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There's a great big tree on the edge of the lake by Shane's cottage, and its longest branches just touch the water.
He sits under it often, the first summer after his cottage is built, taking in the view.
He thought having his own cottage would feel like peace, like being alone training at the rink at five am, nothing and no one but him and his thoughts.
It does feel like peace, often, but it also feels like loneliness; like coming back from a check in with the medics to a locker room that's already emptied out and no texts about which bar the team went off to. The cottage often feels too-quiet, in that same way.
So Shane sits by the tree, listening to the rustles of tree and the calls of the loons and the croaks of the frogs.
He feels the knobby little edges of its bark pressing up against his back, like a hand pressed between his shoulder blades.
Sometimes Shane brings his glasses and his book. Sometimes he brings a blanket and a cup of tea, or a ginger ale and some sunglasses, and he reads aloud, to himself and the tree. He always pours just a little out onto the tree.
Shane tries to think about who he could invite to the cottage, to sit under the tree with him.
Hayden has a cottage of his own, where he goes with his family. Shane's parents sit with him here, some evenings, when they visit, but it's only happened a few times over the summer.
It's okay, though, that it's just Shane and the tree.
There's a great big tree on the edge of the lake by Shane's cottage, and there's a piece of paper tacked up onto it with a little green pushpin.
Shane learned his lesson, the first summer. Too much time alone to think is dangerous. That's how the bad thoughts start.
It's harder to think when you're exercising. Safer, that way.
So, even though he has a synthetic rink and a treadmill and a yoga mat and a squat rack and a stationary bike, sometimes Shane comes outside, pushes a pushpin in the tree to tack up a piece of paper and a pen hanging from a string, and does hill sprints.
Each time he runs back, he adds a little hash.
Some days, at the bottom of the paper, he draws a tiny picture of cup.
When Shane touches the paper, adding his hashes, he visualizes winning it. Again.
He has just won his first a few weeks ago, and it felt better than he could have dreamed. Like a thousand bubbles, exploding, all over his brain, so bright and happy he couldn't think about anything else.
He wishes he had someone to tell about it, sometimes. What it felt like. He tells the tree, instead.
There's a great big tree on the edge of the lake by Shane's cottage, and a beautiful man with curly hair smoking a cigarette underneath it.
Shane brings him a blanket, and they hold each other, under the tree.
There's a great big tree on the edge of the lake by Shane's cottage, and Ilya is spraying it with champagne.
"Ottawa," he shouts, "watch out! You're stuck with me now."
Shane laughs and drinks the champagne right out of the bottle. The bottle is still fizzing. It bubbles over, sending a cold trickle of champagne dribbling down his neck. Ilya puts his arm around his waist and licks it off him, pec to neck.
He pauses when his tongue finds the lobe of an ear.
"Two hours apart," Ilya whispers, his mouth cool from the champagne. "All year round."
There's a great big tree at the edge of the lake by Shane's cottage, and two men are doing sprints under it, over and over.
"Again, Hollander," Ilya says, after ten, breath heaving. "Don't you want that third cup?"
"Again, Rozanov," Shane says, after twenty. "Don't you want to win at least one game this season?"
There's a great big tree at the edge of the lake by Shane's cottage, and Ilya sits under it alone, smoking a cigarette, fiddling with his cross.
"It is much harder than I expected," he whispers in Russian, to whoever is listening. To himself, and his mama, and the tree.
He rubs his nose, once. Then, he reaches out and rubs the bark of the tree. The rough bark tugs at his callouses. Ilya imagines it is someone's hand, touching his.
The tree has been here a long time, he thinks. It has probably been through a lot of storms.
There's a great big tree at the edge of the lake by Shane's cottage, and there are candles all around it, trailing down the hill and around its trunk and out to the dock, their flames dancing gently in the wind.
A man is kneeling, holding the hands of another.
"I know you already asked," he says. "But I am jealous man. I cannot let you have all the fun. Shane Hollander, I want you always in my heart, and me in yours. Will you marry me?"
There is a great big tree at the edge of the lake by Shane and Ilya's cottage, and Shane sits under it alone, his back against the trunk, balancing a small notebook against his knee. He has a small pen that is supposed to glide just right over the pages, but he has not written anything.
He looks up at the branches of the tree.
I do not believe this will help, he writes, but I promised to try.
He leans deeper back into the tree.
He looks at one of the small yellow flowers blooming under the tree.
I know I shouldn't care what they say, he writes, but every comment people make about us feels like a bee buzzing around my ear. It's so loud.
He writes, I keep thinking if I just say the perfect thing, score enough goals, the buzzing will stop.
They hate us so much, he writes. And I'm just trying to play hockey.
There's a great big tree at the edge of the lake by Shane and Ilya's cottage, and a dozen people stand under it, playing games and drinking beers and eating burgers.
"Who's up next in bracket?" Ilya calls from his position at the end of a long black table strewn with red solo cups. "Who dares challenge the champions?" He reaches his hand around the waist of his pong partner to squeeze his ass, and is rewarded with a red blush and a drunken little giggle.
"Don't get confused, Hazy," Shane calls to their opponents, tone even but eyes sparkling. "I know it's tricky for goalies to understand the mystical ways of aiming, but for this game, you're supposed to put the ball in the hole."
Ilya chokes on his beer. Some of it sloshes out of his cup and onto the roots of the tree.
There's a great big tree at the edge of the lake by Shane and Ilya's cottage and under it, on a carefully laid out blanket, there is a bright silver trophy, over three feet tall. It is etched, for the first time, with the Centaurs name.
Next to the cup lie two naked men, pressed together, hands pulling, tugging, pressing their victory into every part of each other's skin.
"We did it," Shane whispers into Ilya's neck.
"Together," Ilya breathes into the crook of his ear.
There's a great big tree at the edge of the lake by Shane and Ilya's cottage, and Ilya leans casually against it in a Canada National Team jersey, holding up a little passport book and a bottle of Canadian maple syrup, his back to the lake.
"Say something Canadian!" Shane says, holding up the camera.
"I love Shane Hollander," Ilya says with a smirk. The wind gusts, pushing his curls out of his eyes, revealing to the camera the smile lines that show how happy he really is.
There's a great big tree at the edge of the lake by Shane and Ilya's cottage, and Shane is sitting under it in a chair, his foot propped up on another.
"Can I get you anything?" Ilya calls down to him.
"A new fucking ACL," Shane shouts back. He sighs and closes his eyes.
The wind rustles the leaves, and he looks up at the branches and whispers to his knee and the tree. "Just give me another season. Just one or two more."
There is a great big tree at the edge of the lake by Shane and Ilya's cottage, and hanging from its branches is an overlarge banner.
"You can look now," Ilya whispers, pulling the blindfold from his husbands face.
Congrats on Twenty Seasons As Rivals and Lovers, it reads.
"What the fuck?" Shane says, laughing as he tackles his lover to the ground.
There is a great big tree at the edge of the lake by Shane and Ilya's cottage, and a lot of people are gathered under it, trying not to cry as they give speeches. An assortment of children try and fail to stay still, instead climbing for the tree’s branches and tugging at the leaves.
"Thank you for being my teammate," Hayden and Bood and Marleau say.
"This sport won't be the same without you," they all say.
"Thank you for making it easier for me," Luca says.
They all make a line between the tree and the cottage, and they make Ilya and Shane fistbump each one of them on the way up. "I love you," they all say, bumping fists. "I love you. I love you. I love you."
There is a great big tree at the edge of the lake by Shane and Ilya's cottage, and two men lay under it, hands in each others pants.
"How has this not gotten old yet?" Shane whispers, awed that the sex only gets better. His nerves are so on fire that he doesn't notice the bumps and lumps of the roots underneath him. He smells sweat, and dirt, and grass, and Ilya.
"It has," Ilya says, pretending not to understand. "Is a very old tree, already."
There is a great big tree at the edge of the lake by Shane and Ilya's cottage, and spread underneath it is a picnic blanket laden with cheese, crackers, grapes, and champagne.
"Wow," Yuna says. "Quite the spread."
"What's the special occasion?" David asks.
"Actually," Shane says, smiling as he pulls Ilya's hand in his own. "We got some good news."
There is a great big tree at the edge of the lake by Shane and Ilya's cottage, and three people and a dog lay underneath it.
"She is so smart," Ilya says. "Already she knows Russian and English and hockey and she smiles and watches us like we are the puck."
"She's five weeks old," Shane says. "She physically cannot do any of that."
Ilya looks up at him seriously. "Yes she can. She is so smart. She has your hockey IQ in her DNA." He pauses, looking at his daughter. "And also your cute little nose." He reaches down and boops his daughter's nose, then reaches over and boops Shane's.
"She really should be napping," Shane says, his chiding rendered toothless by the size of his smile.
"Fine," Ilya says. "I sing her song to sleep." He clears his throat, softly, and sings, accompanied by the rustle of the branches:
You are my sunshine
My only sunshine
You make me happy
When skies are gray
There is a great big tree at the edge of the lake by Shane and Ilya's cottage, and a toddler is practicing walking over the uneven ground at its base.
"This is very nice flower, thank you!" Ilya says in Russian, accepting his daughter's gift. "Do you think it would look better in Daddy's hair or your little brother's?"
There is a great big tree at the edge of the lake by Shane and Ilya's cottage, and a swing hangs from its branches.
"Higher, Daddy!" calls the little girl on the swing. "Again!"
Laughing, Shane gives the swing a big push.
There is a great big tree at the edge of the lake by Shane and Ilya's cottage, and it is groaning under the weight of the wind of an incoming storm. Its branches swing and sway, and the sky around it is dark.
Despite that, a man stands underneath it, both hands braced against the tree as he bends over, like he's using it to keep himself propped up.
"I said I was sorry," comes a shout from the top of the hill. "I am sorry. Will you please come back inside?"
There is a great big tree at the edge of the lake by Shane and Ilya's cottage, and five children taking turns crawling up its trunk, pretending they are monkeys.
"I said do not –" comes a shout from the cottage, but halfway through, there's the thud of the body hitting the ground, followed by a loud wail.
The boy cradles his arm to his body and cries and cries, until his dad rushes down and scoops him up in his arms.
"It was an accident," he sobs, big salty tears sliding off his face and onto the roots of the tree.
"I know," Ilya says. "I know. I know it hurts, I also hurt my arm like this once. We go to hospital and they will make it better."
There is a great big tree at the edge of the lake by Shane and Ilya's cottage, and a thirteen year old is laying under it, hoping no one can see her as she hides her face in her book and cries to herself.
There is a great big tree at the edge of the lake by Shane and Ilya's cottage, and a nineteen year old girl leans against it.
"Don't let them see," she whispers into the neck of the man who's pressing her into the tree. "It's a miracle Papa agreed that I could invite you here."
There is a great big tree at the edge of the lake by Shane and Ilya's cottage, and two mats are laid under it.
"Stupid yoga," Ilya says from one of them, legs shaking as he balances.
"That's not what you said last night," Shane says with a laugh.
There is a great big tree at the edge of the lake by Shane and Ilya's cottage, and a man in a black suit stands under it, smoking the third cigarette of his life, looking out at the water.
"My baby," Ilya says, as he comes up behind Shane and wraps his arms around him. "You did so well today. Let me give you hug."
Shane turns, his eyes red, lids puffy.
"Oh, baby," he says again. "David would be so proud of you. You are so brave."
There is a great big tree at the edge of the lake by Shane and Ilya's cottage, and there are three dozen chairs arranged in a circle underneath and around it.
At the base of the tree stands a tall woman with long dark hair and freckles and a white gown, and a man who looks at her like she’s his sunshine
"Dearly beloved…"
There is a great big tree at the edge of the lake by Shane and Ilya's cottage, and five sets of couples are loading supplies onto a speedboat parked on the dock just next to it.
"Rose!" Hayden calls, his voice a conspiratorial shout-whisper. "Tell Svetlana we're going to try to ice Shane."
"What are you," Jackie scoffs. "Eighteen?"
"Is good plan," Ilya says from the helm of the boat, where he's wearing a little Speedo and nothing else. His chest hair is thicker, and some of it has started to come in silver, but Shane tells him he likes it. "Hide it in his captain's hat."
There is a great big tree at the edge of the lake by Shane and Ilya's cottage, and Ilya has Shane pinned against the trunk as he kisses every freckle and wrinkle on his face.
"Or maybe this one is my favorite," he says, "or this one," reveling in making his husband squirm in his arms.
There is a great big tree at the edge of the lake by Shane and Ilya's cottage, and they are sitting on the grass with a phone between them, delivering news on speaker.
Ilya swallows and looks out at the water. He has lived twice as long as his mother did, he realizes.
"What stage?" Shane asks.
"Shane," Ilya says, after they hang up the call. "When I die…"
"Don't say that."
"Just. This would be a good spot, I think."
There is a great big tree at the edge of the lake by Shane and Ilya's cottage, and a man is vomiting onto the grass underneath it.
"I'm so sorry," Shane whispers miserably, rubbing his hand over Ilya's back. "You seemed better. I thought it would be good to get some fresh air."
"Is okay," Ilya says. "It was good. Change of scenery for vomiting."
There is a great big tree at the edge of the lake by Shane and Ilya's cottage, and this time it is being drowned in champagne.
Shane and Ilya and their son and daughter and son-in-law dance under the tree, each waving a bottle around, coaxing more and more bubbles up and out, spraying them into the air and against the trunk of the tree, trying to see who can spray it high enough to hit the branches, a ridiculous show of exuberance and wealth and being alive.
"FUCK YOU CANCER!" they yell, and versions of it. "FUCKING REMISSION!"
There is a great big tree at the edge of the lake by Shane and Ilya's cottage, and a bench has just been installed underneath.
"I don't know why we didn't do this sooner," Shane says, plopping himself on the bench.
"Mmm, I like the ground," Ilya responds.
"Fine," Shane says. "Stay on the ground, then."
"I will," Ilya says, as he sinks to his knees in front of Shane. "Because this is best position to christen bench."
There is a great big tree at the edge of the lake by Shane and Ilya's cottage, and the water on this side of the lake has frozen into a thick sheet of ice.
Two men walk down to it, slow and careful not to slide on the icy grass of the hill. They pause at the bench to lace up their skates, then push out onto the ice, as gracefully as loons dipping into water.
The skate circles together, sometimes racing, sometimes holding hands, always just a stride apart.
There is a great big tree at the edge of the lake by Shane and Ilya's cottage, and two men sit on the bench, holding each other tight.
"Could you ever have imagined this?" Shane asks.
"Never," Ilya responds honestly, pressing a kiss into his husband's temple. "I could not ever have imagined such a life."
"Ya tebya lyublyu," Shane whispers, the accent on these particular three words near-native after thousands of repetitions.
"You are my Shaneshine," Ilya sings softly, his voice rough and deep. "My only Shaneshine…"
There is a great big tree at the edge of the lake by Ilya's cottage, and he stands underneath it, holding a small box.
"Thank you," he whispers, hoping it's okay to say it in Russian – Shane's Russian had been fluent for a long time, and if he doesn't understand, maybe Ilya's mama can help him translate. "Thank you for being my best friend, and my lover."
He opens the box and takes a little bit of the ash inside and puts it, carefully, in the earth in front of the tree. Then he turns, steps carefully down to the edge of the lake, and lets the rest gently into the water.
"Okay," he says. "You won this race, Hollander, but I'll catch up soon."
He stands up slowly and goes to sit on their bench, at the edge of the lake, under the great big tree.