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Luca Haas had made exactly three mistakes when planning his birthday party.
The first mistake was telling the Ottawa Centaurs that it would be "a small gathering”.
The second mistake was telling them there would be food.
The third mistake was assuming professional hockey players understood the concept of moderation.
By Wednesday afternoon he was standing in a supermarket in Ottawa, staring at a shopping cart that already contained enough chips, pretzels, cookies, candy, soda, frozen pizza, chicken wings, and various unidentified snack products to sustain a small village through a harsh winter.
He checked the list on his phone.
Then he checked the cart.
Then he checked the list again.
The numbers didn't make sense.
He was fairly sure he'd only invited ten people.
The cart looked prepared for fifty.
"Boodram counts as three people." Luca muttered.
That actually seemed reasonable. Zane Boodram could consume alarming amounts of food.
Luca pushed the cart down another aisle, trying to remember whether Jordy preferred barbecue chips or sour cream chips, while simultaneously wondering if it would be weird to put birthday candles into a grocery-store cheesecake.
His teammates would absolutely make fun of him.
On the other hand, they would make fun of him regardless.
The life of the youngest player on the team was difficult.
Especially when your captain was Ilya Rozanov.
Particularly when said captain had discovered years of embarrassing information about you.
Information such as the fact that you had once owned an enormous poster of Ilya in Boston Bears gear.
Information such as the fact that you had considered that poster the greatest possession of your teenage years.
Information such as…
No. Luca wasn't thinking about that. Absolutely not.
He turned a corner into another aisle.
A few shoppers moved around him.
Everything was normal. Quiet. Peaceful.
Then somebody yelled behind him.
"HAASY!"
Luca froze.
The nickname hit him first, then the urgency.
Then the fact that something large was suddenly falling directly toward his head.
He looked up. A boxed kitchen appliance was plummeting from the top shelf.
"Jesus!"
He jumped backward. The box crashed into the floor exactly where he had been standing a second earlier.
The impact echoed through the aisle. Several shoppers gasped.
Luca stared at the box. The box stared back, in the metaphorical sense.
His heart was trying to escape through his throat.
Then he remembered the warning.
Someone had shouted. Someone had called him Haasy.
Very few people called him that. Basically only his teammates.
Slowly he turned around and nearly forgot how breathing worked.
Standing behind him was Shane Hollander.
Not a look-alike.
Not somebody who vaguely resembled him.
Actually Shane Hollander.
Captain of the Montreal Metros.
One of the best hockey players on the planet.
Ilya Rozanov's eternal rival.
The man currently looked as shocked as Luca felt.
For a few seconds they simply stared at each other.
Shane looked horrified.
Not because of the falling box, but because of what he'd just said.
"Uh." Shane said.
"Uh." Luca agreed.
Another pause.
Shane pointed toward the box.
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah."
"You almost got hit."
"I noticed."
"Good."
Another pause.
"I mean not good."
Luca blinked. Shane blinked.
The silence became painful.
Finally Shane rubbed the back of his neck.
"Sorry. I just meant I'm glad you're okay."
Luca nodded quickly.
"Right. Thanks. For warning me."
"No problem."
More silence. It was impressive, really.
Two professional hockey players.
Neither capable of holding a conversation.
Luca suspected Shane might actually be worse than him. Which was comforting.
Then his brain finally caught up.
Wait.
Shane Hollander was standing in front of him.
Actually standing in front of him.
Not on television. Not on social media.
Right here. In a supermarket. In Ottawa.
Luca's mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again.
"You're Shane Hollander."
The moment the words escaped, he regretted them.
Obviously he was Shane Hollander.
Shane looked briefly amused.
"Hopefully."
"Oh my God."
"That sounds like you're having doubts."
"No. Sorry. I just…"
Luca gestured vaguely.
"You are Shane Hollander."
"Still true."
"This is weird."
"You're telling me."
Shane immediately looked like he wished he hadn't said that.
Because it suggested Shane was also confused about something.
Possibly the nickname.
Possibly the fact that he was apparently shopping in Ottawa.
Luca considered asking. Instead he said the first thing that entered his head.
"Can I get your autograph?"
Shane visibly relaxed.
An autograph was a normal request. An autograph was safe.
"Sure."
Luca searched his pockets. Nothing.
Shane searched his pockets. Nothing.
They stared at each other.
"No pen?" Luca asked.
"No pen."
"What kind of hockey player are you?"
"The kind who forgets pens."
Luca laughed. Shane smiled.
The smile transformed his face completely. Less intimidating. Warmer.
"You know," Shane said, "I don't think I've signed anything in a supermarket before."
"I don't think I've almost been killed in one before."
"Fair point."
Luca checked again. Still no pen.
Shane checked again. Still no pen.
The situation remained tragically penless.
Eventually Luca pulled out his phone.
"We could take a picture."
"A picture?"
"Unless that's weird."
"No, it’s not weird."
They took a selfie. Luca grinned. Shane smiled politely.
The result looked surprisingly normal considering both participants were internally malfunctioning.
Afterward they stood there awkwardly. Neither seemed sure how to end the conversation.
Finally Shane nodded.
"Well."
"Well."
"Happy you're not concussed."
"Happy you're... shopping?"
That earned a tiny laugh.
"Thanks."
Then Shane started walking away.
A few steps later he stopped. Turned around.
And looked like somebody wrestling with a difficult decision.
Then he simply raised a hand.
"See you around, Haasy."
Luca waved back.
"See you."
Shane disappeared around the corner.
Luca stood motionless.
A full minute passed. Then another.
Finally his brain processed something.
Shane had called him Haasy.
Haasy.
Not Luca. Not Haas.
Haasy.
The nickname basically nobody outside Ottawa used.
Luca stared down the aisle.
Shane was gone and somehow the mystery only got stranger.
The next morning Luca arrived at practice carrying enough excitement to power the entire arena.
Naturally this meant trouble.
The moment Ilya Rozanov spotted him, the captain narrowed his eyes.
"Why you look like this?"
Luca blinked.
"Like what?"
"Like golden retriever who found twenty dollars."
"That's oddly specific."
"I know faces, yes."
Luca should have known better. Unfortunately he was too excited.
"I met somebody yesterday."
Immediately half the locker room became interested.
"Was she pretty?" Wyatt Hayes asked.
"Was it an alien?" Jordy asked.
"I met Shane Hollander."
The room exploded.
"What?"
"No chance."
"You're lying."
"Where?"
Luca grinned.
"At a supermarket."
The laughter started immediately.
Ilya snorted.
"Sure."
"I'm serious."
"Shane Hollander randomly appeared in grocery store."
"Yes."
"In Ottawa."
"Yes."
Ilya shook his head.
"You maybe saw ghost."
"It was Hollander."
"Maybe Canadian ghost."
The room laughed again.
Luca rolled his eyes and pulled out his phone.
"I have proof."
He held up the selfie.
Instant silence, then everybody crowded around.
"Holy crap."
"That is Hollander."
"Why is Hollander in Ottawa?"
"Why are you smiling like that?"
"Look at his face!"
Luca tried unsuccessfully to protect himself.
Ilya took the phone. His expression softened immediately. Almost imperceptibly.
But Luca noticed.
Because he'd spent years studying Ilya Rozanov's face.
The captain stared at the photo for several seconds.
Longer than expected. Then a small smile appeared.
A very fond smile. Strangely fond.
"So," Ilya said casually, "you got autograph?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"We didn't have a pen."
The locker room dissolved into laughter. Even Ilya barked out a laugh.
"You meet Shane Hollander in wild and lose to stationery supplies."
"We took a selfie."
"Beautiful tragedy."
"I know."
Ilya returned the phone.
Still smiling. Still looking oddly pleased.
And for some reason, Luca couldn't shake the feeling that there was a joke happening somewhere above his head.
A joke everybody knew except him. Especially Ilya.
But before he could investigate further, practice began.
And the mystery remained unsolved. For now.
By Saturday afternoon, Luca had reached a simple conclusion.
Organizing a birthday party for professional hockey players was a terrible idea.
An absolutely terrible idea. A catastrophically terrible idea.
A decision so fundamentally flawed that future historians would probably study it as a cautionary tale.
The first guests arrived twenty minutes early.
The last guests arrived carrying enough additional food to stock a second party.
And somehow every single person entering his apartment acted as though they had personally been invited to a championship celebration instead of a twenty-something rookie's birthday gathering.
"Haasy!"
Boodram shoved a gift bag into his arms.
"Happy birthday."
"Thanks."
"Open it."
"Now?"
"Yes."
Inside was an industrial-sized package of protein powder.
Luca stared at it. Boodram looked proud.
"What is this?"
"Protein powder."
"I can see that."
"Good protein powder."
"Bood."
"Very expensive."
"Bood."
"You are welcome."
Boodram walked away before further questions could be asked.
Five minutes later Wyatt handed him a giant stuffed moose wearing a Centaurs jersey.
Jordy gave him a novelty coffee mug that read:
WORLD'S MOST BULLYABLE ROOKIE
Bergy gave him a gift card.
LP gave him Swiss chocolate and claimed it was "to help with homesickness”.
Nick somehow gave him three different bottles of hot sauce.
Josh Boyle gave him a cookbook titled Cooking for People Who Are Bad at Cooking.
Which felt slightly insulting.
The apartment filled with noise.
Music played. People ate.
People argued about hockey.
People argued about food.
People argued about whether cereal counted as soup.
Luca wasn't entirely sure how that discussion had started.
Only that Ilya was somehow responsible. As usual.
The captain arrived last. Naturally.
Because Ilya Rozanov believed punctuality was a suggestion.
He entered carrying a long cylindrical package wrapped in silver paper.
The moment Luca saw it, his curiosity activated.
"What's that?"
Ilya immediately pulled it away.
"Gift."
"I can see that."
"Good."
"What is it?"
"Gift."
"Roz."
The captain grinned.
"No questions."
The grin alone was suspicious.
The package itself was even more suspicious.
It looked like a poster. Or a blueprint. Or possibly a medieval weapon.
With Ilya, any option felt possible.
Luca narrowed his eyes.
"What did you do?"
"What makes you think I did something?"
"Your face."
"My face is beautiful."
"Your face is guilty."
The teammates nearby laughed.
Ilya placed a dramatic hand over his heart.
"You wound me."
"You deserve it."
"Maybe."
That answer was significantly more concerning.
Eventually the presents were gathered together.
Food disappeared at alarming speed. People moved from the living room to the kitchen and back again.
Hours passed. The sun began setting.
Luca was having a genuinely wonderful time.
The kind of evening he knew he would remember years later.
The first birthday he'd celebrated after making it to the NHL.
His teammates were loud. Annoying. Chaotic.
But somewhere along the way they had become family.
Even if half of them communicated primarily through insults. Especially Ilya.
At one point the captain wandered over carrying two beers. He handed one to Luca.
"Birthday boy."
"Thanks."
For a moment they stood by the balcony door watching the others.
Boodram was attempting to eat something that probably shouldn't be eaten in a single bite.
Jordy was recording the attempt.
Wyatt was encouraging it.
The situation seemed destined to end badly.
"Idiots." Luca said affectionately.
"Very much."
A comfortable silence settled between them, then Ilya glanced sideways.
"You had good birthday?"
"Yeah."
"Good."
Luca smiled.
"Thanks for coming."
"Would not miss it."
Then Ilya tapped the silver-wrapped package leaning against the wall.
"And do not forget gift."
"What is it?"
"You ask many questions."
"Because you're suspicious."
"I am always suspicious."
"Exactly."
Ilya laughed, then his expression shifted.
Not serious exactly, but softer. More thoughtful.
"When party is over," he said, "open it alone."
Luca blinked.
"Alone?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"No reason."
"That's definitely a reason."
"Trust me."
The answer came immediately.
Without joking. Without teasing. Just simple certainty.
Trust me.
Luca found himself nodding.
"Okay."
"And do not show others."
Now Luca was deeply concerned.
"Roz."
"What?"
"Are you giving me illegal documents?"
The captain nearly choked on his drink.
"Jesus Christ."
"You said secret."
"Not that secret."
"Then what kind?"
Ilya looked amused, then strangely nervous.
A combination Luca had never seen before.
"You will understand."
That explanation explained absolutely nothing.
Unfortunately it was all he got.
Because at that moment Boodram shouted something unintelligible from the kitchen.
Everyone rushed toward the noise and the conversation ended.
The party finally wound down around midnight. One by one the players left.
Promises were made. Insults were exchanged.
Leftover food was distributed.
Eventually the apartment became quiet again.
For the first time all evening, Luca was alone.
The silence felt strange.
His living room looked like the aftermath of a small natural disaster.
Empty bottles. Paper plates. Gift wrapping.
Cushions scattered everywhere.
And leaning against the wall… the increasingly mysterious gift.
Slowly he picked it up. The silver paper crinkled beneath his fingers.
A strange anticipation settled in his chest.
Partly curiosity. Partly excitement. Partly concern.
Because whenever Ilya Rozanov told somebody to open something in private, the outcome could range anywhere from heartwarming to psychologically damaging.
Carefully Luca removed the wrapping. A cardboard tube appeared.
His pulse quickened.
Definitely a poster.
He opened the cap. Gently pulled the rolled paper free.
Then he unrolled it and forgot how to breathe.
For several seconds he simply stared. Unable to process what he was seeing.
It was old. Very old.
Not ancient, but old enough to look rare.
A CCM promotional photoshoot.
The kind that collectors would probably lose their minds over.
The photograph showed two impossibly young hockey players.
One was immediately recognizable. Ilya Rozanov.
A little younger. A little leaner. Curly hair slightly longer.
A cocky grin already firmly established.
The other nearly made Luca sit down.
Shane Hollander. Young Shane. Baby-faced Shane. Freckled Shane.
Standing beside Ilya.
Both wearing old training gear.
Both looking like they had just spent ten minutes arguing. Both looking absurdly happy.
Luca stared and froze again.
There were signatures.
Two signatures.
Not printed. Real.
One belonged to Ilya. The other belonged to Shane.
And beneath them were handwritten messages.
………………………………………….
Happy Birthday, Haasy.
Sorry about the autograph delay.
Shane
………………………………………….
Happy Birthday, little fanboy.
Ilya
………………………………………….
For nearly an entire minute Luca just sat there.
Looking. Reading. Looking again.
His brain attempted several explanations.
None survived contact with reality.
The poster was old. Extremely old.
The message was new.
Shane had known about the birthday.
Shane had known his nickname.
Shane had apparently signed a birthday present for him.
Which raised several questions.
Questions such as:
How? Why?
And perhaps most importantly… WHAT?
Luca grabbed his phone. Opened his messages. Selected Ilya's contact.
Then typed:
WHAT THE HELL???
The reply arrived almost immediately. As though Ilya had been waiting.
Ilya: Open gift?
Luca: YES
Ilya: You like?
Luca: I LOVE IT
Luca: EXPLAIN
Several dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Luca sat on the couch clutching the poster.
Waiting.
Finally another message arrived.
Ilya: Maybe call easier.
Thirty seconds later his phone rang.
Luca answered instantly.
"Roz."
The captain laughed.
"Hello to you too."
"What is happening?"
"You liked gift."
"THAT IS NOT AN EXPLANATION."
"Maybe little bit."
"No."
Ilya laughed again. A suspiciously nervous laugh.
Which immediately caught Luca's attention.
Because nervous was not an emotion commonly associated with Ilya Rozanov.
"What aren't you telling me?"
Silence. Several seconds of silence.
Then a long sigh.
"I suppose you figure out eventually."
"Roz."
Another sigh.
Then:
"Shane is my boyfriend."
Luca's brain stopped.
Not slowed. Stopped. Complete system failure.
Blue screen. Fatal error. Unexpected shutdown.
"What?"
"My boyfriend."
"What?"
"I am speaking English, yes."
"What?"
"I know many words but apparently not enough."
Luca stood up. Sat down again. Then stood up again.
The poster nearly fell from his hands.
"What?"
"Still same answer."
"Roz."
"Yes."
"WHAT?"
On the other end of the line, laughter erupted. Actual laughter.
The kind that suggested Ilya had been waiting years for this conversation.
"You should see your face."
"You can't see my face."
"I can imagine."
"Roz."
"Fine."
The laughter softened, then disappeared.
And when he spoke again, his voice sounded different.
Quieter. More genuine.
"We have been together long time."
"How long?"
A pause.
"Ten years."
Luca dropped onto the couch. The couch deserved hazard pay at this point.
"Ten."
"Yes."
"Ten years."
"Yes."
"ONE ZERO?"
"I understand numbers."
"You and Hollander?"
"Yes."
"Together?"
"Usually that is how relationship works."
Luca buried his face in his free hand.
The entire NHL suddenly felt fake.
Like somebody had secretly rewritten reality without informing him.
"You are rivals."
"On ice."
"You hate each other."
"No."
"You constantly fight."
"That part true."
"What?"
"We enjoy it."
The words carried so much amusement that Luca nearly screamed.
Everything suddenly made less sense. And somehow more sense.
All at once.
"I don't understand."
"We start as hookups."
Luca made a choking noise. Ilya ignored it.
"Then continue hooking up."
Another choking noise.
"Then unfortunately fall in love."
"Unfortunately?"
"Very inconvenient."
Luca stared at the ceiling.
Nothing in his hockey career had prepared him for this conversation.
Absolutely nothing.
Luca sat frozen on his couch. The poster rested across his knees.
His phone remained pressed against his ear.
And somewhere inside his brain, thousands of tiny mental workers were running around screaming because absolutely none of the filing systems still worked.
Ten years.
He looked down at the poster again. The younger versions of Ilya and Shane seemed almost unreal now.
Not rivals. Not enemies.
Just two young men standing close enough that, in hindsight, the signs suddenly looked obvious.
Painfully obvious. Embarrassingly obvious.
The kind of obvious that only became visible after someone pointed it out.
"Oh my God."
"What now?"
"You look happy."
There was a pause then a quieter reply.
"We were happy."
Luca blinked.
The answer carried something warm beneath it. Something soft.
For perhaps the first time ever, he was hearing Captain Ilya Rozanov disappear.
No jokes. No teasing. Just a man talking about somebody he loved.
The realization hit unexpectedly.
And suddenly the mystery surrounding the transfer came rushing back.
Luca sat upright.
"Wait."
"Mm?"
"You left Boston."
"Yes."
"You left a better team."
"Yes."
"You never explained why."
"Correct."
"You left because of Hollander."
"Mostly."
"Mostly?"
"Maybe little bit also because Boston management was stupid."
"Fair."
"I was tired."
"Tired?"
"Being in different cities all time."
Luca stared at the ceiling.
"You just... moved teams because you loved somebody?"
"That sounds romantic when you say it."
"Because it is romantic."
"Do not tell Shane."
"Why?"
"He will become unbearable."
Luca laughed despite himself.
The conversation drifted for another hour. Longer than Luca expected.
Piece by piece the story emerged.
The first meeting. The rivalry.
The accidental hookup. The second hookup. The fifth hookup.
The realization that neither of them seemed interested in stopping.
The gradual shift from casual to serious.
The years of secrecy.
The impossible balancing act between private happiness and public expectations.
At one point Luca found himself laughing so hard his stomach hurt.
Apparently one of the greatest rivalries in hockey history had once been temporarily interrupted because Shane refused to speak to Ilya for three days after Ilya drank the last ginger ale in his apartment.
"Three days?"
"He was very angry."
"Because of soda?"
"Ginger ale."
"That is still soda."
"Not according to Shane."
Luca laughed again.
Everything about this story sounded ridiculous and somehow completely believable.
Eventually the conversation reached the present.
"So what's next?" Luca asked.
"What do you mean?"
"You told me."
"Yes."
"Why now?"
Silence, then a quieter answer.
"Because we are tired."
Luca waited.
"Tired of hiding?"
"Yes."
The word came immediately.
"You planning to tell everyone?"
"Soon."
"The team too?"
"Yes."
Luca smiled.
Boodram was going to faint.
Jordy was going to scream.
Wyatt would probably demand betting odds.
The locker room chaos alone would be worth witnessing.
"I can't believe I'm the first teammate who knows."
"You are not."
Luca blinked.
"What?"
"Coach knows."
"Okay."
"Team doctor knows."
"Fine."
"Security guy knows."
"What?"
"He accidentally walked into apartment."
"Oh."
"Very awkward."
Luca laughed.
"Anybody else?"
"Maybe."
"Maybe?"
"Depends how observant people are."
But before Luca could investigate, another realization struck him.
Somewhere out there, millions of fans would kill for Shane Hollander's autograph.
Luca had somehow managed to obtain one through the strangest possible route.
By accidentally discovering a decade-long secret relationship.
"I think this might be the best birthday present I've ever received."
The answer came softly.
"Good."
And Luca meant it.
Not because of the autograph. Not even because of the poster.
Although both were incredible.
It was something else. Something harder to explain.
Because for years, without telling anyone, Luca had carried his own secret.
A quieter one. A smaller one. But still a secret.
One he had never spoken aloud inside a professional locker room.
One he had never fully known what to do with.
And now, sitting alone in his apartment, holding evidence that two hockey legends had built a life together despite everything, he felt something unexpected.
Hope.
Simple as that.
Hope.
The future suddenly looked a little larger.
A little brighter. A little less lonely.
He smiled. Then immediately ruined the emotional moment.
Because another thought arrived. An absolutely terrible thought.
The funniest thought of the entire evening.
Luca slowly lowered the phone.
"Roz."
"Hm?"
"I have one more question."
"Dangerous words."
"Did Hollander actually recognize me in the supermarket?"
"Of course."
"Immediately?"
"Immediately."
Luca covered his face.
"Oh my God."
"And after that he told me whole story."
"What did he say?"
On the other end of the line, Ilya's laughter started before the words arrived.
A very bad sign. A catastrophically bad sign.
Finally Ilya managed to speak.
"He said…"
More laughter.
Then:
"'I saw the kid with your face on his bedroom wall and almost dropped a toaster on him.'"
Silence. Complete silence.
Luca stared into space. Absolutely motionless.
Somewhere across Ottawa, Ilya Rozanov was laughing so hard he could barely breathe.
And Luca suddenly realized that despite receiving the most meaningful birthday gift of his life... he was still, somehow, fundamentally and permanently, Ilya Rozanov's favourite target.