Archive of Our Own

“We’ve had the couple of boxes you sent here, but did everything else make it to you okay, honey?”

Shane observes the small mountain of collapsed cardboard sitting in his Ottawa cottage entryway ready for disposal, and checks the spreadsheet set up for the third time.

“Thanks, mom. I think so, but has the box marked ‘Bedroom - Linens etc’ come to you? I’m pretty sure I put it down as one for me but I’ve not had it.”

“No, I don’t think so, but let me double check.”

Shane hums in agreement and waits as the noise of Yuna moving around echoes down the phone. 

“I can’t see it,” Yuna says eventually. “But we can get spare linens easily enough.”

“Oh. It’s, um, Mr. Bear was in that box,” Shane admits, a pang of sadness and worry ricocheting through his chest. 

Mr. Bear had been one of the very few childhood stuffed toys Shane had kept through adulthood, and had been his long-standing companion, even as he’s looking a little raggedy now, after over twenty years from originally being gifted him. He’d taken the toy with him to every place he’d lived, from his childhood home to his billet family to his Montreal home. He had whispered his hopes and fears into the soft fake fur between his ears every time he was home, and to have lost him now… he regrets ever risking leaving him to a moving company, but his car had been full of his hockey gear and he’d paid enough for a well-reputable company that he didn’t think boxes would just go missing, let alone something that was labelled linens etc.

“Oh, honey,” Yuna’s voice is instantly much softer, compassion leaking through. Shane feels a little embarrassed that he’s this upset by the lack of his bear, but his mom is kind enough to only offer comfort.

“It’s okay,” Shane lies, “I’ll call the company, see if they know anything.”

“Okay. Well, let me know, and hopefully he’s just in one of their vans or something still.”

“Yeah,” Shane agrees. “I’m gonna, um, go do that now. I’ll speak to you later?”

“Of course.”

Shane hangs up, closes his eyes and breathes deeply before checking the spreadsheet for the number for the moving company and dialling.

An hour and a call with a very apologetic moving company employee later, Shane has no new knowledge about the whereabouts of his bear. They put in a ‘lost property’ form and will let him know if the box turns up, but can’t promise anything and given the low financial value of the box’s contents can’t do much else, either.

Shane takes deep breaths again, tries not to think of his childhood companion lost somewhere between Montreal and Ottawa, regrets again not taking better care of him.

Yuna’s even more apologetic on the phone when he calls her back to let her know, but quickly dives into planning. She sets up a new email account and puts out adverts on as many sites as she can think of; from local Facebook groups to Gumtree to Nextdoor, with a cropped photo of Mr. Bear and an offer of a reward if anyone can come forward with him.

Shane’s not optimistic, and stares at the empty spot on his shelves for a long time that night before he falls into a fitful sleep.

Two weeks later, and Shane’s lost all hope of getting Mr. Bear back.

He’s got other things to think about anyway, namely the expansion of his hockey camps which he’s focusing on now he’s fully retired from the MLH. He throws himself into the admin, into the coordination of hockey players (more like herding cats than anything, at times), and tries not to think too hard about the gap in his shelves that seems to grow a little bigger every night. 

He gets home late one evening from the Ottawa Centaurs’ facility, where they’ll be hosting this year’s inaugural Winter Hockey Day Camp - a day of hockey for kids over the winter break. He’s not the only retired player struggling to fill their days, so they’re trying to set up a schedule of shorter day or weekend camps throughout the year, in addition to their longer week-long camps over the off-season where currently rostered players can also help coach.

He’s grilling salmon when his phone pings and he swipes open the new email immediately. He’s had a few emails to the missingmrbear account, but none that are his Mr. Bear (and a few fucked up propositions that he’s quickly reported and deleted), but his heart stops as he clicks on the photo attachment.

Shane almost drops his phone, his heart thumping and the screen going wobbly as tears fill his eyes. The photo looks just like Mr. Bear, although a little more raggedy than he had been, and he has the addition of a little sling around one stuffed arm and shoulder.

Shane eats his dinner - the salmon is a little overcooked having been forgotten about while Shane replied - while checking his phone constantly, praying for another email reply. 

He doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve this either, but he gets one almost as soon as he’s finished eating.

Shane’s heart beats double-time as he replies again, says he’s in Ottawa but can drive back to Montreal tomorrow or whenever Ilya can meet soonest. He gets a reply admitting Ilya has to work most of tomorrow, but can keep all of Saturday free, if that would work instead?

Shane agrees, and they agree to meet at Westmount Park for a public meeting place at 11am on Saturday, and Shane risks sharing his phone number so that they can contact each other on the day, and almost immediately gets a text:

Shane sets out extra early on Monday morning, having barely slept for nerves. What if on closer inspection the toy isn’t his Mr. Bear? What if Ilya stands him up and this has just been some weird fucking catfishing thing? 

Shane can’t imagine the latter scenario would really be something people would put effort into, but he’d also not really imagined that an email account for a lost teddy bear would get as many dick pics emailed to it as it had.

He'd also googled Ilya Rozanov, assuming his email address was the good samaritan's last name. He'd found a profile for a Leadership Coach & Consultancy firm, based out of Montreal, which gave him some hope that Ilya is a real person, though there was no photo to tell Shane what he might look like.

He parks at his parent’s house - though they’ve already also left for Ottawa, it’s easier than finding downtown parking - and given he’s an hour early decides to walk over to the park.

It’s a nice day, the air turning crisp and cool as summer fades away into autumn, though Shane’s hands sweat a little as he draws closer to the meeting point.

They’d agreed to meet at the “Rond du Tristan” as one of the easier to find and nicer landmarks in the park, and Shane scans the benches that line the one side of the circular path with hope but there’s no-one there with a dog, yet.

He checks his phone but hasn’t had any messages, and with two minutes to go until the meeting time decides to give it another few minutes before messaging Ilya.

He walks around the loop and takes a seat at one of the empty benches - most are, but for the one at the far end where a teenager is sat cross-legged and reading a book. Nervous energy makes itself known in Shane’s legs and he can barely sit still.

He barely manages to sit for a minute before he’s on his feet again, has resigned himself to walking around the circle for as long as it takes, when he hears a, “come on, Anya, good girl,” in a soft slavic accent.

Shane’s feet bring him to a halt as he watches the hottest man he thinks he’s ever seen walk down the path towards him. He’s dressed in all black athleisure, a lead slack from one hand to the dog he’s walking, a wide-bottomed gift bag in his other hand. Golden curls halo around his head, and Shane’s heart trips over itself as hazel eyes catch his and surprise flickers across the stranger’s face.

“Ilya?” Shane forces himself to ask as he takes a step closer, into hearing distance.

“Shane,” Ilya’s lips curve into a soft, almost disbelieving grin. “I admit, I was not expecting… you.”

Shane feels his cheeks heat. “I, um. Sorry. I maybe should’ve told you, um, who I was, but-”

“No need to apologise,” Ilya cuts him off softly, and Shane looks down as his dog - Anya - comes up to him and sits at his feet, wide eyes almost begging as they look up at him.

“Hello, Anya,” Shane greets. He’s not hung out with many dogs - Hayden’s been talking about getting one for ages for the kids, but Jackie’s put her foot down that she’s not dealing with four kids and a dog so until Hayden retires (likely after this season, Shane reckons) a dog is off the table.

Her tail wags across the concrete path and Shane glances back up to see Ilya beaming at him, and Shane’s heart fucking stutters in his chest again.

“She would love it if you pet her,” Ilya murmurs lowly, as if confiding a secret, and Shane starts to be really concerned about the arrhythmic pattern of his pulse with every reaction he has to this stranger, “but do not feel like you have to.”

“No, I don’t mind,” Shane says honestly, and crouches slowly so he can reach a hand out so she can smell it first, as he’s seen other people do when meeting dogs for the first time. Anya gives him a cursory sniff, but her approval is apparently instantly given as she turns her head and butts it under his palm almost immediately in demand for pets. Shane can’t help a laugh, strokes the softness of her head, behind her ears, delights in her expression of happiness as he does.

“Well,” Ilya eventually says, and Shane looks up. He shouldn’t have - from here his eyeline is almost directly at Ilya’s crotch, his long legs stretching up for what feels like miles - and he shoots to his full height, cheeks burning hot again. “I think we might have something of yours?”

Shane takes the bag held out and carefully pulls out the stuffed bear inside with trembling fingers. The little sling has been removed from his arm, and Shane’s heart hitches as he just instinctively knows that this is his bear. He lifts the arm anyway, but the little hole has disappeared under a neat line of brown stitches.

“Ah,” Ilya’s cheeks tint pink as he watches Shane, “Anya must have pulled him from something, or he must have been a little injured, as the little hole mentioned on the advert was not so little. I gave him, ah, emergency surgery, and he seems to be a bit better.”

“Thank you,” Shane can barely whisper the words under the weight of emotion, pulling Mr. Bear almost into a hug as one finger finds the soft spot behind his ears that Shane’s always stroked in comfort, the sensation as familiar and comforting as a hug from his mom. “I mean, really, really, thank you. I know it’s maybe silly, um, missing what’s essentially just like a stuffed toy, but I’ve had him since I was a baby and he came with me everywhere until maybe my third season with Montreal? So. This, um, means a lot.”

Ilya’s eyes are soft and understanding as he nods, smile just as gentle. “I am glad we could find him for you,” he murmurs. “He is almost as cute as his owner, would be a shame if he was lost forever.”

Shane feels the tips of his ears turn red at the bold wink Ilya offers him with the compliment, grin turning a little sly and heated.

“I- um, I promised a reward,” he stumbles over the sentence a little. “Can I- um.”

“I will not take your money,” Ilya says immediately, something a little stiff in his words. “But, ah, I would take a date? If you would also want.”

Shane’s heart flips again and he finds himself nodding almost immediately, “Yes. I- we can do that. I’d love that, actually,” he adds, flushing at his own awkwardness, but the bright sunshine of Ilya’s smile in return has him excited for whatever surprises and joy Ilya might bring to him next.