Archive of Our Own

“Hey, Shane,” Farah greets him as he answers his call. “How’s it all going?”

He exhales slowly. “Alright, I guess,” he says, and it’s not necessarily a lie.

They’d had a plan, was the thing, and Shane’s good with a plan. It had not included one of his teammates leaking the audio of him coming out to them in the locker room after their Cup win.

They’d had contingency plans too, of course, but what had planned to be a quiet press-release in the off season, hopefully drowned out by news of trades and everyone being too busy with their own summer holidays, had turned into mitigating the gossip rags and the backlash. The Metros leadership team hadn't been pleased, but their comms team had been better than Shane had expected in issuing slightly generic but still supportive statements. 

It hadn’t been as bad as Shane had thought it might be, and Scott Hunter, who’d come out two seasons before by kissing his boyfriend on the ice, had forged past that huge milestone as the first out gay player in hockey which Shane thinks has eased the way a little.

Scott had reached out too, had offered a lot of support and advice alongside his now-husband, and Shane was more grateful than he could say.

“You know how we made a shortlist of TV appearances you’d be happy to do?” Farah continues, and Shane feels the nerves riot in his belly. “Rozanov’s team have reached out.”

Shane blinks. “He doesn’t normally interview athletes,” is all his brain can think to say.

“He’s interviewed a few of the women’s hockey team and WNBA players,” Farah replies, “But yes. You’d likely be his first male athlete.”

“He’s on my list,” Shane states the obvious again. “I- I guess? Did they give any details about what exactly it would entail?”

“Not yet, they were just gauging interest. I’ll go back and ask, tell them we’re not decided but thinking about it.”

“Okay,” Shane inhales slowly, exhales slower. “Sounds good. Thanks Farah.”

They speak for a little while longer, and Shane slumps back into the deck chair as Farah hangs up with a promise to email over any details as soon as she has them. 

Two Weeks Later

Shane thanks the production assistant as she lets him know there’s five minutes to go and disappears again.

He’s got his own dressing room, has had a stylist fix his hair and brush his face with some kind of powder “so you won’t look shiny under the lights”. He’s in a well-fitting but comfortable navy suit, no tie, and even that had had more conversations and arguments than he thinks an outfit really warrants, but he’s not going to argue with Farah and his team. They’ve got him this far, and he’s just hoping he can do them proud tonight.

He’s not met the host yet, apparently Rozanov had got stuck in traffic and is running a little late. The crew have been very apologetic, promising him several times that this isn’t the norm, but Shane doesn’t really mind. The atmosphere on set is busy, but not harried or stressed, everyone seems to know exactly what they’re doing and when. It’s like a well-oiled machine, and the team seems to genuinely like each other, which has helped set Shane at ease.

He’s re-watched several of Rozanov’s shows over the last couple of weeks, stretching back to when he’d first started his own show two or so years ago. The star had started his career as a child actor, rose to fame as a handsome, reformed-bad-boy teenage lead in a popular long-running series. Once that had come to an end almost a decade later he’d disappeared for almost a year, before returning out-of-the-blue as the host of 'The Ilya Rozanov Show'.

The show had quickly become one of the late night shows to watch; Rozanov a fun, exuberant host who seems to be able to draw all and any of his guests out of their shell. He’d come out as openly bisexual early on and has discussed his own struggles with mental health that had led him to take his year off with a frank openness unlike anyone else in the late-night circuit.

He'd become the go-to interviewer for LGBTQIA+ celebrities, and had interviewed without prejudice many a queer guest, from athletes to drag queens to trans actors and musicians. The interviews had all been conducted with care and consideration, never dismissing their queerness but also not making it the main focus of the interview, which Shane had really admired, and was the main reason that Rozanov had been one of the three shows he’d agreed to think about.

“Shane, if you’re ready?” the assistant returns, tapping at the iPad in hands as she leads him through the back corridors of the studio.

He can feel his hands start to sweat with nerves as he hovers on the edge of the stage, and can hear Rozanov speaking to the cameras and live audience.

“And now,” the soft Russian accent is saying, “you may have seen him recently in the news for non-hockey related reasons, but our special guest tonight is Olympic silver medallist, three-time hockey Championship Cup winner, Conn-Smythe trophy winner, Captain of the Montreal Metros, Shane Hollander!”

Shane steps out as directed, crosses the studio floor and meets Rozanov in the middle as he comes to greet him, arm outstretched.

Their hands clasp and their eyes meet and Shane’s brain goes blissfully quiet for two long seconds before he re-registers the clapping and cheering of the audience. Rozanov’s gaze flickers for a second and Shane doesn’t want to, can’t let himself focus on the heat that feels like it matches his own if he wants to make it through this interview.

He forces a congenial smile, follows Rozanov over to the sofas on the stage instead, sinks into the plush fabric as they wait for the cheers to die down. Shane can’t help but let his gaze wander over Rozanov; black slacks taut over muscled thighs spread casually, the silky burgundy shirt he’s wearing open at the neck to show a glint of gold, setting off the gold of his curls framing sharp cheekbones and plush lips. Fuck, but he's stunning, and Shane can feel his mouth go a little dry.

“So, Hollander. Do you prefer Hollander?” Rozanov asks him, and Shane can’t quite tear his eyes from the slight curve at the edge of his mouth. “Hockey players tend to use last names, or nicknames, yes?”

“We do,” Shane confirms. “But I don’t mind. We’re not in a hockey rink right now, so you can call me Shane, if you like.”

“Okay, Shane, first-name basis then,” Ilya smiles at him and Shane hopes the cameras can’t pick up how breathless he feels. He’d known the talk show host was attractive but seeing him in real life is a whole other level, and Shane hadn’t really known he could be this attracted to someone this quickly in real life. “Congratulations, first, then, on your third cup.”

Shane smiles and thanks him, and somehow he gets through the interview without any major fuckups. 

Ilya’s really an excellent interviewer, he focuses on hockey first, has Shane explain in simple terminology how a hockey game works for non-hockey or international fans. It puts him at ease, talking about his life's blood, reminding him he's good at something even if he's never necessarily been good at interviews.

Ilya’s knowledgeable himself, impressively so, pulls out some of Shane’s stats and breaks them down for a layman to understand, and then Ilya explains how rare but brilliant it is that Shane’s won the championship as many times as he has, how stats like his are likely to put Shane easily in the Hockey Hall of Fame once he’s retired.

Shane flushes, waves him off, feels the heat rise to his cheeks as he pulls out a few of his press lines, that it’s the team working together that makes it happen, that Shane alone couldn’t do it. Ilya grins at him slyly and makes a few comments that have the audience laughing around them, and Shane had almost forgotten there was anyone else there.

They talk about retirement, and Shane admits with a sheepish grin that he hopes to win a couple more cups first, to which he gets a few encouraging cheers from the crowd. He gets even more when they talk about the off-season, and Ilya pulls up a few stills from the ESPN documentary showing Shane doing yoga in front of his lake.

“I am afraid I am not sure many people watch the documentary for the hockey of it all,” Ilya grins, gesturing at the photo of Shane in the downward-facing dog position.

“Well,” Shane flushes, isn’t sure what to say to that.

“I am not sure I watched for the hockey,” Ilya continues with a flirtatious wink, and Shane’s heart beats triple time in his chest. “Is pretty distracting.”

“Well, I’m flattered,” he flirts back, “If it were you I think I’d be pretty distracted, too.”

Ilya’s grin turns up in wattage, delighted pleasure shining in his grin as he spreads an arm across the back of the sofa, opening up his chest invitingly and drawing Shane’s eyes down to the light hair peeking through the open collar.

“So, Shane,” Ilya’s voice turns a little gentler, as he redirects the topic onto the last few weeks, how Shane’s been coping with it all. He answers honestly, maybe too honestly when he admits that it’s been hard, that he’d had a plan to come out so wasn’t planning on hiding forever but to not be able to control the conversation around him, about him, was as difficult as he’d imagined it might be.

“I mean,” Shane adds, swallowing hard, “the main complaint is that people want to keep politics out of hockey. But me, as a person, I’m not politics. I’ve been gay since I laced up my first pair of skates, whether I knew it or not. I was gay when I went to hockey camps as a youth. I was gay when I was picked first in the draft. I was gay when Montreal made me captain, when we won our first Cup, when we won our second and third. Just because people know I’m gay now doesn’t mean I’ve changed, or am someone different.”

Ilya’s gaze is soft on his, open and encouraging and Shane can barely stop himself from continuing. “So to say to keep politics out of hockey? By their definition it would mean keeping me, keeping any queer player, out of hockey. And maybe some people would be happy with that, I don’t know. But players like me, like Scott Hunter, we’re good, gay or not, and we had fans before we were out and we do have fans now. At the end of the day, we’d just as rather not make a big deal of this, we just want to live our lives inside and outside of hockey like any other player - whether that’s just going on a date without fear, or kissing our boyfriends at centre ice, like all the guys with wives and girlfriends get to.”

The studio has fallen dead silent and Shane sits back, heart thumping but something in his chest looser, some of the frustration held tight released as he says everything he’d wanted to for the last couple of weeks.

Ilya’s gaze is soft on his and Shane accepts the hand he reaches out, the gentle comforting squeeze.

“Very well said,” Ilya compliments, and Shane tries not to follow as the host sits back, taking his hand with him. “What do you think?” he turns and asks the crowd, and the roar of cheers practically pushes Shane back into the sofa, tears welling unbidden in his eyes.

They talk a little more, about Scott Hunter and the other support that Shane has found. He talks about Farah and his team, his parents and his friends on the Metros. 

Ilya asks questions, teases funny details and anecdotes from Shane until the atmosphere is decidedly lightened. Shane finds himself mirroring Ilya, shifting as the host shifts, their body language open even as they dip into flirting more often than not. 

But eventually the interview comes to a close, and Shane accepts the hug that Ilya offers, clings on maybe a second too long and memorises the sensation as a broad hand sweeps up his spine.

“You are brilliant,” Ilya murmurs in his ear before letting go, and Shane waves once more to the crowd who applaud and cheer as he makes his way back to the dressing room.

A Week Later

Shane rolls to his feet with a sigh as the cottage doorbell rings. He’s not expecting anyone, though his parents are on their way to their cottage, so they might be stopping in on the way. He did have a semi-cryptic text from Farah yesterday telling him to maybe expect something, but she’d not given him any further information when he’d asked.

It had been an interesting week. He'd not been able to stick around post-interview, had been whisked back to the airport for his flight, so had missed out on a chance to speak to Ilya or ask how he'd thought it had gone. The crew had been complimentary, but Shane hadn't been sure how much of that had been true, and how much had been polite professionalism.

But then the interview had aired later in the evening, and the response had been overwhelmingly positive. He’d had several emails from Farah with updates, saying that the show had been one of the most-watched in the first week of any of Ilya’s interviews. It had led to various clips and gifs, new news and magazine articles about queerness in sports, and based on the reactions Shane had agreed to do a couple more interviews, though only in written form this time.

He’d enjoyed being on the show, in a weird way, but he’s not sure he’d want to do it again, and not with someone else hosting, despite his list. He’d watched his episode under duress from Rose, who’d called him and made him watch it with her. She’d exclaimed every time he and Ilya had flirted, had pointed out where Ilya had watched Shane a little too intently that he’d missed under the lights and cameras and pressure. 

It had also, he’d found out, led to a lot of people ‘shipping’ both he and Ilya. There’d been clips and gifs of them looking at each other, laughing at each other’s jokes. There’d been a gif of Ilya winking at him that was particularly popular, as well as one of the two of them hugging. There’d been memes and discussions and fanfiction; Shane was steering well clear of the latter, though Rose liked to tease him incessantly about it.

But for all that friends and family and his colleagues had teased and complimented him for the interview, he’d heard nothing since from Ilya himself. It wasn’t surprising, really, the host was known to be a bit of a flirt, and Shane wasn’t going to be so arrogant to think he was special or unique.

He shakes his head to dismiss the thoughts and opens the front door, finds a delivery guy with a giant hamper waiting. He signs and accepts the basket, carries it back inside and tugs on the ribbon holding the cellophane wrapping.

The hamper is filled with some of Shane’s publicly favourite things. There’s cans of Canada Dry, a bottle of his aftershave, a little bouquet made of his favourite brand of protein bars. There’s a little plush hockey puck in rainbow colours, a stitched face making it cuter than it had any right to be and Shane shakes his head, finds a card wedged underneath and slides it free.

Shane’s heart pounds, and he rubs a thumb over the loops of Ilya’s name as if that would make it any more real.

He doesn’t know how or if this will work, given the distance and their careers and everything else, but he’s barely stopped thinking about Ilya all week; the gentle squeeze of his hand, the way he’d challenged Shane to be honest and accepted all of him, had encouraged him and made him see how much support even strangers in the audience could and would offer him. It had been all of two hours, and it was Ilya's job, sure, but somehow instinctively knows that there's something connecting them both underneath it all.

Fuck it. He’s come this far, he’s not going to deny himself now.

He pulls out his phone, carefully types in a message and Ilya’s number, and clicks send.