Work Text:
The grand opening week of Svetlana Vetrova's newest luxury car showroom in Boston had already convinced her that opening a business location personally was a terrible idea.
Not because sales were bad.
Sales were excellent.
That was exactly the problem.
Every wealthy businessman in Massachusetts seemed to have decided that buying a sports car was the perfect way to celebrate the beginning of summer, and every salesperson in the building was running around with the focused panic of people trying to earn commissions large enough to buy islands.
Svetlana stood in her glass-walled office overlooking the showroom floor and watched organized chaos unfold beneath her.
Ferraris.
Lamborghinis.
McLarens.
Aston Martins.
Enough expensive machinery to bankrupt several small countries.
Her phone buzzed. A manager asking about inventory.
Another buzz. A customer wanting a custom interior.
Another buzz. Someone asking if they could get a Rolls-Royce delivered by helicopter.
Svetlana closed her eyes.
"Americans." she muttered.
Then she opened them again and nearly dropped her coffee.
Walking through the front entrance was Shane Hollander.
Shane Hollander.
The Shane Hollander.
Captain of the Montreal Metros.
One of the two best hockey players in the NHL.
The shy superstar who somehow looked uncomfortable even while being photographed for magazine covers.
Svetlana blinked twice.
"No."
She looked again.
"Yes."
The man had freckles. Nobody else had freckles that famous.
Immediately she reached for her phone.
Ilya answered on the second ring.
"Sveta."
"You are not going to believe who just walked into my showroom."
"I once believed teammate who said protein powder was tax deductible. My standards are low. Tell me."
"Shane Hollander."
There was a pause, then a loud bark of laughter.
"What?"
"Shane Hollander."
Another laugh.
"No."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"I do not know. Maybe he woke up and decided he needed Ferrari."
"Follow him."
Svetlana rolled her eyes.
"I am not stalking NHL players."
"Then casually observe him, yes."
"You sound invested."
"I am curious."
"You sound nosy."
"I am Russian. Curiosity is our national sport."
She heard him laughing.
"Tell me everything."
"You are ridiculous."
"And handsome."
"Goodbye, Roz."
She hung up.
A moment later her phone buzzed.
KEEP ME UPDATED
Svetlana shook her head.
He is still mentally ten. Some things never changed.
Looking down from her office, she spotted Shane wandering toward the Ferrari section.
Unlike most celebrity customers, he wasn't demanding attention.
In fact, he seemed to be doing his best not to attract any.
He examined a dark red Ferrari with careful concentration, occasionally glancing around as if searching for assistance.
The nearest salesperson was busy with another customer.
Svetlana sighed. Fine. She would do it herself.
She straightened her jacket and headed downstairs.
As she approached, she understood immediately why millions of hockey fans had crushes on Shane Hollander.
Television did not do him justice.
The cameras captured the freckles.
They captured the eyes.
They captured the smile.
What they failed to capture was the overwhelming effect of all those things existing together in one place.
The man was unfairly attractive.
Shane noticed her approaching. Immediately he stood straighter.
"Hello."
His voice was soft. Polite. Almost nervous.
"Hello," Svetlana replied. "Can I help you?"
His shoulders relaxed slightly.
"Actually, yes. I was looking at this Ferrari."
"A good choice."
"You think so?"
"I sell these for a living. If I say no, that would be terrible marketing."
That earned a surprised laugh. Good.
At least she could still make hockey players laugh.
"What are you looking for?" she asked.
Shane glanced back at the car.
"It's a gift."
"A very expensive gift."
"Yes."
His expression shifted slightly. Something warm appeared in his eyes.
Interesting. Very interesting.
Someone was getting a Ferrari from Shane Hollander.
Whoever they were, they were clearly important.
She began explaining specifications while they walked around the vehicle.
Shane listened attentively.
Asked intelligent questions. Actually understood the answers.
After ten minutes she concluded that he was probably the easiest celebrity client she had ever met.
No ego. No attitude. No attempt to impress anyone.
Just genuine interest.
At one point she smiled and said, "You know, I have a friend who would be extremely jealous right now."
Shane looked up.
"Oh?"
"He collects sports cars."
"What kind?"
"All kinds."
She grinned.
"His name is Ilya Rozanov."
The reaction was immediate. And bizarre.
Shane froze. Actually froze.
For half a second he looked almost happy, then something changed.
The happiness vanished. His expression became complicated.
Then sad. Then deeply sad.
Svetlana stared.
What on earth?
She continued.
"I'm Svetlana Vetrova, by the way."
That somehow made everything worse.
Shane's face completely fell apart.
Not literally. Emotionally.
The man suddenly looked as though someone had informed him that puppies were illegal.
Svetlana blinked.
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah."
He absolutely was not okay.
"Are you sure?"
"Yep."
He sounded like someone trying not to walk into traffic.
What had just happened?
She knew hockey rivalries could be intense. But this seemed excessive.
Mentioning Ilya had apparently caused an existential crisis.
Shane quickly excused himself and climbed into the driver's seat of the Ferrari.
Svetlana watched him stare at the steering wheel still looking miserable.
Without thinking, she opened a message to Ilya.
Talked to him.
A reply arrived instantly.
AND?
You broke him.
What?
He looked happy until I mentioned your name. Then he looked heartbroken.
Several seconds passed.
No response.
Then:
Interesting.
What does that mean?
Nothing. Keep observing.
You sound like spy.
I am Russian.
That is not excuse.
Historically it has worked pretty well.
Svetlana nearly laughed.
Inside the Ferrari, Shane pulled out his phone and typed something.
His expression remained troubled.
The entire situation became stranger by the minute.
Eventually Shane emerged from the car. He looked composed again.
Not happy. Not upset. Just carefully neutral.
The kind of expression people wore when attempting not to think about something.
Unfortunately for him, his phone suddenly began ringing.
Svetlana happened to be standing nearby.
She glanced at the screen and then almost choked.
Caller ID:
Ilya
Well. That explained absolutely nothing.
And raised twelve new questions.
Shane visibly panicked.
"Sorry."
He stepped aside and answered.
"Hello?"
His voice had dropped into a whisper.
A whisper that stood absolutely no chance against Ilya Rozanov.
Because Ilya Rozanov did not possess an indoor voice.
Even through the phone speaker, Svetlana could hear him.
" SOLNYSHKO!"
Several customers looked around.
Shane closed his eyes.
"Oh my God."
"Why are you sad?"
"I am not sad."
"You are terrible liar."
"Ilya."
"You met Sveta, yes?"
Shane lowered his voice even further.
"Can you not yell?"
"No."
Svetlana pressed her lips together. This conversation was rapidly becoming impossible not to overhear.
"Listen," Ilya continued, "you are jealous."
"I am not."
"You are."
"I am not."
"You are."
A pause. Then Shane sighed.
The sigh of a man who had lost an argument before it began.
"Maybe a little."
"AHA."
"Ilya."
"You are jealous because she is beautiful."
"Please stop talking."
"You are thinking, wow, Shane, this woman is gorgeous."
"I hate you."
"And then you think, wow, Shane, she used to sleep with Ilya."
Shane made a strangled noise.
Svetlana nearly walked directly into a Lamborghini.
What.
"What is wrong with you?" Shane whispered.
"I am helping."
"You are not helping."
" Solnyshko."
"No."
"Listen to me."
"I am hanging up."
"You are favourite person."
Silence. Then a much softer voice from Shane.
"You too."
Svetlana froze.
Every instinct she possessed suddenly started screaming.
Something was happening here.
Something enormous.
Something that explained absolutely everything.
On the phone, Ilya continued.
"Do not be sad."
"I'm not sad."
"You are."
"Maybe."
"You know I love you, yes?"
Shane's entire face turned red.
"Oh my God."
"I am serious."
"You are saying this while I'm standing in a Ferrari dealership."
"Love has no respect for business hours."
"Ilya."
"I mean it."
A pause.
Then quietly:
"I know."
Svetlana stared.
The pieces slammed together so hard she almost heard them.
Oh. OH.
Oh, that was hilarious.
The two biggest rivals in professional hockey.
The men who spent every season trying to murder each other on national television.
The captains. The superstars. The faces of opposing franchises.
Secretly in love.
Svetlana felt the overwhelming urge to sit down.
Instead she pretended to study a nearby Aston Martin.
Shane eventually ended the call.
He looked embarrassed. Fond. Hopelessly in love.
And completely unaware that half the conversation had been audible.
Svetlana said nothing. Not a single word.
She simply smiled professionally and resumed discussing the Ferrari.
If Shane wanted privacy, she would give it to him.
Even if she was currently carrying enough information to destroy the internet.
Eventually paperwork was completed.
Delivery dates were discussed.
Then Shane casually said:
"June fifteenth would work."
Svetlana paused.
June fifteenth. Ilya's birthday.
Oh, this man was not subtle at all.
Svetlana kept her expression perfectly professional.
Years of negotiating with billionaires had taught her how to maintain a straight face under extreme circumstances.
Still, this was testing her limits.
"June fifteenth?" she repeated.
Shane nodded.
"Yes."
"That date is important?"
The poor man looked caught.
Not suspicious. Not defensive. Just caught.
Like a golden retriever that had accidentally stolen an entire roast chicken and hadn't yet decided whether to run or apologize.
"Kind of."
"Birthday?"
A pause.
"Something like that."
Something like that.
Svetlana wanted to laugh. Instead she nodded.
"Then June fifteenth it is."
Shane visibly relaxed.
The paperwork continued. Signatures appeared. Numbers were exchanged.
Delivery instructions were finalized.
Finally Shane stood.
"Thank you."
"It was my pleasure."
He smiled.
And once again Svetlana understood why half the hockey world adored him.
The smile was devastating. Warm. Genuine.
Completely incapable of manipulation.
If someone told her Shane Hollander secretly donated money to orphaned puppies while rescuing grandmothers from burning buildings, she would not have questioned it.
"Have a nice day." he said.
"You too."
He hesitated, then glanced toward the office where she had originally been standing.
"Tell Ilya..."
He stopped. A faint blush appeared.
Then he shook his head.
"Actually never mind."
Now it was Svetlana's turn to smile.
"No."
Shane narrowed his eyes.
"No?"
"No. You started that sentence. You finish it."
His expression suggested he regretted everything.
For several seconds he considered surrender. Finally he sighed.
"Just tell him I said hi."
Svetlana nearly injured herself holding back laughter.
A Ferrari. A secret relationship.
And this man was standing here saying:
Tell him I said hi.
The emotional equivalent of delivering a marriage proposal through a sticky note.
"I'll tell him."
"Thanks."
Then Shane escaped. Actually escaped.
The automatic doors opened.
The captain of the Montreal Metros practically fled into the parking lot.
A few moments later his car disappeared.
The second it was gone, Svetlana grabbed her phone.
She pressed call. One ring. Two rings.
Then:
"Sveta."
"You absolute psychopath."
Ilya started laughing immediately. Not normal laughter.
The laughter of a man who knew exactly why he was being called.
"I do not know what you mean, yes."
"You are dating Shane Hollander."
More laughter.
"Ilya."
"Maybe."
"You have been dating Shane Hollander."
"Possibly."
"For years."
"Depends how you define years."
"Ilya."
"Okay, yes."
Svetlana collapsed into the nearest office chair.
"You are unbelievable."
"I know."
"You never told me."
"You never asked."
"I never asked if you were secretly in love with your hockey rival because that is not a normal question."
"Fair."
She rubbed her forehead.
"I thought you hated each other."
"We do."
"No."
"Yes."
"Ilya."
"Okay, sometimes we do."
That sounded much more believable.
"Explain."
"Which part?"
"All of it."
A dramatic sigh echoed through the phone. Then Ilya began.
Apparently it had started ten years ago.
Ten. Years.
For several years they had apparently existed in a strange arrangement involving secret hookups, intense hockey rivalry, emotional incompetence, and extraordinary amounts of denial.
Then eventually they had fallen in love.
Neither had handled that development particularly well.
"How long have you officially been together?"
"Three years."
Svetlana sat upright.
"Three years?"
"Yes."
"You have hidden a serious relationship for three years."
"We are very private."
"No, you are very insane."
More laughter.
Then his voice softened.
"We had to be careful."
That part she understood.
Professional sports were complicated. Fame was complicated. Privacy was complicated.
Especially when both people involved were among the most recognizable athletes on the continent.
"Are you happy?" she asked.
The answer arrived immediately.
"Yes."
No hesitation. No jokes. No sarcasm.
Just certainty.
And somehow that told her everything.
For all of Ilya's nonsense, all of his flirting, all of his ridiculous public reputation, there was something in his voice she had rarely heard before.
Peace.
"I stopped sleeping with you because of him."
Svetlana laughed.
"I figured that part out."
"You were my last disaster before personal growth."
"What a beautiful compliment."
"I try."
"You could have told me."
"I know."
There was a brief silence.
Then:
"I was scared."
That surprised her.
"Ilya Rozanov gets scared?"
"Occasionally."
"Of what?"
"Losing him."
The answer was quiet. Honest. Unexpected.
And suddenly the entire thing made sense.
All those years. All those rumours. All those women. All that noise.
Then suddenly nothing.
The great Ilya Rozanov had fallen in love.
And apparently nobody had noticed because he was still acting like an idiot.
"Well," Svetlana said, "for what it's worth, I'm happy for you."
"Thank you."
"And Shane is adorable."
A groan came through the phone.
"Oh no."
"What?"
"You used adorable."
"He is adorable."
"No."
"He bought you a Ferrari."
Silence.
Then:
"He WHAT?"
Svetlana smiled. Got him.
"What?"
"He bought a Ferrari."
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
"Red Ferrari."
A pause.
Then:
"That idiot."
"He scheduled delivery for your birthday."
Another pause. Longer this time.
When Ilya spoke again, his voice sounded suspiciously emotional.
"That idiot."
"That is the second time you said that."
"I am saying it affectionately."
"You are in love."
"I know."
"You are disgustingly in love."
"Unfortunately."
"You deserve this."
"I do."
Svetlana laughed.
For the first time all day, everything felt wonderfully simple.
Her oldest friend had found someone. Someone kind. Someone loyal.
Someone who clearly adored him.
Considering that Ilya had spent most of his twenties making terrible romantic decisions, this felt like a miracle.
"Anyway," Ilya announced, recovering quickly, "you are coming to dinner."
"What?"
"Tomorrow."
"I was not invited."
"You are now."
"By whom?"
"Me."
"That is not how invitations work."
"It absolutely is."
"Ilya."
"Shane already agreed."
"Did he?"
"No."
"You haven't asked him."
"I know him."
"That is concerning."
"He will say yes."
"That is more concerning."
"Seven o'clock."
"You are impossible."
"See you then, yes."
The line disconnected.
Svetlana stared at her phone, then she started laughing.
Because somehow, after all these years, Ilya remained exactly the same.