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September 24th, 2017, Boston TD Garden
Anna Garcia loved her job. She knew this without a shadow of a doubt, no matter what bullshit it threw her way. She didn’t care who thought she was crazy– professors, colleagues, her parents– it didn’t matter. She loved hockey, loved reporting on the game and getting to help bring her favorite thing in the world to all the people watching at home. Who knew, maybe some of them were just as crazy about it as she was. Maybe there was a little girl sitting in front of her parents' television, eyes glued to the screen, hoping that one day, she would be exactly where Anna was now.
When Anna was eight, she spent spring break at her aunt’s house in Toronto. Her older cousin Joseph, twice her age but surprisingly sweet, didn’t seem to mind her hanging with him. She watched hockey for hours with him while their parents gossiped, unable to take her eyes off of the whizzing puck, the speed and power of the skaters, the determination in their eyes and the joyful celebrations. Joseph patiently explained the game to her– what a power play was, what icing meant, who was still in the running for the final wild card spots in the upcoming playoffs. It was like nothing she had ever seen, so raw and intense, so opposite the uptight atmosphere of the figure skating classes mom and dad made her take last year, or the ballet ones before that. Somehow, even just watching it made her feel free.
From then on, there was no going back. She was twelve when her parents finally let her join a hockey team, thinking that eventually she would grow out of this weird, boyish phase and find something more fitting to do with her time. Instead, Anna had only grown more obsessed. Confusion and dismissal turned to frustration and disappointment. Her father would berate her for her mediocre scores on math tests or grades on essays, and she would take their criticism silently, all the while thinking about the game that was on later that night. She memorized stats instead of french vocab words, collected trading cards instead of trendy clothes, and went alone to games when the other kids in her classes were on dates at the arcade or the mall. She loved her parents, and she knew that they really just wanted the best for her, and that they didn’t understand. But they didn’t need to. Hockey was hers to love, and that was enough.
She was never a whiz on the ice, not enough to go pro, but even her coaches noticed her unrivaled obsession and sharp eye for tactics. They certainly couldn’t ignore her constant hockey-related questions, sniped at them faster than their center’s snap-shot. In her junior year of high school, Coach Williams took her aside after a game and told her what nobody else ever had: that she was damn smart, and that she shouldn’t waste her talent and passion on something she didn’t care about. He patted her shoulder in his gruff but kind way, and jotted down the names of a couple sports journalism programs for her to look into. She went home and stayed up until 3 am reading through college websites, and the rest was history.
That didn’t mean it had been easy, of course. Not everyone was as supportive as coach Williams. Even now, having fought tooth and nail through the boys club that was professional hockey correspondence to get to the enviable role of an inside-the-glass reporter for ESPN, she was constantly having to prove her dedication and professionalism. She was used to the patronizing tone of executives and players alike, operating under the clear assumption that she was just eye candy to increase viewership. And even now, a couple years out of her masters and employed by the top sports network, Anna knew that her parents probably still held out hope that this was just a phase, and eventually she would settle down and become a normal woman with a normal job and a normal husband.
But Anna knew what she wanted, and it sure as hell wasn’t that. She wanted this: the bustle of the entering crowd, the music over the live speaker, and the swoosh of skates on the ice all around her. She wanted to be in the same room as some of the most talented players to ever exist. She wanted a seat at the table she’d been laser-focused on since she was barely old enough to see over its edge. And after years of singleminded work and obsession, here she was— on the ice at TD Garden during warmups, about to interview Ilya Rozanov.
Being based primarily in Boston, Anna had interviewed Rozanov regularly for the past year. Given Rozanov’s status as Boston’s most famous fuckboy, she had almost expected him to do something unprofessional at first, or at least look like he might. It was like a spider-sense at this point: she could tell at a glance if a player she was interviewing took her seriously, or if they just thought of her as a hot piece of ass that just so happened to know a little about their sport. The Montreal players warming up behind her, with the exception of Hollander, fell firmly into that latter category— she could feel Comeau’s predatory gaze on her backside from all the way across the rink.
Contrary to all her expectations, though, Ilya Rozanov had never once made her feel anything less than respected. After a year of knowing him, she could confidently say that Roz was actually a pretty nice guy. Sure, he played up his charm and good looks on camera, winking at the screen or showing up to post-game interviews with his shirt off more often than not. But Rozanov was always dialed in to her questions, answering with swagger that never once veered into disrespect. And off camera, he was even more surprising. He was actually one of the first players to remember her name, and greeted her with a polite grin and a handshake every time he saw her, without a trace of the lecherousness or ego she would expect from hockey’s “bad boy.” Even as he made headlines for his flashy cars and pictures with gorgeous women at Boston’s most exclusive clubs, he treated Anna like any other journalist.
Rozanov mostly kept to his team, fulfilling his captain duties and making sure everything ran smoothly with a more affable version of his signature charm than the media liked to portray. He was deceptively perceptive, too— one time after a game, Rozanov caught one of the assistant coaches accosting her for her number for the second time, and without a word, he called him away on “urgent business." She later saw him have a quiet word in Russian with his friend, who she later learned was none other than Svetlana Vetrova, daughter of the famed Sergei Vetrov. Svetlana immediately walked over to her, asked her name, and stuck by her the entire night. They’d bonded over their shared love of hockey, and Anna was beyond grateful to have a shield against that damn assistant coach. Svetlana was lovely, and happy to have made a female friend who was equally enthused to talk about playoff predictions with her. If Anna went home that night deeply questioning her sexuality, that was nobody’s business but her own (and secretly, she hoped, Svetlana’s).
Anyway, maybe Ilya Rozanov had just shown her the bare minimum of respect and courtesy owed to her in a professional setting, but Anna respected him for it nonetheless.
Thankfully, the assistant coach from that night was nowhere to be seen today, and aside from some less-than-seruptitious looks from some of the Metros, everything was going great. The game was shaping up to be an exciting one, as matches between Rozanov and Hollander usually were. TD Garden was filling up steadily, and both teams had the slightly frenetic energy that always took hold in the first couple games of the season, everyone overeager and ready to burn off the excess energy they had from their restful summers.
Once her team was set up with the cameras and sound, her assistant (she actually had an assistant now!!) called Rozanov over to start. He glided up to her with a grace that belied his intimidating size, taking his helmet off and holding it politely in his left hand while he shook her hand with his right.
“Good to see you again, Mr. Rozanov!” Anna said, looking up at the tall man with a genuine smile. “I hope you had a good summer?”
“Good to see you too, Anna. Yes, was… very good summer.” Rozanov’s answering smile seemed to take on a softer quality as he said the words. It was a very slight change, probably not noticeable to most, but it was Anna’s job to observe and catalogue the player’s energies on and off the ice, and she’d seen him through thick and thin after a year. Ilya Rozanov had never seemed this… shy before. He looked happy and well rested, too, a contrast to the eye bags and tension in his shoulders that she had noticed last year around this time. Anna wasn’t nosy by any means, but she wondered briefly what had changed between that summer and this one.
Rozanov quickly deflected the attention, though, asking her about her own off-season, and if she had talked to Svetlana lately, apparently aware of their new friendship. They chatted briefly, until the cameraman and sound guy both gave her the thumbs up to start the interview in earnest. She let Rozanov know, and heard the producer’s voice through her earpiece, telling her they would be live in 5,4,3,2,1.
Anna immediately went into pro reporter mode, and Rozanov straightened his back and locked his gaze on her as she addressed the viewers.
“Thank you for tuning in to what is shaping up to be an exciting first match of the season between the Boston Raiders and the Montreal Metros. I’m Anna Garcia, your on-ice reporter, and I’m here with a player that needs no introduction, Raiders captain Ilya Rozanov. Rozanov, how are you feeling about today’s game?”
Rozanov, smiling a little at her proper pronunciation of his name (it irked her that so many of her colleagues got it wrong despite him being one of the most important players in his generation), cleared his throat a little and replied.
“Thank you Anna, we are very excited for this game… I think playing Metros always gets us working our hardest. In practice, line chemistry is very good and rookies are meshing well. So I think we have good chances today. Of course, I am always looking forward to beating Hollander, and it will be nice to do it on home ice.” He finished with a playful smirk. Anna huffed a laugh.
“Well, this is Hollander’s first game against the Raiders since his head injury last season, is it safe to say that you missed playing him?” Anna joked.
“Of course,” Rozanov replied with his signature shark-like grin. “Metros are no fun to beat without Hollander. He is only player in league with stats almost as good as me, so is always good challenge. But I think this game, what is phrase… we have in the bag.”
Anna smiled and pressed on, eager to get past the obligatory pleasantries and pick Rozanov’s brain about the ins and outs of his team. “Well, I’m sure Boston fans are happy to hear that you’re not phased by Hollander’s return. What can you tell us about changes to your team this season? Will we see any new combinations on lines?”
Rozanov visibly went into captain mode, drifting slightly closer to the mic as he commented (without giving too much away) on the changes to the lineup and the hard work everyone had been putting in in practice. Seeing him now, and having observed him for an entire season before, Anna didn’t understand why anyone thought Rozanov was just a dumb, cocky jock. He was physically talented, sure, and definitely could come off as arrogant, but there was real intelligence behind that facade. She noticed that even as he continued to answer her questions, he occasionally glanced around, seemingly analyzing both his team’s warmups and the Metros.’ She could practically see the gears in his head turn, running over everything he knew about his own player’s strengths and weaknesses, mentally matching them up against what he saw on the other team.
Most people saw Hollander as the brains in their rivalry, with Rozanov’s flashy style of play coming off as ego-driven in contrast to Hollander’s unflinching discipline and clinically accurate plays. But Anna, with her small stature, unobtrusive presence and sharp eyes, would beg to disagree.
She had noticed the pattern early in last season– whether Rozanov was joking in the locker room or pulling off some insane, risky trick shot on the ice, every display of his cockiness had the effect of lightening the pressure on his team. If a rookie was nervous, he would sit next to him and say something inane to get him laughing. He knew which players were tired or on the verge of injury, knew whose baby had kept them awake the night before. He kept eagle eyes on his men, and would silently compensate for their weaknesses on the ice. Then, while the rest of the players and staff were distracted, he would tip off the team physical therapist, or talk to the player. One time she was leaving the rink and overheard Roz talking with an exhausted Connors, offering to babysit his toddler and playing off the kind gesture with a chirp about how she “likes him more than her dad anyway.” She understood, then, what was really behind the phenomenon that was Ilya Rozanov: He was not just a dumb, aggressive jock, not even just a charismatic and respected captain. He was a man whose team was constantly, unknowingly held together by him noticing, cataloguing, and caring.
Even with this growing understanding of the man in front of her, Anna knew that she could not expose Rozanov’s media persona as a facade. It may not be the full story of his personality, but it was clearly what he chose to put forward to the world, and if anyone knew the utility of a protective outer layer of confidence, it was her. What she did want, though, was a glimpse into the details of what his sharp eyes perceived. But, just as she was thinking of a good way to get him to elaborate on his previous answer, all hell broke loose.
The puck seemed to come out of nowhere, flying at her from the metros side of the ice at full speed, straight towards her head. Anna was certainly conscious of the dangers of hockey, used to the violence and injury, but never in regards to herself. Her job was to go out on the ice and record the aftermath, document the damage to team and player for the fans tuning in. She didn’t even have time to process the level of threat she was in– she knew intellectually that a puck to the head with no helmet could mean a concussion at the best, a coma, hemorrhaging and death at the worst. But in those crucial milliseconds, all she could think was – oh shit.
Anna flinched hard against the oncoming impact. But no impact came. In the time it took for her to turn towards the flying projectile and shrink into herself against the hit, Rozanov had somehow crossed the remaining space between them, reached over and blocked the puck with his own hand only around a foot before it would have hit her skull.
For a second, everything was still. The only sound she heard was heart jackrabbiting in her chest, the blood rushing behind her ears. Oh my god, was all she could think. Oh my god, oh my god. Then Rozanov was dropping the puck that he had somehow caught, and searching her face for signs of injury with an almost frantic energy.
“Bozhe moy,” Rozanov breathed. “Anna, you are alright? Not hurt?”
Reality hit her in waves, new frantic thoughts rushing back to her brain with each breath. She felt like something was jarred loose in her brain. Like blinders taken off, her view was forcefully widened past her normally careful focus on the rink, the players, her job. All the thoughts were just rushing in now, a river whose flow she could barely follow, let alone quell.
Oh my god, I almost just died. I would’ve never seen mom and dad again. I would’ve never brought Joseph with me to a Boston game, he would have had to fly in for my funeral instead. Jesus, what would dad say at my funeral? I would never get the chance to show him…
Show her dad what, though? That she was enough, even though she wasn’t what anyone thought she should be? That she was respected, that she was worthy? That she was happy? Was she? Her thoughts were spiralling a million miles a minute, down and down and down.
“Anna?” Rozanov repeated.
His voice brought her crashing back into her body. She realized that she was holding her breath, and she slowly let it out. She was shivering, too, she noticed, her body processing the shock of the hit that hadn’t come. “I… I’m fine, yes…. thank you so much, oh my god…” She stammered.
She shook herself mentally, reminding herself where she was and that she still had a job to do. There was a reason it was her out here and not any of the many other candidates— there was no way in hell she would let this make her look like the weakling they took her for. She gripped the mic with white knuckles and took another quick, deep breath, trying to push the panic out with it.
Turning to address the cameras, with only a slight stammer in her voice, she reported. “Well, that was, um, an exciting end to our pre-game interview, and definitely evidence of Rozanov’s famed reflexes. I’m going to hand it over to my colleagues in the press box, I’ll be back in a bit with more interviews. Thank you.”
The cameraman signaled that they were no longer streaming live, and she turned around to see Rozanov still staring at her with wide eyes. It wasn’t only him, either— half of the players on the ice had their heads turned towards her, or were looking around to see where the shot had come from. Rozanov inched a little closer and put his hand on her shoulder, instinctively shielding her from the view of the men behind him. She was suddenly hyper-conscious that her hands were shaking holding the microphone.
“Anna, are you really okay?” Rozanov asked again. Anna managed a smile and a shaky nod, embarrassed at her body’s betrayal of the illogical panic still coursing through her.
“Yes, I am, thank you… damn, Rozanov, I’m lucky you were there, that was insane…” She responded, still dazed. “Wait, is your hand alright? That puck must’ve hurt!”
“Ah, is nothing, glove cushioned the impact. Plus, I am used to flying projectiles. Maybe I should’ve been a goalie, eh?”
Anna managed a weak laugh in response. Rozanov looked her up and down, assessing.
“I am guessing you are not as used to heavy objects flying at your face. Maybe you can go sit down? Adrenaline makes your legs weak, goes away faster if you sit.” he replied. Usually she would bristle at any insinuation of frailty, but Rozanov’s clinical words held none of the patronizing tone she was used to. He was giving her an out, a moment to collect herself away from prying eyes, and blaming it on a neutral biological reaction rather than some sort of weakness. She had never been more grateful to the man.
“Smart.” She said. “Thank you again, really.” Rozanov shot her another smile, and she turned to shuffle off the ice, trying to keep her back straight as everyone watched her leave. Then, all eyes went off her when, in a tone harder, sharper, than she had ever heard it, Rozanov turned on the watching Metros players and yelled, “Which of you almost fucking killed my favorite reporter?”
Anna, half way through the tunnel and intending to find a more private place to catch her breath, turned around on some instinct. Maybe it was years of journalism school drilling into her the need to observe her surroundings. Maybe she was just shocked that apparently Ilya Goddamn Rozanov had just just called her his favorite reporter. But there was real curiosity and shock that temporarily overrode her residual panic. In the years she had spent watching Rozanov from a TV screen and the months in which she knew him as an acquaintance, she had never heard that tone before, his voice completely devoid of his usual ribbing insults and bravado. It felt like she was hearing a new man speak, catching a rare glimpse of who he was behind that persona.
Hollander was already skating over as Anna moved back towards the entrance of the rink, momentarily diverted from her need to find a quiet place to sit down. She stopped close to the ice, obscured from most players by a pole, but still close enough to make out what they were saying thanks to the still-sparse crowd and low music.
Hollander had skated over to a rookie player who had been passing back and forth with Comeau and Drapeau. The rookie’s face was already tomato red, and Hollander clearly was giving him the talking-to of a lifetime. Rozanov skated closer, ready to give the guy a piece of his mind as well. Inching closer, Anna could hear the rookie (Peterson, she recalled) stammering out “ I’m so sorry, cap, I was just distracted for a second, it won’t happen again..”
“It better not, that could’ve done some serious fucking damage, Peterson. Go to the bench, Coach wants to talk to you. And after that, you better apologize to her.” Hollander replied, an eerie seriousness in his voice. Rozanov was clearly turning to give the rookie a piece of his mind as well, but his attention was diverted from Peterson's retreating form as he overheard something Comeau was saying.
“Jesus, kid can’t handle one little chirp about the hot journalist without almost accidentally fucking killing her.” Comeau scoffed to Drapeau. “We were right. He probably doesn’t get any, we mention pussy one time on ice and he freaks the fuck out.”
Hollander was clearly turning around to tell them off, but Rozanov got there first.
“Are you bastards serious?? Do all you think about is getting your little dicks wet?” He practically growled at them.“We are here to play game, not ogle innocent women and bully rookies until they lose all coordination and almost kill a reporter. Or are your skulls so filled with fucking lead that you don’t get that? Gospodi, if you were in my locker room you would be going home with two black eyes for this bullshit.”
Comeau skated closer to Rozanov. “And what’s it to you, Roz? Is she your little bitch, now? Come to defend her honor?” he spat. Drapeau was about to add on, but Hollander cut in first.
“Cut that shit out right now, Comeau. Roz is right. We’re professional hockey players, and she is a professional reporter just trying to do her job. If I hear anything even a little like that again, I’ll make sure you two do a 10 hour HR training course on workplace harassment, at the very least. And it’s your job to help the rookies, not drive them to dangerous distraction while we are on the fucking ice, jesus. This isn’t the peewee leagues, focus on your goddamn job.” Hollander said with deadly seriousness. Comeau and Drapeau clearly were annoyed that their captain had sided with Rozanov against them, but they nodded, skating away to resume their warmups and muttering between themselves.
Anna just stood there, trying to calm her racing heart and angry blush. She did not want anyone to know what she had overheard– it would only be more messy, and she was used to it, really. That kind of talk was the occupational hazard she was used to, not like the near miss she had just had. It was fine. That’s what she told herself, at least.
On the ice, Rozanov inched closer to Hollander, murmuring something to him that Anna couldn’t hear from where she was sitting on the sidelines. Hollander responded with a rueful laugh, which made Roz smile and touch him on the shoulder before skating back to the Raider’s side of the ice. Funny, she thought. For two sworn rivals, they looked almost fond of each other. And the way they had joined forces immediately… They were powerful apart, but together, they were truly menacing, a seamlessly united front instead of two captains of opposing teams. It was nice, how they both seemed to care so much. How rare that the two best players in the league were also two of the good ones.
Anna turned and walked back to the tunnel, hoping to take a breath in the bathroom, maybe splash water on her heated face before she needed to be on air again. She just wanted a second away from the eyes of these men, just a second to rest. But to her dismay, she felt a tap on her shoulder. When she turned around, Shane Hollander was looking back at her, his usually serious expression showing a hint of embarrassment and concern.
“Are you alright?” Hollander asked. “I’m so sorry that happened, they should never have been shooting like that so close to you” he trailed off, fidgeting with his gloved hands.
Despite being of almost the same age, and Hollander being one of her hockey idols for years now, Anna felt a little fond, strongly reminded of the time her little brother came to apologize for breaking her favorite mug.
“Don’t worry about me, I’m fine.” Anna replied, finally feeling that her hands were no longer sweating and her heartbeat had decreased in the minutes since the incident. “It’s just hockey, I know how it is.”
Hollander nodded, probably more times than was strictly necessary. He looked down, seemingly at a loss for words. She was about to interject and save him from his misery when he looked back up at her with a determined glint in his eyes.
“Um… are people here usually… good to you? Respectful?” He grimaced, clearly aware that that question had come out of the blue. “Sorry, that was random, I don’t mean to pry..”
Anna took pity on the well-meaning man. “Most of the time, yes. Usually I’m guessing anything like that happens far away from my ears. And the Raiders are good guys, Rozanov keeps them in line.”
Hollander looked scandalized, and Anna realized the error she’d made. “You heard that just now?”
Anna blushed again and shrugged, trying to play it off. “Guys talk. It’s hockey, I’m used to it. It’s stupid, but don’t worry, I won’t be losing sleep or anything over it.” Anna replied, filling her voice with the forced confidence she’d perfected over the years. It made everything easier, after a while, to pretend she was above all the scrutiny, sexism and shitty “locker room talk.” Fake it ‘till you make it, or something like that. She knew from experience that if she complained too much the higher ups at the company would just judge her more, call her whiny, tell her to suck it up.
Hollander frowned. “But that was bullshit, they were so far out of line! They shouldn’t be able to just… say shit like that! I try to tell them off, but I can’t always be there to make them shut up, and management told me that since nobody’s filed a formal complaint, I can’t actually do much. If you want to report them or something, I’ll back you up, I can give you the information of the HR office…”
Hollander trailed off at her shrug and rueful grin. “As I said, this isn’t the first time. I’ve seen that play out, it’s probably not worth the trouble. I’m fine, really.” She said, with all the bravado she could muster. Hollander looked at her like he was analyzing a play, his intense eyes scanning her features for evidence of the lie she was sure he suspected.
“Alright.” He replied. “Um, actually, sorry if I’m overstepping, but could I see your pen and paper for a second?” Anna was a little confused at the non-sequitor, but slid her work notepad over anyway.
Hollander scribbled a number on the paper, along with the name Yuna Hollander. “Uh, just in case you’re interested, this is my mom’s number. She’s my manager, but she knows a lot about these kinds of workplace harassment issues, and has a lot of contacts in the industry. I’m, uh, not pressuring or judging or anything, it’s totally not my business, but If you ever want advice on that stuff…” He trailed off again, looking up from the pad of paper and blushing a little at his own rambling, but clearly painfully earnest.
Anna just looked at him, completely taken aback. Today, she’d almost got drilled in the skull by a puck, was insulted by some players, was then defended by the two best players in the league, and had finally been given the phone number of Shane Hollander’s mother. From her son, no less. What the actual hell.
She thanked Hollander genuinely, still disbelieving, and watched him skate away. She saw Rozanov catch his eye again and nod briefly, and Hollander nodded back before joining his team again. Damn, the Metros didn’t deserve that man. She could see why Rozanov seemed to like him more than they let on in the media. Good people found each other, she supposed, no matter the circumstances.
Having walked to the bathroom on autopilot, she collapsed against the wall by the sinks, letting the tension drain out of her body. She felt raw in a way she hadn’t in years. Maybe it was the near-death experience. Or maybe…. She looked down at the scrap of notebook paper in her hand, and recalled the half-hysterical thoughts that had flooded her head in the moments after the almost-hit. Was she happy? Was it enough? She thought back to all the times over the years that players and staff alike had stared at her, made inappropriate jokes, disrespected her behind her back thinking she wasn’t listening. She thought about all the times she had gone home almost crying with anger. She wondered when she accepted that this was the price she had to pay for doing the work she loved– that this was hockey, and it would always be. The careful, cultivated nonchalance she had adopted over the years, masking the pain and resentment that she pretended not to feel. She thought about all the little girls watching their screens at home, eyes filled with hope like hers had been, just wanting to be included in the magical world they saw. How that hope had hardened and warped, losing its luster as she was forced to use it as a shield for her heart, time and time again.
She thought back to Rozanov and Hollander, mirror images of each other at each end of the ice, the players revolving around them like they were each queen bees of their respective hives. Two good men, the pride of their teams, willing to risk their bodies and reputations to make sure she was safe and comfortable and respected in her job. Just because it was the right thing to do, because it was common courtesy. Because they thought she had a right to be there, to have a seat at the table, just as they did. Maybe what she had here wasn’t enough, Anna thought. But maybe someday it could be– maybe there were more out there like Rozanov and Hollander, more good ones, maybe enough to make a difference. Maybe she would call Yuna Hollander after all.
Fin.