Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Day 1 – SHANE (NYC)

Yuna answers the call before the second ring, “Hey, honey! What’s wrong?”

Shane almost smiles. Of course his mom knows something is up. Knows that Shane is supposed to be at the rink, preparing for the game. Knows that a phone call at this time of day can only mean that something’s up.

“I’m fi—”, Shane swallows the lie before it can fully form on his lips. Because he isn’t fine. Hasn’t been since the call last night. Not since he’s heard the hard, jagged edges of Ilya’s voice echoing down the line. He might not have understood the words, but he had understood how much they cost Ilya.

“I’m okay, Mom. I’m just…”, he hesitates for a brief moment. Long enough for Yuna to speak.

“What is it, hon?”

Shane swallows around the lump in his throat. Shifts his stance. Braces himself for what he is about to do. “I need you to not be mad at me, Mom, okay?”

The silence on the line is just a tad too long. He knows the rhythm of his mother’s reactions. Of her conversations. He knows the silence means she is running scenarios in her head before committing to anything. “Mom?”

An exhale. “Okay…”

It comes out more a question than a promise, but Shane can work with that. Has to work with that. She hasn’t given him more — and he wouldn’t ask again.

“I’ve tweaked my shoulder. A sprain. Out for two weeks.” Shane pauses, preparing for what comes next. But Yuna is faster.

“Honey, I’m not mad about you getting injured! Ever! You know that!” Her voice is caught between confusion and a laugh.

Shane wishes he is about to tell her something that would settle on the laugh and erase the confusion. Instead he breathes in through his nose – slowly, deeply, the way he has learned gives him the moment he needs to centre himself.

“That’s not the part I need you to not get mad about.”

“What is it, then?” Yuna’s voice has lost the trace of laughter, but gained an undercurrent of something Shane couldn’t place with certainty. It feels close to worry, but not quite there yet. “What can be so bad that you think you need to call me and ask me to not get mad at you? What is it that can’t wait until you’re home in a few hours?”

“I’m not coming home,” Shane pushes out with his next exhale. He hears Yuna’s sharp inhale, the sound of a question building in her throat. He closes his eyes. Presses his nails into the palm of his free hand. Soldiers on. “I’m going to Vienna. Flight’s booked. Boarding starts in ten.”

“What do you mean you’re going to Vienna? Why would you go to Virginia?” Yuna sounds confused. And, for a moment, Shane is, too.

“Not Vienna, Virginia, Mom.” He almost laughs. Vienna, Virginia would be easier. Easier to explain, certainly. Easier for him, as well — there is nothing in Virginia that scares him. Not like… “Vienna, Austria.”

The silence on the line is profound. Long enough for Shane to listen to the full spiel about unaccompanied luggage on the tannoy. Long enough for the pain of his nails digging into his skin to fully register. Not long enough to convince himself to relax his fingers.

“What’s in Vienna, Austria?” When it finally comes, his mother’s voice is calm. Collected. And just this side of cold. Shane knows her well enough to understand this is not anger. It is her attempt to take control of a situation she does not understand. A situation that involves a decision of a person she thinks she knows inside out, but clearly doesn’t. The Shane his mother knows does not just decide to hop on a plane to Europe. And especially not in the middle of the season. Injury or not. Shane does not do this. Not ever.

Except, he clearly does.

“Shane? What are you doing in Vienna?” her voice has sharpened. The voice he knows from his childhood, when she’s asked him about the lunch money that went missing. The voice he knows from his teenage years, when she’s asked him about the friends who suddenly no longer spoke to him. The voice of a mother who is not going to accept a bullshit answer.

“I’m—” he starts. Stops. Tries again.

“I’m—” Stops again. Of all the things he has thought about, of all the conversational avenues he has mapped out in his head during the short commuter flight from Buffalo to New York City, the most obvious question has never crossed his mind. He has been so preoccupied with the mechanics of getting closer to where he wants to be, that he has completely forgotten about creating a why that is acceptable for everyone who doesn’t know.

“Shane, what are you doing in Vienna?” Yuna repeats her question. Her voice even sharper now. Her patience fading.

“Mom…”, Shane breathes, more to fill the silence, than to start an actual sentence. “Please.”

He doesn’t know what he is asking for, either.

“I just—” he stops himself again.

What could he say to her? That he has read Vienna was lovely this time of year? That he wants to go somewhere where nobody cares about hockey? That he just injured his shoulder and needs a few days to himself? None of these are lies, exactly. But they aren’t true either.

And the truth? That he has heard the heartbreak in the voice of the man who is supposed to be his enemy and needs to go to him. That the call has broken something wide open between them, leaving him unable to breathe in a world where Ilya is hurting and he isn’t there to help shoulder the weight of it, pulling him across an ocean because staying put has become a physical impossibility. That he’s settled on Vienna because it is the last neutral ground left on the map; a city of quiet exchanges where the East and West have always come to meet in the dark — the only bridge he could find that reaches toward the man who had asked for him in a language he doesn’t need to understand to hear the plea.

“Shane, you cannot just go to Vienna in the middle of the season without any good reason to.” Juna seizes on Shane’s silence, her voice becoming more business-like, more like his manager than his mother. “Your coach expects you to be home doing rehab. And if it gets out that you’ve gone AWOL, and I promise you, someone will notice, what will you tell the GM? What will I be telling the brands who will be concerned about your … your reliability? You cannot just up and fly to Europe, Shane, do you hear me?”

By the end, her voice has acquired the core of steel Shane remembers from every instance in his life when she has talked him out of things and desires that might have threatened the carefully constructed trajectory of his career – even back when he was barely in peewee league and his future in hockey was nothing but a dream. Back then, when the name Ilya Rozanov meant nothing to him—when right now, it is the only thing that matters.

Shane’s fingers relax slightly from their tight clench. This part of the conversation he has predicted and planned for. This time, for once in his life, he will not let his mother’s concern overrule his decision. And he will not apologize for it. “Mom, I’m not asking you for permission. I’m telling you. Because I know you’ll worry when you hear I’m on IR and realise I’m not back home.”

“Shane—”

“No, Mom. There is nothing to discuss here. I will be on that plane as soon as boarding starts. I just—”, he hesitates, regroups, tries again. “I called because I don’t want you to worry. And because I need you to know that… that I am not doing this on a whim—”

Yuna’s voice cuts into his, “Shane—”

He ignores her, pressing on. “I am not flying across an ocean for … for fun.” Shane swallows around the emotion that threatens to close his throat up, “I am going because I’m needed. And because I need to be there. I know you can’t understand me right now, and I don’t need you to.”

Shane pauses briefly, half-listening to the call for first class passengers of the Austrian Airline flight to Vienna to make their way to the gate as he reaches for the handle of his carry-on. He resumes talking as he turns to walk towards the waiting boarding agent, “The only thing I need is for you to not be mad at me.” He holds out his boarding pass to the smiling flight attendant, nodding his thanks as he is waved through. “I love you, Mom.”

“Shane…”, Yuna’s voice sounds like nothing he has ever heard before, like something he doesn’t have the capacity to parse right now, “... just… be safe.”

Shane is still clutching his phone when he boards the plane and locates his berth. Seat is the wrong description for the generous, light oak and grey leather space he will be calling his own for the next eight hours. He stows his carry-on, waves away the offer of a glass of champagne, and stares out of the plane’s window onto the grey tarmac. His thumb taps an incessant rhythm against the screen; the phone flares to life and buzzes a short, failed-unlock vibration against his palm, over and over again. He doesn’t turn his head. He doesn’t care. He just waits for the plane to move.

A shudder runs through the plane. The rising whine of the engines rips Shane from his reverie as the plane separates from the tug and begins the slow crawl towards the runway. Wrenching his attention from the slowly moving ground back into the cabin, Shane dimly registers the friendly voice on the tannoy: Meine Damen und Herren, wir bitten Sie nun, alle elektronischen Geräte in den Flugmodus zu schalten. Kleinere Geräte wie Mobiltelefone oder Tablets können während des gesamten Fluges im Flugmodus verwendet werden.

He doesn’t need to speak German to know what the announcement means. He has heard it a thousand times in the past six years – in English, in French, in Spanish. And now in German. He looks down to the phone in his hand. It has given up trying to use his face to unlock some time ago. He unlocks the screen. Shane’s thumb hovers above the icon of his messenger app as the tannoy crackles to life again.

Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please.

He shifts his finger, swipes down to open the Quick Settings screen. His finger hovers above the airplane icon.

As we prepare for departure, please ensure all electronic devices are switched to flight mode.

He swipes up, closing the screen again.

Smaller handheld devices, such as mobile phones and tablets, may be used throughout the flight provided flight mode is enabled.

He swallows. Squares his shoulders. Taps the WhatsApp button. It opens to his last used chat window — Lily.

Larger laptops and electronic items must now be stowed securely in the overhead bins or under the seat in front of you for taxi, takeoff, and landing.

He taps into the chat’s menu. Selects the option he is looking for. Hits Send. The share-current-location pin appears.

Thank you for your cooperation.

He powers down his phone.

Day 2 – SHANE (Vienna)

The first thing Shane does after stepping foot into the too bright, too loud arrivals area of Schwechat airport is grabbing the largest coffee money can buy. He doesn’t care what kind it is, he doesn’t care how much it costs — he just needs the comforting smell and bitter taste to make it through immigration.

The second thing he does is power on his phone. He leans against the nearest wall, watching droves of strangers walking the concourse, as he waits for the screen to come to life. There is no point pretending. He dreads the reaction to his impulsive last-second message as much as he hopes for one.

He takes a bracing sip of coffee — the taste foreign; milder and rounder than what he is used to from home, but with the promise of strength underneath — and finally looks at his phone.

No notifications.

Shane’s hand finds the metal tip of his hoodie’s drawstring. He rolls it between thumb and forefinger. Back and forth, in a seamless, agitated loop. His finger hovers over the WhatsApp icon, again. The metal tip finds its way in his mouth. He opens the app; the chat saved as Lily. He bites down on the tip. Hard. His location share message sits there — unread.

For a second, Shane debates sending another message. An explanation. A… something. He doesn’t. Not, because he doesn’t want to, but because he doesn’t know what to say.

Hey, I’ve stupidly thought you might want me closer, so I injured myself, blew the game, and hopped on a red-eye to Vienna because of some convoluted facts about spies and the Cold War that made sense at 3:30 am. So, wanna come? sounds as stupid as he feels right now. He is stranded at an airport in a city he doesn’t know, has no reason to be in, and has nowhere to go to. He is wired and tired and has a raging headache, and just wants to lie down somewhere private. Somewhere silent. Somewhere he can finally sleep after two nights with no rest.

And then, he might even wake up and find that this enormously stupid thing he has done has been a dream. That he is still in his shared hotel room in Buffalo, with Hayden snoring in the bed next to him, with his heart aching for Ilya and the deep hurt even the hard consonants of the Russian language haven’t been able to hide.

The piercing shriek of a toddler in a nearby playing area pulls him harshly back in the here and now. Rubbing his temple with his free hand, he takes another sip of his coffee. The burning sting of too hot liquid feels like a welcome anchor as he grabs the handle of his carry-on. At least, he doesn’t have to brave baggage claim.

Shane considers himself a seasoned traveller. He has flown into and out of cities of all sizes, in all weathers and at all times. He has seen, smelled and heard the best and worst of everything in dingy waiting rooms, broken down toilets, and dreary airport restaurants. He is a pro at finding the quickest line and best position at the luggage belt.

He has been braced for everything when following the signs leading to the exit of the international gates. He certainly hasn’t expected the ease of clearing immigration in Austria. Instead of the endless TSA lines and unfriendly Border Protection officers he is used to dealing with whenever he entered the US, passport control in Vienna is a quick, cursory glance at his face, a beep as his passport is scanned and an accented have a good stay from the bored agent in his booth.

But what Shane notices the most isn’t the quick efficiency, it is what is missing. There is no recognition in the eyes of any of the agents working in their booths, or the police walking the lines, checking travelers' faces and postures for whatever immigration agents are looking for in an airport in the middle of Europe. Not a flicker of recognition as his passport is processed and stamped. No double-take. No Good luck tonight, Hollander. Nothing. He is just a tall, tired man in a black hoodie, carrying a woolen pea coat under his arm, sipping on a coffee. For the first time in ten years, his name carries no more weight than the ink on the page.

Shane feels his shoulders loosen as he pulls his carry-on through the green channel (nothing to declare, and isn’t that ironic for someone whose being here is a declaration in itself) and steps out into the chaos of the arrivals hall.

Squinting against the bright morning sunlight filling the vast space with light from the glass ceiling and the glaring neon lights mounted on the variety of shops and food vendors lining the opposite wall from where he is standing, Shane tries to orient himself. His head throbs. The wall of noise created by hundreds of people talking above each other echoing and amplifying against the high walls and glass panels creates a dull, buzzing noise that feels like it seeps through his ears deep into his skull. His shoulder aches, dully, the painkiller he has taken before the flight is finally wearing off. If he were sensible, he would go through his trolley and look for his glasses and some Naproxen — but today isn’t a day for being sensible, as he has decided a day and a lifetime ago.

Kicking himself into gear, Shane carefully skirts around the huddles of families welcoming a member home, the buzzing travel groups that have finally arrived, the seasoned business travellers making their way to their waiting cars or drivers with their heads down. Today, he is neither of them. But for the first time since Ilya’s call, he feels like a hockey player. His eyes automatically track the movement of everyone around him, his brain calculates the trajectories of bodies and luggage the same way it reads a play and knows where the puck will be before it leaves a player’s stick. His livelihood is built on finding openings that weren’t there a second before, and today this skill takes him safely through the heaving crowd. The only difference is, that on the ice, he decides the puck’s final destination; here, in the arrivals hall, he is the puck.

Leaning into his hard-earned travel experience, he veers left, where the crowd presses right. The signs above his head, signposting public transport, taxis, parking lots and the exit, all point in the opposite direction of where he is going. As the people around him gradually thin out, he spots what he is looking for: a tastefully understated desk, black reflective surfaces, bordered by brushed steel and the feel of luxury. A sign, equally tasteful, and thankfully without the glaring neon light, announces it as Airport Drivers - Limousine Service — to Shane it reads comfort.

He has almost reached his destination when he hears it. Hollander? Shane Hollander? a rough voice asks from somewhere behind him. Shane suppresses the urge to turn his head and look for the speaker. Instead, he bends over his suitcase, fiddles with the zipper at the front as he allows the hood of his sweater to fall over his head. Hey, excuse me? the voice sounds closer this time. Shane closes his eyes. Breathes out. Waits. There is nothing he can do but hope whoever has recognised him, would doubt his eyes if he simply doesn’t react. There is nowhere he can escape.

The sound of a door opening and laughter spilling from an echoing tiled room into the open makes Shane glance up. There. He straightens, carefully, slowly but purposefully, still steadfastly ignoring the urge to turn towards the sound of his name. Hey, Hollander! even closer this time. He lets his shoulders hunch forward, hoping that looking smaller, even a tiny bit, will help dissuade the person on their way over from their belief that he is … him. With his chin tucked towards his chest, hood falling over his face, hiding his features in shadows, Shane grips the handle of his carry-on and walks straight by the counter he was looking at a few moments earlier and slips through the door to the toilets tucked around a corner from the main hallway.

Shane braces his hands against the sink, his head hanging heavy. In his head, a countdown ticks. If the door behind him doesn’t open in the next thirty seconds, he probably is in the clear. If it does, he will duck into the first stall next to him and hope for the best. Either way, he is stuck for the moment. He closes his eyes and breathes. Waits. Counts.

The automatic door swooshes. Shane tenses and opens his eyes to slits, watching the gap between the wall and the moving frosted glass panel grow wider. His body pulls taut, braces to move at a split second's notice. The door slides through its halfway point, and Shane sees… nothing? He blinks. Refocuses his eyes. Still nothing. Except a dark streak in his peripheral vision. Shane straightens from his slump against the sink, his eyes latching on the movement.

An amused huff escapes his lips when he finally sees what has come through the door — a small, brown haired girl, barely out of toddler stage, has happily walked into the men’s bathroom. The girl is all flailing arms, pounding legs, and pure energy. She reminds him of the twins. Whose birthday he will be missing if he stays in Vienna for more than a day. What has he been thinking?

“Hannah, stop! Bleib stehen. Hannah!” a frazzled looking woman, slightly older than Shane half-jogs through the still-open door. Shane finally turns around and watches as the mother catches her daughter’s coat right before the girl can tumble into Shane’s legs. Hannah, her arms already wide as if she is intent on hugging a stranger’s thighs, lets loose a piercing scream that turns into a giggling laugh as her feet lift off the floor and she is hoisted into her mother’s arms. “Entschuldigung. Sorry. Da schaut man mal zwei Sekunden in die andere Richtung und… ja. Sorry nochmal.” Shane does not understand most of what is said, but waves away the apology anyway. “No worries, it’s fine.” The woman smiles at him, and the way her eyes crinkle at the corners suddenly remind Shane of Ilya.

The thought sticks.

When have Ilya’s eyes crinkled like this the last time? Yes, he has smiled at Shane during their video calls from Russia, but the smile has never reached his eyes. Shane has noticed. He notices everything about Ilya. Always has.

The door swooshes shut behind him, sealing him in the particular quiet of a public toilet. Shane shakes his head, trying to physically remove the thoughts about Ilya, about what has triggered his impulsive flight half-way across the globe, from his head. He will have time to revisit the memories of seeing Ilya in his Moscow apartment, pale against the opulent gold and ruby red velvet, of the jagged edges of grief and anger lacing the low cadence of his native language during their call, later. When he can finally close and lock a door between him and the world.

Shane sighs, looks up, and for the first time since his abrupt departure from the hotel in Buffalo, catches a proper look at himself. If he thought Ilya was pale against the Russian opulence, he is a ghost. His eyes are dull and tired, his freckles stand out against sallow skin, his hair hangs limp and rumpled. If it wasn’t for his build, very little about him looks like Shane Hollander - Hockey Robot. The man staring back at him from the mirror is someone Shane barely recognised. Impulsive. Impetuous. Imperfect.

Shane’s eyes slide away from his reflection. He turns on the tap. Waits until the water runs icy. He splashes his face. Again and again until the cold has chased away the thoughts pressing down on him. When his brain is finally, blessedly silent for a moment, he presses the palms of his hands against his closed eyes until he sees stars. He breathes out, controlled. He breathes in and, for the first time, consciously notices the distinctive sharp, chemical smell of public bathrooms all across the globe. Some things, apparently, never change. And somehow, in this moment, this is a comforting realisation.

Shane dries his hands and face, combing his fingers through his hair only to pull his hood back up a moment later. He tells himself it is tactical—that the shadows hiding his features might throw off whoever has recognized him if they still linger outside—but he knows the truth. He needs the barrier between himself and the world, flimsy as it is. He braces himself, grips the handle of his carry-on, and steps back out into the glaring brightness and noise of the arrivals hall.

This time, nobody calls his name as he makes his way back to the Airport Drivers desk.

“Good morning, Sir. How can I help you?” The blonde, mid-50ish woman behind the counter asks with a welcoming smile.

Shane shrugs his good shoulder and smiles the practised media-smile he has perfected years ago, his brain stalling until his upbringing kicks in with a second delay. “Good morning, how are you?” He waits for the required beat, the expected good, thanks, you?, before unceremoniously sliding his black credit card out of his wallet and onto the counter between them. “I need to get into the city. Now. I don’t care what you charge me, just—” he shrugs again, conceding defeat.

If the exhaustion rolling off him in waves, lacing his voice with heaviness, hasn't clued her in before, the way his posture finally crumbles will. His body, worn-out from the wave of emotion, need, and pure adrenaline that has carried him until now, refuses to stand upright any longer. He leans against the counter, his best efforts to portray the Shane Hollander he is supposed to be failing him at last.

“Where do you need to go, honey?” The clerk's voice has shifted from perky business down to motherly, concerned.

Shane’s vision suddenly blurs as her maternal tone registers. He swallows hard at the endearment. He knows he is a mess. He knows she sees that he is a mess. He doesn’t care. He is done pretending. “Somewhere. Anywhere. I don't know. Somewhere with a bed. A hotel?”

Instead of an answer, the woman behind the counter looks at him. Really takes him in. Not his face, nor his body, but everything else. He sees her noticing the quality of the jacket still under his arm, the subtle softness of his cashmere hoodie, the glint of the brushed platinum links of his watch flashing from underneath his cuff as he moves, the brand of his carry-on. As he looks back at her silently, her eyes flicker down to the limitless credit card he has pushed across. Shane watches her come to a decision.

“The Imperial. It's right in the city centre. Whatever you do next, you'll have a good base there. I'll have Florian pick you up in ten minutes. Does that sound okay?”

Shane can only nod. He is grateful in a way he has never felt before for being handled, for being told where to go. He knows he likes structure, and thrives on it. It is why he has slipped so easily into the rhythms of hockey — practice, dry land training, play, off-season, repeat. But even he feels the restricting forces that the team, the coaches, and the league heap on him. Less so than most of his teammates, perhaps, but enough that it registers. Enough that the small voice in the back of his head whispers that he is a grown man, not a toddler, every time someone tells him where to be, where to look, where to sleep.

“Okay. Good. Will you be waiting here?”

Shane nods again. He knows he is being weird, knows that he should thank the woman for her help, and not stare at her silently, but he can’t. He wants to, but no words form in his throat, no matter how hard he tries.

“All right, honey. How about you take a seat over here,” she gestures to a small table-and-two-chairs combo stacked with magazines and condiments that sits slightly to the right behind her counter, “and I’ll make a reservation for you at the hotel?” The woman, Susanne, as the name-tag he only notices now, reads, reaches over the small divider between them and briefly squeezed his forearm. Her fingers, unlike Ilya's larger hand, don’t come near reaching around the solid muscle of his arm, but the gesture provides a moment of comfort nonetheless.

Shane breathes slowly, careful to not let the shudder he feels building in his lungs escape. He forces a small smile of thanks on his face — a real one this time, not the polished media version he has offered her earlier — and moves towards the tiny waiting area.

At the sound of something heavy being put down, Shane’s head jerks up from where he has rested it on his crossed arms on the tabletop, his pulse spiking with a raw, panicked instinct his tired body can’t quite translate into action.

“Sorry, I didn’t want to startle you, Shane. Can I call you Shane?” Susanne pushes his credit card and a glass of water across the table towards him before sitting down in the other chair.

Shane nods as he reaches for the glass. He’s too tired to question how she knows his name. He takes a sip, then a big gulp. The blessedly cool water tastes almost exactly like the water he pulls from his well back at the cottage. The unexpected taste of home makes his sinuses burn.

“You know, I think, I recognise your face”, Susanne says after a short pause.

Shane’s arm freezes, the glass midway between his mouth and the table. His eyes snap to her face, alarm rising in his chest, “I’ve never been here before!”

Susanne shakes her head, her eyes steady on him. “Oh no—not like that.” Her hand moves, as if she is brushing the misunderstanding away. “I’ve never seen you before. It’s more like…”, she tilts her head, studying the way he hunches his shoulders, the way he seems to be trying to disappear into his hoodie, “I recognise the look.”

“Exhausted?” Shane offers the obvious interpretation.

“No,“ she corrects, “More like you’ve just stepped off a ledge, and you don’t know yet if you’ll crash and burn, or fly.” She falls quiet for a beat, clearly considering if she should go on.

Shane waits, the glass still awkwardly hovering in mid-air.

“My youngest looked like that after she stood up for herself and called in a meeting with management to talk about the structural injustices and casual sexism she had silently lived with for years. One comment too many and she had finally reached a breaking point and just threw it in their faces.”

Shane very carefully sets the glass down. His grip is tight enough to turn the tips of his fingers white. “And?” He hears himself ask, his voice barely above a whisper. “Did she crash or fly?”

Susanne’s eyes are kind on him, a smile softening the blow, “Both.”

Shane closes his eyes, swallowing hard. Both sounds about right for how this impetuous stunt of his might turn out.

“She was let go shortly after. It was rough for a while.” Susanne continues, her voice steady and warm; the voice of someone who has seen her child through life-changing decisions, and has been there for the aftermath. “These days she owns the prime contender to her old place.” She pauses for a moment, her hands shifting a magazine back into alignment on the stack between them. “Anyway, I have called the Imperial and they have one of their Imperial Junior Suites already cleaned, so you can check in as soon as Florian gets you there. I assumed you wouldn’t want to wait until mid afternoon for the other rooms to be ready?”

“That’s—” Shane clears his throat, hoping that the scratchy, raw feeling that threatens to swallow his words will disappear. “That’s great, thank you.” He offers her a grateful smile.

Shane has never been good with words, especially not when it comes to emotions. He knows he gives the least rousing and passionate speeches of any captain in the NHL, but his focused, often technical speeches worked well for the team he has built in Montreal. Here, he wishes he knew how he could express how incredibly grateful he is for everything this stranger has done for him in the last minutes.

Susanne acknowledges his fumbled gratitude with a sincere smile and a just doing my job, which, blatantly, is a lie.

Shane is quite certain that rescuing strangers from themselves and booking them a room in a hotel you decided was the best fit for them isn’t a job requirement for working the desk of a driving service. Thankfully, he doesn’t have the time to point that out to the woman across from him.

A cheery “Servus Susi, du hast gerufen?Hello Susi, you called?” draws Shane's attention back towards the main hall.

“Shane, that’s Florian, your driver”, Susanne gestures towards the other man as she stands up. “Fahrt zum Imperial, Flo. Mit Zeit zum Podcasts hören.”“Drive to the Imperial, Flo. With time to listen to podcasts.”

“Nicht gesprächig?Not talkative?” Florian glances at Shane as he unfolds himself from the hunch over the small table.

Susanne barely moves, but Shane clocks the tiny shrug of her shoulders as she pushes the chair in. “Nicht in bester Verfassung, glaub ich.Not in the best head space, I think.”

Florian nods and smiles at Shane, who hasn't even tried to guess at the topic of their conversation. He has caught the name of the hotel he was going to, and he doesn’t care about the rest. It can’t be anything worse than what he has heard and read about himself in the media back home. Or, it might just be general information. He wouldn’t know. German sounds like a well-written instruction to him: technical but with a melodious rhythm and flow that sets it apart from other languages.

“All right, let’s get you to your hotel, then.” As Shane steps away from the tiny desk he has been sitting at, Florian addresses him directly for the first time. His English is almost flawless. A smooth, polished British accent with just the barest hint of the German Shane has just heard him speak beneath.

“Yeah. Thanks.” Shane grabs the handle of his carry-on and turns to follow his driver, when Susanne stops him with a hand on his arm.

“You’ll want to have this back,” she holds out his credit card. Shane has completely forgotten about it. Before he can thank her for saving his ass, again, Susanne’s hand moves up to his shoulder, softly squeezing the bulky muscle there. Shane suppresses the wince at the pressure against his injured shoulder. “Take care, Shane.” She hesitates for a moment, then adds, “And whatever it is, you’ll be okay, honey.”

As he follows Florian through the chaotic din of the arrivals hall, Shane’s eyes snag on the glowing neon sign of an ATM. Uncomfortable heat floods his cheeks as he belatedly realises that he hasn’t even tipped Susanne. That he hasn’t properly thanked her for everything she has done for him.

“Hey, sorry, can you wait for a moment, please?” Shane addresses the back he is following. In a way, it should be hilarious: he, the tall, broad athlete who packs muscles for a living, is following a guy half his weight and at least a head shorter, like a shadow.

“Yes?” Florian turns around, his expression polite but questioning. Shane’s breath hitches. It isn’t the face—this man is blond, his features softer—but the way he stands. The way he waits.

“I’ll just—” Shane fumbles for words, rattled by the ghost of a different man in the tilt of a stranger’s head. “I need…” He falls silent and gestures towards the cash machine.

“Oh, sure, go on.” Florian swerves around a father with two loud pre-teens and leads the way towards the cashpoint. He casually leans against the wall a few metres from the ATM as Shane joins the short line. Shane’s heart squeezes. The way Florian rests his weight against the wall, his body settling into a loose, languid slouch, is eerily familiar. It is a posture that carries a specific, careless confidence—one Shane hasn't seen in person for what feels like an eternity.

When it has finally been his turn, and Shane has withdrawn a handful of banknotes, the value of which he has no idea about, he gestures for Florian to stay where he is and ducks into the store next to the ATM. Looking for anything to do with his eyes, except impolitely stare at a body he isn’t interested in, just because the way it manages to ooze confidence even in a slouch reminds him of somebody else, Shane has examined the goods on display in the offensively yellow coloured, but aptly named The Flowershop. He has settled on a bouquet long before he steps over the threshold of the shop.

Shane’s heart beats an uncomfortable tattoo in his chest as he ducks out of the store via the opposite entrance, leaving Florian behind with his carry-on. He isn’t any good at most social interactions, especially unplanned ones, but he really needs to do this. Clutching the small, colourful arrangement of spring flowers in his hand, he makes his way back to the Airport Drivers desk he had left behind only a few minutes ago. When the crowd parts in front of him, and he sees Susanne leaning over the counter, pointing at a piece of paper, explaining something to a family of four, he comes close to sending a silent prayer of thanks up to a deity he doesn’t believe in. Seeing Susanne occupied with her next customers turns a dreaded conversation into a surmountable interaction.

He quietly steps up to the desk and positions himself halfway between where Susanne is doing her job and the table he has been sitting at earlier. He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t need to. His body, the way his bulky frame fills the tiny space, will do the talking for him. He just has to wait.

When Susanne glances away from her customers, a question in her eyes, Shane simply holds out the bouquet, mouths a heartfelt thank you, and leaves as silently as he has arrived the moment her fingers brush against his as they close around the stems.

Shane finds Florian, and his carry-on, right where he’s left them. He can’t believe he has just left his belongings with a stranger, even if the stranger works for a seemingly respectable company. The Shane Hollander he has known and inhabited for the last twenty-five years, would never do this. But then, nothing Shane has done in the past twenty-four hours would have seemed possible for the Shane Hollander of before.

Taking back possession of his carry-on, Shane finally follows his driver out of the building and into the warm mid-morning spring sunshine. After the hours of dull, droning almost-white noise of the flight, and the acoustic nightmare that was the constant rattle of plastic wheels on tiled floors overlaid by the relentless wall of sound of hundreds of overlapping voices, the relative quiet of idling taxis and chatting families feels like a balm on Shane’s nerves.

And when Shane finally settles into the fragrant leather seats of the black Mercedes limousine, the heavy quiet that envelopes him after Florian pushes the door shut with a muffled thud feels almost too loud.

Fifteen minutes into what he has been told is a half-hour ride, Shane is drifting. His head, heavy against the headrest, has rolled sideways into the position his head always drifts to when he isn’t consciously keeping it straight. He watches grey asphalt, monochrome industrial complexes, and brown fields streak by him beyond the motorway’s guardrails. His gaze is soft, his eyes almost shut. He is floating, not thinking, but not not-thinking either. His brain is just there, doing its thing. A million thoughts a minute, but none that stick, the constant chatter of his brain that has been with him every waking minute of his life.

In the front, Florian is listening to something. A podcast, probably. A kind of interview. Shane recognises the ebb and flow of the conversation, the rhythm of question and answer. He has been part of enough of them to not need to hear the words to understand what is happening.

The back and forth between the two speakers has formed the soundtrack for his wandering mind ever since Florian started the audio shortly after they left the airport behind. He is sure that his driver hears every word clearly, but in the back of the car, the voices are muffled, overlaid by the sound of tires against asphalt and a powerful motor thrumming along.

Time passes.

The world outside his window changes.

His brain floats along.

…und die symbolische Bedeutung ist...

Shane's brain jolts awake, his thoughts closing in around two syllables, twisting the barely heard words into a memory.

Bolshe Ilya, bolshe, bolshe, bolshe.

He can still hear the tightly controlled anger and resignation in Ilya’s voice as he repeated the word again and again. He still feels helpless in face of his—of Ilya’s raw emotion spilling out of the tinny speaker.

The word has stuck with him, the repetition has haunted him as he lay in his hotel bed later, staring sightlessly into the dark. He has googled it, of course. That’s what Shane does. Bolshe — more. Something or someone wanting more, needing more, demanding more. He still doesn’t know what Ilya has been talking about. But he knows the shape of it: an endless hunger for more that has slowly worn down the strongest man Shane has ever known.

He has heard Ilya’s voice break moments later, talking about something else or maybe just continuing the same thought. He has heard the tears thickening his voice—held back, or allowed to run free, Shane couldn’t tell. He has felt the pauses, the long moments Ilya couldn’t speak before pressing on. Shane had listened, recognizing the bare hurt and need in emotions that transdescend language.

If he has to explain to someone what has triggered his flight to Vienna, those moments would be the obvious answer. But the truth is simpler: one small word, two syllables, repeating over and over in his head as he lay in his bed.

Ilya has nothing more to give; Shane does.

Outside the car, the dull grey industrial spaces of Vienna’s suburbs turn more urban with every passing second. Inside, Shane’s hand closes around the cool edges of his phone. He takes a breath. Holds it. Notices the smell of slightly stale, recycled air carrying the richness of warm leather and traces of Florian’s aftershave. Then he looks down.

The share current-location message still sits at the bottom of the screen.

Still unread.

Shane lets the phone slide from his fingers. It comes to rest on his thighs, face down. As he turns his attention back to the world outside, he briefly wonders what Ilya is doing. Why there’s no reaction to the message he sent nine or ten hours – or a lifetime – ago. Shane realises he has lost all track of time, his only reference the leaden heaviness of his body and the bright sunshine bathing the city around him in warmth.

Florian breaks the silence between them as the car sits on a bridge, waiting for the light to change. “We’ll be there any minute now.”

Shane nods. His eyes are fixed at the open top of a ship anchored on the river, and the slightly too-blue pool sunken into the deck. Sunlight breaks in glittery shards as two bodies swim laps. Shane feels the ghost of a shiver crawl up his spine. He hasn’t been outside for more than the short walk to the car, but it has been enough to feel the underlying sting of still-cool spring air beneath the warm rays of the morning sun. Either the pool is heated, or those swimmers are built differently. Shane isn’t a stranger to the cold, he is Canadian after all, but nothing feels worse to him than icy water. Cold plunges are torture, as far as he is concerned; he always chooses an infrared sauna or a massage as recovery tool given the chance.

The lights change and the Mercedes surges forward, leaving the swimmers behind as tall, stately buildings rise on both sides of the tree-lined street. For the first time, the weight of history he has associated with the Vienna that lives in his imagination, settles around Shane. Most of the buildings lining the street look old enough to predate the world wars, many look as if they have housed aristocrats. There are the odd modern touches, usually on street level, where shop windows gleam and restaurants open onto the sidewalk, but the overall feeling as they pass block upon block of beautiful houses is one of rich history and a city that understands how to blend the modern with it.

Shane barely has time to register the incongruent sight of a McDonalds nestled into the grandeur of a turn-of-the-century building as Florian signals left and comes to a standstill in the side road that runs parallel to the tree-lined avenue they have been on.

The rear door opens on the driver’s side.

“Have a good stay in Vienna,” Florian smiles from the front seat; a practiced, polite smile. “It’s been a pleasure having you with us.”

“Thanks,” Shane feels his face morph into the familiar lines of his public persona. The barely-there upturn of the corners of his mouth, that is too small to be construed as a smirk or grin, but visible enough to make him approachable; the practised conscious softening of his jaw, his forehead and the skin around his eyes to hide the way his body is holding tension and project calm instead.

His public mask firmly in place, Shane shuffles over the backseat to where the open door is waiting. Even behind his well-worn public face he feels awkward as he reaches through the gap between the front seats and hands Florian a folded banknote. He hates tipping in person. He never knows what to say or where to look. In hotels, he leaves a note with a hefty tip for housekeeping to find after he checks out — especially when he and Ilya have trashed the room. He just hopes that people working in hotels are used to seeing, well, a lot.

“Herzlich Willkommen im Hotel Imperial.” A man near his father’s age — dressed in an impeccable, slate-grey uniform, complete with gleaming brass buttons, a peaked cap, and white gloves — greets Shane as he unfolds from the limousine.

The German words wash over Shane. His tired brain refuses to cooperate beyond recognising a word that sounds close to welcome, and the tone of a formal greeting.

“Thank you,” Shane lets guesswork and his manners do the work for him.

Movement at the back of the car draws his attention. He watches as another liveried attendant lifts his carry-on from the trunk of the Mercedes and puts it onto a luggage cart. His sturdy carry-on has been with him on roadies since the very early years of his career. It has carried the essential bits and pieces of his life all over North America. Here, on the velvet-lined cart, it looks lost, out of place.

“Enjoy your stay with us, Sir,” the doorman bustles Shane through the golden revolving door and into the cool quiet of the hotel's foyer.

Inside, Shane's steps falter, then stop, dwarfed by the overwhelming opulence of the room. He has never seen anything like this. The warm, red and gold marble borders, offsetting the forest green stone floor; the ruby red carpets and upholstery; the five massive crystal chandeliers; the portrait behind the gleaming dark front desk on his left watching the comings and goings with stony indifference. He has been in Las Vegas hotels that have tried in vain to mimic the grandeur that looks so effortless here. This just feels real. Feels as if the emperor in the portrait above the concierge could have walked on this floor. Actually, Shane thinks, he probably has.

A calm voice cuts through his daze. "Good morning, Sir. How can I help you?"

“I have a reservation. Hollander.” Shane falls easily into the familiar rhythm of a hotel check-in. Personal data, hotel information, signature, key card, enjoy your stay — a choreography he has streamlined to perfection in the long years on the road with his team.

What all his experience travelling has not prepared him for, is the way the opulence at the Imperial never stops. Where flashy grandeur gives way to ever the same utilitarian hotel floors in Vegas, every corner he turns in Vienna, more elegance, more details, more history unfolds before him.

Shane doesn’t know what to expect when the butler, who apparently comes with the suite, gestures for Shane to lead the way to his rooms. He turns the first corner and his jaw drops. It is a stairway fit for the reception of kings; red-gold marble and golden ornaments beneath a massive portrait of Emperor Franz Joseph. In a recess below the painting, a sculpture of a woman’s body is shrouded in dramatic light, something Shane should have seen in a museum, not on his way to bed. On the first landing he comes face to face with a larger than life portrait of Empress Elisabeth. He just stares at it for a long moment, stunned by the casual display of what he is certain are original oil paintings of Austrian royalty.

There is no time to take in details. The butler ushers him on, into an elevator, up to the top floor. By the time the butler pushes open the white double doors of his suite and Shane steps into the visual overload of vibrant red velvet upholstery, terracotta walls and matching red-golden heavy drapes lit by the bright midday sunlight falling in through the balcony door, he is beyond words.

“...and, finally, our chefs are available to fulfill your every culinary desire at any time. Just let me know or call the front desk and we will arrange for your meal to be brought up. Alternatively, I can make reservations for you in a restaurant of your choice.”

Shane watches as the butler wraps up his monologue about the room, the amenities and dinner at the same time as he puts the last of Shane’s few packed items of clothing away in the closet. Apparently, having a butler unpack your luggage is a thing here. Shane doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or die.

After another awkwardly negotiated tip exchange, Shane is finally alone. In a plush, bloodred room. But alone. He closes his eyes, shuts the sensory onslaught out for a moment, and just breathes.

Vienna.

What in the world has he been thinking?

His fingers have closed around his phone before he has fully opened his eyes against the brightness. He looks at the black screen. Taps it. Taps again, to no avail. Then, a beat too slow, his tired mind catches up. Battery. The symbol was red when he checked his phone at the airport. The screen stayed unusually dim when he checked again in the car. Now, his phone has run empty.

Just like him.

Empty and gross. Travel leaves him feeling sticky and revolting on a good day. Today, he feels downright filthy.

He drags his socked feet across the deep pile of the carpet toward the black and white marble of the bathroom he has half-heartedly inspected a few minutes earlier. Sun-warmed softness gives way to cool stone. He has toed his shoes off as he stepped into the room for the first time; the habit ingrained deeply after a lifetime of no shoes indoors.

He clicks on the overhead light. Shuts it down immediately.

Too bright.

He chooses a different switch.

Better.

Ambient lamps behind the mirror frame bathe the room in a soft, buttery yellow light.

Shane grabs the neck of his sweater and—“Fuck.” The grunted curse rings hollow against the marble.

The pain radiating from his shoulder to his elbow and into his upper back and neck feels as raw as it has on the bench in the hotel gym in Buffalo yesterday. Only this time, he hasn’t chosen it.

Shane’s right hand wraps around his aching shoulder. He squeezes, hard. He knows from experience that steady pressure is the only way to reshape the searing pain into the dull throb he has been ignoring all morning.

A memory of Ilya bitching about yet another bruised rib, his accent thicker than usual, pops up, unbidden: Been there, done that, was no fun. Shane almost smiles. He would, if it didn’t require too much effort.

He is tired. He feels gross. He needs to get the hoodie off. Get into the shower. Right now.

Shane inhales, holds his breath, steadies himself. He carefully lets go of his shoulder. There it is – the dull ache. Manageable.

He works his good arm through the sleeve first, slow and deliberate. He uses his other hand to pull against the cuff to straighten the fabric and ease his arm out. He is careful to keep the movement of his good arm small and his injured side as still as possible.

He almost gets there, pain-free.

At the last moment, when almost all of his hand slips free from the armhole, something snags. The fabric around his shoulders tightens, pulls, and releases in the blink of an eye. Too fast for him to brace his left side against it. He bites down on his lip, swallowing a grunt of pain. He steadies himself, breathes through it, waits for it to settle.

Next time he decides to aggravate a brewing injury, he will choose one that is easier to undress around.

The hoodie hits the counter; folded, of course. His t-shirt is easier. More wriggle room, less fabric. It comes off without a hitch. His trousers are easiest. A popped button, a shimmy of his hips, and the fabric pools around his feet. Socks, then underwear. Everything in a neat pile, just as it needs to be.

The steam hits him first. Moist and heavy, billowing from the just-opened glass shower door. Shane breathes deeply, feeling the wet air fill his lungs. He loves this; loves a steam room even more. It makes him feel alive.

He steps under the hot spray, eyes closed, head tipped back into the stream. Lets the water pressure beat against his scalp, his face, his shoulder. It feels like thousands of needle stings, a welcome contrast to the blunt pounding around the joint.

Shane tries to keep himself in the moment. Focuses on the mundane tasks of shampooing his hair, washing his body, rinsing away the sweat and travel grime — one handed and therefore a little bit of a welcome challenge. He needs it. Needs it to keep himself from questioning what he has done.

Not the flight. That was a necessity. Slightly insane, but a necessity nonetheless.

The bit before. The bit where he sat on the weight bench in the hotel gym surrounded by his team mates. The bit where he eyed the free weights, calculating. The bit where he selected the dumbbells that would have been a challenge for him in peak condition, not the ones suited to a body slowly falling apart under the pressure of the season. The bit where he hefted the weights and subtly adjusted his grip and shifted his posture ever so slightly off. The bit where he knew exactly what would happen when he lowered the weights without bracing. The bit where he knew it was coming, banked on it, but still was caught by surprise by the stabbing pain in his shoulder. He always forgets how ugly the tearing feeling is, and that immediate, sickening looseness of a joint no longer held firmly in place that came immediately after.

But it is worth it.

Or so he has told himself over and over again as he came up with the plan in his hotel bed while Hayden snored on beside him.

But he isn’t thinking about any of this. He refuses to.

Shane shuts off the shower. This has to do, for now.

Shane purposefully avoids the enormous gold-framed mirror as he carefully dries himself off. After the glimpse in the airport toilet, he has no desire for a repeat performance of Shane the ghost - and, if anything, he is certain he is even more of a mess now. Especially with his shoulder laid bare.

He hasn’t looked, not really, while he was in the shower, but years of repeat experience with this injury means he knows what will be reflected back at him.

Swelling, probably minor — he has followed protocol and iced the shoulder right after the injury. He just hasn’t repeated it. He’d been on his way to the airport in Buffalo by then.

And bruising, always bruising. Angry red slowly turning to blue, violet and green. It is still too early for the sickly yellow that always showed up last.

He doesn’t know exactly which part of his iffy shoulder he has managed to sprain with his stunt, and hasn't stuck around long enough to find out. The team physio has been adamant about getting him to see a doctor and get imaging. She is new; isn’t used to the intricacies and quirks of Shane’s body,its history, not yet, not in the way Toby had been.

Toby would have taken one look at Shane and told him to go do his thing. They had been through this injury together often enough. Shane knows the drill.

Shane carefully moves his left shoulder. The warm water has loosened the surrounding muscles that have clenched in solidarity with their busted neighbours—slightly, but enough. The range of motion is still tiny, but he thinks he can at least manoeuvre his arm into the sleeve of the hotel robe without too much pain. Probably.

A yawn catches Shane off guard as he steps back into the sea of red upholstery that was his suite. He has been feeling bone-deep exhausted for so long now that the physical expression surprises him. Apparently, his body is finally catching up with his mind for good.

His phone is still where he dropped it earlier. Black screen up on the stool at the bottom of his bed. He needs to charge it. He should probably let his mom know he is still alive. It is the least he could do after throwing the grenade of his trip at her. That, and prepare an explanation for when he flew home — something close enough to the truth to ring true, and far enough from it to keep him safe. To keep them safe.

His toes dig into the soft carpet as Shane crosses to where the butler had temporarily stowed his carry-on. At least the man hasn’t insisted on unpacking the travel organizers that make up the bulk of Shane’s luggage. There are things in there, he really doesn’t want to have handled by a stranger. Or judged.

Shane opens his designated tech-bag and extracts the phone charger on the first try. He really has travelling down to an art-form. At least compared to Hayden. Shane can’t begin to count the times he has patiently untangled various cables, from chargers to headphones and everything in-between, while his best friend has ranted about how humans could fly to the moon but not prevent stuff from tangling. (Shane can. The secret is called velcro.)

It is only when he moves back to his bed to plug in the charger that it hits him: he isn’t in North America any more. And he has no adapter.

Shane lets himself feel the frustration for a moment. Of course something had to go wrong. Up until now his less-than-carefully planned trip has worked out way better than it should have. Too smoothly for a trip without his usual extensive research and careful planning.

Shane silently counts to ten. Clenches and flexes his fingers — once, twice, three times. Then he moves on.

There is a phone on his bedside table. He will simply call down to reception. They have to have a spare adapter or European charger at hand. He certainly isn’t the first person to encounter this problem.

As Shane reaches for the phone, his eyes snag on something. His breath leaves him in a huff, somewhere between amused and relieved. In all this old grandeur he hasn’t expected it, but there it is, set below the crystal bedside chandelier, a wall outlet with both a plug socket and a USB-C port. Shane has never been more delighted by an incongruous sight. Not least because he hates making calls to an embarrassing degree for an adult. Ilya, as so often, is the exception—Shane loves his calls. But other than him? He is used to calling his parents. He has learned to pick up and deal with Hayden's insistence to talk. But other than that, he uses texts and emails wherever possible.

Shane rolls over. He sat down to plug in his phone, but he is still waiting for the battery to charge enough to turn on. He just wants to get comfortable.

Between one blink and the next, Shane falls asleep; dead phone clutched tightly in his hand.

***

He wakes to twilight and twenty-eight new messages.

None of them matter.

His mother has checked in, of course she has. He replies to that one. Tells her he is okay, that he will let her know when he is back home.

His physio has left a voice note, sending detailed instructions about what to do with his shoulder. He knows that at least half of it will make his situation worse, not better. He has this under control. He ignores the message.

Hayden has first sent a how are you, bud?, then just want to let you know, I don’t need you to score ;) and has spiralled from there. Memes, messages, pleas to just let me know you’re okay?, more memes, then gifs. Shane dashes off a half-hearted I’m fine. At the cottage, no reception. Will call when I’m back in Montreal. and forgets about it.

He muted the team chat a long time ago. So on that front he is no more absent than usual.

Shane opens the chat with Ilya last. No new message, he already knows that, but … he is curious. A shared location without explanation and no comment? That isn’t how Ilya operated. Maybe he just hasn’t seen the notification yet? Unlikely, since it has been more than a day, but Shane has never lost a close family member. He doesn’t know what the days after a funeral look like. Especially not if it is your own father. And with a brother like that.

He checks the chat.

Two blue ticks.

In all the years he has known him, Ilya has never left him on read. Not once. Shane bites his lip. Thinks about it.

The rational part of his brain knows that Ilya is probably neck-deep in paperwork — and Ilya hates paperwork. The other part of his brain, the one that is still tired despite the nap and that has run out of fuel hours ago, feels abandoned in a way Shane chooses not to examine too closely.

Shane puts his phone aside. There is no use staring at a read message, waiting for something. Watched kettles and all that, if he is being optimistic. A certain recipe for spiralling, if he isn’t.

Shane forcefully redirects his thoughts, steels himself, and carefully moves his injured shoulder. His breath escapes in a sharp hiss against the pain. The hours, Shane guesses it must have been hours, of his unplanned nap have done him no favours. The muscles that have loosened under the warm water have seized right back up again, not least due to the weird way he has been sleeping, phone still in his outstretched hand. The fact that he has fallen asleep before he could take some pain relief hasn’t helped either.

Shane rolls onto his right side and pushes his elbow into the soft mattress until he can sit himself up. He keeps his left side as motionless as possible, it still hurts. A lot. Fortunately for him, he is not only an old pro at getting out of bed around an arm injury, he also knows how to function through pain. Every hockey player learns that lesson early in their career. Those who don’t don’t stick around long.

Shane steadies his breath and runs through a series of small movements and stretches that have been in his rehab arsenal for over six years now. He'd first dealt with a grade 2 shoulder separation and a torn rotator cuff after a hard bodycheck and awkward fall in one of his first seasons with the Voyageurs. It hurt like hell then. It hurts like hell now. But by the end of the stretches, the stiffness eases up, just like he knew it would.

He washes down a double-dose of pain killer with a glass of water from the bathroom tap. It weirdly tastes just the same as the water at the airport had: like home.

Shane does not bother to change into clothes. Instead, he tugs the nap-loosened soft fabric of the white terry-cloth robe more firmly around his body, tightens the belt, and finally looks at what has been beckoning him since he first set foot into the room: the balcony.

Shane opens the glass door and steps out into the cool evening air. The tiled floor is cold under his feet, the sun clearly not strong enough yet to warm the stone through. Shane doesn’t notice it. All of his attention has snapped to what lies before him the moment it has come into view.

The sky over Vienna is a palette of dark blue he has never seen quite like that before. There are no clouds, just a gradient of shades of deep blue that fades into black towards the far horizon. In the opposite direction, a band of bright red, yellow, and white still peeks over the small mountain range framing the city in the west. A lone, bright star is visible rising above the last remnants of a glorious sunset. To Shane, the sky looks empty in the way a canvas does – a promise of what is yet to come, of what will fill it and bring it to life.

Shane’s eyes stay on the shrinking strip of light until twilight has taken over the world. Then, he lets his eyes roam the city spread out before him. There are no skyscrapers, not in the way he is used to from home. He appears to be standing on one of the higher buildings around, if you didn’t count the dome of a building to his left, and a smattering of church spires visible throughout the city. The only things that might come close to a proper high rise are far away on the horizon. If nothing else, the view is a reminder of how far he is from where he is supposed to be.

Shane props his right elbow onto the balcony’s railing and cradles his chin in his upturned palm. His left hand is shoved into the deep pocket of his robe in an attempt to keep his injured shoulder from moving too much. The pain killers are slowly starting to work, the sharp edges ebbing away, leaving behind nothing but a dull throb that gradually fades into the background as well. The position is a weird mix of awkward and comfortable, and, for the moment, Shane stays – eyes closed, listening to the sounds of a foreign city filtering up to his rooftop balcony, simply breathing.

The sharp, high-pitched ding of an incoming message ruptures his calm. Shane’s heart speeds up. Involuntarily. Uncharacteristically hopeful. He forces himself to stay in his slouch for a moment longer. A battle of wills against himself, though he isn’t sure why he is fighting it. Maybe that flicker of hope needs to be wrestled into submission first. The danger of finding himself disappointed is too high.

He is right.

When he picks his phone up from where he has discarded it earlier, the pop up notification reads Rose not Lily. Silently chastising himself for expecting, for setting himself up for frustration, he opens Rose’s text:

you're injured and out of the game and i hear it from my make-up team? do i need to get on a plane to Montreal and explain to you how bffs work? AGAIN???!

Shane’s lips turn up in a small, private smile. He couldn’t have asked for a better person to catastrophically date after Boston. After the overwhelming, scary intimacy of his first name on Ilya’s lips – an intimacy he longs for in a way that would scare him if he hadn’t seen the same unspoken yearning in Ilya’s eyes at the All Stars.

He briefly considers calling. Even though he hates it. And Rose, mostly, respects his preference to just text. He decides against it.

You’d have to fly to Vienna to do that.

He doesn’t apologize to her, she will understand why he hasn’t thought about checking in with her, eventually. He just puts the truth out there, trusting that Rose will understand.

WTF are u doing in vienna???????????
(bring back Mozart balls!)

Shane makes a mental note to figure out what Mozart balls are and where he could get them.

You made me watch too many of your movies.
I’m doing what you’re best at.

getting kidnapped?

Shane snorts a laugh. Trust Rose to always come back to that.

The grand gesture.

There is a pause before her reply. Longer than he is used to. Long enough to know that he has caught her off guard. They have never really talked about Shane’s love life in detail, not after that awkward first conversation where she has dragged the truth out of him, word by embarrassing word. Or, if he is being honest, nod by embarrassing nod.

Rose knows he is gay.
Rose knows there is someone he has hooked up with.
Rose knows that he is scared.
And Rose suspects that there is someone in his life he doesn’t talk about.
Ever.

your boston boy???!!!!!!!!!!

Shane almost chokes on his own spit. What—

The fuck, Rose?
How do you know that?

His phone rings.

Shane picks up. No hesitation. The need to know overriding his anxieties.

“How, Rose?” He fights to keep his voice level and the panic he feels at bay. He thought he had been hiding everything so well. He can’t be that transparent. They couldn’t be that easy to figure out.

“Shane, breathe,” Rose’s calm voice cuts through his spiraling thoughts.

“I’m breathing.”

“Barely.” He can hear the fond smile in her voice. “I won’t tell you shit before I hear a nice and steady breathing rhythm from over there.” The stress she puts on the last word is clearly audible, a reminder of how he even finds himself in this situation.

“I’m fine,” Shane grounds out, “really, I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. And we both know it. Now you breathe, and I’ll go sit in the shade, alone, and then we’ll talk.”

Long minutes later, Rose breaks the silence. “You good now?”

Shane breathes in and out, intentionally, grounding himself, “Yes.” He leaves a beat of a pause. “So, explain about my Boston boy”. He cringes at the name. Ilya is so much more than his boy.

“You’re not as subtle as you think you are, honey,” Rose’s voice is warm and full of love.

Shane doesn’t react to the affectionate rib. Instead, he steps back out on the balcony. The cool tiles under his bare feet, a welcome anchor to the here and now.

“Right,” Rose heaves a dramatic sigh, “have me spell it out for you. One, you are always weird, but you’re weirder on the days before you play Boston. Your mood does things that I usually associate with PMS, not Shane Hollander.”

Rose pauses, waiting for the huff of slightly embarrassed amusement she knows is coming. Shane gives it to her.

“Thank you. Now. Two, the nights after you play Boston you barely answer my texts. And if you do, it takes you hours.”

“I’m never a good texter. You told me off for it about a thousand times,” Shane points out.

“True,” Rose laughs. “But you’re even worse on those nights. And—” She pauses. Either thinking about her number three, though Shane is fairly certain she has had the list ready even before she called, or weighing up her words. Shane does not like what that implied. So far, nothing Rose has said is incriminating in a specific way. Nothing that Hayden hasn’t been teasing him about since forever. Yes, it is surprising that Rose has noticed these things from afar, when Hayd has not figured out that Boston Lily is one person, not a string of hook-ups, for a long time. As if Shane would be able to pull a new conquest every time he is in Boston. That has been Ilya’s MO for most of the time they have known each other. Speaking of…

“Just say it,” he urges, impatient. And scared about what his best friend will say next. He could not accidentally have outed Ilya. Could he? He is always so careful. He never even talks about any specific member of the Boston team. Not outside tape review or when he is actively watching a game. And, really, he doesn’t talk about hockey with Rose – at least not too often.

“Do you remember when I had that panic attack about hosting the MTV Movie Awards? When I needed you to stop me from ordering forty-eight Cinnabon Delights and eating them until my custom Chanel dress wouldn’t zip so I could claim wardrobe malfunction and stay in bed?”

Shane laughs at the memory, “I doubt I’ll ever forget how you tried to sell me on the tactical advantages of a sugar coma. Or that I spent twenty minutes of my life debating the caloric value of a career-ending dessert-incident.”

“Yeah.” Rose laughs with him. “Well, you weren’t home when you picked that video call up. And, you weren’t in a hotel room, either.”

Shane’s body goes still. He knows exactly where he had been while he talked to her. In Ilya’s living room. Angled awkwardly away from anything that could be identifiable, angled away from Ilya who had listened to the call in silent convulsions, shoulders shaking where they were pressed against his thighs.

“And, honey, I might not be the brightest person in the world, but I do recognise Boston Harbour when I see it. Those low planes coming into Logan are a dead giveaway.”

Damn. The windows. Of course. In his worry about something incriminating coming into view, he had turned his back to the immense glass wall that lined most of Ilya’s penthouse.

“Okay, I’ll give you all of that. But that only shows that I know someone in Boston. Which isn’t that unlikely? I mean, I have ex-teammates that traded to Boston?” Shane hedges. Maybe Rose is just angling and her Boston boy remark has been nothing but a shot in the dark.

“Your hair.”

“Huh?” Shane feels like he has lost the thread of the conversation from that abrupt turn.

“I know sex–hair when I see it. Not that I have a first-hand reference for what good sex with you looks like—”

“You’re such an asshole!” Shane sputters as Rose’s laughter spills through the line.

Rose collects herself, “You looked like you had very recently been expertly fucked through the matress, Shane. Suits you, all glowy and dishevelled.”

Shane groans. Rose laughs harder.

“And…”

“And?” Shane doesn’t know if he really wants to hear more, but apparently his mouth has other ideas.

“You were wearing a sweater I have never seen on you. Before or after.” She doesn’t let him cut in with some bullshit explanation. “It wasn’t yours. Too big in the shoulders. And—” Rose stops in a way that Shane recognises as a dramatic pause and just waits her out. “—as far as I know you’re not a Boston fan. It wasn’t big, but I recognise the Boston logo when I see it. I am a hockey fan, even if we don’t talk about it a lot.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, Shane, oh. Sleeping with the enemy. What would your mum say?”

Rose’s voice is tinged with humor. Shane closes his eyes. What would his mom say? A boyfriend would be enough of a hand-grenade. A boyfriend from Boston would be hard to swallow. A Boston supporter would get him disowned. Someone working or playing for Boston would come close to matricide. Ilya Rozanov? Unthinkable.

Before Shane can force his voice to cooperate, or can come up with an answer that will deflect enough to skirt around the question, Rose speaks up one last time.

“And I saw his reflection.”

The quiet admission lands like a blow. Shane feels it in the pit of his stomach. His throat constricts. He can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can only let a wave of dread wash over him.

“You—” he barely manages to choke out that one word before he feels the tingling in his fingers, his arms, the way his vision grows darker around the edges, as the first curls of a panic attack wrap around him.

“Shane. Fuck.” Rose must have heard the way his voice breaks. Or his breath changes. Or … whatever. “Shane, listen to me!” Rose commands.

He tries to focus.

“Are you listening?” Rose sounds worried, despite the way her voice remains steady. Her cadence remains calm. Shane hears the worry nonetheless. He latches onto that. He doesn’t want to worry her.

“I’m… I’m listening,” he forces the words out as he is fighting for his next breath. He knows he just needs to keep on breathing. He knows he isn’t really suffocating. He knows all of that. It never makes it any easier.

“I saw a guy. Broad. Messy hair. Draped over your legs. That’s all.” Rose pauses, lets the words sink in. “Do you hear me, Shane? I did not see a face. I do not know who this guy is. I do not want to know, not if me knowing is panicking you that much.”

Shane doesn’t react. He hears the words. It just takes them a long time to finally register over his laboured breathing and pounding heart.

Rose breaks the silence again. “You’re safe, Shane. He is safe. I promise you.”

Slowly the iron grip around his chest loosens. Breathing becomes easier again. Not yet back to normal, but easier. Doable. Shane hangs in there, forcing his thoughts away from his laboured inhales towards the sounds of the city floating around him. The smells. The way Rose’s calm presence radiates through the phone, even when she is silent. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

Shane rubs his free hand over his face. He absentmindedly notices that the motion only triggers a slight throb deep in his shoulder – the pain killers are working. At last. He slowly exhales, “Okay”.

He is safe. Ilya is safe. Rose hasn’t uncovered anything that puts them in jeopardy. And, he reminds himself, even if she had… Rose is safe. He knows she is. He knows she already keeps their secret for others – for friends, for co-stars, for actors who make a living from being a fantasy for women or an action hero for men. Rose keeps their secret. She has told him so. Not names, obviously. Just that she does. That she understands. That she would keep his secrets safe as well.

“So, tell me about Vienna,” Rose breaks the silence between them again.

Shane hesitates.

“Not him. Vienna.”

“I—” Shane falters, thinking for a moment. He opens his eyes and checks the balconies around him. He is alone. High over the streets of a city that is as far removed from his life, from his fame, as he can imagine. He scans the balconies again – no open doors as far as he can see. And even if, he reminds himself, he’s just a voice. And people don’t tend to recognise his voice. His face, yes, but not his voice.

Shane leans his hip against the railing, his eyes fixed on the brightly lit dome and the yellow light illuminating it from within.

“You need to know about him to understand Vienna.” Shane cannot believe he is about to do this. But he needs to. He wants to. So he tells her.

Not his name. Nothing too identifying. But he tells her about how they meet when they’re seventeen. How he can’t get the feeling of his hand out of his head for the rest of the day. How they meet again one and a half years later. He tells her about the shower. (Rose shrieks so loud at that he thinks he might go deaf). About how their first kiss turns his world upside down. About his hand on his throat and feeling seen and safe. He tells her they finally exchange numbers six months later. How texting him makes Shane’s days brighter – even if he doesn’t admit it to himself at this point. How all-consuming it feels when he is inside Shane for the first time. How Shane aches for him, for this. How he knows they should put an end to it, but just can’t. He tells her about Boston last year. How it all got too much, too intimate. How he asks Shane to stay around for the first time after they have sex. How he agrees. That he cannot forget the way it felt to wake up in his arms in bright sunshine. He tells her about Tuna melts and Ginger Ale in the fridge and how good it feels to just exist near him, sitting on the sofa, watching TV. Cuddling. How it feels too much when he says Shane's name in that reverent way when he comes. How Shane runs – right into Rose’s arms.

He tells her about Tampa. About sunshine reflected in hazel eyes and water running down his body. About watching him pretend to lose swimming races against children, again and again. How they finally talk about what matters – at least in abstracts. How the proudest and strongest man he knows cries in his arms; and how he lets Shane comfort him. He tells her about texts and calls and his glasses. How everything has changed between them. And about how Shane does not know what to do with all the feelings inside him. And finally, he tells her about the call, about the raw edges he hears in his cracking voice, and how the need to be there is both instant and overwhelming. He tells her about how he just stops thinking, injures himself, and jumps on a plane, just because he hears something on a crackling phoneline that makes him want to tear the world down for his man.

Shane knows he has given away too much. He should panic. Instead, he feels relief. Relief that somebody knows, that somebody bears witness to that enormous thing he has been carrying around alone for almost a decade.

He waits for Rose’s reaction.
He knows it will be fine.
It is still nerve-wracking.

Shane hears Rose swallow thickly. He braces himself for her verdict – about him, about them, about the mess he has gotten himself into.

He is ready for everything, he thinks.
Just not for the way Rose’s voice is thick with tears when she finally speaks.

“You love him.”

The words land loud, heavy, and entirely unsurprising if he lets himself think about it.

“Yeah, I fucking love him.” The words come easier than he expects. They feel righter, too. Like something he has spent too much time looking away from that has finally broken free of the box he has shoved it into. And nothing bad happens. It just is.

“Good,” Shane hears the smile in Rose’s voice and he is glad that it is Rose who has heard him acknowledge it for the first time, to himself or out loud. She has borne witness to all his big gay moments so far. This makes sense.

“That’s all?” Shane cannot believe that good is all she has to say after what he has just told her.

“How can I call him?”

“That’s your question?” Shane sometimes really does not understand how Rose’s brain works. Very differently from his, that much is certain.

“Yup. I can’t refer to him as him forever, can I?”

Shane sighs. “Lily.”

“Lily?” Rose sounds incredulous.

“Lily,” Shane confirms.

“You’ve got quite the flowery theme going on there with your ex and your ex-situationship, you know that, right?”

“Fuck off. Not Lily because of Rose, Lily because of—” he stops himself before the name can slip out. “—nevermind.”

“So what’s the plan now?” Rose, as always, surprises him and pivots the conversation in another direction he has no answers to.

“I don’t know.” Shane twists the soft belt of his robe between his fingers restlessly.

“Shane Hollander not having a plan,” Rose sounds unnecessarily gleeful down the line. “A love confession and no idea what comes next, I will definitely mark that day in my diary!”

“Fuck off, Rose.”

“I don’t think so. Someone has to provide some brains for this operation.”

“And that would be you?” Shane snorts disbelievingly.

“That would be me, honey.” Rose pauses for a moment. “But seriously, Shane, what’s the plan? You cannot just start location-sharing and… what? Pray that Lily reads your thoughts?”

“He understands me,” Shane grounds out, defensively.

“I’m sure he does, but that shit? That’s cryptic as fuck. How is he supposed to know that you’re there for him? Is he even in Vienna?”

“He isn’t.”

“SHANE!” He probably could have heard that shout without a phone. Shane groans. She is right. Of course she is right. But he can’t explain what he is doing here to Ilya. Not properly. Not over text. He does not have the words for it. Not without sounding … weird.

And even if he finds the right words, he cannot tell Ilya that he has injured himself willingly. Ilya will kill him first and, maybe, listen to an explanation later. He will be so furious with Shane for pulling such a stunt. He will think Shane has completely lost the plot. Which… fair. But Shane knows what he does and—

“Shane, you still with me?” Rose’s voice breaks into his thoughts.

“Yeah?” He has no idea what she might have said.

“What do you mean he is not in Vienna? Why are you in Vienna if he is not there? Where is Lily? Explain to me what is going on in that brain of yours? Please?”

“It’s—” Shane struggles for words. “It’s complicated.”

“Imagine my surprise,” Rose deadpans. He really hates her sometimes.

“He is…um…he is—” Shane really doesn’t know how to explain where Ilya is and why without giving away too much. If he says that Lily is in Russia for a family matter, Rose will take about 2.5 seconds to fit a name to the mystery man. She’s said it herself earlier: she is a hockey fan. He hasn't explicitly said Lily is a player. But Rose isn't stupid. The timeline of his... thing with Ilya is too closely tied to his career for her not to draw the right conclusion. Plus, he might have referred to the All Stars game, so, yeah.

“—close enough for it to be safe, but far enough that it’s a gamble,” Rose finishes his thought after a moment.

“How do you always know?” Shane loves and dreads her perceptiveness in equal measures.

“Because I know you, Shane. You said there was something in his voice that made you want to drop everything and be with him – and yet you are not. That means there are reasons why you can’t go to him, but you’ve made sure to be as close as possible. Close enough for him to reach you. And Vienna makes sense if he’s in one of those East European countries where being gay is a crime.”

“You sure you aren’t out auditioning for detective roles?” Shane tries to deflect with humour. Rose is way too close to the truth for comfort. He should be panicking. Instead, he doesn’t care.

“Nah, crime’s over. Cold War flicks are the hottest shit right now.”

Shane laughs. He is fairly sure Rose has figured it out. He won’t ask. She won’t say. It is okay.

“Does he make you happy?” Rose’s voice is soft now, closer somehow, even if that doesn’t make sense.

Shane closes his eyes. He remembers the way Ilya laughed against his skin in Tampa. The way no one but Ilya can keep up with him on the ice. The way his thoughts ground to a halt and he is out of his head and right there for once when Ilya touches him. The way his first instinct is to tell Ilya about it whenever something happens - no matter if it’s fun, or annoying, or if it makes him sad.

“Yeah. Yeah he does.”

“Good. That’s all I need to know.” He can see Rose’s smiling face before him. “Now,” Rose says, “figure out how you tell him that you’re ready for him to come to you. Lily is no mind-reader, Shane, you will have to actually use your words.”

Shane groans.

“You’ve injured yourself and flown halfway across the world. If you can do that, you can tell the person you love that you’re here for him.”

Rose makes it sound so easy, but – it just isn’t. Not for Shane. He has always communicated better through actions, with his body. It’s why he fell in love with hockey in the first place – there is no ambiguity in a sharp turn, a wrist shot, the buzzer of the goal.

“I… Yeah, okay.”

“Okay?” Rose repeats and waits for him to hum his affirmation. He does. “When’s the last time you’ve had something to eat?” Rose, once again, pivots the conversation so fast it leaves his head spinning.

Shane actually has to think about the answer. “The plane? I guess?”

“Then get off your ass and go find some food. You sound like shit. And once you’ve done that, you figure out what to tell Lily,” Rose commands.

Shane thinks he can do that.

“Right. Go. Eat. Think. And call me when you’re home… or any time. Don’t forget my Mozart balls! Love you!”

The line goes dead before Shane can get a word in.

He stares at the glowing screen in his hand. The sudden silence is loud, but not unwelcome.

His phone vibrates in short bursts — ten new notifications and counting. Eight from Hayden. Two from JJ. None from Lily. Shane opens the chat anyway on the off chance that Ilya’s reply hasn’t been pushed to notifications.

The two blue ticks glow back at him. Still nothing.

Shane sighs as the phone vibrates in his hand. JJ, again. Something about the airport, according to the preview text. His team is probably stuck waiting for boarding and his friend is bored. Shane is in no mood to deal with any of that.

He taps into the menu settings and selects Do Not Disturb. Exceptions? Lily, of course. That one is easy. His finger hovers over another contact. Mom. It feels wrong to cut her off. But he knows she’ll find a pretext to text or call in a few hours and he isn’t sure he can deal with her in either of her roles without losing it at the moment. He puts her on a two-call emergency screening.

Shane locks the phone, slides it into the deep pocket of his robe, and, for a moment, just breathes. Those who need to know where he is, know. Everybody else has been quieted. And Shane feels… lighter.

***

He dresses in the one change of clothes that isn’t training gear: jeans, a soft oversized knit cardigan he loves—too stylish for Shane Hollander, one of the most boring items in Ilya's closet—and his woolen jacket.

He puts his worn clothes in the laundry bag and drops it outside his room as he leaves.

He takes the stairs and marvels at the paintings and statues he finds behind every turn. This hotel really is something else.

The lobby is busy at this time, but nowhere near as busy as the bar behind it. He only gives it a glance, the decision to not go there easy given the crowd filling up almost every wing chair, plush sofa, and coffee table.

Shane pushes out the revolving doors and steps into his first evening in Vienna.

The city is busy, but not nearly as busy as any of the cities he’s used to. He steps onto the sidewalk and simply lets himself be carried along with the people passing by.

He passes the McDonald’s he dimly remembers, crosses a huge square crisscrossed with lanes in fits and bursts, following the pedestrian lights and a random person in a polkadot coat. He stumbles into a small bistro that’s advertising snacks to go on their marquee and leaves with a reasonable looking sandwich, a slice of cake that looks so tempting he stands no chance, and a bottle of water. He would have loved a coffee, but he knows that it isn’t an option if he wants to sleep tonight.

He takes his meal to the immense fountain at the top of the square. He sits on stone arches that remind him of Greek ruins and watches as the fountain is lit up in a colourful display of light while he eats his sandwich. It’s slightly stale and nothing to write home about, but it’s food and he promised Rose.

Afterwards, he just drifts.

He follows one street because he sees a brightly lit arch at its end. He walks through a gorgeous park that is bisected by a small river. He pauses on one of the bridges and simply watches the water pass him by for what feels like an eternity. He feels oddly at peace. He leaves the park and follows a pack of exuberant students until they vanish into a palatial building with a red brick facade. He turns left, afterwards, crosses another river (or, he thinks, possibly the same), and finds himself in a quieter neighborhood. Less pedestrians, smaller streets, but no less impressive buildings. He floats along, taking turns here and there, just following where his eyes take him. The architecture in this city is everything.

Shane stops at a red light. He turns, changing direction and taking the green pedestrian crossing instead. His eyes catch on the soft glow of well-lit gold.

His steps falter.

He stops.