Archive of Our Own

July 1, 2018
2:01pm

Ottawa Centaurs General Manager Montgomery Blankenship—call me Monty, Rozy, please, which thank fuck because the first time he said the name aloud to Shane it had come out Montgomery Blankenshit instead—pumps his arm and speaks in a thick, supposedly Texan accent that Ilya can barely understand and his agent can't which is actually totally fine. His agent's days are numbered anyway and he's maybe already picked Yuna Hollander’s brain about a contract behind closed doors and a boilerplate NDA which every Hollander in his life keeps handy in their wallet just in case.

After, Yuna had given him his own copy, “accidentally” printing a second one when she went to replace the one she’d pulled from behind her driver's license. David had laughed when they came back from her office, knowing exactly what the document in Ilya's hand was. He'd nudged Shane with his elbow and said he's practically a card carrying Hollander now. Ilya had handled the whole thing very normally, which is to say he excused himself to the deck to have a cigarette under the guise of calling his agent even though it was midnight in St Petersburg.

Anyway, back to more important matters.

Monty pumps his hand up and down mechanically, probably like one of those bulls that pro hockey players aren't allowed to ride at western themed bars because it's like three degrees away from skydiving in terms of injury potential, and carries on about just how excited he and Centaurs Nation is. He's surprised that Ilya is in Canada, but Ilya just shrugs and says he wants to be thorough, ignoring his agent, who sounds like he's been temporarily possessed by the spirit of Grigori Rozanov when he mutters, “You have never been thorough about anything in your life, Illyusha,” across the Zoom call. Thankfully it's in Russian.

Ilya thanks him for his time, which is stupid because he pays his agent a boatload of money to be grouchy over video, and the man leaves the call without so much as an acknowledgement. His agent doesn't do shit. Ilya does most of the legwork himself. (Yuna was beside herself when she found this out. Shane thinks that if they weren't giving her the Foundation to run, she'd start her own sports agency and make Ilya her first client.)

“So,” he says, when it is just him and Monty, and the very adorable baby bear with the beard and the jean jacket dotted with pride pins. Sergei, his agent, had sneered when the man had gotten close enough to be seen through the lens of the conference room's fancy webcam because he is homophobic shitstain. “We will do press conference, yes?”

“Definitely,” Monty replies agreeably. “Harris, will you take Rozanov to Vinny to get a jersey? I'll make some calls.”

Harris, the cute bear with the pins, seems a little nervous about the prospect of being alone with Ilya, but he nods and tips his head toward the door. “Sure, Monty.” To Ilya, he says, “Right this way.”

They walk silently from the little office suite overlooking the parking lot to the elevators.

“Your name is Harris, yes?” Ilya offers him a hand as the doors close. “I am Ilya.”

Harris shakes, still looking apprehensive.

“I like your pins,” he adds. “The unicorn one with the cape is my favorite.” Harris’ hackles seem to fall a little as Ilya leans in. One of the pins is shaped oddly. “What is ‘y’all means all?’”

The apples of his cheeks go pink just above the bears. He isn't Ilya's type, not enough freckles, but he is adorable. Definitely a bear though. There is steel in his eyes. Ilya can already tell that they will be good friends eventually.

“I, um.” He exhales, then braces himself as if facing the executioner. Around them the elevator takes forever to go from the third floor to bottom level. “Monty gave it to me last week, when I got promoted from intern to social media manager,” he admits shyly. “He got it from a gift shop when he was visiting his family in Odessa. I guess they say y’all a lot in Texas.”

“Yuh-all,” Ilya repeats. “This means ‘you all,’” he gleans, nodding. “Good slogan for pride pin.”

Harris lets out a breath Ilya hadn't realized he'd been holding.

“I am sorry about my agent,” he tells Harris. It's not like Sergei would ever take responsibility, even if Ilya told him to. “He is old fashioned. I am not.”

The smile Harris turns on him is blinding. Mostly relieved, but there is something else there, too. “Oh thank God,” he murmurs, then, “Sorry.”

“No, no, I get it.” The elevator dings cheerfully as if to congratulate itself on doing its job in the slowest time ever. “No sorries necessary.”

And then, maybe because he is a coward, or because he does not want to discuss the ticking time bomb that is Russia learning his own blue, pink, and purple striped secret, he changes the subject.

“So, how long have you worked for Centaurs? You said you were given pin for promotion last week…” he trails off, leaving room for Harris.

Ilya learns that Harris spent all of last year as an intern, that he's four years younger and a Libra, that he is very serious about apples and that Ilya will be required to form an opinion about apple varietals, which sounds like a fancy way to say varieties but Harris has not stopped talking long enough for Ilya to clarify, by October at the latest.

He also has all the gossip: it turns out that Harris the only media-slash-personnel relations person available right now because everyone else is covering the team's development camp, which started yesterday. Nobody has mentioned this to him. He chatters the entire way to the equipment guy, at which point they bestow upon Ilya the ugliest uniform in all of history, but Ilya’s mind is already working. He knows that he has only officially been on the team for an hour and that the captaincy that Sergei had insisted on like Monty didn't already trade their last one away at the deadline for a bag of pucks—this is what Shane had said, verbatim, after his mother had gotten a glass of sangria in him at family dinner two nights ago and fuck, Ilya loves when Shane is bitchy and hypercritical, especially when he's buzzed and flushed from the alcohol—was always going to be his.

The point is that Ilya doesn't need to wait for the C to be slapped onto his sweater for him to act like a fucking leader.

July 2, 2018
12:23pm

Casey Swain wouldn’t normally charge into Monty’s office, but this is an emergency.

She flings herself out of the office she shares with the other two Centaurs AGMs, Rick and Mike, who focus more on performance and player relations respectively. She’s got a little bit of everything, which Monty classifies as scouting and future-proofing because mediocrity got old fifteen years ago, back when the MWHL still existed and Hollander had yet to leave home for junior, and she’s not afraid to tell him so, unlike the other two wet blankets who were basically glorified cheerleaders.

“You’re a little early,” Monty says, in lieu of greeting. He’s calm, practically grandfatherly, if only a little bit too young for that sort of thing. He’s got patience in spades, which is something he insists she needs to learn as his protege—not because he’s a dick, but because hockey is a gentleman’s club and she’s got to manipulate her way to the top if she wants to be the first female general manager, full stop. “Camp doesn’t officially start until twelve-thirty.”

“Obviously, Monty,” she says, a little annoyed. “Have you checked our socials this morning?”

He blinks up at her expectantly. “No,” he drawls. “We don’t have any posts going out.”

“Yeah, it wasn’t us. I’d have had Harris’ ass on a platter,” she huffs. “Our newest addition has apparently decided to address the masses on his instagram.”

She holds out her phone, because instagram doesn’t fucking work on her ipad properly. “Look at this shit.”

Monty takes the phone from her hands and taps the play button. “Hello Centaurs Nation,” the bright and bubbly voice of Ilya Rozanov spills out from the phone speaker, “I am Ilya Rozanov and I am very excited to join team for upcoming season!” He pauses, wielding his trademark wide, slightly lopsided grin like a media trained superweapon. Monty blinks at the screen like he cannot believe what he is seeing. Rozanov continues. “Today is only my second day on team, but day three of Centaurs Development Camp. As you know, Ottawa got second overall pick. Is very exciting, I have been watching all the Luca Haas clips. He will be something special, I know this.” There's a quiet jingle of car keys. He’d shot the video with his phone propped against the steering wheel of what appeared to be a Land Rover, and the video comes to a close as he turns over the ignition. “Anyway, I have places to be, so I will be seeing you all very soon. Bye-bye!” He offers a jaunty salute, before his face smooths out and he focuses on finding the little button to end the recording.

“How long ago did he post this?” Monty asks.

“An hour, maybe? It’s got ten thousand likes.”

Nodding, Monty pulls out his own phone and dials Harris. “Good,” he says, following some unintelligible sounds on the other end Casey’s not quite close enough to discern, “You’re aware. Would you send Roz the media guidelines, please? I know he probably won’t follow them, but—” Monty pauses, listening to Harris. “What do you mean?” He listens some more, and sighs. “Yes, okay. We were about to head over anyway.”

“What now,” she demands, already exasperated.

Monty just shakes his head, a little rueful. Despite the fact that they get on like a barn on fire—his words, not hers—they’re polar opposites. He’s easygoing and genial and she’s—

Well, she’s always been a bit of an ice queen, which is really just the way fragile men describe a woman who won’t give them ammunition to call her dramatic since the day has passed when they can get away with calling her a bitch. She’s big on analytics and knows her place. She dresses well, always in full makeup and heels, but that’s armor. It distracts people from realizing that she’s more than just a diversity hire. She played pro until she couldn’t for maybe ten percent of what little Haas is going to be paid to play in the Swiss League next season before he’s called up, because the kid needs to go back in to the oven before they introduce him to this shit show, then coached the Calgary Stampede—Calgary’s long forgotten women's pro team, even though it was four years ago, not forty—until ownership couldn’t keep the lights on.

“Apparently, Rozanov showed up to the rink after posting that video,” Monty tells her. “He said he wants to skate with the kids at camp, run some drills with them, get to know the prospects. One of the interns nearly fainted,” Casey shudders. She can only imagine the reports that the community growth team would need to file. “Thankfully he caught her,” Monty finishes, chuckling, which has Casey exhaling in relief because thank Christ, “And fed her timbits because he was worried about her blood sugar. Apparently he showed up with Timmys for the interns and his gear bag.”

What. The fuck, Casey thinks to herself, rather unhelpfully.

Aloud, she says, “Holy shit. He hasn’t even been on the team for twenty-four hours.”

“No,” Monty agrees, “He hasn’t. Harris says our socials have experienced ‘extreme growth,’ which he did not quantify, because frankly I don’t give a shit, but that he’ll send you a report if you’re interested.”

“He’s literally just trying to get people to support his bid for a new photography setup,” she says, rolling her eyes because ownership’s willing to spend now that Rozanov’s here, but not on anything that isn’t directly benefiting the players, “But I’ll look at it anyways.”

August 23, 2018
9:05am

Jaeson Kim has worked at the Centaurplex’s team shop for three years, since he’d gotten out of high school. He’s not really the university type, though he’s been picking his way through courses in biz admin for the last six semesters, trying not to bite off more than he can chew. He makes barely enough to pay his way for the two bedroom shoebox he rents with his older sister Mei and her girlfriend, Darla and the beer league he plays in on Monday nights from 11pm-2am when ice time is the closest it ever gets to affordable. The student loan debt will be a problem eventually, but that’s future-Jae’s problem.

He’d actually really like to be an equipment manager for the Centaurs someday, which, hypothetically, would pay the bills. He’s still on step one of the process, which is working at the team shop, occasionally running the jersey press and letting Old Man Darryl teach him how to run industrial sewing machine while grumbling, Pay some fucking attention, Jae, what the fuck is that backstitch? You’re going to give it to the customer like that? Do it again, the entire time, even though he’s only really allowed to practice on the jerseys that already have defects unless they have a rush order and Darryl’s hands are cramping up from the arthritis.

They’ve been warned in advance that there’s to be an event today, from eleven to five, so it’s all hands on deck. Jae technically has class this afternoon, but his professor is cool and told him not to sweat it since it’s an online course and he trusts Jae can read the syllabus. His professors generally tend to be understanding when he explains that he works full time. He’s pretty sure they’re also hoping he might be able to get them a discount or maybe some merch, which won’t be happening. Jae gets ten percent off anything that isn’t autographed, a jersey, or the cast-off gear that winds up on the rack in the far corner, near the registers.

And the event, which has every single person on staff present, is not actually going to be as crazy busy as the powers that be think it will be.

“Idiots,” says Amerie, one of the shop’s two assistant managers. She’s a short, with the palest skin Jae’s ever seen, which might have something to do with her long, bleached black hair that sometimes has red streaks underneath, excessive eyeliner, and her propensity to wear bondage pants and platform combat boots that make her come up to Jae’s shoulder instead of his nipple—they’d actually tested it once on a slow day, which was hilarious, but the other assistant manager, John, had said they were acting irresponsible. “Give us your old Ranney jersey, and we’ll sell you one for half off, but only if you turn in the most expensive one.”

“Yuuup,” Jae hums, “I’m sure there’ll be some season ticketholders who come in, those guys have no concept of money,” he’d once seen just how much season tickets cost, even for an absolutely abysmal team like the Centaurs and broke out in a cold sweat, because it was more than he’d paid for the ancient Kia Soul he’d spent years saving up for, “But calling this a jersey swap is generous. It sounds way more like highway robbery.”

There are signs all over, even playing on the big screen outside the arena, their mascot, which was a horse, which actually made no sense if you thought about it for too long, jumping up and down excitedly as if to entice people to read the message: August 23rd is Centaurs Jersey Swap Day! Trade in your old Ranney jerseys and get 50% off anything in the Centaurs’ store! Some very naive soul had even paid for them to come in early and set up the red and black stanchions and a handful of crowd barriers in the event that they somehow drew enough people to require them to wait outside.

“At least they finally paid to fix the other sewing machine,” Darryl calls from the table near the registers, where the jersey swapping will be taking place. “I guess we can thank Rozanov for that.”

“What do you mean?” Amerie asks.

“I mean,” Darryl clears his throat so his voice will carry to where they’re standing on the other side of the security shutters, clipping the velvet wrapped chains onto the last of the stanchions between the main doors to the arena and the shop itself, which is built onto the west side of the arena, “They wouldn’t be doing anything at all if they didn’t think they could get these poor schmucks to buy a Rozanov jersey.”

“True that,” Jae supposes, Ames nodding thoughtfully as she pushes one of the poles over so the striped velvet drapes the way it’s supposed to. She has the final three hung around her neck like a ridiculous fashion accessory, and Jae watches as she pulls one over her head. “I’ll take that,” he says. He’s finished his side a little quicker, so no sense in watching her finish.

“Thanks, Jae.”

“No problem, Ames,” he replies. She’s kind of his boss, and he likes her but it’s not—he doesn’t like her like that, okay, no matter what Mei and Darla say—she’s just the coolest, most authentic person he knows. He admires her. He’s pretty sure he’d do anything for her.

She holds out a length of velvet, and he reaches for it, pointedly avoiding her fingers. They both flinch back as a knock sounds on the window behind Jae. It’s probably some crazy fan, trying to beat the lines that won’t be happening. There’s always one or two who pull that shit.

He whirls around, looking for the fan in question. A startled grunt leaves Amerie, which isn’t terribly surprising, but she drops the chain. The ends clatter, the clamp hooks bouncing off the tiled floor, but the chain itself makes a muted crunch. Amerie’s a lot of things but she isn’t a klutz.

“Holy shit, Jae,” she says, in her raspy alto voice. “Is that-?”

At the window, his fist poised as if to knock again if they don’t answer, is a very large man with curly hair which is kind of kept back from his face ineffectively by sunglasses, which he’s lifted up so they can see his eyes. The fist unfurls and he waves, pointing toward the doors.

He’s wearing a Centaurs hoodie that’s not even available in the shop yet, the sport-weave one with the team’s name stylized across the front, half an eight visible on one shoulder and the C just above his heart.

“Yes,” Jae says, nodding stupidly. “Do you have the—”

She pulls the master keys from one of her massive pockets and shoves them into his hands. “If I fall and break my ankle in these fucking boots trying to get to the door—”

“Okay, okay, I got it,” he says, hustling round the rest of the half-finished stanchions to meet Ilya fucking Rozanov at the door. “Also,” he calls over his shoulder, “You wore those things at Warped Tour last month.”

He very pointedly does not reveal her greatest secret. Amerie Dodds is secretly a Rozanov fan. because she’s half Russian on her mother’s side, and her grandmother, who got her into hockey as a child, insists that he’s the second coming of Christ. It had come up in conversation in the weeks between his signing and Amerie going to Warped in Toronto later that month.

Rozanov—and yeah, that’s him, formerly broken nose, the handful of notable moles, and smile that Jae will not be admitting under pain of death is part of why he came out to Mei as pansexual in the eleventh grade—is practically bouncing as Jae unlocks the doors.

He waltzes in with a polite thank you and marches straight to Amerie, except he crouches down to grab the dropped length of velvet instead of acknowledging the very adorable meep that escapes from her without permission. “They go on either end of the pole-thingies, yes?”

“Um, yeah, but—”

“Okay,” He takes it and clips it, tugging the velvet chain along and clipping it onto the next stanchion, which he moves like it’s a piece of paper and not a metal pole with a twenty pound weight in the bottom of it. “I hear it is jersey swap day,” he says, thumb poking toward the signs outside. “I expected people to be waiting in line,” he admits, “But then I read sign.”

“Ah, yeah,” Ames manages. Jae relieves her of the final two cords, but Rozanov clicks his tongue against his teeth and wordlessly insists on taking one. “It’s kind of unfortunate.”

“Is very unfortunate. Are we broke or something? Did jerseys not come in?”

“No, we have plenty of jerseys,” Jae says, earning a very grateful look from Amerie, who’s failing at getting her blush under control on account of her very pale skin and has taken to hiding behind her hair like the girl from The Ring, “I think they just overestimated the value of what they’re offering.”

“Mm,” Roz fixes him with a thoughtful look. “Someone I know said exact same thing. Verbatim,” he adds. “I learned this word recently. Is useful if I can remember it.” He’s still smiling. “How much would you hate me if I maybe changed things up?”

“Oh, um,” Amerie bravely tucks her hair behind her heavily pierced ears and meets his gaze. Roz’s smile gentles a little like he finds her endearing, which Jae can relate to, but also get in line, “I think the suits would probably hate it—”

“Oh, probably. They are always telling me I am causing problems even before I have played a single game, but this team has been so fucking boring—” he pauses, “Oops, do not tell anyone, this is our little secret, yes?” They nod because what the hell else could they possibly say to the man who might actually save their pathetic little franchise and the smile comes back full force. “Team should be interesting. People should want to come to games and wear jerseys if they go to bars, whole thing.” The last word comes out without the h, which makes it sound like a bell ringing.

They let him into the store and Darryl hisses an oath in French, which is hilarious considering his hatred for all things Quebec, even if he’s Quebecois. Darryl’s table quickly becomes a makeshift war room. By the time the rest of the staff shows up at ten, he and Amerie have taped over the finer details of the signs so now they just say Centaurs Jersey Swap with Jae’s blocky handwriting underneath it announcing Trade in a Ranney for a Rozanov!* (*while supplies last) and Darryl’s put Rozanov to work hefting the backup sewing machine up to the front because Jae’s going to have to pull his weight unless he wants Darryl’s hands to fall off.

Rozanov demands that he and Amerie takes selfie with him, which is a lie, because after they smile for the picture he immediately taps the little slider to record a video. They’re blinking at his image on the screen as he says, “Hello Ottawa! I hear today is Jersey Swap day at arena. I came in to see what all the fuss is about but apparently all the signs are wrong.” He makes a very exaggerated pout, which Jae quickly copies, willing to play along for the bit. On Rozanov’s right side, Amerie barely manages to slap her hand over her face without laughing and falls out of frame for a second. Rozanov beams at her, which nearly sets Jae off.

The massive Russian man clears his throat and continues on. “Is one for one swap, not discount. You bring in Ranney—” he pauses to boo theatrically which Ames joins in on with gusto, apparently having gotten the memo, “Boo, Ranney, boo, I am way better than that guy,” Jae shakes his head, because this is possibly the craziest thing that’s ever happened in his entire life and he’s going to enjoy it, “And you will get Rozanov. Old man Darryl—” because apparently it’s only taken him forty five minutes to learn all of their life stories and nicknames (he’d started calling Amerie Ames earlier), “Has told me that my friend Jae here,” he throws an arm around Jae, who does not need to look at himself on Rozanov’s phone screen to know his eyes have just gone as wide as saucers, “Needs lots of practice sewing jerseys so he can finally retire. Please help Darryl retire and me fill up whole Centaursplex with Rozanov jerseys. Go Centaurs and see you in little bit, okay?”

He stops the video, doesn’t bother reviewing it, uploads it to his Instagram story before making an actual post. Jae’s mind is still reeling when Rozanov asks, “What is your guys’ instagram handles? I will tag you in post.”

December 7, 2018
11:03am

Wyatt Hayes is about to get on the ice at practice when a hand claps his shoulder. The hand clap isn't actually noticeable given the hand isn't covered in a glove or gear to give it weight, so it's actually when the hand slides down to his chest and there's force applied that he stops and looks over.

One of the Toronto Guardians’ media interns—Shiela, that's her name, he knows it because Kent always says it with a terrible Australian accent for some reason even though she's said at least a dozen times that she was born in Ireland—looks up at him, pulling her hand away. “I, um,” she smiles, but it's off.

There's not much that can be done about Kent and Barrett when they get going, but it's not like Coach Cooper has any choice but to play Wyatt after running Anders into the ground even if he did make a stink.

“If they're being stupid, I can say something,” he tells her, trying to sound reassuring. If he doesn't go into specifics, it's not like they'd be able to tell who it was that came forward anyway. He knows nobody wants to be the one labeled a narc or a tattle tail.

She shakes her head and swallows. “Thank you,” she murmurs, and she really does sound grateful, which sucks. The interns are supposed to have fun. They do in the minors. Wyatt had a handshake routine with all three of the Monarchs media-marketing interns from spending a conditioning stint with the team a couple years earlier, around the time he’d met Lisa. The interns have all moved on to big kid jobs but they still message from time to time.

“Actually,” she continues, evaporating his admittedly long-winded train of thought, “I was asked to keep you off the ice. I, um.” She looks kind of upset, actually. “I don’t know why they didn’t send someone from the coaching staff to pull you but—”

“Oh boy,” Wyatt mutters. “What is it this time?”

A couple of the guys skate by where they stand just before the gate, leaning against the boards on the other side of the glass. Kent’s among them. He makes a crude gesture as he passes, saying something like, “What’s she gonna do about it,” when one of the newer guys suggests maybe he shouldn’t.

Sheila glares over her shoulder at Kent, who makes another disgusting gesture and laughs with his cronies. God, fuck that guy, Wyatt thinks.

“I’m supposed to tell you to check your phone,” she tells him. “I’m not actually supposed to say why, but, um,” she looks up at him, and there are possibly tears in her eyes. “Congratulations on escaping this hellscape.”

Wyatt blinks down at her. He won’t pretend to be the smartest guy, but he’s pretty observant, even if he doesn’t necessarily seem like it. “Well shit,” he murmurs. “Thanks for everything, Sheila.”

“You’re welcome?” She answers questioningly, the way people do when they’re not sure they’ve actually done anything.

He high tails it back into the dressing room, waving the couple of stragglers who have yet to get on the ice to go on without him and grabs his phone from the top shelf of his stall before sitting down on the bench, helmet plunked down beside him. There’s only a single missed call from a 613 area code, as well as a voicemail. He goes to tap it, but his phone lights up with a 857 number.

There’s a greater than zero chance of it being a scam caller, someone wanting to know about his car’s extended warranty—he doesn’t have one and he isn’t interested—but Wyatt taps the little button to accept the call anyway.

“Hello?”

“Hi, this is Ilya Rozanov. Is this Wyatt?”

March 8th, 2019
5:19pm

David surveys the back and forth happening at his dining room table without so much as a sound. He can pretend he's distracted playing Candy Crush on his phone because that’s exactly what he's doing and Yuna isn't here to remind the boys that they're there.

Which she's not, because she's got bowling tonight. Thankfully she hasn't asked him to join since that time six years ago when he was solely responsible for their last place finish in the couples’ division. He hates bowling.

Also, he's possibly needed here.

“You should take him,” Shane is saying to Ilya, who is fixing him with what Shane says isn't actually a glare, Dad. He puts up a good front but he doesn't actually mean it, he just wants to argue until he can convince himself he's doing it for someone else's sake so he doesn't feel guilty about it. “Then you can participate in all the activities without the other dads saying weird things. It’ll be less awkward for everyone.”

David once thought that Shane was what the kids called asexual. He'd read a couple books about it back in 2016 when talking about Rose Landry made Shane look like he wanted to shrivel up and die a little and he'd never so much as expressed a passing interest in men as far as David could tell. He'd never told Yuna because she'd do something stupid like try to talk to him about it.

He can't say he's the best parent—see also: driving away like you've robbed a bank because you saw your son's rival kiss him within an inch of his life and grab his ass—but he loves Shane, no matter who he does or doesn't love. As a father, he's so very proud of the man Shane's become.

What he hadn't expected was just how much he'd also love Ilya Rozanov. It kind of crept up on him, and one day he'd been sitting there, eating pizza and drinking beer with the kid while Yuna was out shopping with her girlfriends and thought well shit, there's two of them now. It had been a quiet realization. He and Ilya had been watching football, which Ilya thought was pointlessly violent but said he was contractually obligated to root for the Patriots, and it had just kind of happened somewhere in the third corner, with the Pats at second and eight.

“Your dad will not want to spend weekend in Detroit.”

“It's Motor City,” David says, never lifting his eyes from the screen. Hockey is so predictable. They always do the same activities. There’ll be a car museum, a steakhouse, snifters of whiskey, guaranteed. However, unlike Shane, Ilya enjoys at least the first two and the kid’s a fish, so the whiskey will probably go over just as well.

“We just announced the Foundation,” Shane presses, because Ilya remains unconvinced. “All you'd have to say is that you thought it would be funny to steal your rival’s dad for the fathers’ trip. I'll pretend to be annoyed and everyone will think it's hysterical.”

“And this does not worry you?” He leans forward, looking between Shane and David.

Setting the phone face up on the table reveals an ad that needs to play before David can continue, but allows him a glance at Ilya's face. In profile, he can see that the kid's not sleeping well, just like Shane had said when he'd called at six thirty this morning, already on the road to Ottawa, wanting to talk to his dad at the only time there wasn't a chance of his mom somehow overhearing There's a tension in Ilya that's only grown over the last few months. He's pretty good at hiding it but it's always there if you look close enough. Eventually you realize it's always about someone else's happiness and never his own.

Thankfully David isn't the only person at this table who’s realized, nor is Ilya the only person at this table David's keeping secrets for.

“Guys prank each other all the time.” He's doing a really good job of making light of it, which is mostly proof of just how worried Shane is. “Also you showed me the itinerary and I know for a fact he's never been to the Gilmore Car Museum.”

“Pssh, whole trip is so American. The cars will be stupid.”

“My first car was a 1969 Ford Galaxie,” David offers, ignoring the defensiveness happening directly across from him. “I loved that old boat, and they were made in Ontario. Maybe they'll have one.”

Ilya's eyes narrow. He pretends to be an oaf, but the kid is intelligent. He's got good instincts, and he's probably figured out that they're tag teaming him. “What color?”

“Champagne gold.” Ilya leans in, because the kid loves the same gaudy colors David does. Shane had been beside himself at the color they'd painted the living room of Ilya's house in Kanata. “I'll have Yuna find some pictures. I sold it when we got married because she refused to have children with someone who drove a car without airbags.

Shane, he notes, nods along sagely, but Ilya blows a raspberry to indicate how stupid it is without speaking ill of Yuna. “It was an antique,” he argues.

“I tried that logic, Ilya, believe me. I tried to compromise for when she got pregnant but—”

“Nope,” Shane interrupts. “We are not talking about—”

“Oh. I get it now,” Ilya huffs. “You are such a prude, lyubimyy. Where do you think you came from?”

David can't help but laugh at the look of disgust on Shane’s face as he shutters and blurts, disgruntled, “Yeah, but that doesn't mean I want to think about the logistics, Ilya!”

It's several more hours and a takeout order from the Chinese food place that Shane can't resist, before Ilya forwards the itinerary email to him with a hastily typed note that says you really do not have to, which David scoffs at, replying I would like to enjoy classic cars and red meat with someone who can appreciate them the way I do.

He watches Ilya read his response from the kitchen doorway, clocks the way his face lights up as he reads it as if delighted.

“I am stealing your dad,” Ilya announces to Shane, who’s stretching on the floor in front of the television, trying to wrangle a tight right quad and hip. The season’s been wearing them down, albeit in different ways.

No theft necessary, David can't help but think. They'd always wanted to have another kid.

July 1, 2019
4:56pm

Ilya Rozanov ✅ @rozanov81
Suck it Montreal 😈😈😈
July 1, 2019 4:52pm

Gerard Toussaint stares at the message, which their director of marketing had linked to him with a single, unhelpful emoji that he doesn't know the name of. Grimace or something.

“Please tell me someone has heard from Hollander's camp,” he demands from the head table of the team’s war room.

This isn't the first time he's bellowed something of the sort today. It's the fifth or sixth, maybe seventh, he's refused to count. Counting would mean he's worried, would mean there's a problem, and there is simply no way. Despite his persistent attempts to gaslight himself, each demand to his team gets a little more desperate each time.

The advisors and assistant general managers had started out looking at him in surprise, many of them digging in on their phones, calling Hollander's friends locked up on contracts, and, at one point, someone asks if the club is willing to make a statement, just in case. That's the point where the surprise had yielded to fear, but Hollander is their guy.

Gerard tells the insiders around four pm that he's working with Hollander's camp and has no reason to expect a deal won't be done in the coming days. He saves face for Hollander, when he should be skewering him, letting the fandom roast him. He and Patrice, the team's most senior advisor, are convinced that it will give them leverage when Hollander and his agent comes out of the woodwork, though he's got to admit this is probably the worst tactic Farah Jalali has ever stooped to.

This last demand is met with a horrifying amount of dejection and pity. Ninety minutes ago he'd had them put feelers out to the handful of competitive teams that had enough cap space for poach Hollander, because Boston would absolutely steal their guy if they thought they could, and don't get Gerard started on those assholes in New Jersey. Still nothing.

Maybe Rozanov's the reason why Hollander hasn't been able to discuss with his agent. He'd been fine with the two of them sharing a foundation, he'd even suggested ownership throw some money at it in a show of good faith to go along with the handful of public relations staffers that had been told to cover the press conference they'd held last fall. The girls who’d gone had returned sympathetic to Rozanov's sob story, which Gerard had taken to mean that at least one of them had slept with him, but they’d focused on it for long enough that most of the rumblings about their captain being a pansy quickly got swept under the rug.

Everyone knew that Russians didn't take kindly to that woke bullshit, even if the supposed friendship between them had Yuna Hollander's brand of PR written all over it.

“Gerry.”

Gerard flinches at the nickname. Sure, Patrice calls him that from time to time, but only when he's trying to soften the blow.

Several of the AGMs leave their seats in favor of congregating around the massive television beneath the clock. It's a rolling one, portable like the whole war room setup, because this is actually the team's dressing room on loan for a higher purpose. Janitorial spent the better part of a week steaming it so that it didn't smell like sweat and rubber in preparation, but the stink is still there if you breathe deeply. Someone unmutes the feed.

“Breaking News,” the correspondent, Hank Lavoie, says. He sounds like he always does, like whatever he's about to say is game changing. “Shane Hollander was sighted leaving the Ottawa Centaurplex approximately five minutes ago. MLH head offices have not confirmed receipt of the contract, but sources close to the team are reporting it's ten by six, which just so happens to be identical to the term and AAV on the Rozanov contract.”

“Holy shit,” one of the PR girls yelps, jumping as if electrocuted. She whips out her phone and promptly winces at the notification. “Hollander just posted a statement,” she says. “‘I’d like to thank the Montreal Metros organization and its fans for nine incredible seasons. I will be forever grateful for the opportunity to win with you, to play for you every night, and to be your captain.’” She pauses for a moment, sniffling.

Several others are crying. Patrice, in particular, is dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief. Not Gerard. Gerard is seething.

“‘Today I made a decision to do what's best for me and my family by signing a six year deal with the Ottawa Centaurs. To the organization: thank you for this opportunity. To Centaurs Nation: See you in September. To my new captain: Don't get comfortable holding that points record. Best, Shane Hollander, #24.’”

Gerard slumps in his chair, scrubbing his hands over his face and looking up at the logo painted on the ceiling as if for guidance. None is forthcoming. He's got a very funny feeling he ought to start packing up his office.

July 1, 2019
5:52pm

When it's done, Shane returns Farah to the airport. She's pleased as punch by the proceedings: a payday for him is also one for her so they both win today. He endures her ribbing right up until the drop off area at departures—she insists she could have taken an Uber, but respects him trying to build anticipation, waggling her eyebrows the whole way. He insists that it isn't like that, he's just trying to be a good client, he's grateful she came in person, this isn't some weird sex thing (his cheeks go scarlet as he blurts this, it's so inappropriate, but Farah doesn't appear to be upset. She's too busy laughing her ass off at his disgruntlement).

Shane maybe reconsiders this when Ilya is waiting for him in the driveway when he pulls in. He leans against the ass end of the yellow Porsche he loved enough to drive from Boston to Ottawa when he moved a year ago, and his gaze follows Shane with weight and heat.

It's that smoulder-y gaze he has, the one that makes him look like he belongs on the scene of a photo shoot or in high fashion. The illusion gets broken as Shane parks the car in the driveway, behind the gate, and gets out, because when he gets closer he can see the puffiness beneath Ilya's eyes from crying, the slightest hint of pink on his cheeks from scrubbing at his eyes.

“Hi?”

Ilya's lips purse, as if he's trying to figure out what to say. “I called Hayden,” he says. “While I was waiting.”

Shane has to go to his trunk to pull out the duffel full of team equipment and clothes. “I bet he loved that.”

Hayden is probably going to call him ranting and raving about Ilya being an asshole, nevermind Hayden being the first person to full send his support of Shane's decision. He'd been sobbing as he'd said it, but Hayden admitted he'd do the same if it were him and Jackie. Shane will take the call and listen to him vent. They're still best friends, even if they don't play together. Shane misses him already, even if he's really fucking glad he made this decision.

“He said you already started packing up your place in Montreal.”

Shrugging mostly to himself as he slings the duffel over his shoulder, Shane leans to the right so Ilya can see him as he answers. “I did.”

Ilya's gaze narrows, which is less about something in his eyes changing and more about pressure and focus. He's always had gravity where Shane's concerned, and Shane doesn't want to resist his pull.

Closing the trunk and heading up the drive on foot, Shane feels the pressure increase until they're standing toe to toe.

“You had whole fucking plan without telling me.”

There are several things Ilya wasn't telling him, which Shane is very proud of himself for not saying, because that's not helpful. “You were lonely,” he says instead, because that's the be-all, end-all reason.

Ilya sniffs, and yup, the tears are back. “I'm going to get us fucking outed, Shane. You can't expect me to—” he throws his hands up, frustrated.

Shane drops the duffel and puts his hands on Ilya's shoulders. He's reminded of two summers ago, his dad bolting after catching them by the back door, of Ilya holding him and talking him down. The freakout is normal. Warranted. Shane gets to be there for Ilya now.

“It’s okay, Ilya.”

Ilya folds into his embrace—he always does, even if he's upset or they're fighting—and breathes wetly on his shoulder. “It will not be when I am lost in my head and grab your ass in supermarket, or something else stupid because I always get to have you and I forget,” trails off, losing steam around always get to have you, which only reinforces Shane's decision.

How long was Ilya going to let this kill him, he wonders. Because Shane is—look, of course he wants to be with Ilya all the time, Ilya is his person. The only one Shane doesn't get sick of or need a time out from, the one who just fits beside him in his little bubble. Shane just isn't as clingy, except when he is, but it's nothing compared to Ilya. Ilya holds on tight.

Ilya, Shane has come to realize, is really afraid people are going to leave him. The first time they fought, during Ilya's last year in Boston—it was about scheduling, Ilya wanting more time with him and blowing off all of his commitments and practice to get it—was over the phone. Ilya had told him fine, don't bother. I will see you next month in Montreal, and gone radio silent for days. Shane, not knowing better, had given him space, which was kind of what he'd asked for, but he'd caved on the night of the third day. Ilya had answered on the third ring, already sobbing, saying breathlessly, you will leave me, yes?

Shane is—he sighs, shifting Ilya as he does. “I love you,” he says, squeezing him tight. Tighter than is normal, but Ilya likes it like that, to know he'd have to fight to be released, that Shane doesn't want to let him go. “You’ll probably, like, grab my ass at the Gamechangers camps in a few weeks and someone will see. I mean,” he exhales. “The fact that I made a plan that didn't account for how much we like groping each other is on me. Hence the new plan.”

Ilya blinks through tears, eyes half lidded and focused on his clavicle. There's a little puddle on Shane's shirt that's going to be really fucking annoying once Ilya moves, but he'll deal with that later. “To be fair,” Ilya sniffs, “You made plan before we were boyfriends.”

Shane smiles, ducking his chin to peck Ilya on the forehead. This fucking guy. “True. I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I didn't want you to try and talk me out of it.”

He would have. Shane knows this. Ilya is the most selfless person Shane has ever met. He’d rather tear himself into pieces than allow someone to feel regret or disappointment. And, Shane knows, Ilya's much more susceptible to the Yuna Hollander guilt trip than he pretends to be. He will take it personally if Shane's mother is upset, like he is the reason Shane stopped doing her bidding, and by bidding he means playing his entire career in Montreal.

It's not as evil as all that, but Shane's had twenty-eight years of managing her expectations. He's far better equipped for it than Ilya, who still has nightmares about disappointing his dead father.

“You can tell everyone I did this so you officially can't win more cups than me,” he offers, thumbing away a tear on the side of Ilya's face that isn't pressed to his shirt.

He gets the reaction he wants after a beat, the words making Ilya jerk and shove up so they're face to face. “You are such an asshole,” he whines, sniffing again, but he can't muster the indignant tone or mock-angry expression.

A smile tugs at Shane's face. “Yeah. Think you can forgive me?”

There's nothing to forgive, the look on Ilya's face says, his eyes searching Shane's. “We are really doing this?”

“Yeah. We're really doing this, Ilya.” It might have taken a second to wrap his head around the enormity of the decision, but he's long since made his peace with it, coming around to the realization that there's nothing he's ever wanted more. “I know the summer’s going to be a little complicated—”

There's a spreadsheet of logistics, a property to rent or sell, sponsors to reassure, implications with the foundation to consider. The timing on this couldn't be worse. His mom had called him the day after he'd told her he was leaving to say And you're just going to leave and then hold a charity event in Montreal anyway? And Shane had shrugged and said Yeah, Mom, this is about the kids not the logo on my jersey. I know it might suck for me, but Hayden is still gonna help, and there are a bunch of guest coaches who play for other teams. She's probably going to corner them at the cottage at some point to make sure they have all their ducks in a row and tell Shane that he might have to cut the cottage time at the end of the summer short, which she's probably right about, but it's fine. Complicated, sure, but not in any way that really matters.

“You will move in with me,” Ilya tells him. Most people would ask, but Shane hadn't been asking when he uprooted his entire life.

“I mean, I didn't want to assu—huh?”

Ilya's massive hands slide down his hips, then around, under his ass. He lifts Shane up like it's easy, like he isn't just under two hundred pounds of muscle. He leaves the duffel on the ground, turns and backs up to the garage door so he can nudge the door handle, and marches them, shoes and all, to the bedroom.

July 6, 2019
12:26pm

A common chirp in the locker room is that Zane Boodram secretly wants to be head WAG. It's all in good fun, and it isn't like the team’s got much going on (maybe less true recently, but if they can't get a save they'll stay at the bottom of the standings no matter how many goals Roz scores. Coach really ought to give Hazy an actual shot, but Zane doesn’t make those calls). His girlfriend, Cassie, shares his enthusiasm for parties. They've been together since November and he is convinced she'll be head WAG by the time next season starts. She's already planning watch parties. Zane’s already told her she can use his apartment. He's probably a little crazy for thinking it but he's relatively certain he's going to marry her.

They’d decided to rent a cottage for Canada Day, which was mostly for family, which Cassie also wants, see above about long term commitment, Zane has fallen hard, but the weekend is for friends and teammates and getting absolutely toasted.

Around lunchtime, Roz comes around from the front of the cottage holding a cooler and greets them with a rowdy, “Hello assholes and Cassie who is a magnificent goddess!”

Beside him is Shane Hollander.

Several of Cassie's friends who came up earlier this morning are down by the water. They clock the new arrival and instantly perk up, toweling themselves off hastily so they can come say hello. Cassie mutters something about desperate whores, but she says it affectionately so he lets it play out.

Dykstra is the first to them, reliving Roz of the cooler. They shake hands, Roz giving him a brief clap on the shoulder and chirping him: “I see they didn't let you near the aux cord in front of the ladies.” He smiles widely and gestures at Evan for Hollander's benefit. “This is Evan Dykstra. He has even worse taste in music than you do.”

Evan started the day off 9 holes of golf and mimosas so he's all smiles and no hostility. Hollander shakes his hand with a quiet, “Shane. Nice to meet you.”

“Hey Rozy,” Zane says, reaching them before the girls do. They exchange a greeting that's half handshake, half hug, slapping each other on the back.

“Hello Bood,” he says. It's shaded by the back deck so he tucks his sunglasses into his collar. The off season looks good on him. He doesn't look as weary as he did back in March, trying to drag the team up the standings. Zane had been worried he was burning out, but here he is, looking just fine. “Shane, this is Bood. Bood, Shane.”

Hollander's grip is firm, but not in the macho, hyper masculinity way. He smiles, and in the distance, one of Cass’ friends swoon. He was Cosmopolitan’s sexiest MLH player somewhat recently, Zane supposes. They exchange the usual pleasantries people do when they don't know each other yet. Zane tries to break the ice by joking that he hopes he makes the cut for the super team he and Roz are assembling. Hollander assesses him with an appraising stare before saying, “As long as you keep moving your feet when we're down a couple goals,” which was something Zane had a tendency to do, because it was everybody did before Rozanov came to town and started acted like it was game seven every night, “I think you'll be fine.”

So the rumors are true, Zane realizes. Hollander is brutally honest, even when there aren't games for months.

“I, uh, wasn't sure you were gonna make it,” Bood comments to Roz, maybe slightly desperate to change the subject, gesturing to the cottage and the lake, off in the distance. When he'd invited the team, Roz had been non-committal. He usually was, which more often than not meant he wasn't going to come, so this was a nice surprise. Zane definitely hadn't expected him to bring someone.

“We're glad you did, though,” Cassie's friend Soph chimes in, between them. She looks him up and down. “Did you bring your suits?”

Roz looks at her. Zane realizes, maybe belatedly, that it's the first time either of them has looked over at the trio. His gaze stays on her face, which is wild because Cassie’s friends are smoking hot, smell like sunscreen, and are clad in tiny bikinis, and yet he hasn't taken her up on the blatant invitation to admire her cleavage. Even Cassie says Soph’s tits are a thing of beauty.

“Like, jacket and tie? Why would I?”

“She means your swim trunks, Rozy,” Evan calls from the other side of the deck. He drops Roz’s red cooler next to a lineup of Coleman and Yeti, “Want a beer?” He pops open Roz’s cooler like it’s a given and freezes. “What the fuck? It's like all ginger ale.”

“Not true,” Roz laughs. “Vodka is underneath.” He nudges Hollander, who'd been looking between Soph and Marissa, with his elbow, dislodging the other man's thousand yard stare. “Canada dry is for Shane.”

Hollander smiles at him. “I’m driving,” he says. “Not for a while, but—”

“You have to make playoffs to drink with Hollander,” Roz interjects. “Is special rule.”

The girls laugh in the way girls who want to be noticed do. Hollander flinches a little when they press around him, asking if he's got swim trunks on, if he wants to swim in the lake with them or play volleyball.

Cassie takes all of this in from the top step of the deck, surveying the yard like it's her domain, her dark hair tied back, a sheen of sweat on her brow. “I could go for a swim before Zane fires up the grill,” she says, shoving through them. Roz kisses her cheek, murmuring to Shane who smiles and thanks her for inviting them to crash her party.

“How is she the boss?” Zane whines, which has everyone laughing.

Twenty minutes later, Roz is running and jumping off the dock in swim trunks he'd brought along but left in his vehicle, flinging himself into the lake with a joyful scream, which promptly becomes a “Motherfucker, why is it so cold?” When he surfaces several feet away.

Hollander, sitting on the deck with his feet in the water while he applies sunscreen, throws his head back and laughs. “This lake is deep,” he explains.

Roz swims over and splashes him.

Maybe an hour later—maybe not, cottage time doesn't move the same—they pull themselves out of the water and Zane fires up the grill. It's not the fancy one at his house, but he's had chicken marinating since this morning so it'll be flavorful enough to pass muster. Hollander offers to help, but Zane waves him off. Cassie loads him up with a couple White Claws for her friends and sends him down the lawn.

In the yard, the girls are pestering Roz and Dkystra, trying to get them to play badminton or, when that fails, volleyball. Cassie joins him beside the grill on one of the coolers.

They watch as Soph and Marissa break off to swarm Hollander. The pair of them take an extra drink off his hands to offer to Roz, who holds up his solo cup to signal that he's good. They fall back into his orbit anyway, one on either side as Hollander hands out the last two to Dykstra and Caitlin.

“Roz told me he's seeing someone,” she tells Zane, the words kept between them and the sizzle of the grill, “But he thinks Cait might like Evan.”

He nearly fumbles the chicken thigh he's flipping. “What? When did he tell you that?”

Cassie’s eyebrows rise above her sunglasses, silently judging his near transgression. “When I refilled his vodka and asked him which of my hot girlfriends he wanted to sleep with,” she tells him matter of factly. She brushes his arm. “I thought Hollander was going to shoot lasers out his eyeballs. He looked so annoyed.”

He closes the grill to let the chicken do its thing and wraps an arm around her. They wince from the deck as the music changes to country. Roz boos loudly and Dykstra pouts but Caitlin comes to his defense, waving her phone at him to indicate she's the one who selected the music coming out of the portable speaker. Hollander perches on a camp chair by the net, watching the proceedings.

“You get aux control at my place all the time,” he eventually points out.

“Yes, because you are robot who works out to sound of your own breathing,” Roz argues.

“This robot lets you work out at his cottage instead of sending you into Ottawa for training,” Hollander chirps. “I’d remember that if I were you.”

“You are threatening me?” Roz points at himself. “I would survive without workout until camps start.”

“Okay, I'll kick your ass at camp then, Rozy.”

Some unspoken thing passes between them. Cassie's manicured fingernails press crescents into his forearm. “Huh.”

Zane looks down at her. “What's that supposed to mean?”

She turns in his arms, pecking his lips. “They're closer than I thought.”

Zane shrugs. He'd gotten the feeling they were close when Hollander's dad joined them for the fathers trip. The guy—Dave? David?—is super chill, and he seems to think the world of Ilya. It kind of reminds him of his childhood best friend, TJ, and the way his mom and dad always called him their bonus kid because Zane and Teej were attached at the hip from timbits to draft day.

“I think it makes sense that the two best hockey players in the world are friends, babe.” He presses a kiss to her temple and disengages, raiding Evan's cooler for an IPA. “They have the whole charity thing going on. Roz invited me to come out for the one in August, did I tell you?”

She swats his arm. It must have slipped his mind.

July 7, 2019
12:23am

Shane Hollander is passed out in the hammock just outside the ring of chairs by the campfire. Rozanov is drunk and hyperactive like Nick’s cousin Gia’s toddler, Stefan, checking on everyone, telling all the boys how much he loves them and that next year is their fucking year, he and Hollander will carry them all to the cup, he swears it.

He's belting “We Are The Champions” by Queen and has managed to get the rest of them to sing along when a shadow crosses his face and he abruptly stops.

Freddie Mercury and the others sing on—we’ll keep on fighting, til the end—but Roz looks like somebody died, his expression haunted. He slips out of the ring of chairs and coolers, drink abandoned, and stops beside the hammock, looking down.

“Don't prank him, Rozy,” Dillon calls, words thick from all the Fireball. There's a girl on his lap, one of Cassie's friends, and she's stolen his cup for herself. “He promised to help with my puck handling.”

From Nick's camp chair, he can only see a hand flopped limply over the fabric and the shifting shadowy firelight illuminating Roz’s face as he leans down and says, “Shane, I need you to get out of the hammock now, okay?”

Hollander shifts awake to the sound of an urgent question and a dozen drunks doing sound effects for their air guitar solos, drinks sloshing about. Roz steps back so he can stumble out of the hammock, a hand on his shoulder to steady him. Hollander gets herded up to the deck and inside, Roz on his heels. The back door to the thwacks close behind them but nobody else seems to notice.

The song changes and around him, everyone carries on with their sing along with “Bohemian Rhapsody.” ‘Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?’

Nick joins in for a bit, but when it's time to do the fandango he gestures with his long empty solo cup and heads up to the house. He's not quite as blitzed as some of the guys, has a wife at home and won't be taking one of the girls for a quick and dirty fuck by the dock like Dykstra is pretending he didn't just do. He's just here for the camaraderie, to hang with his bros and party before they do their own thing for the rest of the summer.

The cottage is slightly cooler than outside, air conditioned. His skin breaks out in goosebumps as he steps into the kitchen, catching the door behind him so it doesn't slap too loudly as it shuts. The light over the kitchen sink is on but the fridge light is brighter. Hollander appears to be looking for leftovers, though he pauses for a moment to set a bottle of water on the counter in front of Rozanov at the small kitchen table.

“Drink.”

Roz blinks up at him through his messy hair, frowning.

“Drink. I'm gonna heat up this mac and cheese.”

“Shane,” he warns.

Hollander turns to him, because he's stone cold sober and there's no way Nick's pleasantly drunk ass has been totally quiet, door-catching or otherwise.

“Bad trip,” Hollander says, matter of fact, popping the cap on Rozy's water. “One of the girls had edibles and I don't think they were meant to be drank with a handle of vodka.”

Roz looks up to him with a grateful, if guarded look and takes the water.

“That sucks. Anything I can do?”

“Shane is heating up mac and cheese,” Roz tells him. “He will make for you also.”

It's an order, so Nick sits at the table, his back to the drunkards partying behind the back window.

Distractedly, he realizes Roz doesn't ever call him Hollander. He'd gotten the introduction of Chewie, Hollander, Hollander, Chouinard, he is French Canadian so you can complain about me together, but after that it's been Shane, every time.

“I'm just heating it up. Pretty sure Cassie made it.”

He putters around the kitchen while they wait, scooping cold noodles with cheese and bacon and breadcrumbs into heaping mounds in matching bowls he uncovers in the cabinet. Roz slams his water and rests his chin in his hand, his eyes half lidded, gaze following Hollander around.

Hollander is rumpled, hair askew from the way he'd been laying, face creased with the imprint of the canvas. He looks oddly human, not like a superstar on a pedestal, which is kind of the way Nick has always thought of Ottawa's own Shane Hollander. Nick's not from there, his own hometown team is the Metros, which probably distorts his image further.

Hollander pulls the first steaming bowl out, stirs it and puts it back in. The microwave whorls back to life with a quiet thrum in the dim light of the kitchen.

The singing outside has become significantly cajoling, something about country roads that can only mean Dykstra has unplugged Roz’s phone from the aux cord.

The microphone beeps. Hollander pulls out the first bowl of mac, shoves a spoon in it, and puts the other in for two minutes all in one fluid series of motion.

“I should probably rescue your phone,” Hollander says, placing the bowl in front of Roz.

Cap bites his lip, appearing torn between tearing into the cheesy shells and letting Hollander walk away from him.

Nick looks between them, not understanding what the fuck is going on, but he's had a bad time on gummies before, been paranoid he was going to lose his contract and whatever else instead of experiencing the mellow oozy feeling that his friends had used to convince him to take a couple. “I got it, Roz,” he says, shoving up from his seat. “Back in a flash.”

He earns himself a quiet thank you from Hollander, which is still weird because it's Shane fucking Hollander so he waves it off and lumbers outside. He thinks he hears Roz say something behind him as he goes, but he doesn't quite catch it.

Lumbering down to the fire, Nick spares a glance for Dykstra, who’s making out with Cassie's friend Cait like a fucking teenager. Bood and Cassie lead the charge in heckling them, though it doesn't last long.

“Where'd you go?” Zane looks fucked, eyes glassy, his dark eyes a little lighter than usual with his pupils reduced to pin points.

“I'm too old to hang with you kids,” he jokes, locating Roz’s phone. The screen is busted, the cracks noticeable in the firelight. “Hollander’s babysitting Roz, I guess the edibles didn't agree with him.”

“What edibles?” Cass is a little wobbly, Zane steadying her with an arm around her shoulder. Nick bet Tanner that he's gonna buy her a ring before the end of summer. “We had some for girls night but I thought we finished them with the wine yesterday.” She looks around the group accusingly. “Which one of you assholes is holding out on me?”

Nobody comes forward, and Nick blinks, a little stupidly, hearing Hollander’s voice in his head. One of the girls, he'd said. The girls had come up a day early to do whatever girls did on vacation. Same as the guys, probably, just with less golfing. Or maybe the same amount. Nick doesn't discriminate.

“Maybe he brought his own,” he lies.

“Well fuck him for not sharing,” Cassie retorts, but she doesn't mean it. She's just drunk and shit talking.

“I'll let him know,” Nick answers, saluting them as he turns to jog back up the lawn. He pointedly leaves out the bit about food, because he's got the weirdest suspicion that Roz doesn't really want an audience.

In his hand, the phone lights up. Whatever the text message is, it and the contact are in Russian, whatever those letters are called. He clicks it off, because he knows better than to snoop, but he can't exactly unsee the photo on the lock screen.

It's a picture of the fortress of solitude. Not the one that's in the Superman movies Nick saw as a kid, but the one on Lake Muskoka that had been highlighted on TV when Nick was on a road trip to Laval during one of his on again off again stints in the minors. He'd been the only guy on the Rochester Merchants able to understand the French language broadcast without subtitles.

It doesn't look quite like it did on TV, but its profile is memorable.

On Roz’s screen, the sun sets behind it, bruising the sky in orange and purples that rise from the tree line like an inferno. The house practically blends into the forest, the photo taken from far away, but the lights are on inside, just bright enough to illuminate calm waves rolling towards the shore from the lake. It's a pretty photo.

To Nick’s eyes, the shot makes it look more like a home, a place that people live, than a massive architectural spectacle. He files it away with the lie about the edibles in the back corner of his brain where he shelves his teammates’ secrets and bad decisions. Unless there's something to be said or done on the subject, whatever's going on here isn't any of his business.

He marches back inside. Hollander's just set down a bowl of goodness in front of Nick’s spot at the table, and his hand slides across Roz’s back, checking in on the man bowed low over his own bowl.

The confirmation comes in Russian and even Nick knows that da means yes, it's close enough to ja or ya like oui is to hi or hej, but Hollander squeezes his shoulder as he goes back to the fridge for his own water, saying something over his shoulder that Nick definitely does not understand.

“Your pronunciation is terrible,” Roz laughs, eyes crinkling. There's a smudge of cheddar on his lip. “It’s teb-yaa, not teb-yuh.” He shakes his head, amused. “I do not know why I thought you'd be good at Russian.”

The easygoing look on Hollander's face fades a smidge when he realizes they have an audience. “Yeah yeah,” he chides, caution in his tone. “Roz says I need to learn Russian if I want to be an alternate,” he explains, and it's very clear this is entirely bullshit, but Roz's eyes light up and Nick has a feeling he's going to hold Hollander to it.

August 31, 2019
9:13am

The man who drops into the seat across from Farah is built. Bulking then, she supposes idly, still scanning the menu. He's late. Judging by the splotch of pink-purple that she can see thanks to the subtle sheerness of his tacky, offensively striped blouse—god, she'd need to get him a stylist, too—her other client is likely responsible.

She tucks away the phrase bitey little twerp for later, when Shane inevitably gives in to this one's madness and she has to remind him that she's his agent, not a fucking miracle worker. And frankly: what would Yuna say if she knew her precious baby boy is a sexual deviant? Farah's willing to bet that if Rozanov turned around she'd see claw marks.

Good for them, but she bills by the half hour for not-yet-clients, and this one's going to be charged extra.

“About time you got here,” she says, rising to offer him a handshake.

Rozanov smiles, boyish and apologetic, without any trace of his put-upon persona. Shane must have warned him not to pull the cocky asshole card with her. Maybe the biting had been part of a pep talk. Actually, knowing Shane, it was incentive.

He’s a good kid, but he's also batshit crazy, which is why Farah likes him so much.

“Sorry. Lost track of time,” he tells her, scratching the back of his head with the hand not clasping hers. He's mindful of his strength, but doesn't hold her hand like it's a limp noodle, either. That'll earn him brownie points. “Ilya Rozanov,” he says.

She gets the feeling that unlike his partner, this one doesn't need her to follow a script. “Farah Jalali. Care to sit since we both already know who we are?” Also, he's late. Formalities are cancelled.

“Please.” He slides into the seat across from her and proves that he can follow instructions. “Call me Ilya.”

While he's always been Rozanov in her head, when Shane came to her with his out of nowhere plan to sell himself off to his hometown, it had been Ilya this and Ilya that. She'd thought him crazy at first, assumed it was a quarter life crisis, or maybe some crazy delayed self-exploration phase.

It wasn't like Shane was the first client on her roster to sleep with a man. She has a very specific NDA for that sort of thing and had nearly offered it to him but then he'd said the words Before Rookie Season and it's only ever been him and he'd looked at her with his chin jutted out and ready to fight her on it and, well.

She was a sucker for Shane. He was her little asshole, and she was low-key pissed he'd kept massive, potentially career destroying secrets from her, but honestly? She was glad.

Most guys fucked up by knocking up women that weren't their wives or getting a little too attached to designer drugs. All Shane had done was fall in love with Ilya Rozanov, who pretended to be a playboy, was—and she had actual video evidence of this, she'd bribed the Centaurs' social media manager with a new photography setup to replace that hideous wispy white bullshit that did nothing for anyone's complexion—a certified loverboy.

So: Ilya it was.

“Okay, Ilya.”

He waves over a server and gestures for him to take Farah's order first. The kid clearly recognizes him, and Ilya winks when he stutters, not in a way that's assholish, but more like they're three people in on a secret. She orders a flat white, he orders a cappuccino with a pump of lavender and vanilla.

When the kid trips over himself to get their order to the barista and allow them time to decide on the food portion of their order, she gets down to business.

“Have you fired your representation yet?”

He nods, but doesn't elaborate, eyes scanning the menu. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters distractedly, tsking. “Is everything here teeny tiny? I never should have let Shane choose the restaurant.”

She blinks up at him over the bougie, soft touch cardstock. He meets her gaze.

“Ah, sorry. I do not mean to complain.”

There is something about the way he says it, like he's expecting her to think less of him for it. It gives her a lot to go on, starts forming the picture in her head that answers the question Who the hell is Ilya Rozanov and what can I do for him?

“To be fair,” she says, “That's on you for taking the recommendation of a man who eats like a bird.”

His expression freezes, then dissolves into laughter, bright and loud and unmodulated.

“I like you very much, Farah Jalali,” he decides, still not quite over his giggle fit. “What do you recommend?”

Normally Farah does not recommend that they flag down the server, ask for their drinks to go, and walk to the hole in the wall diner near her condo for real food. Today, she does.

Rozanov's eyes light up like he's just promised her a fifty million dollar Adidas deal.

Thirty minutes later she's staring down her usual biscuit benny from Tía Dolores’ Cafe while Dolores’ niece and second generation owner, Tía Beatriz, pinches Ilya's cheek, saying what a strapping young man he is in heavily accented English. “He's much broader than your man, mija,” she says, patting his cheek. “Rohit should worry about you running away with a younger man.”

“Eh,” Rohit—Farah’s husband—will cackle when she recounts this to him later and wish Rozanov luck. She doesn't say this, but the way Ilya’s eyes twinkle suggest maybe he knows this too. “All the hot ones are taken, Tía. It's tragic.”

Tía Beatriz’s face, which is weathered with age and wrinkled laugh lines, lights up. “You must bring them to me,” she says. The lack of gender in the pronoun makes Ilya pause, but the old woman carries on. Farah doesn't tell Ilya this, but she's convinced Tía Beatriz is a fucking psychic. She'd known when Rohit was going to propose, and that man had gone from the ring store to one knee in less than an hour. “Next time, yes?”

He looks like a deer in headlights, afraid to disappoint. The last hour has really changed her opinion of this little shit. He's a lot more intelligent than he pretends to be, and he's nice to little old ladies and service workers in a way that has nothing to do with maintaining his image. He's still got a rogue streak of cocksure asshole, but outside of his on-ice performance, it's a front.

Worst of all, she gets why Shane loves him. He's stupidly easy to love.

“Maybe,” he says.

“Definitely,” she counters, resting her hand on his shoulder and squeezing with what Farah knows is a deceptively strong grip. “You tell them Tía Beatriz will make whatever bird food they want.” She winks at him, her dark eyes twinkling with mirth like she sees right through him.

She probably does.

Behind her, someone calls out something in Spanish. Farah catches about ninety percent of it—Are you going to stand around and talk all day, grandma? We've got eight people waiting—and Tía Beatriz tuts a quiet Dios mío under her breath.

“I must get back to the kitchen,” she tells them. “You two enjoy.” She takes a step back, waving off their thanks. Over her shoulder she says, “Sign with Farah, mijo. She will steer you right.”

He nods, even though she can't see him. “You did not tell her this was business meeting,” he says. “She is like—” he makes a hand gesture as if divining something from a crystal ball.

Farah snorts. “Yeah. She told us Rohit’s sister Sweta was pregnant just by looking at her. She didn't even know yet.” She pauses, looking longingly at her meal. “Eat first, talk after?”

“Please,” Ilya tells her.

The rest of it goes the way it usually does. She locks Ilya Rozanov down, because she's a rockstar unicorn goddess of a sports agent and also Shane practically gift wrapped the deal for him. She still bills him by the half hour, she's a hot commodity, thank you very much, but he picks up the breakfast tab and insists upon sending Tía Beatriz a jersey, even though the woman couldn't care less about hockey.

October 16, 2019
11:23pm

When Roz signed with Ottawa, it had never been his intent to turn the club into a knock off of the Boston Raiders. He’d eluded to this on his way out the door. The Raider’s team culture is desirable, obviously, but it's simply impossible to replicate outside of Boston because he is just one man and Boston is a brotherhood. The guys there are selected at the draft, in trades and signings because they fit a specific set of parameters.

At least, that's how Cliff Marlow looks at it.

So when they play against each other for the first time this season, he always drags a couple of the guys who aren't still butthurt about Roz leaving to their team’s usual spot after the game. Monks—the bar in question—has always been rowdy on game nights, especially when the boys come in after. Cliff had come out last year after a blowout, but there had been asses in seats for the first time in who knew how many seasons. Now that the Centaurs've got Hollander and a decent tendie, it’s a bit like an actual fucking game.

Boston still wins, though. No offense, but it sucks to suck, don’t it, Rozy?

Still, the Centaurs are three and three to start the season, and they flock to Monks post game. It's a middling record, nothing to celebrate, if you ask Cliff, but the Centaurs seem to think differently.

Roz joins him, Connors, and Sanity for a drink up at the bar while the rest of the Centaurs spread out at booths and tables. Most of the Raiders haven't bothered to show, they're either in the camp of guys who still hate Roz for leaving them or they simply don't give a fuck and are off to find a spot that's less sports bar and more club. Cliff doesn't blame them for wanting to go off and sow their wild oats, but he's been feeling a bit too old to go clubbing for a couple seasons now. He’d like to think it’s growth but as his right knee likes to remind him, he's not getting any younger. He stretches it out now, beneath the bar, and accepts that a couple drinks with the boys is way more his speed.

They spend these nights chirping each other, simultaneously reminiscing and shooting the shit. It's a slow news day. The Hollander news is old by now. The boys still have a group chat with their former captain so it's already been heavily gossipped about, Roz saying things like I seduced him back to his hometown and I am so good at hockey they will forget he even exists, he is probably jealous. It's frankly unfair that the two best players of a generation play together—especially that they play on the same line on the power play—but Roz looks like he's having the time of his life, so Cliff can forgive it in the aftermath.

Sure, a little part of Cliff is pissed that he and Roz aren't growing old together in the American northeast but he can admit to himself (and no one else) that Roz looks happier now. Maybe it's just the distance from the situation. He'd looked miserable last year, especially toward the end of it.

Anyway, Connors is giving Sanity shit about his giveaway in the second when Hollander waltzes in.

Cliff doesn't know much about Hollander other than the fact that he's A: talented as fuck and B: Cliff nearly ended his career a couple seasons ago. Obviously the league talks and people say he's like a robot, but as far as Cliff can see he's just a dude. A very pretty dude, not that Cliff knows much about that, but if he tilts his head and squints he can understand why other guys call him a pretty boy, even if they're trying to insult him.

Roz catches Cliff people watching and follows his gaze to the door. He smirks. “Here we go,” he says, finishing his beer.

Ottawa's prodigal son doesn't have to wait at the bar. He approaches, and the bartender plops a Canada Dry onto the bar mat, using the end of their bottle opener to crack the tab for him. They pop a straw into it, through the end of the tab to keep it in place, and wave Hollander off.

Hollander smiles, leans in and says something, and the bartender’s demeanor changes. They nod and go to the register.

Cliff gets momentarily distracted by whatever bitchy thing Sainty says about drinking ginger ale at the bar, something about being a wet blanket, which Roz glares at him for, but then he tracks the bartender walking over a stack of receipts.

After a moment of squinting down at them, then signing, Hollander puts his card on the tray, the bartender comes back, and the process repeats.

“Okay, but seriously, what's he doing?” Connors’ head is tilted adorably. The guy’s literally a puppy dog. He's a good dude, even if he doesn't quite fill the Roz sized hole in Cliff’s heart.

Grinning, Roz pushes back from the bar. “This has been fun, boys.” He slings an arm around Cliff, smacking a wet kiss to his cheek before hugging Connors and St Simon. “I love you.”

It's a familiar refrain and they return his love with their own. It only hurts a little, which means time is doing its job.

Connors and Sainty make their passing comments about being traded in for the more premium model, still a little bitter. Cliff allows it, because he gets it but they don't carry on, turning their attention to the West Coast game on Sportscenter. Vancouver and Colorado are duking it out and, unlike the Boston Ottawa game, their goaltenders actually showed up.

Down the bar, Hollander is still signing receipts. Roz has arrived to pester him, Cliff, who has years of clubbing with Roz under his belt and can read his lips sees him say, “Did you get that hip looked at?”

Hollander doesn't look up as he nods, tongue peeking out from between his lips.

“You should have brought your glasses,” Roz teases, and Hollander looks up with a squinty glare before shoving at him.

Cliff frowns as Hollander says, “You get the tab then, asshole,” and has to look away from them to have the mental come to Jesus meeting with himself over whether he's concussed, hallucinating, or if Roz is really over there playing house with Hollander.

He knows they're friends despite spending years naming Hollander public enemy number one. Cliff had always assumed it was mutual respect or some shit. He'd assumed they'd started the charity as some kind of Hollander initiated PR venture: one great recognizing another.

But no, that's not what this is. Cliff's known Roz since they were both nineteen, in that weird interim space when people who are born in different years share an age. He knows when Roz is being friendly, flirty, or if he isn't actually interested. This is none of those things.

He looks over again, watching Roz loom over Canada's gift to their sport, poking at something. Watches as Hollander rolls his eyes and says, “I tip cash, you idiot, card charges have tax implications.” He waves the bartender back over and it looks like he asks how many people are working tonight, then he pulls out his wallet—a thick wallet, Cliff notes—and begins throwing down enough money that it makes the kid’s eyes widen comically.

“Big spender,” Rozy purrs, and that's the first indication of flirtation.

Hollander mutters a quiet, “Fuck off,” face flushed a pretty pink beneath all those freckles. Ilya grins and saunters off.

Huh, Cliff thinks. He's never been too macho to deny when a dude is good looking. He doesn't advertise this, obviously, and he isn't interested in men, but he's not a prude, either.

A nudge from Sainty has him swiveling in his barstool.

“The fuck’s he doing?” Conners mutters, pointing with his thumb between himself and St Simon with a bemused expression.

They all turn around to see Roz hop up on the stage where a band would play on the weekend. It's a Wednesday, so nothing's doing.

Roz waltzes to center stage. It's more like a riser, this is still a dive bar after all, but he’s always been a little larger than life, even when he was a snot-nosed nineteen year old who barely knew English.

“Listen up assholes,” he hollers, familiar and unforgettable. Everybody perks up. That's just what happens when Roz addresses you.

If Cliff closes his eyes, he'd probably be able to convince himself they're at O’Malley's and not bumfuck Ontario.

“If you lost to the Boston fucking Raiders tonight—” the Centaurs erupt into boos. Cliff spares a glance for Hollander, who watches the whole thing while leaning against the bar. He looks cozy in his hoodie, which appears to be a size too large, arms crossed over his chest. His face is impassive as Roz speaks over the jeering Centaurs, “You are expected to be on ice tomorrow at nine am.”

Someone complains, “But Cap, tomorrow's skate is optional.”

A truly devilish smile crosses Roz’s face. They know that face. All three of them shudder. “Idiot,” Sainty huffs.

“We learned that one the hard way,” Connors agrees.

“Optional means optional in March, not October,” Roz barks, a hint of meanness to him, the kind he used to employ when the Raiders were playing like shit. It's nothing compared to the Unknown Calamity of Fall 2016 though, so these fools ought to count their blessings.

“Hollander has been kind enough to close your tabs for you. Everyone say thank you Hollander.” The boys turn to find him, chorusing their begrudging thanks. Hollander waves, and Rozy continues. “If you are smart, you go home, you get eight hours, you arrive to practice on time. If not,” he trails off and shrugs before concluding ominously, “It was nice knowing you.”

He hops off the stage and makes a whole production out of shoving his fingers in his ear and yelling stupidly about he cannot hear any of their complaining, wah wah, sucks to suck, maybe they should try winning. He swings by them as he heads toward the front, offering fist bumps.

“You packing it in too?” Connors asks.

Rozy smiles, bright, almost blinding. “Hollander’s my ride,” he sniffs, “So yes.”

“Hollander showed up to pay you guys’ tabs and take your dumbass home?” Sainty shakes his head. “He tuck you into bed, too?”

A shadow crosses Roz’s eyes, sharp and frozen cold. Sainty misses it, too busy laughing at his own joke.

Cliff does not.

“Only if he's good,” Hollander says, materializing at Roz’s side.

Roz jumps, but there's already the beginnings of a smile on his face like he can't quite believe his luck. “Fuck off with that,” he recovers, swatting at Hollander, who evades him easily.

“I mean, you can stay if you want,” Hollander tells him, steady-like. It's weird. Hollander has always been aloof, and yet here he is, practically busting out the warm ’n fuzzies.

“Looks like you got permission,” Sainty coos, the fucking idiot.

“Mm, yes, but there is the other part,” Roz smirks to hide the fact that his smile has too many teeth to be polite. He's a cunning bastard like that. “Hollander is sooo nice paying for drinks, yes?” He leans in, beer stink on his breath. “They will not be thinking this when he bag skates them into the ground tomorrow.” The grin goes a little feral. “He is in charge of practice. I want to give them a little taste of what he put me through in summer training.”

“You love it,” Hollander quips. “I've kept every trainer and nutritionist off your ass since camp.”

“Yes, because you are tyrant who does not let me eat McDonald's more than once a week and doesn’t know how to recover without putting the word active in front of it,” he pouts. As if remembering they have an audience he adds, “I will go home now. Goodbye, assholes. You will not be so lucky next time.” He sounds gleeful, like he knows something they don’t, like Ottawa’s going to suddenly pull a championship pedigree out of their ass despite having a blueline that’s made up of has-beens with glass knees and kids who belong in the JHL.

Hollander waves and then they're gone. There's no long goodbye, no song and dance, no one last call for alcohol.

“What the fuck?” Connors hisses as they watch as a couple of Centaurs walk up to the bar, testing fate. It's their funeral, Cliff thinks. He’s never been on a team with Hollander but he knows some guys who have. “Is he okay? McDonalds is like one third of his diet.”

“He looked really good, actually,” Sainty muses. “Better than last year. I know I gave him shit but—”

“Nah, I'm with you, Vicky,” Cliff says, cutting the stupid kids in line by waving a twenty at a passing bartender. Unlike these little assholes he only has travel awaiting him in the morning. “I think he's right where he wants to be.”

Cliff kinda thinks he might be on to something with that, even if he isn't entirely certain what that something is.