Chapter Text
February 2017, Tampa Bay
Rose Landry had been dating Shane Hollander for four weeks, which was long enough to know three things about him.
He kept almonds in every bag he owned. He considered arriving at the airport ninety minutes before a domestic flight a reckless act of self-sabotage. And when he kissed her, he did it with focused politeness, like the kiss might be inspected for damage afterwards.
Rose found the first two charming. The third had begun to make her wonder. She liked Shane. He was funny when he relaxed, kind without making a production out of it, and almost pathologically reliable. He had remembered her coffee order after hearing it once. He had also texted her a photograph of the weather in Tampa three days before their flight, as though Florida had personally submitted the forecast for his approval.
It was going to be a pleasant weekend. Rose was sure of that right up until Ilya Rozanov appeared at baggage claim and began chirping Shane before he had fully cleared the escalator.
“Hollander,” Ilya called. “Why do you dress like substitute teacher on vacation?”
Shane had been watching the luggage carousel with the grim concentration of a bomb technician. He turned toward the voice, and his entire face changed.
Shane looked instantly annoyed.
He also looked more awake than he had at any point since Montreal.
“Hey, Rozanov,” Shane said. “Nice jacket. Did the airport lose the motorcycle?”
Ilya glanced down at the black leather jacket he had chosen for seventy-five-degree weather. “You like it.”
“I think you’re sweating through it,” Shane said. “The leather jacket was an ambitious choice for Tampa.”
Ilya glanced down as though the problem might belong to the jacket. “I do not sweat. This is glow, which some people have naturally and you would not understand.”
The man beside him laughed. Rose recognized Cliff Marleau from Boston’s roster, though he looked less enormous without shoulder pads. Cliff had been Ilya’s closest friend in Boston for years, which was evident in the ease with which he let Ilya make a public nuisance of himself and the speed with which he stepped in when the nuisance threatened to become an incident. He gave Rose a brief nod, not apologetic so much as informational: yes, this was happening, and no, he was not surprised.
Shane rested one hand lightly against Rose’s back. “Are you here for a reason, or did Boston send you just to make the carousel less efficient?”
“I am waiting for bag,” Ilya said. “This is what people do at baggage claim, Hollander. Maybe movie star has people for this and you forget.”
That was the first time he looked at Rose.
It lasted perhaps a second. His gaze moved from her face to Shane’s hand at her back, then back to Shane, who had not noticed because Shane was busy preparing a response to the chirp.
Rose smiled. “Hi. I’m Rose.”
“Yes,” Ilya said.
Cliff closed his eyes.
Rose waited for the rest of the sentence. Ilya appeared to be finished.
Shane’s expression tightened. “Rose, this is Ilya Rozanov. He knows several English words, but he rarely manages to put them together in the right order.”
“I know enough,” Ilya said. “I know boyfriend, girlfriend, publicity stunt.”
Cliff opened his eyes again. “Roz.”
“What?” Ilya asked, looking honestly puzzled by the intervention. “I say I know words.”
Rose had dated actors, dancers, one lighting designer, and a man who had spent six months insisting he was straight while sleeping with his male understudy. She had seen jealousy performed with more skill, but rarely with this much vigour.
She offered Ilya her hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Ilya shook it because, underneath everything else, he had been trained by agents. “Yes.”
His attention immediately returned to Shane.
“You are captain this weekend. Who made this mistake? The league clearly does not know you.”
“The league made the mistake,” Shane replied. “They thought I could handle responsibility, which means they still know me better than you do.”
Ilya’s mouth twitched. “I know enough.”
Cliff cleared his throat as he looked away.
Rose looked at him and Cliff became very interested in the carousel.
Rose’s suitcase appeared first. Shane pulled it off with one hand, checked the bright green tag, and stepped aside. His own came around two bags later with an identical tag looped through the handle.
Ilya looked from one suitcase to the other. “You have matching luggage tags. Do not tell me this is not matching luggage.”
“It isn’t. I put the same bright tags on both bags so we could identify them quickly.”
Rose checked the handles. Shane had, in fact, put identical bright green luggage tags on both bags.
“It’s an airport,” Shane said. “Not a romantic gesture.”
“Very romantic,” Ilya said. “You label her belongings. Maybe label each other too, in case one of you gets lost.”
Cliff finally stepped in. “Our bags are coming.”
“I see this,” Ilya told him.
“Then maybe grab yours.”
Ilya’s duffel bag passed directly in front of him. He let it go.
Cliff watched it continue around the carousel. “That one was yours.”
“I know. I decided to let it travel.”
“You were looking at it. You decided that after you missed it.”
Ilya took off after the bag, leaving Rose beside Shane and Cliff.
Cliff watched him shoulder through a family of five. “He’s in a good mood.”
“This is a good mood?” Rose asked.
“For him? Absolutely.”
Shane extended the handle of Rose’s suitcase. “He’s just being an asshole.”
“Is he always this interested in your luggage?”
Shane looked at her as though she had asked whether Ilya always arrived by horse. “He’s not interested in my luggage.”
“Of course not,” Rose said.
The league shuttle was waiting outside. Hayden Pike arrived as the driver was loading the bags and greeted Shane by wrapping both arms around him from behind.
Shane swore and nearly dropped his phone. “Get off me.”
“Captain Hollander,” Hayden said, releasing him. “This is huge. Are you going to give speeches? I think you should make us do a pledge.”
“I’m going to make you sit down.”
Hayden noticed Rose and stopped so abruptly that Cliff walked into him.
“Oh,” Hayden said. “Hi. Sorry. I knew you were coming, obviously. Shane told me. He said it in a normal way and didn’t mention it fourteen times.”
“I mentioned it once,” Shane said.
“Once to me. I don’t know what you did with everybody else.” Hayden offered Rose his hand. “Hayden Pike. I’m married, so this excitement is respectful.”
Rose shook his hand. “That’s reassuring.”
“My wife is a huge fan. She made me promise I wouldn’t bother you for a picture, which is why I’m only going to ask once.”
“You can have a picture.”
Hayden looked delighted. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
While Cliff took the photograph, Ilya returned with his bag. He slowed when he saw Hayden pressed close to Shane and Rose standing on Shane’s other side, then looked at the arrangement as though somebody had deliberately built it to irritate him.
“Pike,” Ilya said.
Hayden lowered the phone. “Rozanov.”
Neither greeting contained a welcome.
“Now Pike also dates movie star?” Ilya asked.
“My wife would be pretty surprised,” Hayden said. “Then disappointed. That’s usually what happens to women when you open your mouth.”
Ilya smiled without warmth. “Your wife is used to disappointment. She married you.”
Hayden took one step forward.
Shane put a hand against his chest before the movement could become useful. “No.”
Hayden kept his eyes on Ilya. “He started it. He always starts it. Eventually somebody has to finish it.”
“Not at the airport,” Shane said, pressing his palm more firmly against Hayden’s chest.
Cliff took Ilya’s duffel bag out of his hand and shoved it toward the driver. “Not at at the airport.”
Hayden looked at Cliff. “You protect him off ice now too?”
“I stop him from getting fined in airports. It’s a friendship service, and it gets used more than it should.”
Ilya tipped his chin up. “Terrible service. I could win.”
“That confidence is why the service exists,” Cliff said.
Rose had known Shane for about a month. She had known the other three for under ten minutes. Already the alliances were clear enough to put on a whiteboard.
The shuttle driver called for them to board. Rose took the seat beside Shane. Hayden claimed the row across the aisle before Ilya could, planting himself where he could watch both Shane and the back of the bus. Cliff went with Ilya because that was what best friends did when their buddy was one overly enthusiastic chirp away from being removed from league transport.
Ilya dropped into the corner seat and put on a pair of wired headphones.
The cord hung loose against his shirt.
Hayden noticed first. He leaned into the aisle. “Rozanov, those aren’t plugged into anything.”
Ilya looked out the window.
Cliff checked the loose cord. “He knows.”
“I am not listening to Pike,” Ilya said.
Hayden turned in his seat. “You can’t hear me because your imaginary music is too loud?”
Ilya settled deeper into the seat. “I can hear you. This is tragedy, but taking off the headphones would only make your face part of the sentence.”
Hayden twisted around. “Take them off and say it to my face.”
Shane looked over the seat. “Could both of you make it to the hotel without getting suspended from an exhibition game?”
“Ask him,” Hayden said.
“I am behaving,” Ilya replied.
Cliff glanced at the headphones. “This is him behaving.”
Rose believed him, which was the alarming part.
Ilya pulled the headphones off and leaned forward. “Where is girlfriend sitting at game?”
Shane glanced at Rose. “The league has a section for guests.”
Ilya leaned farther over the seat. “Is girlfriend sitting far from the bench? Maybe far is better. You will be distracted trying to look impressive.”
“I don’t know where the league put the guests,” Shane said. “I also don’t need help looking impressive.”
Hayden snorted. “He doesn’t need Rose there for that. Hollander spends ten minutes pretending not to care, then picks the hardest target because he’d rather die than look ordinary.”
Ilya’s eyes narrowed. “You speak like you know him best. You know his bad clothes and boring food, but maybe this is not same thing.”
Hayden leaned into the aisle. “I do know him best, and I know enough to recognize when an asshole is trying to get a rise out of him.”
“Then you have much practice with mirror,” Ilya said.
Shane pressed his fingertips to his eyes. “I regret being captain.”
Cliff said, “You’ve been captain for forty minutes.”
“Longest forty minutes of my life.”
The argument moved to the accuracy competition because hockey was the only language all four men trusted enough to fight in. Ilya and Hayden contradicted each other on principle. Cliff backed Ilya when the hockey point deserved it and told him to shut up when it did not. Shane kept trying to referee while answering every single chirp Ilya threw at him.
Nobody in the shuttle wanted to be a group. They were two pairs of best friends, one girlfriend, one very secret, very closeted complication, and an arrival schedule that could best be described as an unfortunate administrative error.
The airport disappeared behind them. Tampa moved past in wide roads, low buildings, and palm trees shaking in a wind that seemed stronger than the forecast had promised.
A league employee at the front of the shuttle explained that an out of season tropical system in the Atlantic was still expected to turn away from the coast. Nobody needed to alter travel plans. Everyone should keep an eye on league messages, but the weekend schedule remained unchanged.
Rose checked the weather on her phone.
The storm now had a name.
Beside her, Shane was telling Ilya that Boston’s power play was statistically worse against aggressive penalty kills.
Ilya turned in his seat, pleased with himself. “You looked this up. You watch Boston, you know all my statistics, and now you pretend television forced them into your brain.”
“Montreal plays Boston,” Shane said. “I watch hockey, and the broadcast puts your statistics on the screen. Remembering them isn’t romantic devotion.”
Ilya smiled. “You remember them.”
Shane’s cheeks turned pink.
Hayden leaned toward Rose and lowered his voice. “He does this every time.”
“Talks to Shane?”
“Gets in his face, touches his stuff, acts like the rest of us are background noise. Then he pretends it’s rivalry.” Hayden looked toward the back. “When actually he’s just an asshole.”
Rose glanced at Ilya, who was accusing Shane of memorizing his face-off percentage out of romantic devotion. “You seem to have mentioned that.”
“I’m going to keep mentioning it.”
From the back, Ilya called, “Pike, whisper quieter. Your voice carries because it is empty.”
Hayden turned around. “Go fuck yourself.”
“See?” Ilya said to Shane. “He has one sentence. Very limited player.”
Rose revised nothing. Hayden disliked Ilya with professional consistency, and Ilya treated mutual hatred like another competitive event he intended to win.
The hotel lobby was already crowded when they arrived. Fans had gathered behind temporary ropes, and a cluster of photographers waited near the registration tables. Shane stopped just inside the doors.
“Do you mind?” he asked Rose quietly.
She knew what he meant. Their relationship was public, and public relationships came with blocking. Rose slipped her hand into his and stepped closer while cameras turned toward them.
Shane was good at this. He smiled without looking trapped, kept his body angled so Rose was visible, and rested his free hand lightly against her back when someone called for them to move closer.
Ilya came through the doors behind them.
“Hollander,” he called, his volume clearly intended to get a reaction that would help the press find a better shot. “You walk very slow with girlfriend.”
Shane looked over his shoulder. “Go around.”
Ilya could have. There was enough space on either side to move a piano.
He did not.
Instead, he walked directly behind them while Cliff and Hayden followed, both visibly aware that they were about to appear in photographs captioned ATLANTIC DIVISION STARS ARRIVE IN TAMPA.
“You make whole team late because you made schedule, and then you corrected schedule because apparently league cannot spell ballroom,” Ilya said from behind Shane.
“We’re forty minutes early,” Shane said. “The league made the schedule. I found one typo, and it mattered because the typo sent everyone to the wrong ballroom.”
Hayden laughed. “It was one letter, but yes, he emailed them.”
Rose felt Shane’s hand tighten around hers as Ilya moved up beside him. Every ounce of Shane’s attention went with him.
Ilya leaned close enough that the photographers began shouting. “Captain Hollander, does girlfriend know you are boring, or have you hidden this for four weeks?”
“She’s met me,” Shane said. “I haven’t hidden anything from her.”
Ilya’s smile vanished so briefly Rose might have imagined it.
Then he slapped Shane on the shoulder and turned toward the cameras. “He lies already. Terrible boyfriend.”
The photographers loved that. Shane swore under his breath, and Ilya looked pleased with himself again.
At registration, the Atlantic players were given credential packets, schedules, team apparel, and instructions for the afternoon practice. Shane read every page while standing beside the table.
Ilya leaned over his shoulder.
Shane shifted the packet out from under Ilya’s chin. “Can you read your own copy? The only difference is mine has media notes.”
“Then I need yours. Captain packet is different colour, which means secret information.”
“It means I need media notes,” Shane said. “You need adult supervision.”
Ilya glanced toward Cliff. “I have Cliff.”
Cliff, who was signing a release several feet away, looked up. “You absolutely do not.”
Rose took her room key from the league coordinator. “I’m going upstairs. Shane, I’ll see you after practice.”
“Okay,” Shane said. “I’ll text you if the schedule changes.”
“It won’t,” Ilya told her. “He already corrected it.”
Rose kissed Shane on the cheek, mostly because she wanted to.
Ilya looked down at his packet.
When Rose stepped away, she heard him say, “Very public.”
Shane’s answer came immediately. “There are cameras everywhere.”
“Yes,” Ilya said. “I notice.”
The room was on the ninth floor and had a balcony overlooking the water. Rose unpacked, answered emails, and opened the curtains. The sky looked bruised, though local television still described the storm as a developing situation and spent more time discussing weekend traffic.
Shane texted after twenty minutes.
Shane: Practice at 4. Dinner reception at 7.
Rose: I read the schedule.
Shane: Right.
A second message appeared.
Shane: Rozanov says my captain packet is propaganda.
Rose: Is he still standing next to you?
The typing indicator came and went twice.
Shane: No.
Shane: He’s sitting next to me.
Rose put down her phone and laughed.
She arrived at practice early enough to find the guest section nearly empty. The Eastern Conference teams were already on the ice in dark jerseys, moving through low-effort drills while music played through the arena speakers.
Low effort, in this context, still involved skating speeds that would have killed most people.
Shane spotted her and lifted his stick. Rose waved.
Ilya immediately skated into him.
It wasn’t a hard hit. It was barely a hit at all, just enough shoulder to move Shane off his line. Shane shoved him back, and Ilya said something that made Shane’s mouth fall open.
Hayden drove the heel of his glove into Ilya’s shoulder. “Nobody asked you to skate into Shane. He survived, but disappointing you is one of his better qualities.”
Ilya shoved him back. “Nobody asked alternate captain. Hollander is fine.”
Cliff cut between them before the drill could become a Boston-Montreal line brawl conducted in matching jerseys. “Save it for when the league isn’t making us wear the same uniform.”
The next rush sent Shane, Ilya, Cliff, and Hayden down the ice together. Ilya carried the puck and ignored Shane calling for a pass. He attempted to split two defenders, lost control, and watched Shane collect it behind him.
Shane scored.
He turned and pointed at Ilya. “Next time pass the puck.”
Rose could hear that through the glass.
Ilya put one glove to his ear. “What?”
Hayden skated past him. “He said stop playing like you’re the only guy on the ice. You’ll hear me clearly enough when I put you through the boards.”
Ilya put one glove to his ear. “I heard captain. I did not hear you, but perhaps you finally become memorable when you try.”
On the next rush, Ilya passed to Shane before they crossed the blue line. Shane returned it. Ilya sent it back. Shane redirected the puck through a narrow gap, and Ilya put it into the net without breaking stride.
They hit the boards together, laughing. Ilya wrapped an arm around Shane’s shoulders and pulled him close enough to say something against the side of his helmet.
Shane answered without trying to move away.
Hayden arrived first and pulled Ilya’s arm off Shane. Cliff arrived a second later and shoved Hayden away from Ilya.
For one bright second, the four-man Atlantic unit became exactly what the league had paid to avoid.
Shane planted himself between his best friend and the man he had been secretly sleeping with for seven years. “We’ve got a game tomorrow.”
“Tell him,” Hayden said.
“He is telling you,” Ilya replied.
Cliff caught Ilya by the back of the jersey. “Roz.”
That single syllable worked better than the captaincy. Ilya let Cliff pull him toward the next drill, still grinning at Shane over his shoulder.
Rose had spent years around choreographers. She knew the difference between people executing rehearsed movement and people who understood where the other body would be before it arrived.
Shane and Ilya had played against each other for years, so of course they knew each other’s habits. It was probably as simple as that.
Then Ilya skated away, looked back to make sure Shane was watching, and nearly ran into a linesman.
Rose revised her working theory.
After practice, Shane texted that he needed forty minutes to shower and dress. Rose went down to the lobby and found Cliff near the elevators, already in a suit, trying to read something on his phone while Ilya paced beside him.
“I am not pacing,” Ilya said.
Cliff had not accused him of pacing.
“I didn’t say anything. I looked because you’ve walked past me six times,” Cliff replied.
“There are only so many places to walk.”
“The lobby is enormous.”
Ilya saw Rose and stopped. “Where is Hollander, and why is he taking so long?”
“Upstairs changing,” Rose said. “Unless he’s tunnelling out through the bathroom wall, in which case you should probably keep pacing.”
“He takes too long.”
Rose sat in one of the lobby chairs. “You could go to the reception without him.”
“I am not waiting for him.”
“Great.”
Ilya remained where he was.
Cliff sat across from Rose and returned to his phone. “I’m waiting for him.”
Ilya looked at him. “Why?”
Cliff put his phone away. “I’m waiting because I want to see how long you keep doing this while insisting you’re doing nothing.”
Ilya looked offended. “I am waiting for nobody. The lobby happens to be here.”
The elevator doors opened. Shane stepped into the lobby wearing a charcoal suit and the blue tie Rose had helped him choose in Montreal.
Ilya looked Shane over slowly. “Bad tie. It looks like expensive curtain, that you have chosen because girlfriend likes curtains.”
Shane touched the knot. “You aren’t even wearing a tie. You’ve got three shirt buttons open and look like you’re selling knock off cologne in a gas station parking lot.”
Ilya stepped closer, smiling. “You like this shirt too. You looked at it for long time.”
“I was counting the buttons you forgot to do up,” Shane said. “That isn’t admiration.”
Rose stood and slipped her arm through Shane’s. “Are we going?”
Shane nodded. “Please.”
Ilya fell into step on Shane’s other side.
He talked the entire way to the ballroom.
At dinner, the league seated the Atlantic players together, a decision made by somebody who understood television but not risk assessment. Rose ended up between Shane and Hayden. Cliff sat beside Ilya across from them, close enough to stop him with an elbow and familiar enough to know when one was required.
Ilya complained about the food, the music, the size of the name cards, and Shane’s approach to the following day’s skills events. He directed every complaint at Shane. Hayden intercepted roughly half of them. Denying Ilya uninterrupted access to Shane had become a side hustle.
Ilya set down his glass. “You picked the accuracy challenge because cameras make you nervous and you enjoy proving they do not.”
“I picked it because I’m good at it,” Shane said.
Hayden put down his fork. “He plays hockey on television, genius. Save the amateur psychology for somebody who asked.”
Ilya barely glanced at him. “I did not speak to you, Pike. Night begins bad enough when you arrive without forcing yourself into other conversations.”
Cliff nudged Ilya’s water closer before Ilya reached for more wine. “Eat something.”
Ilya gave him a look of complete refusal and took a bite anyway.
Rose watched the table operate. Cliff managed Ilya while pretending not to manage him. Hayden protected Shane whether Shane needed it or not. Shane kept answering Ilya while trying to keep Hayden from escalating. Rose knew Shane. Everyone else was a stranger with credentials and a grievance, and after today she was thinking she’d rather keep it that way.
She drank her wine.
By dessert, Ilya had accused Shane of selecting his event for attention, choosing a suit to impress Rose, and ordering fish because he wanted everyone to think he was disciplined.
Shane leaned forward. “You’ve spent the entire day talking about my girlfriend. Do you want her autograph too?”
Ilya smiled. “I already have yours. From draft, before you begin asking too many questions.”
Shane stared at him. “Why do you have my autographed draft card, and who gave it to you?”
Ilya’s smile faltered. “Some person. Old person, probably dead now. There is no reason to investigate.”
Cliff covered his mouth with one hand.
Rose decided not to rescue him.
Ilya pointed his spoon at Shane. “You see? This is why nobody talks to you. Too many questions. Too boring.”
“You started the conversation. You’ve been starting conversations with me all day.”
“I regret this. I am team player.”
Hayden made a choking noise into his water.
The reception ended shortly after ten. As they crossed the lobby toward the elevators, Shane checked his phone and frowned at a weather notification.
“The storm strengthened,” he said. “They moved the track west again.”
Rose opened the same alert. “It says flights could be affected Monday.”
“They won’t be,” Hayden said. “These things always turn.”
Cliff looked at the wind pressing rain against the lobby windows. “That feels like something people say before they end up on the news.”
They crowded into the elevator. Ilya read the alert over Shane’s shoulder. “Your screen is brighter.”
“Because you set yours to two percent and then can’t read it,” Shane said.
“It saves battery,” Ilya replied. “Then I read yours. Efficient system.”
“Saving the battery is useless when the phone becomes decorative.”
Rose stepped out when the elevator reached their floor. Shane followed her, but Hayden, Ilya, and Cliff stayed inside.
Just before the doors closed, Ilya said, “Hollander.”
Shane turned.
“Tie was okay.”
The doors slid shut, leaving Shane standing in the hallway looking at his own reflection in the polished metal. Rose waited beside him.
After a moment, Shane said, “He’s so weird.”
“Completely and inexplicably,” Rose agreed.
They went into their room, and Shane took off the tie, folded it once, and laid it carefully over the back of a chair. His phone buzzed before he had his jacket off. He glanced at the screen and smiled, and Rose did not need to ask who it was.
Outside, the wind hit the balcony doors hard enough to rattle the glass.