Chapter Text
Twenty-odd blank faces stare back at Shane, stony and unblinking as he shifts his weight and shuffles his feet.
To his left, he sees Hayden smiling weakly back at him, raising a half-hearted thumbs up, and JJ with a distinctly guilty expression next to him.
“So, yeah. It’s him. I’m sorry I never told you, but it’s been hard being honest, even to myself. The whole thing felt so big and scary, and we were so young; by the time I started to understand it, it felt like the narrative had already been twisted into this stupid rivalry. I didn’t know how to talk about it.” He says, rambling in a way that feels unfamiliar in his mouth, his chest demanding a ragged inhale when he runs out of breath.
This isn’t like a press conference where his carefully chosen words will be printed across a dozen headlines and eagerly ripped apart for analysis. Instead, it’s a room full of his oldest colleagues who believed they knew him, desperately holding out for some kind of understanding as to why they were wrong. Shane’s not sure how to approach that- emotional betrayal hasn’t come up in his media training.
There is silence in the dressing room, a heavy thick quiet that Shane struggles to draw in another breath of, his chest tight as he tries to count out the seconds before he should exhale. There is a familiar burn in his throat spreading to his cheeks and the corners of his eyes, and fuck. He did not think this could get any more humiliating, but it is very quickly heading that way.
There are a couple cleared throats and aborted attempts at questions, his teammates looking between each other with wide eyes and confused frowns. A couple of the rookies have not yet looked away from him, the abject terror on their faces doing nothing to settle Shane’s spiking anxiety. The conflicting instinct to burst into hysterical giggles or tears wars within him until neither win, and an unexpected calm takes over as he stares his team down, one eyebrow raised while he waits.
“This… is not new.” Comeau clarifies slowly, quietly, though it might as well be a shout cutting the hush, potentially a historical first for the normally rambunctious dressing room.
Shane shakes his head but it’s unnecessary. Drapeau gasps in realization, and a dozen heads swivel in his direction. “You said it’s only been serious for a year and a half, but it was casual before. He’s your Boston girl, isn’t he? Lily is Ilya? It was always Rozanov?” He demands, and Shane can only nod as the murmurs start anew.
Hayden looks like he might cry but there’s nothing Shane can say to reassure him right now. He tries for a tight-lipped smile, barely meeting his gaze.
Logically, he knows that this is no one’s fault. He had gotten carried away by sneaking Ilya in to babysit the twins and believed his shocked awe had been worth it at the time, but consequences always seemed to follow them. When Jackie had texted to say they were stopping by with Hayden’s spare blades, he had failed to anticipate the girls would immediately start chattering about their afternoon spent with Uncle Shane and Uncle Ilya.
Right now, two young girls on the other side of the door were probably being scolded by their equally shocked mother, a secret spilled that no one knew to warn them about hiding. And yet, it was their innocent enthusiasm that had bolstered him, kept him standing as he stumbled through an explanation of who Rozanov really was, who Shane truly is, and the fear was secondary to the burning desire not to disappoint the girls.
Even JJ looks taken aback by the Lily revelation. “Sacrament, Shane. That’s at least since 2014, non?” He hisses in shock, and Shane purses his lips.
There was a path he could’ve taken, one where he tells the team he had become unlikely friends with Rozanov, had bonded over a shared history and somehow smoothed over a century of feudal expectations on their heads. But for the first time, denying Ilya no longer feels like an option he can tolerate, not even if it threatens their safety.
Despite the fraught tension, eyes still fixed on him, it doesn’t feel as hostile as he was expecting. This career had always demanded absolute perfection of him, but he gets the sense that is not what his friends are looking for. There is an olive branch here, tentatively wavering, asking only for his authenticity. Shane Hollander is not a liar by nature, though circumstance has made him one. He wonders if he can still be unmade. “No,” he answers softly, “It started the night of the draft. 2009.”
JJ swears instinctively, twisting his body to aim a kick at the bench. Hayden blinks, evidently stunned, before collecting himself enough to rest a hand on JJ’s shoulder. The younger years are laughing uncertainly as their gazes swing between the older players, looking for cues that just aren’t coming. No one knows how to react to this.
“So even when you were competing against him for Rookie of the Year…?” Taylor asks timidly, and Shane can’t help his wry smile at their latest rookie, who likely can’t yet imagine any higher stakes.
“Even then, I cared about him. I was involved with him when I won against him for Rookie, for seven All Star games, an Olympic medal, and two Stanley cups. I will love him through many more wins and losses over each other. I promise that it has had no effect on our careers.” Shane stresses, but to his surprise, more than half his team are waving him off or outright snickering.
“No one’s doubting your professionalism, Cap,” Hayden says boldly, stepping forward, but he’s cut off by Gagnon.
“No shit, guys. Everyone knows Hollander’s game is always on fire after he sees Lily. Now we know why.” He snickers, and a few others join in as Shane’s face heats up again.
“Wait, you’re saying that every time we play Boston, you always go see Rozanov after? And that’s not supposed to affect the game?” Wilson demands, and a few others chime in with him.
Hayden looks like he’s about to jump in again, but Shane waves him off. Stuck in this liminal space together, removed from the outside pressure of reality, he can somehow see things more clearly. Wilson isn’t mad as much as he is confused. They’re all confused, because Shane has been lying to them from the day they met. The fear in his chest is solidifying into guilt, heavy and sinking into his guts.
“It does affect the game because it obviously affects me. I won’t lie to you. But what I’m telling you is that it makes us better. When I play against Ilya, it matters more to me than anything else. I want to be the best out there because that makes him a better player, because he does the same for me. There still is a rivalry, but it exists because of respect for our athleticism, not from hatred.” Shane says forcefully, and some of his Captain voice must be leaking through because Wilson winces in apology.
“That’s true!” Taylor exclaims and turns to rustle in his bag. Shane feels a small rush of fondness for the kid, who makes it very obvious he looks up to him, and admittedly bears some resemblance in their playing style. “On average, Boston v. Montreal games generate thirty percent more points than any other match up, and they push both Hollander and Rozanov over the two points per game average.” He explains excitedly, brandishing a loose stack of paper in their direction, and- oh. It’s an actual spreadsheet.
The room goes quiet again, surprised, and JJ puts a gentle hand on Taylor’s outstretched arm and lowers it for him. “It’s okay, kid.” Shane tracks it out of the corner of his eye. He’s definitely going to steal that later.
He looks around again. It’s Drapeau and Comeau that Shane knows will be the most resistant, who have made a conscious effort to cut back on the vitriolic language they’ve all grown up with, but who were born with a taste for the Boston feud first and oxygen second. Montreal born and bred; they will not take this perceived betrayal of the team lightly. But the dark look in their eyes isn’t fury, it’s a kind of hurt that cuts into him, catches in his throat as his breath hitches.
“Christ, Captain. You can tell us you’re gay, but you can’t tell us about the guy you’ve been pining after for a decade?” Drapeau mutters, and the bitter disappointment in his tone ripples through the room, nearly sending him reeling.
Taking a moment, Shane closed his eyes and swallowed down the regret. This is the injury that comes with hiding from the world; the destruction of trust between the people who care for him, who thought they knew him. The careful distance he maintained between himself and his teammates, the hurt he hadn’t realized he was causing, has caused palpable damage to the relationship. A deeper regret ached as he realized this was the burden Ilya had been struggling under; his natural ability to make friends fracturing with his inability to be genuinely honest.
Opening his eyes, he makes deliberate, unflinching eye contact with his oldest teammates, the people who had tried their hardest to understand him despite his distance. He grits his teeth and takes a leap, blindly swinging for the branch.
“I am so sorry that I didn’t tell you. I should have. I had an opportunity to build trust with you all, to be a better friend and I didn’t take it. I’ll work on fixing that mistake, and I hope you guys will stick by me long enough to see that.” He tells them honestly, standing tall and steady with his hands open at his sides. There is a wave of murmured acceptance, quick nods and forced smiles. Shane knows that there is work to do and cracks to seal up, but for the first time in almost a year, the last time he’d seen the impossible play out on a tv screen, wild hope flares up in his chest.
“Don’t stress it, Capitaine, just don’t expect us to start doing team dinners with the in-laws anytime soon, yeah?” JJ pipes up, and the scattered laughter comes easier, almost normal again.
Shane shoots him a grateful grin, and though he still sags into his gear as he finishes dressing, he feels lighter than he has in a long time.
“You did what?” Ilya breathes into his phone, pulling it away from his face to check that is in fact his boyfriend on the phone, and not a pre-game anxiety induced hallucination.
There is a short burst of laughter, and though he can hear the anxious undertones, there is still an overall sense of relief in Shane’s words as he repeats them for a third time. They don’t make any more sense than they did the first time he heard them, but he’s starting to believe it anyways. It certainly would explain the vague apology that he’d received from Pike a few minutes ago, though still unclear why he’d followed it with a string of lesbian pride flags.
Unfortunately, he has a game starting very soon and if it were up to Ilya, he’d spend it sitting on the bench with his phone cradled to his ear, but Shane has enough restraint for the both of them, and chooses to end the call. Still, as he stashes his phone, there is something warm radiating out from his chest all the way to his fingertips, a faint buzz under his skin. He knows it’s obvious in his face because Cliff had already started snickering under his breath halfway through his phone call.
“You and that Montreal girl, huh? She’s sticking around for good?” He teases, but his eyes are warmly proud. It’s an open secret that Ilya’s leaving for Ottawa when the season ends, and they all know it’s to be closer to Montreal. Still, it’s a genuine surprise that he can offer them this in their last few months together, a parting gift from their Captain before he leaves.
“Yes, I think he will.” Ilya breathes out with a delighted laugh, pressing his fingers against his lips, still in shock.
Cliff raises an eyebrow, though not as surprised as he probably should be, and a couple heads turn; his teammates who had been shamelessly listening in since his phone first rang. Someone coughs, but Cliff beats them to it. “Something you wanna tell us, Roz?” He asks lazily, though his smirk has grown into a wide smile.
Ilya’s responding laugh is so bright that it catches his remaining teammates’ attention, heads snapping towards him as he finishes tying his skates. “After,” he promises. There is a game to win and another team to witness the greatness that is Ilya Rozanov, who certainly must be on top of the world. He thinks if he starts to tell Marly anything right now, he might never shut his mouth again.
He remembers nothing of the game once he steps back off the ice, hardly can recall which team they played or if they’ve even won. Someone congratulates him on the hat trick he supposedly scored, but he’s already shedding his gear and scrambling for his phone. Afterwards, when he thinks back to this night, all he remembers is that when the rink doors close behind him, Shane picks up on the first ring.
Unfortunately for Shane, now that his teammates knew the reason he was always sneaking out when they played Boston, they were no longer content to look the other way when he tried to ditch them.
“Come on, Hollander.” Koch complains, looking moments away from getting on his knees. “Just come out for a couple hours and then you can fuck off to his place later. We’ll cover for you if you get back before breakfast.”
“We live in separate countries. I want all the hours.” Shane argues, shocking even himself with the bluntness of his admission. Some of the younger players snicker and gag, but a few others hum quietly and Drapeau throws him a commiserating smile.
And the awful is part is Shane knows what they’re trying to do. He’s earned himself a reputation for being distant, for avoiding the social stuff and bowing out before the night begins. He knows that there is guilt on all sides for that- his teammates, wondering when they stopped trying and let Shane fall through the cracks far enough that he thought his safety was in jeopardy, and Shane, feeling like he never tried hard enough to belong. He wants to go, wants to try again, be a better teammate for them, but Christ. He only sees Ilya every few weeks at best.
But Hayden, not for the last time, proves why he is Shane’s best friend. “Hold on, let’s just go to the Triangle, then. That’s where the Raiders are going; if we happen to bump into them, it would just be an unfortunate coincidence.” He offers with a hopeful expression.
“Yeah, but then we’d have to drink with Raiders,” Wilson groans, but is quickly dismissed.
“I’d rather drink with our Captain and suffer sharing a bar with Boston then have him skip out again.” JJ announces loyally, which is how Shane somehow finds himself in the conflicting position of being in downtown Boston instead of Ilya’s penthouse, jostling for room at the bar.
A chorus of “What the fuck is this?” had greeted them as they walked in, but Shane had noticed immediately that the Raiders automatically started shifting to make room for the Voyageurs. It had certainly helped matters that they won against Montreal earlier and were in a celebratory mood in their home city.
Suddenly, a soft breath passes over the back of his neck. A low murmur in his ear, “Hollander. Here to buy me victory drink?”
He turns his head to meet Ilya’s gaze, his eyes bright and warm as he attempts to flatten the smile threatening to break free.
Shane swallows his own answering grin and hopes he sounds equally unaffected. “I suppose it would be rude to say no, seeing as we did take over your bar.” He offers slowly, biting his lip as he slides a card across the bar top.
Ilya’s eyes widen before they shutter, and he quickly ducks his head. “Spasibo,” he says quietly into the space between them, before quickly pulling back and fixing his unimpressed mask. A thousand other unspoken things fill the space between them, apologies and gratitude that have nothing to do with a well shot, but Shane soaks them in anyways.
“Anytime,” Shane echoes as the glasses clink down in front of them. Suddenly, it doesn’t seem like such a sacrifice to spend a couple of their precious hours in a public bar, pressed in against a couple dozen other men pretending nothing about this was unusual.
“Hollander!” Someone cries, a hand landing on his shoulder and squeezing tightly. Cliff Marlow, an easy grin on his face as he shoves his head in between them. “How’s your ginger ale?”
Admittedly, even as Ilya choked back laughter, it was pretty fucking good.
Pike: Headed to the Narrows once media wraps up
Marlow: We’ll beat you there (again)
Pike: Unnecessary dude
Carmichael: I guess if we’re still doing this shit, we’re walking down to the lower deck. Don’t put yourselves out over it or anything
Comeau: I mean if you’re that desperate for our company, we can stop by
Koch: party is at Pacifico if you losers are game
Dubek: no parties in mtl, just sad French people. But we have nothing better to do
Koch: that’s the spirit
“Rozanov, can you comment on the recent frequency of which Voyageurs and Raiders are being spotted together after games?”
The reporter is young and polite, but there’s a sharpness in her eyes that Ilya respects. There’s no obvious angle she’s hinting at, characteristic of the Canadian news cycle, but she’s directed the question at him instead of Shane. Shane, who would give her an empty deflection about sportsmanship or something else lame, and so even though courtesy is to direct non-specific questions towards the host city’s captain, she asks him instead.
Ilya leans forward a little, helplessly entertained. “Boring Montreal always obsessed with us, you see it too? Maybe they try following us around, see if they get any better at hockey. Is not possible, they are no threat, so we let them be friends with us.” He says with a smirk, biting his tongue when he heard Shane scoff next to him.
There’s a ripple of laughter and jostling equipment as the media team frantically switch angles, questions and narratives adjusting to capture whatever they think must be happening. Someone tries to elbow the young girl out of the way, but she holds firm, something satisfied in the way she keeps their attention. “Follow-up, please.” She announces firmly, her eyes switching over to Shane. “Hollander, can you confirm you have a friendship with Rozanov, and by extension, the Boston Raiders?”
“Absolutely not.” Shane denies, shaking his head, but his shoulders are shaking in laughter as Ilya starts poking and elbowing him. He’s sure there is nothing but pure delight written all over his face, but he can’t find it within himself to care. The media room is open and friendly with their shared laughter, and its fun in a way that he can’t ever remember feeling in front of a camera.
Shane feels warm next to him, smiling more than he has in a decade of shared conferences, and he will feel warm at the bar later when they go out with their friends. It has never occurred to him that this was something he could hope for.
The problem is that Rozanov and Hollander have never been normal, so there’s nothing to compare this to.
On the ice, they move in such a fluid, easy elegance that it wouldn’t surprise Scott if they’d spent more years skating than walking. He’s shared the ice with each of them hundreds of times over the years and he’s come to anticipate the rhythm of it.
Rozanov is creative, dynamic, and he spends half the game riling up the other players and pissing off anyone who gets near him. He skips obvious passes and avoids easy shots, takes every opportunity to slam players into the boards and drop his gloves, and it’s clear to anyone who knows the game that the man cares nothing for playing hockey. For Rozanov, winning is the ultimate goal, and he makes every convoluted choice to add to the artistry of it all. Scott leaves every game swearing, fists clenched and blood pressure skyrocketing.
Hollander is so different that they might as well be playing different games. He is disciplined, reserved, and with more skill in one hand than most of the league’s players combined. Every choice he makes, every shift of weight as he moves, is technically perfect. Hollander makes every game feel like a tribute to traditional hockey, and no matter how well Scott plays against him, he always leaves the ice feeling a little disappointed in himself.
But together, they are something else entirely. Scott’s seen it a couple times over the years at various All Star games, has even shared the ice against the pair once, and he has no desire to ever do it again. They move like they’ve practiced each sequence for years, predicting each other’s choices, changing course in tandem as if each of their muscles were connected on a string. There’s no explanation for it. It’s exhilarating. It’s terrifying. It’s so beautiful that he finds himself drifting to a stop, just watching the pair move together, jaw dropped a little in awe. He’s not alone; half the other players are doing the same, unable to tear their eyes away. There’s nothing like seeing the two most talented people of their craft, fully in their element, elevating each other beyond what should be possible.
He thinks it’s that specific chemistry that makes him wonder, a harmless little curiosity that has flickered over the years, because they are so interesting to watch that he thinks they would be gorgeous together. There’s been moments, like the first All Stars, or the Rookie award; little glances or stuttered excuses that bolster his curiosity, but nothing substantial enough to truly consider. Because off the ice, Hollander and Rozanov are weird.
They flock to attention, opening themselves up to public scrutiny on the daily. Rozanov has spent half his career on the cover of every gossip magazine, dozens of women hanging off his arms, spilling out of half million-dollar sport cars in every city. He looks away but can’t escape Hollander’s face on every billboard, catalogue, or commercial whenever he opens his front door. He can’t so much as blink without seeing their faces and yet he knows nothing about them.
Not a single girl ever seen with Rozanov has said a word about him; no sex scandals, no leaked photos, no tell-alls to the tabloids, not even a whisper. It’s hard to spend the number of hours he does in clubs without a single bouncer or bartender snarking about drug use or tipping blunders, but somehow nothing leaks. Smoke and mirrors. It would be impressive if it weren’t logistically impossible. Hollander is an ambassador for a hundred different luxury brands including Rolex, Dior, and Hermes, but he’s never spotted in anything other than gym shorts and sneakers. There’s no rhyme or reason to what brands he chooses to represent, seeing as he doesn’t seem to care about any of them. Scott can’t figure out for the life of him why Hollander’s on the TV again in a two-million-dollar watch.
Rozanov has never missed an opportunity to call him old, washed-up, retired, and pathetic, except that he never comes any closer. He keeps a safe distance from Scott, as if he’s afraid to be seen too closely. Hollander, on the other hand, has been unfailingly polite and respectful to his face, except for the one time where the man almost broke his nose. And Scott still has no idea what that was about.
They’re both so strange, and stranger together, and he thinks there’s actually a bead of sweat forming at his temple when Kip walks in and does a double take.
“Woah, babe. You good?” He asks skeptically.
Scott gestures angrily to the TV, where their post conference is wrapping up. “They’re friends now.” He says, like it’s the only explanation necessary.
Kip swings his face to the screen, where Rozanov and Hollander are still sneaking glances at each other and snickering in between questions. Scott can count on zero fingers how many times he’s seen Hollander laugh in the last ten years, and now he’s doing it freely next to Ilya Rozanov.
“Is that… a problem?” Kip asks, uncertain this time, and Scott knows his face is already answering for him, but he doesn’t care.
Last week, he got added to a group chat with half a dozen Voyageurs and Raiders in it, inviting him and Kip out this summer to Hollander’s cottage, of all places, and he’s honestly over it. Neither of the two players are even in the group, and it’s unclear if Hollander is aware he’s hosting, but somehow he knows this is completely Rozanov’s fault. He’s convinced the Boston-Montreal thing is either a psy-op from the higher ups, or also somehow Rozanov’s fault, but he’s just exhausted.
Scott gestures wildly at the screen again when Kip repeats his question, but the conference footage has changed, switching to a reporter standing outside the rink doors. He’s interviewing Marlow and Boiziau, who are grinning widely and have their arms slung over each other’s shoulders.
“Just… never mind.” He mutters on a long exhale, closing his eyes and turning off the television. “Can we just go to bed, please?”