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19 February 2018
Montréal
Stéphanie was never supposed to be at the game that changed everything.
She was on her feet, along with everyone else in the Bell Centre. In the eerie hush that had fallen over the crowd, punctuated by the occasional gasping sob, they could hear the cries from the ice. One name, over and over, ripped from an anguished mouth.
She’d come into town two days early. Sue her, she liked hockey, and Metros-Raiders was always a good game, a better-matched fight than her Centaurs were currently capable of. She had plans for how to change that, now that her father had died and they’d inherited the team, but for now, she watched other teams and she dreamed.
Today’s dream had turned into a nightmare. It was Zednik and Malarchuk all over again. It was a trail of blood on the ice. It was Shane Hollander, his gloves red, pushing past his gesticulating coach and following the stretcher. It was a silent stadium, fearing the worst, and knowing what it heard.
Stéphanie left her seat, her phone already to her ear.
“Denis,” she said, and didn’t pause to let him respond. “We need to put together a trade package. Tonight.” The trade deadline was in a week. “Put Gusev in it.” She considered. “Fontaine too.”
“Slow down,” Denis said, laughing. “What’s the rush? Who are we trading for?”
Stéphanie knew she was lucky. Her father had been such an over-involved tyrant of an owner, that their GM was well-accustomed to meddling from above. Denis seemed to be mostly relieved that Benoît and Karine let Stéphanie handle the hockey, and that Stéphanie’s requests were less outlandish than her father’s had been. (And that they actually had legitimate reasoning, not just “I don’t like him”.) She knew hockey backwards and forwards, and had earned a Master’s degree in sports management from UBC. In another life, she’d be working her way up as a scout or in Player Personnel.
“Shane Hollander,” she said.
~🏒~
23 February 2018
Montréal
Ottawa was a shit team.
It was her father’s fault, as well as the result of a series of talentless hacks in the GM and coaching positions. Her father had always been a bad judge of character and skill, and it hadn’t helped that he’d tended to show off to his golf buddies and his string of much-younger girlfriends by inviting their input. They’d been the laughingstock of the league for decades, and playing for Ottawa had been a death sentence for a career.
Stéphanie – who had read Moneyball at the tender age of sixteen, and had been hockey-obsessed since she was six – was determined to change that.
“Let me get this straight,” the woman across the table from her said. “You’re asking Shane to waive his no-trade clause to go to Ottawa.”
She sounded like it was dirt on the bottom of her shoe. Stéphanie was fairly certain she didn’t mean to sound like that, but she did nonetheless.
“Yes,” Stéphanie said.
The league’s best player stared at the table in front of him. He looked like he hadn’t slept in four days, apart from whatever broken moments he’d snatched in a hospital cot. There were bruises under his eyes, and exhaustion underlined every angle of his body.
Yuna Hollander crossed her arms over her chest. She was a lioness protecting her cub. Hollander’s agent was biting her lip, but this was between Stéphanie and Mme Hollander.
“Madame Hollander,” Stéphanie said, quietly. “I know Montréal is a good team. They’ve won two Cups in the last three years. I know we can't compete with that.”
“But?” Mme Hollander asked, when Stéphanie didn’t immediately continue.
“But I know Montréal. The owners, the organization, the coaches, the players. And I know how eagerly they seized upon our offer. They are not a good place for your son any longer.”
Mme Hollander’s chin jutted up in challenge. “And you think you are?”
“Monsieur Hollander,” Stéphanie said, to the man who wasn’t meeting anyone’s eyes.
His head ticked slightly to the right. “Shane.”
She nodded. “Shane. How is he?”
Shane looked up. His face was guarded.
“I’m not asking to pry,” Stéphanie said. “I’m asking as a person who has slept on that cot.”
Shane swallowed. “He’s – better. He lost a lot of blood but the artery wasn’t severed. He’s out of the ICU and we’re probably bringing him home tomorrow. The doctors say he’ll make a full recovery.”
It was perhaps evil that it wasn’t only Stéphanie’s human side that rejoiced at this news. Her calculated Moneyball brain did too, already three steps ahead.
“That’s the best news I’ve had all week,” Stéphanie said, and meant it with every fiber of her being. She leaned forward. “Cards on the table. Montréal is a good fucking hockey team. They’re also homophobic sacks of shit, and you just outed yourself to the whole world as not only queer, but in love with a Boston Raider.”
Mme Hollander was bristling, but Stéphanie only had eyes for Shane. After a second, she was rewarded with the smallest, tired quirk of his lips. “Insult to injury.”
“Ottawa sucks. We intend not to suck, and we think you could be the centerpiece of our rebuilding strategy. We have the cap space to take you. We put the two players we were most concerned about being homophobic in the trade package, and if anyone else has a problem, we’ll get rid of them too. Literally nobody on this team is more important than getting you on board.”
Shane blinked. He appeared to be actually listening, however, instead of actively disassociating. This was progress.
“You have the highest hockey IQ in the league,” Stéphanie said. “If there are any players who you think are undervalued and have potential, we want your input. We’re ready for change. We would embrace everything you brought to the team.”
“Everything?” Shane asked. There was a glitter of challenge in his eyes. It was the most life Stéphanie had seen in him yet. “Because I don’t know if you’ve seen the Internet this week, but my boyfriend’s in the hospital and I’m benched, and we’re getting investigated by the League for match-fixing.”
Stéphanie shrugged. “My father was a piece of shit who disowned my half-brother for being gay. My siblings and I are used to power-hungry assholes, and we’re not afraid of Roger Crowell. Anyone with eyes can see that you and Rozanov weren’t fixing games.”
Shane looked back down at the table. His thumb was tracing a pattern on the tabletop. After a long moment, he said, “What if –” and trailed off.
Stéphanie went for the buzzer-beater. All-in. “With you on the team, I think we would become a coveted destination for free agents this summer. You’d get input into those calls. There’s one in particular that we’d be very interested in.”
Shane looked up and met her eyes. “A lot of teams wouldn’t want the distraction.”
Stéphanie didn’t look away. “A lot of teams are fucking idiots. From a purely business perspective –” Denis cleared his throat. “Hypothetically, from a purely business perspective, having generational talents centering the first two lines sounds pretty fucking incredible to me. If you can help us find an undervalued goalie to steal, we’ll be well on our way to the ultimate goal.”
“Which is?” Shane said. He was leaning forward.
Stéphanie grinned, showing her teeth. “Cup in four years.”
“And you’ll sign him.”
Denis cleared his throat again, but Stéphanie ignored him. “If he wants to play, and the doctors pass him, I would be incredibly, incredibly happy to see him wearing our colors.”
She could see the wheels turning behind Shane’s eyes. Then he nodded once, decisive. “Goal should be three. Years, that is. I’ll waive the NTC. Try to get Haas in the draft – I know Wilson and Soderholm are ranked higher, but trust me, Haas is the best.”
Stéphanie laughed, delighted.
Denis said, “I think we’ll have to get the trade finalized and approved before we’re allowed to listen to input, but I know Haas is high on our list.”
Stéphanie was busy writing LUCA HAAS in big pointed letters on her notepad.
She looked up again and deliberately met the eyes of the three people across the table – Shane’s agent, Shane’s manager, and Shane himself. “We’re going to make a beautiful future together,” she said, holding Shane’s gaze.
“We are,” he agreed, and didn’t look away.
~🏒~
25 February 2018
Montréal
“Thank god that dilettante bitch in Ottawa took him off our hands.”
The door was cracked open. The coaching staff of the Metros didn’t realize an enemy was in their halls. They didn’t care if any of their own heard them.
“Probably wants to try to get butts in seats by playing the hometown hero card. And cash in on the queers. Ottawa is queer central.”
“Uh, Madame Mathieu?” the social media person guiding her said, looking miserable. “The locker room is this way.”
Stéphanie followed them down the hall. The sounds of a team getting ready for practice filtered through the locker room doors.
She stood in the doorway and looked for Shane. Two of his teammates stood by him like bodyguards as he pulled on a skate. One tapped him on the shoulder, and he looked up.
“It’s official?” he said, getting to his feet, one skate on and the other off.
Stéphanie nodded.
Shane exhaled. He sat back down and took the skate back off. He packed up his bag. His locker was neater than almost any player’s she’d ever seen, and it didn’t take long.
The locker room was eerily quiet. Nobody would meet Stéphanie’s eyes, or look at Shane.
Stéphanie held the door for Shane, then looked back into the room. “Enjoy losing, idiots,” she said, sunnily, and left with her prize.
Down the hall – a different direction from the coaching offices – Shane said, “Uh, the parking lot is that way. And, not to be rude, but why exactly are you here?”
Stéphanie smiled at him, and kept following the social media person. “We’re making a quick stop at the rink. Which is why I’m here.”
“I’m still confused.”
“I thought you might want to say goodbye,” she said, as the beautiful sight of an empty rink came into view. They’d timed it perfectly – only a couple of coaches were there yet, getting ready for practice. “And with the dilettante bitch from Ottawa as your companion, they won’t kick you out.”
The social media person laughed, a surprised choked sound.
Stéphanie grinned at them. “They should add dyke to the list next time. Capture all my best qualities while they’re at it.”
“Ilya is going to love you,” Shane said, almost to himself.
He set his bag down. He pulled on his skates.
And for the last time as a Metro, the best player in the league skated to center ice. He paused there, looking up at his Cup banners, his shoulders back and his head held high.
Stéphanie took a picture for him, in case he wanted it later.
Then she put a bug in the social media person’s ear. Why stop at one opportunistic rescue? They’d just hired a new social media manager, and he could use more good people. Ottawa was going to rule social media, if Stéphanie had anything to say about it.
On the rink, Shane Hollander said a silent goodbye to Montréal.
~🏒~
13 June 2021
Ottawa
Never bet against Shane Hollander-Rozanov, Stéphanie thought.
Three years after Ilya Rozanov’s injury, three years after Montréal threw their champion out, three years after Ottawa gleefully scooped up the two greatest talents in hockey – and exactly on Shane’s predicted schedule, the Cup was theirs.
The team was beat up, soaked in champagne, and singing “We Are the Champions” at the top of their lungs. It was loud, untuneful, boisterous clamor. The bruises and sprains and fractured fingers and missing teeth were legion, and there was a nasty bruise from a stray elbow next to the long scar on Ilya’s throat.
(Watching the way Shane pushed him against the wall, leaning in to kiss his laughing mouth, Stéphanie thought there would be more than one hickey decorating his skin as well by the time of the victory parade. More power to them.)
The new Assistant Director of Player Personnel tapped her elbow. “Another glass of champagne?”
“Thanks,” Stéphanie said, raising it in a little salute.
“Is it everything you dreamed of?”
Stéphanie watched her team celebrate, the joy rolling off them like an almost tangible thing. They were a young, motley group of misfits, led by the First Husbands of Hockey, with one of the best goalies in the League and several talented ELC babies, including two of the Calder finalists. Three of their veterans had been widely regarded as washed-up, before Ottawa had swooped in to resuscitate their careers. They were the queerest team in the League, and absolutely unapologetically in everyone’s faces about it.
Her father must have been rolling in his grave. His team, champions at last – but looking like this, with the husbands kissing against the wall, and the social media manager flirting with his boyfriend, and two of the rookies sneaking glances at each other much more obviously than they thought they were. He’d have gnashed his teeth and sworn up a storm.
Her brother Sebastien would have loved it.
“Yes,” Stéphanie said, quietly, watching the joy all around her. “It is.”
“If you want,” her companion said, with elaborate casualness, “we could celebrate back at my place later.”
Stéphanie turned to her, watching the way her eyes sparkled above her champagne glass. They’d been flirting for months, but there was something about a Cup run that made you not want to jinx anything. But the Cup run was over, and there was something in the air –
“You just want to gloat about how stupid your Ilyusha made Matheson look on that shorthanded goal,” Stéphanie said.
Sveta’s curls bounced as she laughed. “That, yes.” Her gaze slid to Stéphanie’s lips, deliberate and sure. “But not only that.”
And Stéphanie leaned in and stole a kiss, surrounded by love and joy and sticky showers of champagne, with shouts of glee in the background and her heart light as a feather.
~🏒~