Chapter Text
It starts as a joke. Shane has always loved houses. For all everyone jokes about his single-track mind for hockey, Shane does have other interests, and this one started with Lincoln Logs. It helps that HGTV is one of the neutral choices often on at the gym, and Shane has never been a music guy when working out. He’s had plenty of opportunities to learn about houses over the years.
Plus, he supervised the construction of the cottage, which meant he had done a deep dive on every detail about construction, materials and labor included. Shane knows he couldn’t actually do all of the work himself, but he’s certain that he hired people who could live up to his specifications. The cottage is perfect. He had ensured that.
So after he retires and Hayden and Jackie want to remodel their home for a little more space for their growing kids (not family, as they both have frequently insisted, just the kids getting older), Shane goes a little bit crazy and decides to get his contractor’s license. At first, it’s just for Quebec, but when he remembers that he plans to spend more time in Ottawa, near his parents (once he finds the right house, or even better, builds it), he decides to get one for Ontario too. He might as well, while he’s doing the paperwork.
While neither Hayden nor Shane is playing anymore, their names are still big enough, especially together, that when Hayden posts project progress pics, people take interest. This is enough to get one of the many home renovation channels interested.
“Picture this,” one of the producers describes over the phone. “Your name draws interest from hockey fans. Women can watch for the houses, and men can watch for you.”
Women can be hockey fans, and men like houses too. Hell, that’s the entire reason Shane got into construction. He’s already considered this person a bit stupid, but he feels his patience dropping. He’s going to be texting Rose about the stupidity of TV folks as soon as they hang up.
“It makes you multidimensional,” the producer says.
“Uh-huh,” Shane says, just to be polite.
“We even have the perfect person in mind for your first client,” the producer continues.
Shane pauses. “What? Who?” Why would they want a particular person to be his first client? Why are they arranging this if Shane hasn’t even agreed yet? He’s not really considering the offer. He likes houses, but it’s a big shift from hockey. He’s always figured he’d continue his volunteer work from the summers and endorsement deals, at least as long as they’re offered. But this would require a very different kind of schedule. Not quite like hockey, but certainly more structured than what he’d anticipated.
Shane does like structure.
“The Centaurs have hired a new assistant coach,” the producer explains, a smile slipping into his voice, like he thinks this will sell the point. “Ilya Rozanov.”
Shane hangs up. Then, guilty, he calls back and makes an apology about bumping the end call button.
“That’s okay,” the producer says, and Shane is actually starting to feel bad for the guy. He’s so excited about this project, and he doesn’t seem to notice all of the glaring ways Shane is telling him he isn’t. “We have a few ideas for names. Hollyday Homes. Homes by Hollander.” He goes on for a while, and Shane is left sitting with the idea in his head.
He’s not going to take it. He tells the guy he’ll consider it.
“It’s an interesting opportunity,” Mom says. One of Shane’s favorite activities since retirement is making onigiri with Mom. He enjoys the act. It’s familiar and routine, and shaping the rice just so made his hands feel good. Shane had always liked to put things together. It’s nice to see something come to life under his hands. “But Rozanov as your first client?”
“He’s the Centaurs’ new assistant coach,” Shane explains. He’d heard the news when it first came out, and though he’d been surprised, he feels it was a good decision.
Ilya Rozanov is—or rather was—Shane’s biggest rival when they both played hockey. It had been a more or less friendly thing, though Shane would never have called them friends. He’d been pissed when Ilya went first in the draft, and he’d fought back by taking Rookie of the Year. There would always be a parallel: both centres, both eventual captains, both better than everyone else in the league.
They had both done an ad for CCM once, but Shane had gotten caught up afterward talking to his mom about something or other, and Rozanov had been gone by the time he made it to the locker room. That was the closest they’d ever been to hanging out.
Well. Sort of. Shane has Rozanov’s number, in the way he has numbers from many players across the league, but their conversations have never been substantial. Rozanov would always send memes about players, and Shane would comment on particularly interesting games or lineups. What little they’d exchanged had tapered off after retirement.
Shane had sort of expected Ilya to remain in Boston, living it up in the city that drafted him. But somehow he’s made his way to Ottawa instead, and he wants a house.
A house designed by Shane.
“Ugh. I hate that guy,” Mom groans. She places a pickled plum onigiri on the plate and moves on to her next. “He’s such a jackass.”
Shane shrugs. Rozanov is a bit of a jackass, but that was part of his fun. Mom took it hard that he got to make all sorts of “mistakes” and still be beloved, while Shane walked on a high wire. “He’s got a good eye on the ice. You don’t get to be captain without that.” And Shane would know. He hadn’t been captain for so long for no reason. He pauses before grabbing a sheet of nori to wrap his onigiri and taking a bite.
“If they wanted a retired captain, they should have asked you,” Mom says. Ah, there it is. Mom is offended on his behalf.
Shane’s lips quirk, and he wipes a grain of rice from the corner of his lips. “I’m not sure I’d want to coach,” he says. “I’d just want to get on the ice and play.”
There’s a part of him that misses it. Shane knows, knows, it was time for him to retire. He felt it in his bones. But hockey would always be a part of him, and he can’t help that pang of regret.
Mom hums and shrugs. She scrapes the last of the pot of rice for one last onigiri before turning to face him directly. “Okay, so you don’t want to do something hockey-related. But you need something to fill your time. As much as I think the choice to pick Rozanov as your first client, this isn’t the worst proposal you could have gotten. You do have your license.”
“Licenses,” Shane corrects. But the Ontario license is meant for when he starts building his own dream home. Shane had a few ideas: a nice sunroom, a beautiful view, a good place to cook. Maybe a nice yard, even space for some vegetables…
“I’m just saying,” Mom says. She picks up the tray and calls to his dad in the living room. “David, come in here and snack with us.” She lets the subject drop for the time being, which is good. Shane doesn’t think he has anything else to say on the subject. He’s probably not going to take it.
Shane doesn’t know why he takes it. Maybe it is just his nature of channeling all of his energy into one passion at a time. Nothing will ever overtake hockey, not really. But this is a good way to spend his time, and even if his first client is Rozanov, it can’t be that bad.
He looks good. Most of their meetings throughout the years had been on the ice, or otherwise in their hockey gear, so when Shane pictured Ilya Rozanov, he still pictures his Boston jersey, his sharp blue eyes full of mirth at a faceoff, pink lips curled into a smirk, even though he announced his retirement a few months after Shane. But at forty, Rozanov isn’t quite the same man he has remained in Shane’s memory. He’s softer around the edges, lines starting at his eyes and around his lips. Per the production company’s recommendation, he’s wearing a short-sleeve button-up, the top three buttons undone, revealing his bare chest and soft lines of hair, as well as jean shorts. They’re a little shorter than Shane thinks is decent, thighs flexing as he shifts his weight.
“Hollander,” he still says with his heavy voice, rolling over Shane’s body like the slow-mo replay of a particularly hard check. “So flattered you agree to take me as first Hollyday Home client.”
“Technically, the Pikes were my first clients,” Shane replies.
Rozanov scoffs. “You do house before show. They are not Hollyday Home client,” he says.
“The show isn’t called Hollyday Homes,” Shane says. “I agree to Homes by Hollander.”
“You would pick most boring option,” Rozanov says. His stupid smirk stays on his face.
“Slow your roll, boys,” the director interjects. Marisol’s short, deep olive-skinned with short curly hair. She’s trying very hard to fit into their sports world, which Shane isn’t sure he appreciates, but he can’t exactly say anything to her. “Ilya, I want you to start over here. Shane, we’ll have you walk in from this hall to start. On this first roll, I want you to discuss your plans naturally. If we need to reframe anything, I’ll interrupt. Okay?”
Shane is regretting this more with every moment. He’s used to cameras. He wasn’t a professional hockey player for over twenty years for nothing. He’s done. He has media training. But Shane has never liked being told how to act because he’s not a good actor.
Rozanov grins and nods, walking over to Marisol’s designated spot. He’s probably a great actor. Fucker.
Shane reenters and greets Rozanov like it’s the first time. “Good to see you, Rozanov,” he says, shaking his hand. They have matched calluses, which sends a shock through Shane’s stomach. He’s never touched him bareskinned before.
“You too, Hollander. Best welcome to Canada,” Rozanov says with his easy charm, like he wasn’t hated by every Canadian hockey fan for years. Ottawa must be happy though. They’ve done well under Wiebe’s guidance, but having a player like Rozanov on their coaching staff could push them to the point they need.
“We’ll see when you turn around my hometown team. Though I like to think I left Montreal in a good position.” Shane gestures to the pine table, set with kitschy decorations selected by the production team. The cameraman moved to film at an angle, just enough to show both of their faces. Shane focuses on Rozanov’s face, as he’s supposed to. “I know you haven’t bought land yet. Right now, we want to figure out what you’re looking for in a house, and we’ll select a lot based on what you need. Let’s start with your three must-haves.”
Shane has actually received a list of what Rozanov wants, and he knows that the process of selecting and buying a lot took place much earlier. Despite the show’s hype of Rozanov being the “first” client, Shane is actually taking on a few projects. Most of the other episodes are more renovation, as they don’t require the in-depth work that a new build does. Everyone involved is sworn to an NDA, especially due to the timing. But everyone knows that the Rozanov episode will set the tone for the rest of the series.
Rozanov’s demands are pretty simple, honestly: He wants a decent-sized kitchen, with an island. At least three bedrooms, each plenty big, and a workout space. A large garage for his many cars.
“Let’s talk living room. You’re going to be a coach now, but you’ve always been known to be very social,” Shane says. “Is this going to be a big hosting space?”
Rozanov purses his lips. “Mm, maybe. Seating is good. And fireplace, for cold Canadian winters,” he says, which makes Shane bite his tongue on the fact that Rozanov is from Russia and has lived in Boston for twenty years. Rozanov exaggerates this point anyhow, pretending to shiver and rubbing his arms. “Good to cuddle up with someone.” He stares at Shane pointedly. Does he want Shane to do more with the fireplace? He thinks his suggestions were already solid.
Shane pretends to be sketching out concepts, though he’s already come up with a few ideas, and the producers probably showed them to Rozanov. The director calls cut, and they redo a few bits of the conversation, focusing on different angles and phrases, with scripted snipes at each other.
Shane sort of regrets it. He’s never been a big one for chirping or fighting on the ice, but Rozanov had a way of bringing words out of him. Maybe it’s just because Rozanov is mouthy. He revelled in the glory of being the most hated man in Canada. Shane could give it back, and he hadn’t had to worry about offending anyone because nothing seemed to truly get under Rozanov’s skin, except losing. The rivalry was expected, and there had never been any reason to go against it. But this is beyond that. This is playing the roles they’d been told to play, except instead of hockey as a reason to compete, they’re supposed to be cooperating on a house for Rozanov. It feels… off.
It must show, as Marisol looks disappointed every time Shane recites the lines as he was told.
“That was a great try, Shane,” she says. “This time, can you make a bit more… fluffy? Like you mean it, but you don’t?”
What the hell does that mean? Shane suppresses the urge to scrunch his nose. Across the table, Rozanov huffs out a laugh. Shane glances over. He’s slumped down a bit, his hands in his pockets.
“What?” Shane snaps.
“Nothing. Is just good you are hockey player, not actor,” Rozanov says.
This is true, but Shane doesn’t want to take that lying down. “Oh, and you’re so much better.”
Rozanov shrugs. “Eh, hockey is best for me. Now I am coach, and you are Mr. Real Estate.” Shane likes the way his voice curves over those words, and he bites the urge to repeat them. He couldn’t trace them the same way Rozanov’s tongue could anyway.
Eventually, Marisol decides they have enough footage, and they cut it for the day. Shane finally gets his hands on the floor plans that Rozanov selected, which are to be sent off to an architect and then to the city planning department. Their next planned meeting is in a few weeks, after the foundation has been poured. Unlike some of his clients, Rozanov plans to be involved, putting together parts of his house with his own two hands. In the meantime, Shane is supposed to head out to another site to work on some cabinets.
“I will see you at my house, Hollander,” Rozanov calls as he leaves. He leans back, pulling his sunglasses down his nose to look at Shane directly. This angle makes his legs look longer. He smiles, a little softer than before.
Shane doesn’t lick his lips.
The thing is that Shane realized something a few years ago. His last serious relationship had been with Rose Landry, which lasted from the time he was twenty-six to when he was twenty-eight. This coincided with a night where Rose’s friend Miles had somehow talked them both into the idea that Shane and Miles could hook up in front of Rose and it would be hot.
It was hot. Everyone involved had agreed. They also agreed that the reason behind this is that Shane isn’t exactly… straight. Which is to say he’s gay.
It hadn’t mattered while he was playing hockey, and Shane hasn’t figured out if it matters now. But he’s retired from hockey, and he’s not blind, and Ilya Rozanov is still one of the hottest men he’s ever met.
“See you there, Rozy,” Shane says before he thinks better of it.
The smile lines on Rozanov’s face grow bigger. “See you there, Hollyday.”