Chapter Text
Every morning began in the same way: in the dark, with a stranger.
Shane Hollander woke at 5:17 AM, precisely three minutes before his alarm was set to chime. He’d trained his body to do this years ago as a small rebellion against the curse that attacked his night. For three minutes, he existed in the quiet space between sleep and remembering that he didn’t remember.
Then the alarm sounded.
His hand moved before his eyes opened, slapping the button with a practiced thump. The silence returned, thicker now. He pushed himself upright, the sheets sliding cool against his bare arms. The air conditioning hummed low and constant in his ears. His throat was dry.
Shane reached for the devices arranged neatly beside the clock. First, the slim point-and-shoot digital camera, cool plastic against his palm. He turned it on, the screen glowing a soft blue in the dark room. He scrolled through yesterday’s photos, the click of the wheel a familiar rhythm against his thumb.
EVAN BAXTER - AGENT. Kind eyes. Montreal Metros polo.
KIERAN JOHNSON- PR STAFF. Sharp features, nervous smile.
YUNA HOLLANDER - MOTHER/MANAGER - A woman in her late forties with his eyes and a sharp, knowing smile. The photo showed them at dinner, her hand on his arm.
He studied each face for exactly ten seconds. Memorized the names, the roles. This was the scaffolding of his life that he rebuilt every morning from digital fragments, bone by bone.
Next, the voice recorder. It was a small silver device, cold and smooth. He plugged in his earbuds, the plastic nubs clicking in place in his ears. He closed his eyes, pressed play, and listened to his own voice from yesterday:
“Met with Evan at 4 PM. He’s optimistic about my draft position. Reminded him you need visual cues for new contacts.”
His voice was always a shock. A stranger speaking from inside his skull.
“Dinner with Mom at 7. She’s flying back to Toronto tomorrow night. She reminded you to smile during photos. She knows you hate this part.”
“Hotel room is 842. Your key card is in your black wallet. The Draft starts at 4 PM. You’re projected top three.”
Shane absorbed the information like a body absorbing heat, through the skin, into the blood. The facts settled into his muscles, his joints, the hollow of his throat.
Finally, the journal. He switched on the bedside lamp. The light hit his eyes like a physical touch, bright and sudden. He blinked, waiting for the sting to fade. The leather-bound journal was already open on the nightstand, left there last night by the Shane who knew today’s Shane would need it first thing. He ran his thumb along the edge, feeling the faint ridge of yesterday’s writing pressed through the page.
The script was tight and precise. No wasted loops, no stray marks. Every entry was dated, timed, organized by color-coded tabs that felt slightly raised under his fingertips.
Blue for hockey.
Red for rivals.
Black for personal.
Green for…complications.
He flipped to the most recent entry.
July 26 2009 - 11:45 PM
Tomorrow is the draft. You will be selected in the first round, and I think we’ll be first overall. Montreal, Boston, and New York have expressed serious interest.
Remember:
- Stand when your name is called
- Shake hands with the commissioner
- Smile for photos
- Thank your family (page 62), your junior coach (page 34), and the Metros organization.
- Don’t mention the condition unless asked
Mom will be there. She is your mother in addition to manager. She knows the system. She knows you better than you do. Trust her.
Your condition is not a secret, but it’s not a talking point. You are a hockey player first. The rest is management.
Shane read the entry twice. His condition, he thought, grimly. It wasn’t amnesia. It was a hex. A curse placed randomly on him as a child.
The media called it “Hollander’s Haze”. Teams called it a liability. Shane called it Sunday.
He closed the journal, the cover falling with a soft thump. He placed it carefully in his gym bag besides his Blackberry (charged overnight, the little green light blinking steadily) and a folder of team logos that felt slick under his fingers. Ritual complete. The day could begin.
He stood. The floor was cool under his bare feet. He was Shane Hollander, eighteen years old, about to be drafted into the MLH. He knew this because his body knew the weight of his own name. He believed it because his muscles recalled the feel of ice under his blades long before his mind remembered anything else.
4:37 PM - Staples Center, Los Angeles
The draft was a wall of sound that hit Shane in the chest as soon as the doors opened. The arena hummed. Thousands of voices layered over the thump of the bass from the PA system, and cameras flashed like small, bright pains behind his eyes. He walked beside his mother through the family section, the carpet thick under his dress shoes.
She wore a tailored navy dress, her perfume something clean and sharp that cut through the sweaty crowd smell. Her hand rested lightly on his forearm as they found their seats. A touch that was both maternal and professional.
“Breathe,” she said, not looking at him. “You’re clenching your shoulders.”
He let out a breath and allowed the setting to wash through him. It didn’t help. The air tasted like popcorn and anticipation.
On the stage, the commissioner approached the podium. The lights were too bright, casting long shadows. Shane’s palms were damp. He wiped them on his slacks.
“With the first overall pick in the 2009 MLH Entry Draft, the Boston Raiders select…Ilya Rozanov, from Yaroslavl, Russia.”
The roar that went up was a physical thing. A vibration ripped through the floor, in the seats, in Shane’s sternum. He watched as a young man with blonde, messy hair stood from the Russian contingent. He moved with a loose-hipped swagger that seemed to say of course, shrugging into a Boston Raiders jersey like it was a second skin.
Yuna–Mom–leaned close, her voice a low murmur in his ear. “That’s your competition for the next decade. You’ve met once or twice before. Watch him. See how he moves.”
Shane didn’t answer. His throat was tight. He watched Rozanov’s hands, big with long fingers, as he shook the commissioner’s hand. He watched the way his jaw flexed, the way his eyes scanned the crowd without really seeing it. The smirk on his face.
The commissioner returned to the podium. Shane’s heart was beating hard now, a steady thump against his ribs. Yuna’s hand tightened on his arm.
“With the second overall pick, the Montreal Metros select…Shane Hollander, from Ottawa, Ontario.”
This time, the roar was for him. It washed over him, warm and loud. He stood, exactly as instructed. Yuna rose beside him, squeezing his hand once before letting go.
The walk to the stage felt endless. The lights were hotter up close, beating down on his head and shoulders. He shook the commissioner’s hand and smiled for the cameras, feeling his cheeks ache with effort. The Metros jersey was heavy when they pulled it over his shoulders, the fabric stiff against his neck.
Second. Not first.
The sting was sharp but not unexpected, a cold knot in his stomach. He’d known the odds, known the projections, but knowing and feeling were different things. Second was still incredible. Second was still MLH. But second meant someone else took first. Second to Rozanov.
They were directed to stay on stage, all the first-round picks lining up in their new colours for the traditional photo. Shane found his place in the line, the flash of cameras like silent lightning. Rozanov was beside him. Close enough that Shane could smell the clean and woody scent of his cologne, could feel the heat coming off him in the bright lights.
Rozanov’s shoulder brushed against his as they shifted into position. Shane stiffened.
“Congratulations,” Rozanov said, his voice low enough that only Shane could hear. He wasn’t looking at the cameras. He was looking straight ahead, his profile sharp in the glare.
Shane kept his own gaze forward, his smile fixed. “You too.”
“Second,” Rozanov murmured, and Shane could hear the mocking dripping from his voice. “Must burn.”
Shane’s jaw tightened. “It’s not a competition.”
Rozanov stifled a laugh. “You forget. Everything is competition.” He finally turned his head, just slightly. His eyes were blue-gray and too close. “Especially with you.”
The photographer called out for them to squeeze closer. Shane shifted, and Rozanov’s arm pressed fully against his. The bulky sleeve crushed against the dark blue of Montreal’s. The contact was electric. Too warm, too sharp, too solid. Shane could feel the shape of Rozanov’s arm through the layers of suit fabric and jersey wool, the hard muscle of his bicep unmistakable.
“Smile pretty, Hollander,” Rozanov whispered, his breath warm against Shane’s ear. “You’ll get used to being under me.”
The words were arrogant, and possibly poorly translated, but the heat against Shane didn’t feel like a taunt. The low vibration of his voice sank straight into Shane’s bones, a hum that bypassed his brain and settled somewhere in the base of his spine. The space between their bodies, already narrow, seemed to tighten and hum.
The cameras finally stopped. The players began to disperse, heading back to their families. As Shane turned to leave the stage, his eyes caught Rozanov’s one last time.
He wasn’t smiling anymore. He was just…watching. His gaze felt like a hand on the back of Shane’s neck, a press of the fingers against his core. Shane’s breath hitched. For a second, he felt seen. Known.
He looked away first, the heat of the lights suddenly unbearable against his skin. But the phantom weight of Rozanov’s arm against his lingered, a brand that didn’t fade even as he walked back into the crowd.
9:12 PM - Hotel Gym
The gym smelled of stale sweat masked with the scent of hastily used antiseptic wipes. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, a sound that settled in Shane’s teeth. He’d changed into gym shorts and an old youth hockey t-shirt, his draft day suit hanging stiff and formal in the closet of his room. He needed to move. To sweat out the strange, buzzing energy that had been humming under his skin all day.
He set the bike resistance to eight, and started pedaling. The motion was familiar and comforting. He reveled in the push and pull of muscle, the burn in his thighs, the way his breath fell into rhythm with the whir of the wheels. His body knew this even when his mind wiped everything else. Muscle memory was the one thing the curse couldn’t touch.
The door hissed open. Shane didn’t look up, just kept pedaling, his breath already coming faster. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone approach the bike beside him. Dark shorts, a loose black tank-top draped across his shoulders. They looked strong even at rest. The same messy hair from the draft stage, now damp at the temples.
“Ilya Rozanov,” he supplied. “I forget nametag.”
“I don’t need it if we already met today.”
“So I made a good impression.”
Shane didn’t answer. He continued pedaling.
Rozanov climbed onto the bike next him, his movements economical. He set the resistance, his knuckles white where he gripped the handles, and started pedaling. Fast. Harder than Shane’s.
Shane increased his own resistance. Ten. Then twelve.
Beside him, Rozanov matched it. Then, pushed past it.
They rode in silence for five minutes. The only sounds were their harsh and ragged breathing accompanying the steady whir of wheels. Sweat beaded across Shane’s forehead, hot and sudden. It dripped down his temple, tracing a path along his jaw. Rozanov was already glistening, his shirt clinging to the planes of his back, darkening with moisture.
Fuck it. Shane pushed to fifteen. His legs burned, the muscles tightening with each rotation.
Rozanov went to eighteen.
It was stupid. Childish, even. But Shane couldn’t stop. The air between them was intoxicating. Something in his body recognized this, even if his mind couldn’t. The ache in his thighs felt like a memory. The salt taste of his own sweat felt like déjà vu.
After ten minutes, they were both gasping, sweat-soaked, muscles trembling with exhaustion. Shane finally slowed, then stopped, draping himself over the handlebars. The metal was cool against his forearms. His heart hammered against his ribs, loud in the quiet room. Rozanov did the same, his chest heaving, the sound rough and wet.
For a long moment, they just breathed. The air between them was thick enough to cut with a knife. Then, Rozanov reached for his water bottle. He took a long drink, his throat working as he swallowed. Then he held out the bottle to Shane without looking at him.
Shane stared at the offered bottle. Water beaded on the plastic, catching the light. A peace offering? A challenge? He couldn’t read this boy. This labelled rival who’d gone first, who’d watched him with those too-sharp eyes, who was now sharing water after a silent war.
He took the bottle. Their fingers brushed.
A jolt went through him. A familiarity so deep it felt like memory unspooling in his veins. His skin knew this touch. The calluses on Rozanov’s fingers, the heat of his skin against Shane’s. It was a recollection his body recognized even as his mind refused to offer context.
He drank. The water was cool, shocking against his dry throat. He handed the bottle back. Their fingers brushed again, longer this time. Rozanov’s skin was warm, slightly rough. This time, Rozanov’s eyes snapped to his, too intense in the fluorescent light. They were the colour of lake ice, clear and sharp and dangerously cold.
“We’ll be seeing each other lots,” Rozanov said, his voice lower than Shane expected, accented in a way that roughened the edges of his words.
“Yeah. Boston and Montreal play each other a lot,” Shane said, the response automatic. Hockey logic. Schedule facts. His own voice sounded thin in comparison.
Rozanov’s mouth quirked into something softer than a smirk. Almost disappointed. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s what I meant.”
He climbed off the bike, the movement fluid despite his exhaustion. He grabbed his towel, slung it over his shoulder, and walked out without another word. The door swung shut behind him, the sound final.
Shane sat on the bike, his heart still pounding from the exertion. Or maybe from something else. The place where their fingers had touched felt warm, like a brand.
He reached for his gym bag, the canvas rough under his fingers. He pulled out the silver voice recorder, cold and smooth in his palm. He pressed record, the click loud in the quiet room.
“Post-draft. Hotel gym. Ilya Rozanov. We just raced on bikes. He offered me water. When we touched…”
He paused, staring at the tiny device. His breath fogged the plastic screen. How did he finish that sentence?
He stopped recording, rewound, erased. The whir of the tape was a small, frantic sound. He started over.
“Ilya Rozanov is competitive. Expect him to challenge me at every opportunity. Check home notes for other interactions, or ask Mom to supply information.”
Better. Factual. Clean.
He saved the recording, then pulled out his journal. The leather was warm from the gym bag. He flipped to the red tab, for rivals. Found the blank page he’d left for today’s rivals. The pen felt solid in his hand, a familiar weight.
He wrote:
ILYA ROZANOV - LW, BOSTON RAIDERS
- Drafted 1st overall, 2009
- Russian. From Yaroslavl
- Physical Identifiers: 6’3”, compact build, light brown hair, blue-grey eyes. Mole on his cheek
and the base of his neck. And arm.- Observed Behaviour: Competitive. Watches closely. Minimal speaking unless chirping.
- Interaction: Shared gym after draft. Silent biking competition. Offered water.
- Status: Rival. Confirmed.
He stared at the last line. The ink was dark and final. It should have felt settled.
But as he packed his bag, his fingers brushing against the still-damp handlebars where Rozanov’s hands had been, Shane couldn’t shake the feeling of…something. Something his journal couldn’t capture. Something his curse wouldn’t let him keep.
Tonight, at 2 AM, he would forget Ilya Rozanov’s face, his voice, the way his fingers felt against Shane’s–warm and rough and startlingly right.
But somewhere deeper, in the ache of his thighs from the bike, in the salt taste of sweat on his lips, in the part of him that remembered how to skate before he remembered his own name, something had already been written.
1:56 AM - Hotel Room
Shane Hollander lay in the dark, the sheets cool against his skin. He waited for the curse to do its work, feeling the last moments of the day like warmth leaching from his body.
At 2 AM, it did.