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Shane's POV: seven years of secrets and one week at the lake.
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Shane Hollander counts everything.
Grams of protein. Hours of sleep. Seconds per shift. Shots on goal — his and Rozanov's, in a separate column. Days until the next game against Boston. His mother calls it anxiety. Shane calls it a system.
And he also counts how many times Ilya Rozanov has called him by his name.
The rules are simple. It only counts out loud. Texts don't count. "Hollander" doesn't count: Ilya says "Hollander" a hundred times a night, usually in a tone that makes it sound like a swear word.
Why he counts, Shane would never say out loud to anyone. "Hollander" is the rival, a number on a jersey, a headline in the sports section. But when Ilya says "Shane," for a second none of it is about hockey. And not only about hotel rooms.
In seven years, there have been seven. Shane knows that isn't many. He counted.
1–7
One. A hotel hallway in Boston, third season. Ilya said "Shane" — and immediately corrected himself, annoyed: "Hollander," as if it were Shane's fault it had slipped out. Shane spent half the night staring at the ceiling.
Two. A hotel again, but on purpose this time. In the dark, right in his ear, slowly, drawing out every sound — just to see what would happen. Shane knew Ilya knew exactly what he was doing. He counted it anyway.
Three. Technically doesn't count. The game where Shane got slammed into the boards; half an hour with the doctors, no phone; and then, on the screen: "Lily: SHANE????" All caps. Four question marks. Texts don't count. Shane counted it.
Four. Six in the morning, after three hours on the phone — about syrniki, mittens on elastic, and his mother in a red coat. "Good night, Shane." At six in the morning. Shane didn't correct him.
Five. A call in the middle of the night. A hoarse "Shane" — and then a long silence. "Talk in Russian," Shane said then. "I won't understand, but talk." Ilya talked for a long time. Shane didn't understand a word except the very first one. This is the one he thinks about least. And remembers best.
Six and seven. Shane doesn't like these two. Both times it was "Shane, enough." Quiet, tired, at the very end of a conversation they'd started a dozen times and never finished. About how much longer they'd have to hide. Shane knows whose fault that is.
8–12
And then it's July, and Ilya comes to the cottage. For a whole week — no hotels, no schedules, no "Lily" and "Jane."
In the morning Shane reads on the porch, wearing his glasses. The same glasses that sent their last FaceTime wildly off-plan. Ilya comes out of the house with a mug, sleepy, in Shane's T-shirt, and makes a face.
"Shane, where is your normal sugar?"
Eight. Shane turns the page carefully.
"I don't have sugar."
"Shane. You live like a monk."
Nine.
Then Ilya notices the glasses — and freezes in the middle of the porch. Without looking up from his book, Shane quickly takes them off and folds them.
"Shane."
Ten.
"What?"
"Put them back on."
"I'm done reading."
"You are in the middle of a chapter. I can see the bookmark." Ilya sets his mug on the railing and sits down across from him, like he has front-row seats. "Put them on."
Shane puts them on. And blushes so hard it can probably be seen from the other side of the lake.
In the afternoon Ilya lies on the dock and wages war on a loon.
"Shane!" he yells. "Your bird is screaming again like someone is murdering it!"
"It's a loon!"
"I don't care what its name is!"
Eleven. A minute later the loon calls again, and Ilya yells the same thing, louder. Twelve.
13–14
On the third day Ilya announces he cannot live without sugar any longer, and they drive into the village.
There's only one store: a wooden porch, a bell over the door, fishing rods next to the bread. Ilya pulls his cap down to his eyebrows and goes to find sugar. Shane goes for oatmeal. A sensible division of labor. It lasts about a minute.
"Shane Hollander?!"
In the middle of the aisle stands a kid of about ten in a Metros cap, staring at him with his mouth open. Behind him, a mom with a basket and an apologetic face.
Shane switches on his press-conference smile. Signs the cap. Signs the kid's arm — Mom said it was okay. Yes, the lake is great. No, he's not here with the team, just taking a break.
A familiar cap brim is sticking out from behind the cereal shelf.
"Actually, I root for Rozanov," the kid confides. "But you're okay too."
The cap brim behind the shelf twitches suspiciously.
"Thanks," Shane says. "I'll tell Rozanov. If I run into him."
"You hate him, right? You can tell on TV."
"So much," Shane says seriously. "Can't stand him."
Once the kid and his mom are gone, Ilya steps out from behind the shelf with a two-kilo bag of sugar and the face of a man who's just been handed the Stanley Cup.
"Hollander!" Loudly, for the whole store. "Are you going to be long? I found normal sugar."
"Hollander" doesn't count. Shane knows this "Hollander" is for the cashier, for the kid, for the kid's mom, for the whole village. He's still a little annoyed. At himself — for hoping for the other one.
In the car, Ilya buckles up, sets the sugar on his lap like a trophy, and is quiet for a long time. Then he says, looking out the window:
"'You're okay too,' Shane."
Thirteen.
"Very smart kid," Shane says.
"Very smart. Roots for the right player." A pause. "Shane. You said you can't stand me."
Fourteen.
"So much," Shane says, and starts the engine.
All the way back to the cottage, Ilya keeps a hand on his knee. He holds the sugar with the other one. Priorities.
17–23
By evening the rain has stopped, and they build a fire by the water. Ilya drinks beer, Shane drinks water with lemon, and Ilya has already commented on this three times using only his face.
"Shane, pass the marshmallows."
Seventeen. Shane passes the bag.
Ilya spears a marshmallow on a stick — and suddenly squints.
"Did you say something?"
"No."
"You're moving your lips."
"I'm not."
"You are. You've been doing it all week. On the porch. On the dock. In the store, by the cereal. Over the cards. And there are numbers in the margins of your notebook. I thought it was stats." Ilya turns the stick over the flames without taking his eyes off him. "Are you praying?"
"What? No."
"You are counting calories in water."
"There are no calories in water."
"I know there are no calories in water, Shane."
Eighteen. His lips might have moved again. Shane bites the inside of his cheek.
Ilya slowly lowers the stick. The marshmallow on it quietly catches fire, and Ilya doesn't even glance at it.
"Hollander," he says.
Nothing.
"Shane."
Nineteen. Damn.
"Hollander."
Nothing.
"Shane."
Twenty.
"It's not—" Shane starts, with no idea how to finish. "Hear that? The loon. There's the loon."
"The loon can wait." Ilya leans in over the fire, the light jumping in his eyes. "You are counting."
"No."
"Shane," Ilya says. "Shane. Shane."
"Stop it."
"How many?"
"Twenty-three," Shane says before he can stop himself. And hides his face in his hands.
Ilya laughs so hard he nearly drops his bottle into the fire. Then he stops. He looks at him across the flames — for a long time.
"Seven years," he says. "You counted for seven years."
"Well… yeah," Shane says into his palms.
"And how many were there? Before this week?"
Shane could lie. He doesn't.
"Seven."
Ilya is quiet. This is one of those rare moments when he doesn't joke his way out.
"I didn't say it on purpose," he says finally. "You know why? 'Hollander' is the rival. A number on a jersey. But 'Shane' is…" He waves his bottle vaguely at Shane, the lake, the house, all of it at once. "That was dangerous."
Shane hears his own thoughts — in a Russian accent.
"And now?"
"Still dangerous." Ilya shrugs. "But it's too late."
The marshmallow on the stick has long since burned black. Ilya eats it anyway.
∞
After the fire, Ilya seems to decide to make up for all seven years at once. "Shane" over the sink full of dishes. "Shane" on the stairs. "Shane" while looking for the charger that's already in his hand. Somewhere in the forties, Shane loses track.
Later, in the dark, almost asleep, Ilya presses his nose into his shoulder.
"Shane?"
"Mm?"
"Nothing. Just because."
Out of habit, Shane opens his mouth to say the number — and realizes he doesn't know it. For the first time in his life, Shane Hollander has lost count.
He decides not to start over.
