"HARRIS."
Several Centaurs players exiting the building looked over. One of them raised an eyebrow.
Another wisely turned around and walked in the opposite direction.
Ilya grabbed Harris by the shoulder. Not aggressively, just firmly.
Like a man attempting to transport an overly excited golden retriever.
"Inside."
"TROY IS NEVER GOING TO BELIEVE THIS."
Five minutes later they were sitting inside Ilya's SUV.
Harris was vibrating with excitement. Ilya looked exhausted.
The contrast was impressive.
For a while nobody spoke. Mostly because Harris was trying not to explode.
Eventually Ilya broke.
"You are impossible."
"I know."
"How did you figure this out?"
Harris looked offended.
"Figure this out?"
"Yes."
"I solved a mystery. There were many clues."
"That is not detective work."
"It absolutely is."
Ilya stared at him, then laughed. Actually laughed.
The loud booming laugh Harris was becoming familiar with.
"You know what?"
"What?"
"You and Shane would get along."
"Oh, I already know Shane."
"No."
The grin widened.
"You know public Shane."
That was a fair point. Public Shane was very different from private Shane.
Or at least that was what everyone claimed.
Public Shane was reserved. Quiet. Awkward. Careful.
The kind of person who apologized when somebody stepped on his foot.
The idea of him secretly dating Ilya Rozanov sounded like fanfiction written by a sleep-deprived sports journalist.
And yet. Here they were.
"So?" Harris asked.
"So?"
"Talk."
"No."
"Ilya."
"No."
"Ilya."
The Russian groaned.
"You are worse than reporters."
"Thank you."
"Not compliment."
"Still accepting it."
Another sigh, then finally Ilya leaned back in his seat.
And smiled. Not the public smile. Not the charming media smile.
A different one. Softer. Warmer. The smile of somebody thinking about a person they loved.
And immediately Harris knew. Absolutely knew.
Oh.
This was real. Very real. Dangerously real.
"We met before rookie season."
Harris blinked.
"Before?"
"Before."
"How?"
Ilya rubbed his chin. The smile remained.
"We were eighteen."
"Oh no."
"What?"
"You're smiling."
"What is wrong with smiling?"
"Nothing."
Harris pointed.
"That's the face people make when they're about to tell the most embarrassing story of their lives."
Ilya laughed.
"Maybe."
"Oh my God."
"Maybe."
"Tell me."
The giant hockey player shook his head. Then finally surrendered.
"There was junior hockey tournament."
"Okay."
"I was already there."
"Okay."
"Shane arrived."
The smile widened.
"And?"
"He told me not to smoke."
Harris nearly choked.
They both sat quietly for a moment. The image was perfect.
Eighteen-year-old Shane Hollander.
Future superstar. Future captain. Future face of Canadian hockey.
Harris groaned.
"What happened next?"
“We made a commercial together and we hooked up.”
The story continued. Hookups became friendship.
At this point Harris was listening with the expression of somebody witnessing history.
"You were friends with benefits."
"Yes."
"For years?"
"Yes."
"Then?"
Then Ilya smiled again. The soft smile returned.
The one that changed his entire face. The one nobody in the media had probably ever seen.
And suddenly Harris understood why Shane had fallen for him.
Because beneath the confidence and the jokes and the reputation, there was something surprisingly gentle.
"We accidentally fell in love."
Harris stared.
"Accidentally."
"Yes."
"That's not how that works."
"It happened."
"How?"
Ilya shrugged.
"We spent time together."
"That's normal."
"We texted each other every day."
"That's suspicious."
"We visited each other."
"Very suspicious."
"We missed each other."
"Extremely suspicious."
"We worried about each other."
"Relationship."
"Yes."
"You idiots."
"Probably."
The understatement of the century.
Harris couldn't stop smiling, because suddenly everything made sense.
The transfer. The secrecy. The mysterious partner. The strange happiness.
Everything.
"How long exactly?"
Ilya looked out the windshield.
"A decade."
Harris froze.
"A decade."
"Yes."
"Ten years?"
"Yes."
"Ten entire years?"
"Yes."
"Ten years and nobody knows?"
"Nobody."
Harris stared, then stared harder. Then stared some more.
Finally:
"That is the most impressive thing I have ever heard."
Ilya looked pleased.
"We are professionals."
"No."
"What?"
"You are lucky."
"Maybe little."
Harris laughed so hard he nearly fell sideways.
This was absurd. Actually absurd.
The two biggest hockey stars in the world. The sport's greatest rivalry. Captains of rival franchises.
Secretly dating. For ten years. Without anyone finding out.
If Hollywood wrote that script people would complain it was unrealistic.
Then came the question.
The important one.
"The transfer."
Ilya nodded.
"The transfer."
"You moved for him."
The Russian didn't answer, instead he looked out the window again.
Harris understood immediately. Shane was in Montreal.
Boston wasn't far away, but it wasn't close either.
Not when careers consumed every second of your life.
Not when seasons lasted forever.
Not when every year blurred into airports and hotels and games.
"I wanted something different."
"Closer."
"Closer."
The smile returned. Small. Private.
"Closer to him."
For a moment neither spoke.
Then Harris reached over and squeezed his arm.
"I get it."
Because Harris did. More than most people would.
He loved Troy.
He knew what it felt like to rearrange your entire life around someone else's smile.
He knew what it felt like to choose a person again and again and again.
Even when it was inconvenient.
Even when it was difficult.
Even when nobody understood.
"So that's it?"
"That's it."
"You crossed the country because you're in love."
"Yes."
"That's disgustingly romantic."
"Thank you."
"That was not a compliment."
"I know."
They both laughed.
Then Ilya pointed at him.
"Now."
"What?"
"You keep secret."
"Obviously."
"No social media detective work."
"No detective work."
"No conspiracy board."
Harris froze.
"..."
Ilya narrowed his eyes.
"...you have conspiracy board."
"It's very organized."
"Harris."
"It has colour coding."
"Harris."
"There are arrows."
"HARRIS."
The laughter that followed could probably be heard from space.
And somewhere in Montreal, completely unaware of the disaster unfolding around him, Shane Hollander was likely drinking ginger ale and wondering why he suddenly felt nervous.
Because the biggest secret in hockey had just been discovered by the one person on Earth incapable of keeping calm about anything.
The good news was that Harris would absolutely keep the secret.
The bad news was that he would spend the rest of his life knowing that the terrifying womanizing hockey superstar had actually moved across the country because he was hopelessly in love with the shy ginger-ale-addicted captain of his rival team.
And honestly?
Nobody would ever believe it.
Which, as Ilya pointed out later, was probably the best security system imaginable.
The punchline arrived that evening.
Harris burst through the front door. Troy looked up from the couch.
Harris dropped onto the sofa grinning like a maniac.
"The secret relationship is real."
Troy sat up.
"What?"
"The relationship."
"What relationship?"
"Ilya and Shane."
Silence.
Then:
"...what?"
"Ten years."
"Ten WHAT?"
"Ten years."
Troy stared, then laughed. Then laughed harder.
Then nearly fell off the couch.
Finally he managed to gasp:
"So let me get this straight."
"Okay."
"The NHL's biggest bad boy moved cities for love."
"Correct."
"His secret boyfriend is Shane Hollander."
"Correct."
"The clue that solved everything was ginger ale."
"Correct."
Troy looked toward the ceiling. Thought for a moment.
"You know what?"
"What?"
"That's somehow the most Shane Hollander thing I've ever heard."
And Harris had to admit… the world's greatest hockey conspiracy had ultimately been defeated by a soft drink.