Chapter Text
Shane's feet pound out a steady rhythm on the treadmill below him, providing a soundtrack to his chaotic thoughts. He should be thinking about their game against Chicago tomorrow, but throughout the entire trip back home from the All-Star game and the two days since, his thoughts keep drifting back to a dimly lit hotel room.
He almost can't believe the weekend had been real, even though he has the memories to prove it. He had hooked up with Ilya Rozanov. Again. Shane had spent so much time convincing himself that the first time had been a fluke, a stupid, risky experiment never to be repeated, but he hadn't really hesitated for a second when Rozanov had given him his room number. And it had been good. Just as good as he remembered.
And now Rozanov wants to come to his apartment in two weeks and fuck him. Despite the terror Shane feels at the prospect, he already knows that when the time comes, he's going to do it. He seems to be unable to say no to Rozanov, not when everything the smirking Russian suggests stirs his curiosity and arousal so acutely.
He's drawn out of his spiral by the harsh sound of his phone. He has a moment of confusion—his parents are the only ones who ever call him, and they had just seen him in Nashville two days ago. But a quick check of the screen shows that it's his agent, and he hits stop on the treadmill immediately. He rarely hears from Farah during the season, so it must be important.
"Shane," she greets immediately. He's always liked that about Farah, that she's not one for small talk. "Are you at home right now?"
"Yeah," Shane says, bemused. "What's up?"
Farah sighs, more of a huff of breath than anything. "I have some news, and you aren't going to like it," she says.
Immediately, Shane can feel the dread start to pool in his stomach. His thoughts go immediately back to Rozanov, to their hook-up at the All-Star game. He had known that it was stupid, that they should never have taken a risk like that in a hotel full of press and other players. They must have been caught somehow. He has no idea what other kind of news would involve his agent at this point in the season.
"I—" He wonders what they have, how incriminating it is. If it's just rumours, a blurry photo, something that can be played off. Shane's a terrible liar, but it feels like Rozanov maybe wouldn't be. Maybe he could laugh it off for the two of them. "What?" He needs to know. His heart is already beating too fast, and he needs to know just how much he should be panicking right now.
"There's been some chatter online, last night and this morning," Farah says. "About a potential trade for Matt Tremblay." A defenseman for Colorado, one of the best in the league. Shane has no idea how this could possibly be related to him, when Farah says the words he thought he'd never hear. "Montreal is apparently interested, and it seems like you might be part of the deal."
Shane's ears are ringing all of a sudden. His eyes hone in on the seam between the ceiling and the wall, the spot where the paint has chipped a little, while he tries in vain to process those words.
The silence feels endless. Shane can't think of a single thing to say, even though Farah is most likely waiting for some sort of reaction. "I—what?"
Farah's voice is gentle. "It might not happen," she says. "I just didn't want you finding out from online, or to be blindsided at practice if it did. I called management as soon as I saw the rumours and they wouldn't tell me anything, so if I were guessing I'd say it's not a done deal. The source is good though, so maybe they've offered and Colorado is still deciding."
"Okay," Shane says. He still feels like he might pass out. He's sitting on the floor, leaning up against the treadmill now. He's not quite sure when that had happened. Horrifyingly, he feels tears start to prick at the corner of his eyes. "Okay." He says again. "I—what should I do?"
"Nothing," Farah says immediately. "You haven't been traded, you aren't on waivers, for now this is all rumours and gossip. I just wanted to give you the heads up. Do you have practice today?"
"I—optional skate this afternoon." It takes Shane a minute to remember, to mentally parse through his schedule and his plans for the rest of the day and week and month which have never felt so tenuous as right now.
"Okay." Farah's voice is steady, soothing. "Now, I know this isn't exactly what you pay me to do, but if I could give a bit of advice here, I'd skip optional skate if you can. If this does go through today, it will be big news, and you probably don't want your live reaction caught on camera. And I know this is probably a lot to process, out of nowhere. So take the day off maybe, and hopefully Tremblay gets sent somewhere that isn't Montreal in the next few hours and we can forget this ever happened. If not, I can try to find out more about the likelihood of you actually being involved and get back to you."
"Okay." Shane feels like he's just repeating that word over and over, as though saying it will make any of this actually be okay. He knows that regardless of how this ends, he's never going to be able to forget this happened if there's even a shred of truth to the rumour that Montreal is considering trading him halfway through his rookie season. It would be unheard of—regardless of who they're getting in return, teams almost never trade high draft picks early in their careers. He's supposed to be the guy Montreal is rebuilding around, not just a pawn for them to discard in favour of another.
He barely remembers hanging up from Farah, or how he makes it out of his gym. A feeling of dread has settled deep in his stomach, like somehow his body knows before men hundreds of kilometres away have even made their decision. Even though he knows he shouldn't, he can't help but go online and search up the rumours himself, only to find that everything confirms what Farah had said. Colorado has let teams know that they're open to offers for Matt Tremblay, and Montreal has put Shane Hollander up as the shiniest prize so far.
The worst part is that the part of Shane who knows hockey almost gets it. Tremblay is a player in his prime, one of the best defensemen of his generation. Shane is an up-and-coming star, the years of his career stretching out ahead. For a team like Montreal, who has a decent forward group, an aging All-Star goalie, and absolutely terrible defence, it makes a bit of sense to try and shore up their weaknesses and make a run for the Cup now, rather than engage in the years-long commitment of a rebuild.
But still, Shane can't help the tears that blur his vision as he reads post after post full of speculation. Even though he knows that trades are part of hockey, that they aren't always personal, he can't help but feel like he's done something wrong for them to even consider trading him in the first place. He has 41 goals this year and sure, that makes him one of the top scorers in the league, but maybe he hasn't been as sharp on defence as he could be. He hasn't made many friends on the team yet either, not with most of the guys being so much older than him and busy with their wives and families. There has to be something, some explanation for why the team he thought he'd stay with for his whole career suddenly wants him gone after six months.
It doesn't even matter to him that Colorado is a good team—a better team than Montreal right now, even. They're at least going to make the playoffs this year, which is more than what Montreal can say. Shane knows nothing about Colorado, the team or the city. He doesn't care.
He's spiralling so hard he almost doesn't notice when the phone rings again. By the late afternoon light coming in through the windows, he's been sitting on his couch for hours. He doesn't even need to look at the screen to know that it's Farah calling, and he doesn't even need to answer the call to know what she's going to say.
"It's official," is the grim greeting that he gets, like Farah knows that dragging this out is only going to kill Shane more than this already is. "I just got a call from management."
Before Farah can say anything else, offer some reassurance that would definitely make the tears finally fall from where they've been threatening for hours, Shane cuts in. Tries to sound like the logical, practical person he wishes he could be about this.
"How soon do I need to be in Colorado?"
There's a pause—longer than the question merits. That's when Shane should have caught on that there was something wrong. But nothing could have prepared him for the next words Farah says.
"Well. What the rumour mill didn't know was that it ended up being a three-way trade. So it's not actually going to be Colorado. They got Wilson, Boucher, and a few picks. Tremblay is headed to Montreal. You're going to Boston."
"You're going to Boston."
Long after Farah hangs up, the words keep echoing in Shane's head. If he had thought his thoughts had been chaotic this morning, when his biggest problem had been his rival potentially fucking him when he came to Montreal in two weeks, that's nothing compared to the code-red panic that started the instant he found out he was being traded to Rozanov's team.
Rozanov, who was supposed to be his great career rival. Rozanov, who he's hooked up with twice now. Rozanov, who had been planning on coming to Shane's apartment in Montreal to fuck him the next time they saw each other. God, how on Earth is Shane going to walk into his locker room in Boston in a few days time? It's one thing for his rival to know this secret that they both share, especially when they only see each other a few times a year. It's a completely different thing for his teammate who he sees every day to know.
The impending awkwardness of dealing with Rozanov is almost enough to eclipse the hurt he's trying to ignore. The knowledge that Montreal values him so little that they're willing to dispose of him only six months into his rookie season. Almost, but not quite.
Before this, Shane had had no idea how trades worked in the NHL. He, perhaps naively, had never really considered the possibility of being traded. But Farah had explained the necessary logistics to him in short, clipped sentences, like she knew that there was only so much information Shane could handle right now. What it had boiled down to, at least in Shane's mind, was that he only needed to pack a single bag with the essentials and get himself on the next plane. His new team would deal with booking him a hotel room and eventually helping him find a new place, as well as hiring people to pack up and move the rest of his stuff. He tosses things in a bag almost on autopilot, having not even fully unpacked from All-Star weekend yet.
All-Star weekend. He had been Montreal's choice for the All-Star game, by their own admission the best player on the team, even as a rookie, and they had still traded him.
He can't think about that, not without the tears making a resurgence. He's determined not to cry about this, so he finishes throwing clothes in a bag with clenched teeth and only spares a single glance around his apartment as he pulls his coat on near the door. It's strange to think that he probably won't be back here. It's still a little bare, not quite lived in yet, since Shane had only moved in six months ago. But it's still the first place other than his parents' house that has ever been his home. Yesterday, he had thought he would live here for years to come.
No. He can't keep thinking like that. He needs to pull himself together by the time he gets to Boston.
He takes a cab to the airport. He knows the exact second that his trade is announced to the world, because his phone immediately starts blowing up. He stares at it in a daze for a few moments, his last sights of Montreal whipping by through the window, before the cab driver gives him an annoyed look and he quickly silences his notifications, not even looking at them. He's glad he had worn a hoodie—he's still getting used to being recognised in public, and he doesn't want to deal with the attention he would get if he were recognised tonight.
Thankfully, the airport is empty enough on a weeknight, and no one bothers him as he goes through security and finds his gate. Farah is efficient—his flight is in less than an hour, his hotel reservation in Boston already sitting in his inbox. There's a press conference scheduled for tomorrow morning, and Farah had promised that by the time he wakes up there will be prepared comments ready for him as well, bland platitudes that give nothing away as to how he really feels about his whole life being uprooted before his career has even really begun.
Shane has the thought that he should maybe call his parents, that they're probably freaking out right now. God, his mom is going to be devastated. He realises that his hands are shaking. He clenches them into fists and leaves his phone in his pocket.
He realises once he's boarded the plane that he hasn't brought anything to do on the flight. It's not a long one, but usually when he travels with the team he has a book or something to pass the time. It doesn't matter. He stares out the window and tries and fails not to think of anything at all. He probably wouldn't have been able to concentrate anyways.
He can't remember landing in Boston, making his way through the airport, getting another cab to his hotel. They had booked him a suite, probably because he'll likely be living here for a few days at least until he finds a new place. He has the vague thought as he drops his things that he should maybe eat something, but after collapsing on the bed he finds he doesn't really have the energy to move.
He does need to know what time the press conference is tomorrow though, and also how far the arena is from here so he knows when to set his alarm. That requires looking at his phone—something he's been diligently avoiding for hours now. He's not sure what he's afraid of, exactly, until he unlocks the phone and it's staring him in the face.
(6) missed calls from Lily
Shane slams the phone down on the bed, like Rozanov can see him through the screen. Lily. God. The name still brings to mind Rozanov's smirk as he typed it into Shane's phone, the aftermath of their last hookup still crystal clear in his mind. The promise of more to come. God. What is he going to do?
He steels himself and picks up the phone again. Against his will, his eyes go to the next most recent notification.
Lily: Montreal is stupid, trading away best player. We will show them together
That's... not what he had expected. It seems almost sympathetic, which was not something Shane knew Rozanov was capable of. And no mention of sex at all. Shane isn't sure why he had been braced for Rozanov to mock him somehow, to hold what they had done together over Shane's head. He never has before, but Shane can't shake the feeling that this is his rival. Someone he's been pitted against since before they were even drafted. For the first time, he wonders what Rozanov is like as a teammate. Wonders if he'll find out, or if things are already so messed up between them that they'll never be able to be normal.
As he's contemplating this, his phone starts buzzing again. Shane freezes, terrified that it's Rozanov, but of course it's his mom. He's sure that if he had been given a few more seconds to scroll down, he would have found more than just six missed calls from her in the last few hours. He feels guilty that he hadn't even sent off a text to his parents before hopping on a plane to a whole other country, but not guilty enough to answer the phone right away. Instead, he takes a few deep breaths to steady himself, his heart pounding all of a sudden. He's not sure it helps, but he hits "accept call" anyways.
"Shane?" His mom's voice is breathless and obviously surprised, like she had just been calling again out of habit and not because she expected to actually reach him.
"Mom." His voice is strangled, but steadier than he feels. He can't think of any other words, so he leaves it at that. An apology is stuck in his throat, but he's not sure what he even needs to apologise for. Not giving his parents a heads up about the trade, probably, but there's also a whisper in the back of his mind telling him that he needs to apologise for fucking things up so badly that he's been traded away from his mom's favourite team after less than a year.
"Shane!" Yuna's voice is clearer now, more confident. "Oh my God, Shane, we've been trying to reach you for hours. David, come here, Shane's on the phone! Are you okay? Do you need us to drive down? I was thinking we might anyways, help you pack up at least. We can be there before midnight if we leave now. I can't believe this. It makes no sense at all for them to trade you, especially with the season you've been having. Absolute morons, every one of them, and I guarantee they'll regret it. But this must have been such a shock. How are you doing?"
"I—I'm in Boston," he says, voice cracking a bit. He knows it's not an answer to her question, but for some reason his mind has latched on to her comment about driving down to help him pack, and it's important to him that he tell them that he isn't in Montreal anymore. That he isn't going to be an easy two-hour drive from his parents from now on.
"Boston?" The shock is clear in his mom's voice, and Shane thinks that she must really be shaken up by this trade, to be surprised at that. Yuna Hollander is the biggest hockey fan Shane knows by a long shot—she has to know that players aren't usually given time to process and pack their things when they're traded.
"Yeah," Shane says, fighting to keep his voice under control. "Uh, there's a press conference tomorrow, and practice the next day. They put me on the first flight."
"Oh, Shane, honey." It's like all of the righteous anger has evaporated from his mother's voice in an instant, and Shane feels the tears that have been threatening to fall all day prick traitorously at the corners of his eyes again. "How are you doing?"
"I'm—" The words lodge in his throat. How is he doing? Hurt, betrayed, terrified. None of them feel like answers he can say out loud to his parents, not without worrying them even more than they no doubt already are. "I'm fine," he grits out eventually. "It's fine."
There's a heavy silence on the other end of the call. For the first time, his father's voice comes through the speaker. "What do you need from us right now?"
The careful tone, the sympathy... all of a sudden it's too much. Before Shane can even process what's happening, his cheeks are wet, and the heartbroken sob he's been holding in all day is forcing its way out of his chest.
"So Shane, it was pretty well-known that Matt Tremblay was on the trading block, but I think him going to Montreal was a shock to everyone, and it was especially shocking that you were part of the deal. Did you have any indication before yesterday that being traded was a possibility?"
There are at least fifty microphones in front of him and just as many cameras lining the back wall of the room where Boston does their press conferences. Shane has never seen this many reporters in his life. The press had been a little crazy at the start of this season, and he had done a few press conferences with other players when the Montreal media couldn't get enough of their newest prize, but that had been nothing compared to this. He doesn't think it's Boston that makes the difference—nowhere is crazier about hockey than Montreal. No, this is just because of how huge of a story the Shane Hollander trade is shaping up to be.
"Well," Shane says, mentally running through his lines. It's almost uncanny, how Farah had been able to predict this question almost word for word. He doesn't pay her enough. "Of course I always knew a trade was a possibility. That's hockey, and honestly I don't think too much about that side of things. I'm always just focused on the next game and what I can do to help my team win. I'm happy to bring that focus to Boston now."
"Any thoughts about playing with Ilya Rozanov after the rivalry that's sprung up between you two this season and before that at the World Juniors?"
"Rozanov is a great player. Of course it will be interesting to play on the same team as him for the first time. I'm looking forward to it."
"Shane, you were traded just a little over halfway through your rookie season, and to one of Montreal's biggest rivals. Does that cause any hard or conflicted feelings?"
The questions feel endless. All permutations of the same thing, searching for the juiciest soundbite that they can dissect on the nightly sports news. Shane does his best to give them nothing, sticking to the bland and scripted answers Farah had dutifully sent him this morning. When it's finally over, he sits there and nods while Boston's management answers the same stupid questions. At least they seem genuinely happy about the situation—from what Shane could tell in his brief meeting with them this morning, they had pushed hard for Shane and were thrilled that they had gotten their way. One of the front office guys had shaken his head in astonishment as he recounted the manoeuvring it had taken to acquire Shane, whispering to himself about "two generational talents on the same team".
Finally, one of Boston's PR guys ends the press conference, and the reporters start packing up their equipment. Shane makes sure to shake the hand of the General Manager again before he's ushered out, just in case his performance wasn't convincing enough. Even though, as his mother reminded him last night, it's probably normal to feel at least a bit conflicted about something like this, he doesn't want the rumour started that he hates his new team before he's even played a single game with them.
It's been enough of a whirlwind this morning that Shane is looking forward to just going back to his hotel room and collapsing. He doesn't even feel the itch to get on the ice like he usually would after a few days without skating, his mind is still so overwhelmed by all the change suddenly happening in his life. He checks in briefly with the staff member who's been shepherding him around to meeting after meeting all day to confirm that this press conference was the last of his commitments, and when he gets the all clear he heads straight for the exit. As he pushes open the door to the back hallway, still looking over his shoulder at the crowd of reporters packing up and the GM talking to one of them with a self-satisfied expression on his face, he almost trips over the person sitting on the floor just outside the door.
"Sorry!" Shane says, stumbling a little to avoid a collision and righting himself as the other man scrambles quickly to his feet. Then he realises who it is and he jerks backwards on instinct.
"Hollander," Rozanov says. "Took you long enough."
Shane's tongue feels stuck in his throat. He hates the way he unconsciously takes in the way Rozanov looks, casual in track pants and a black shirt that's at least three sizes too small. Hates how instinctively he's drawn in.
He can't do this right now. He glances back towards the door that's just closed behind him, beyond which lies a crowd of reporters would love nothing more than to overhear a snippet of whatever conversation it is that Rozanov wants to have. He knows that the two of them should probably talk, that Shane needs to put an end to this thing between them once and for all, but suddenly his heart is beating three times as fast and he just... can't.
He presses his lips together and nods. "Rozanov," he says, as casual and businesslike as he can muster. Then he puts his head down and pushes past Rozanov, setting off at a fast clip down the hall and not looking back, even when he hears Rozanov calling out to him in confusion.
By the time he reaches the parking lot, he's running, and Rozanov is nowhere to be seen.
Shane's heart feels like it's about to beat out of his chest.
He's hiding in the bathroom. His first official practice with Boston starts in half an hour, and his first game is tomorrow. He knows he's lucky—some people get traded and are playing with their new team within twenty-four hours, without even having a full practice to adjust to new lines and plays. But even then, the idea of walking into the Boston locker room right now is sending him into a panic.
What if they all hate him? They've spent the last six months having his and Rozanov's supposed rivalry shoved down their throats, so it wouldn't be surprising if they still thought of him as the enemy. Worse, what if they pity him? The poor superstar rookie who got traded away in his first year, who somehow couldn't make himself valuable enough to even Montreal's shitty roster for long. They probably want nothing to do with him.
And Rozanov. After he had calmed down last night, Shane had managed to muster up a stab of guilt for how he had ignored Rozanov after the press conference yesterday, especially since his supposed rival had probably been deliberately waiting for him. But he still can't bring himself to regret it. Whatever conversation they're going to have, he doesn't want to have it at the arena, surrounded by staff and potentially new teammates. And he's going to tell Rozanov that today if he tries to corner Shane again. He had practiced.
Shane has just finished meeting with his new coach, Smith. He at least had seemed thrilled that Shane is here. The man is gruff and no-nonsense, like most hockey coaches, but he had chatted with Shane for a bit about potential line combinations that they would be trying out over the next few weeks, and he had been willing to answer all of Shane's questions about Boston's plays and what changes Shane should be focusing on to make the transition as smooth as possible. Smith had told him that regardless of who his linemates ended up being, Shane would be centering the second line, the same way he had in Montreal, and he would have a spot on their first power play unit, likely at wing. It's the exact same role he had played in Montreal, but somehow it still feels like a demotion. Especially with Rozanov having worked his way up to the first line already.
Shane can't think about that right now though. All his focus needs to be on proving that he's still the best, that this trade hasn't fazed him. He won't let this be the thing that derails his career before he even gets started.
And right now, what he needs to do in order to do that is walk into the Boston locker room and not let on how much he absolutely does not want to be there.
God, what if Rozanov says something to him in front of everyone?
He wants to maybe splash some water on his face, but his hands are shaking so much he isn't confidant that he'll be able to do it without soaking half his shirt. He definitely doesn't want to look like a drowned rat for his first time meeting his new teammates, so he does his best to fix his appearance in the mirror, squaring his shoulders. He doesn't think anyone will be able to tell that he had been crying last night, not unless they look really closely. And his mom had done her best to reassure him that trades were normal for everyone in the league, that no one would hold it against him.
He definitely isn't imagining the way silence falls immediately when he pushes open the door to the locker room. He forces a smile and a nod for the twenty or so guys who are now looking at him, eyes darting around looking for his stall. He suddenly regrets not being the first one here—he's off-kilter now, not sure where to go, and he had wanted so badly to project a confident image to these guys.
"Hollander!" A familiar Russian accent breaks the ice, because of course Rozanov has to be the first to say something. "Good to see you join winning team now. You tired of me beating you already?"
Shane's shoulders sag in relief. This, friendly chirping, he can do. He hates that he's going to have Rozanov to thank for breaking the tension.
"If I remember correctly I'm pretty sure I've beaten you two out of the three times we've played this season." Shane volleys back. He notices as he does it that there's a jersey with his name on it hung up in the stall next to Rozanov, so he walks in that direction, relieved when some of the others remember that they had been in the middle of something. The rustle of people getting changed resumes, although it's obvious that people are still paying attention.
"Ah, but we beat you last time," Rozanov says, which is true. It had been just before the All-Star break, a gritty game full of penalties that had resulted in a frustrating shutout. "Montreal is headed in wrong direction. All those goals you score do not help them. Is good you play for Boston now."
Shane drops his bag on the bench, still hyper aware of the attention on him. "Yeah, heard you guys need some help in the goal scoring department, don't you? Only 38 for you so far this year."
Rozanov's eyes narrow. It's not like Shane to participate in this kind of chirping off the ice, and Rozanov has seen him enough to know that now. But he must just chalk it up to not really knowing Shane all that well—either that or he can see how terrified Shane is right now. Either way, he goes along with it.
"Ah, we will see how things stand at end of season Hollander. Still lots of time for me to catch up."
A big hand suddenly claps down hard on Shane's shoulder. He turns to find Josh Nelson, Boston's captain. "Are you two gonna be able to stop chirping each other long enough to actually play hockey?" he asks, although the question obviously isn't serious. "Roz, you aren't allowed to corner the guy in some dark alley just so you can win the scoring race, okay? Hollander, I'm Josh, welcome to the team. I know it was probably a shock, but we're all happy to have you."
"Thanks," Shane says. "Happy to be here." The words don't sound convincing, even to him, but thankfully Josh lets it go.
Practice unfortunately does not help Shane's discomfort with being the center of attention, since the main goal of the entire team seems to be getting him up to speed. But with hockey to focus on, it becomes infinitely more bearable. This, Shane knows how to do. Running drills, feeling out who among Boston's wingers he has the most chemistry with, slotting himself into their existing plays, it's all second nature after years of playing hockey for lots of different teams with different styles. At some point, pretty much everyone on the team makes a point to introduce themselves to him, and Shane finds it so much easier to make small talk on the ice while they're setting up a drill than he does in the locker room. After the main practice is done and most of the guys filter out, they have some ice time for just the power play too. It's more than Shane had expected, everyone working hard to make sure he feels good going into the game tomorrow. He's not sure the team in Montreal would have made the same effort for a mid-season trade.
The whole time, Rozanov is there, seemingly always in the corner of Shane's vision. He gets the same feeling that he has every time they play against each other, a sort of constant awareness of where Rozanov is on the ice. Other than a few friendly chirps here and there, always about their supposed rivalry, which garner genuine laughs from the others, he mostly leaves Shane alone while they practice. However, once it's time to focus on the power play, there's no avoiding him.
"Hollander," Coach Smith says as soon as the five guys on the first unit huddle together. "I know you played right wing on Montreal's power play, but Marlow's been great for us there so far this season and we aren't going to fuck with something that's working. So I'm going to try you at left wing for a few games, just see how it goes. I know it's not your usual, so no worries if it doesn't work out or if it takes some time to get used to. As a back up option, we move you to centre and get Roz to try left wing, but our power play numbers have been good this year, so I want to try this first."
Shane swallows down any protest, even as the dread fills him. He hasn't played left wing in years—he can already see his scoring numbers plummeting. But it isn't his place to give an opinion, especially without even trying it, so he just nods, not meeting the eyes of any of his new teammates. "Sounds good," he says.
He has to admit, the drills they run aren't a complete disaster. Shane has an uncanny sense for where Rozanov is on the ice at all times, and from what he can tell it must go both ways, because they barely need to look at each other to pass the puck. He gets a little thrill, tearing up the ice with Rozanov at his side, weaving around invisible opponents. They aren't playing with a goalie, so when Rozanov whips the puck across the ice for Shane to one-time it into the net, it's no surprise that it goes in. But Shane knows in his bones that it would have gone it no matter who was standing between him and the net. Marlow, almost forgotten at right wing, lets off a low whistle.
"You two are fast," he says. "Gotta let us old folks keep up." Shane is pretty sure Marlow can't be more than a few years older than him and Rozanov, but before he can ask Rozanov is already chirping back.
"Is okay Marley," he says. "You stand back there by blue line, we do all the work. We do not want you hurting your old bones trying to keep up with young players."
"Fuck you, Roz," Marlow says, but there's genuine affection there. As much as Rozanov seems to project the image of an asshole to the rest of the world, his teammates at least obviously like him. There's a comfort as they chirp each other that Shane envies—even in Montreal, he had always felt a little removed from the rest of the guys. He had been the youngest, and the focus of so much media attention that he knew some of the guys who had been on the team longer resented how Shane was being framed as some sort of saviour.
Either Rozanov hadn't had the same issues, or his brazen charm had torn right through any barriers they may have caused. Unfortunately, Shane thinks it was probably the latter.
When practice is finally over, he can't help but feel a little more settled. Being on the ice has always affected him like that. The doubts are still there, the crushing feeling of shame over being traded pressing down on him, but it feels a little more distant than it had this morning. The team in Boston is nice, welcoming, and willing to work with him, as much as that would have surprised him to learn a week ago. For the first time, instead of looking at the years ahead with dread, he wonders if maybe he can make this work.
That is, of course, ignoring the problem of this being Rozanov's team. And of Shane's particularly complicated history with him, of which he is immediately reminded in the showers after practice when Rozanov appears seemingly out of nowhere and turns on the water for the shower right next to Shane's.
He doesn't stick around to see what Rozanov would have said, if he would have said anything with the other guys also showering nearby. Shane's mind is immediately brought back to the first time they had found themselves in the same showers after a skate, and the events that had followed. He grabs his things and almost trips in his scramble to get away, not meeting Rozanov's eyes, soap suds still running down his skin. He changes as quickly as he can, and leaves the door to the practice facility swinging shut behind him before anyone else even finishes their shower.
Of course, it's not like he can avoid Rozanov forever. Eventually, someone would be bound to notice that the only time the two of them ever talk is to chirp each other, and it would probably seem strange. Especially because, being on the same team now, Shane doesn't think he has it in him to keep pretending that he hates Rozanov. He's annoying, sure, but there's never been any sort of intense personal dislike between them like the media wants to believe. At least not on Shane's part, and he's fairly confident that Rozanov wouldn't have hooked up with him twice if it wasn't the same for him.
Shane figures that he can probably get away with avoiding Rozanov for a few weeks, at least. Enough time for his hands to stop shaking every time he thinks about the fact that someone who is now his teammate knows this thing about him. That they have this kind of history between them.
He's wrong. Barely two hours have passed since the end of his first practice when there's a knock at the door of his hotel room. Shane doesn't know how Rozanov found out where he's staying, but he knows before he even looks that there's no one else it could be.
For a very brief moment, he considers not answering. Pretending that he's out somewhere. He immediately feels ashamed. He's already been beyond rude to Rozanov, ignoring him after the press conference yesterday and after practice today, even though his former rival had been the first one to welcome him to his new team. He knows he's being ridiculous, just as much as he knows that the two of them really do need to talk.
He still takes his time walking over to open the door. It doesn't matter—Rozanov is still standing there, leaning against the wall and looking irritated.
"Finally," he says, immediately shoving past Shane and into the room, barely sparing a glance for him. "You would think that moving to same city as me would make you easier to talk to, not harder."
Shane can only shut the door behind him and stare at the floor. He feels like apologising, but the words get stuck in his throat. Him and Rozanov aren't nice to each other—that's not what they do.
When Shane isn't forthcoming with a response, Rozanov sighs and rolls his eyes. "Come on Hollander. You do not need to look like I am going to murder you. We are teammates now, yes? I only want to talk."
"I know," Shane says quietly. He still can't quite meet Rozanov's eyes, so he fixes his gaze on a point just over his shoulder. "I wanted to talk to you too. I just..."
"Yes." Thankfully, Rozanov doesn't seem too upset that Shane is having a hard time translating his thoughts into words. They're probably written all over his face. "Is big few days for you. Still," he frowns. "You do not have to run away from me."
Shane still can't look at him. This scene, the two of them in a hotel room, is already too familiar. He realises abruptly that's he's afraid. Because he knows this... thing that they have needs to end, but he doesn't trust himself to be able to end it. Not when there's a small part of his brain who's upset about the trade not because of all the very legitimate hockey reasons that he should be upset about, but because it means that Rozanov is never going to come to his apartment after the game in Montreal next week and—
He realises all this very quickly, and he hopes that the panic doesn't show on his face. God, he's pathetic. Traded away halfway through his rookie year, and all he's worried about is not being able to hook up with his rival anymore, when he should have never let it happen in the first place.
Shane realises that he still hasn't said anything to Rozanov. "Sorry," he chokes out belatedly. "I just..."
Rozanov sighs, but he just turns and walks over to the couch, plopping himself down. When Shane stays where he is, planted near the door, he rolls his eyes. "Are we going to yell across the room to each other?" He asks. He gestures for Shane to join him. "Sit down, Hollander. I will not bite." He smirks a bit, and Shane can almost hear the dirty joke he wants to make, but surprisingly Rozanov leaves it at that.
Shane moves slowly over to perch on the sofa next to Rozanov, careful to keep as much distance as possible between them. "We can't..." He still doesn't know what Rozanov even wants.
"Hollander." His voice is hard, the annoyance seeping through. "I am not here to fuck you. Or do anything else you do not want to. But we are going to need to talk to each other to be on same team."
Some of the tension seeps out of Shane. "Okay," he says, forcing himself to look up and into Rozanov's eyes for the first time. "Okay, sorry. I just... I didn't really know what to think, when my agent told me I was coming here. I never really expected to play with you."
Rozanov snorts. "That is two of us," he says. "But is good for us that Montreal are idiots. We are both good players, probably better together. But you need to be able to look at me at practice."
Shane winces. He doesn't know why, but he hadn't expected Rozanov to notice the way Shane had been avoiding his gaze all day. Not when he had also mostly stayed away from Shane on the ice. "I know," he says. At Rozanov's unimpressed look, he goes on. "I know. I was just... worried, today. I'm not great at meeting people, and I was worried maybe you'd say something to me. I don't know. It was dumb."
"Yes, you are very dumb. You need to stop that. Only smart people play for Boston."
Against his will, Shane snorts.
Rozanov doesn't give him any time to formulate a response to that, not that Shane is really in the mindset to chirp right now anyways. "Hollander." He waits until Shane looks up at him again, features becoming serious. "I am not going to tell anyone. Or say something to you where people can hear. You forget I have same secret."
Shane swallows and nods. He hadn't forgotten that, but something about how easy this all seems to be for Rozanov makes him anxious. Like maybe he would be less careful about it. He knows that's stupid though—Rozanov is from Russia. He has to be more careful than anyone.
"Okay," he says eventually. "I knew that, really. I just... I think I needed to hear it."
"Well now you have," Rozanov says. "You will be normal on ice now?"
"I'll try," Shane says. He feels like there's no way he won't be weird about playing with Rozanov for at least a little while. But if he can maybe put this entire thing out of his mind and focus on the hockey reasons why it's weird, that would be better. Easier to explain to others too. "Just... is this not weird at all to you? Playing together when we've..."
Rozanov just looks at him. "No," he says. "You are making big deal of nothing. Playing with you is good thing—we score more goals." When Shane makes to protest, to explain himself further, Rozanov throws up his hands. "We fucked, Hollander. So what? No one will know. Unless you stare at my ass in shower again, so maybe don't do that."
Against his will, Shane laughs. And once he starts laughing, he can't stop. He laughs until tears are streaming down his face and he's bent over gasping for breath. At the absurdity of the situation, at the fact that he's even having this conversation with Rozanov, of all people. At first Rozanov just looks at him like he's crazy, but eventually he starts chuckling too.
"I think I understand," Rozanov says, when Shane has finally calmed down. "Why you say is weird. Is little weird, not something we expected, to be on same team. But I think it is good thing." He pauses, and suddenly his eyes on Shane feel heavy. "You knew I was telling truth before, right? Montreal is stupid, to let you go so easy. You are too good of a hockey player to be traded like that, in first season with no warning."
Something sours in Shane's stomach at the reminder. He shrugs. "Well," he says, laughter evaporating. "Apparently not."
Rozanov narrows his eyes. "You should not pity yourself so much, Hollander. You know they are stupid, I know they are stupid, everyone on team knows they are stupid. Fans too. Have you seen online how pissed Montreal fans are? You are good player—second-best in league. Do not prove stupid Montreal right and let this get in your head."
As much as Shane wants to bristle at the words, at the lack of sympathy with which Rozanov delivers them, he knows that they're right. He has been pitying himself a lot in the last few days, stuck in a constant spiral of wondering what he had done wrong when he knows that there is no real answer to that. He does need to get it together before their first game tomorrow, and especially before they play Montreal next week. And that definitely starts with getting over whatever hang-up he has about playing with Rozanov.
"I know," he says eventually. "I know. It was good today, playing with you guys. Mostly. I swear I'll be fine in a few days."
"I believe you," Rozanov says. "Just maybe hurry up a little, okay? You having bad day affects my power play now."
"Oh, it's your power play, is it?" Shane rolls his eyes.
"Yes."
"We'll see about that."
"Good," Rozanov says. "Sounds more like normal Hollander." He stands to leave. "You are going to be normal now? Not explode if I chirp you in front of team? They will be suspicious—I was too nice to you today."
"Yeah, yeah," Shane sighs. If today had been Rozanov being nice to him, he wonders what normal is like. He hadn't seemed to hold back on chirps, at least. "Just not about..."
Rozanov rolls his eyes. "No, Hollander, I am not stupid. Will be our secret."
Shane can't help himself. He needs to just make sure that they're on the same page here. "And we can't..."
"Can't what?"
Shane forces the words out through gritted teeth. He hates how red he is, how he can't control it. "We can't hook up anymore."
Rozanov raises an eyebrow. "Can't we?" He asks, and there's definitely something a little mocking in his tone.
"Rozanov," Shane starts, because how on earth can he think that that could ever be a good idea? But Rozanov cuts him off.
"Is fine, Hollander. You don't want to fuck, we don't fuck. But you can't deny would be very convenient." He waggles his eyebrows.
"No." Shane's voice is firm. "We can't—we're teammates now. We can't."
Rozanov shrugs, like it doesn't matter to him either way. It sends a pang of hurt through Shane when he realises that it probably doesn't. "Okay," he says simply. "But if you ever change your mind, you know where to find me."
Then he winks, and leaves.