Chapter Text
Shane's focus is hardly ever divided. And in a time when he's one of two faces of the future of hockey, leading his team through a string of necessary victories should be no exception.
He wishes he could blame the pressure and expectations for his subpar performance, subpar for him anyways- he's still out performing everyone else at this tournament. Everyone, except for Ilya Rozanov, who is the very unfortunate and the very embarrassing reason he's off his game.
But no matter how hard he tries to focus on the semifinals against team USA, who aren't playing like they'll accept a bronze medal, he still feels off. His gear feels like it's fastened wrong. The sweat soaking through his under armour makes the padding feel damp and awkwardly sticky against his skin. And still he feels like he needs to shed layers and to release the insane build up of heat that's making him feel sluggish.
He shifts his shoulders under his gear like it'll magically fall into the right place where he'll feel like the gear is a part of him like he's used to. He thinks belatedly, all he's done is loosen the velcro.
He takes a swig of water, and stands, shifting restlessly on his feet as he watches the second-line centre intercept a pass in the neutral zone.
His adrenaline pumps a little harder at the sight and he starts to forget the awkward way his socks are folded where they've begun to slip under his heel.
His teammates on the bench stand next to him as the energy in the arena shifts. The players next to him cheer and call out open players for the centre to keep an eye on. But Shane sees an opening, the same one his counterpart seems to have spotted.
Shane holds his breath; there are three minutes left and Canada's leading by one. He was never worried about Team USA but the air gets drawn out of him every time he sees an opening he's only confident he could take. Well, he or Ilya, but he's currently trying to forget everything about the Russian prodigy, including his existence.
His teammate doesn't bother with any fancy footwork or fake outs; the shot is there, and he takes it.
For a second Shane can see the net flare red as the light reacts to the puck flying over the goalie’s shoulder, hear a siren sound, and everyone on the bench and in the stands roaring.
But then reality seeped back in; his teammate missed, the shot going wide by no more than four inches.
The play moves on, and they're still only ahead by one goal.
The whistle blows.
Shane hops over the bench rather than waiting for the three offensive players to get off the ice
He shakes out his shoulders, somehow feeling more normal than he has, since he first spoke to Ilya Rozanov.
There was no way they were limping out of this game with a score that allowed the USA to feel dignity. From there, once again, Shane finds his mind perfectly focused. He has his team and an obstacle; he's been working for this far too long to let that get in his way.
Winning the face-off feels more like an inevitability than sport, like a choreography he's practiced every variation of while his opponent had never even heard the song. Now that he and his gear are on the same page, it only takes 36 seconds for Shane to find himself in the offensive zone with a near impossible shot. Near impossible has never stopped him before.
The second he lets the puck rip through the air, he knows he's just made a comeback a fever dream for his opponents.
There's no time, no strategy, and nothing an extra player can do for them.
There are two minutes left. Shane wonders if he can get Canada a three-point victory.
The net lights up, a siren sounds, the crowd screams, and a body crashes into Shane from behind.
He doesn't feel it, not really. But he knows there's been an impact, no two.
Someone hit him, then he crashed into the net.
Well, that sounds about right, at least.
By the way his head is spinning, he thinks he probably smashed it into the crossbar on his way down.
His teammates are dragging someone away from him and fists are flying. The team USA goalie is looking down at him with an expression of shock and partial horror.
Shane is still on the ice, on his ass.
He should get up before this gets embarrassing.
Only his stomach feels weird, like when he realizes he ate something he shouldn't have and it doesn't really make him feel sick, but it does make him feel wrong. Or maybe more like the one time he dislocated his shoulder, and worse than the feeling of pain, and the pain was blinding, was his body knowing it was not how it was supposed to be.
He can't seem to get his legs moving, so he tries to flip himself over and get up from his knees but there's a weird crunching sound, and suddenly he feels everything.
He hears every scream of the outraged crowd; he hears his teammates yelling at the refs and the refs calling over the medics.
He feels the cold sweat covering his whole body, and the hard ice he's plastered to.
But the worst is that he can feel his knee radiating a blinding pain that twists and claws down to his ankle and up to his thigh. Something in his knee feels sharp and like it's tearing through things far too vital to be torn.
He takes a deep breath and insists to himself that it's probably not that bad, but he feels like he's going to puke
He feels like his body is trying to tell him, everything he's ever worked for, the future he fought and pushed and crawled for that he already had in his reach, just abruptly got ripped away.
There are people crouching next to him now, but the bright lights against the white of the arena are blinding and just highlight how awful the black splotches sluggishly swimming in his vision are. He feels unbearably hot and cold at the same time, and he realizes slowly as he's getting hauled off the ice, that this is what passing out feels like.
***
Ilya is ignoring some team responsibility; he’s fairly sure it isn't mandatory and watching the Canada US game feels more important anyways.
Especially after an awkward Shane Hollander went out of his way to try to make nice with him. Ilya had been excited to play against the boy before, but something about seeing those freckles up close paired with a truly perplexing lack of ego for someone as talented as him made Ilya curious.
That excitement was kind of diminished while watching the game; he'd seen enough game play throughout the tournament to know that Shane was better than he was playing. It was odd, he didn't seem like the type to get thrown off, and yet he watched the Canadian play like he forgot to tie his laces tight enough, or he'd realized during warm-ups that he'd forgotten his jock. On the bench he moved and twitched like his gear was sentient and trying to strangle him.
It was disappointing, until the last few minutes of the game, when Shane Hollander seemed to suddenly remember he was on the ice. It took him seconds to create opportunities other players could only wait for a wish and a lucky break to get, and still they usually didn't have the skill to make it count.
Ilya was so transfixed that he didn't see the angry defencemen coming any better than Shane did. He winced so hard he almost closed his eyes when it became clear what was happening. He wishes his eyes had been closed when he sees the hit.
Shane had just scored, and begun to let the tension in his body drop, the whistle was blown and the play should have been over. He had no reason to expect or brace for the hit, as he slowed his glide toward the net. He wasn't ready for the butt of a stick getting jammed into the back of his ribs, visibly lifting the padding under his jersey. The force of a 200-pound body taking his skates momentarily off the ice as he was launched forward. His helmet meeting the crossbar with enough force that his visor cracked, and if the blood was any indication, got jammed into his face. But the worst part was his leg.
His body was caught between the net and goalie as his leg and the defenceman that plowed into him kept moving past the other side of the goal post.
It was a dirty hit, but the unexpected violence wasn't the most hideous part. That was the way Shane's leg had folded, the unintended consequence that seemed to make everyone in the arena queasy.
For one single moment, everyone was too horrified to react.
Ilya didn't have much way to know if it was as bad as it looked from where he was hiding in the back of the arena, but he could tell Shane was in shock. He thought he might be too. He could feel the blood rushing in his face and his hands seemed numb even though it felt like his skin was getting pricked by little invisible needles. His stomach tied itself into knots and he needed to remind himself to breathe when he realized how much his lungs were burning.
Ilya knew in that moment that his new prestigious award at the end of this tournament would mean less than nothing to him.
Worse was that he worried that a silver medal earned in a final he wouldn't even get to play in would be Shane Hollander's last.
Ilya left the arena with shaky hands; he needed a cigarette.
***
Shane's time in the hospital is a study in heart break.
His knee will be functional again but he can't put any weight on it for two months. He'll need at least eight months of physiotherapy if he does everything perfectly to be well enough to get the surgery he'll need if he ever wants to play hockey again.
He doesn't want, he needs.
Even still, there's a huge wait list to see any surgeon who can do the surgery, after which he'll need over a year of recovery. And that was heavily contingent on everything going well.
So, two years. And that's a generous timeline for his potential recovery. By then the hockey world will have forgotten all about him.
He'll be an awkward age to draft for a rookie; he probably won't be game ready and who knows what shape he'll be in by then. Who knows if he'll trust his body enough on the ice to make the plays he used to, if he'll even remember how to be Shane Hollander.
And then there's the way his mother is looking at him, like she's grieving.
He can tell her sadness is mostly for him, but a part of her is mourning the loss of the NHL star Shane should have been.
She hasn't answered a phone call or sent an email since Shane has regained consciousness after his preliminary surgery.
He honestly just wants to be alone, but there are too many things he needs other people to do for him now.
***
Russia wins the International Prospect Cup final. Ilya knows he should be more excited, and he certainly plays the part he cheers and he chirps when he usually would. He doesn’t really feel any of it, though.
The win feels unearned. He's confident he'd have won if Shane were here, but it feels like he only played against half of team Canada. And even that feels like a generous assessment of the team sans Hollander.
A win like this comes with an award, but it doesn't feel like an achievement. This is no victory.
Neither is getting on a plane back to Russia.
***
Getting back on his feet doesn't feel as good as it should, but Shane is sure to act like it feels transformative.
He tells his parents that it feels like he's getting his life back and how great it is to move and exercise his whole body again, even though he's meticulous in avoiding overworking his knee.
His mother has been an absolute angel and has pulled some strings to get Shane a job with a hockey broadcasting network.
He gets to be in the room discussing hockey with the people he'd watched his whole life doing the same on TV with wide eyes and his parents by his side. Even if he secretly hates most of their guts and their tepid takes or entirely outdated ideas on the sport. Size hasn't been more important than speed in decades, and non-western names are far easier to pronounce than everyone seems to be acting like they are. It's funny really; they never have issues with the European ones.
Shane wouldn't trust any of these assholes to commentate on timbit's hockey and keep him informed let alone the NHL. But he gets to be in the arena for every game in the Canadian Tire Centre and their social media manager informs them that people have noticed and appreciate the new perspective he's been providing from behind the scenes.
Given the opportunity Shane can't promise, he wouldn't put laxatives into John Derry's coffee just to make the man soil his horribly loudly patterned suit.
Still, Shane spends every second of every day trying not to crawl out of his useless and ill-fitting skin or scream.
Maybe if he does, the world will take pity on him and he'll wake up from this slow paced, never-ending struggle of a twisted dream.
But for now, he goes where he's told and avoids the commiserating glances people try to aim at him.
Yes, Tim's coffee does taste worse every year.
Yes, this meeting could have been an email.
Yes, Scott Hunter is dragging his feet through this season.
Yes. I am Shane Hollander. Yes. It's horrible what happened. Yes. This is my life now. Yes. I will take this report upstairs because that is all I will ever be qualified to do.
He certainly never says, No, I don't know if I can take this anymore. Even though sometimes he feels nauseous at how desperately the truth wants to sneak past his lips.
He's hidden himself briefly in a hallway after another Centaurs loss when a man with a microphone comes nearly crashing into him as he rushes through the underbelly of the arena.
He spots Shane's lanyard and recognizes it as belonging to the same company as his.
"Hey! Kid," the man shouts in a somehow hushed voice as he folds himself in half to catch his breath. "Anna had a last-minute emergency and we need to be taking statements now. Just stand in the back so we have a representative present but don't say anything."
Before Shane has a second to process or protest, he finds that his jacket sleeve is in a vice grip and he's being dragged into the away dressing room hallway, where lights, cameras and mics are fighting for attention before the silhouette of Ilya Rozanov, who's holding his helmet under his arm, fresh off the ice.
Shane somehow gets jostled into the back of the pack of media and he holds his breath at the sight of the first draft pick of the year.
He doesn't think he's ever been this humiliated in his life as he gets jostled by a mic pole.
He's tracked Ilya obsessively since he got his knee blown out and his life became a waking nightmare.
He almost threw up watching clips of Rozanov receiving his gold medal. He cried in frustration when he was first draft pick. He moved the remote away from himself so he wouldn't throw it whenever Rozanov broke another record or shamelessly made impossible claims about everything he'd accomplish his rookie season. And especially when he turned those preposterous claims into a reality.
Shane had hated him in many of those moments, but in front of him now? Drenched in sweat and eyes crinkled with joy and adrenaline, Shane hates himself.
He let himself shrink into the group of people frantic to catch his attention, and allowed the world to deliver its message. This is where Shane Hollander belongs now, hidden behind the swarming media, an effect tracked by a social media manager but never seen.
Until an annoyingly perceptive Russian man who must bask in embarrassing Shane, even though he usually wasn't present when he caused Shane's nervous breakdowns.
"You," Ilya smirked, recognition clear in his gaze even as he played dumb, "I've not seen you at one of these before. Too young to be washed up has been, too in shape to be journalist who settle for sports after failing to get people to care real reason they went to school." Shane flushed with anger, but resigned himself to his fate.
Ilya got serious. Not that you could tell by the way he smirked; it was all in the intensity of his eyes.
"You will ask me questions."
Shane choked on his own spit, desperately wishing to go back to being invisible. "What?"
Ilya rolled his eyes, somehow looking more charming than like an asshole in the process. "That is technically question, but not good one. Come on, I will even be honest."
The simple statement felt like a challenge, and Shane felt himself come alive for the first time in almost half a year.
"Well, if you'll be honest, I'm not going to give you the victory lap you're clearly looking for." Shane’s resolve hardened as he watched Ilya's smirk grow. Rozanov wanted a game and Shane would get to play this time, and he would burn the place down before he lost.
"You played in New York last week, you won in points but did it feel like a victory?" Shane started, nudging Ilya to take the bait like he would every time.
Ilya sighed like he was disappointed in the question; he didn't know what Shane was really doing.
"No, no game played against senior citizen like Hunter feels like win." Then he leaned in conspiratorially like he was letting the camera in on a secret, "The only reason he is not in old folks’ home is because he has no children to care enough to do right thing for him."
Shane's grin in that moment put Ilya's to shame, "Right, then how did Scott Hunter score twice while you were on the ice? You barely won that game; it was honestly" Shane threw Rozanov's own words back at him, "a mess from the start."
Any masked disappointment was immediately replaced by elation. "I promised honesty, so I have to say defencemen have injured shoulder. Should not have been on the ice, but the league does not care. I could not do enough to make up for hole in defence."
Shane held back a laugh; of course, his mother had been right.
Still he couldn't play hockey, but Ilya had set a game afoot, and Shane would take every shot he could.
"How do you feel about injured players being pressured into playing when it's against their best interest?" There weren't many ways to answer the question without pissing major players off, and Ilya Rozsanov wasn't known to tread lightly. Shane wanted to see if that would extend to the league.
Ilya went silent long enough that Shane thought he may have fucked up. He was contemplating whether or not he'd be relieved to be fired when Rozanov finally spoke.
"Hockey is dangerous, even more dangerous when players are given pills and sent right back onto the ice. The league has problem, and if they don't fix it--" Ilya turned to stare straight into the camera, "the players you watch, or the ones you see drafted- awkward-looking children with no legacy yet. In next maybe ten years, one of them," Ilya pointed out onto the ice, "will be dead because of the league. That's what I think."
At this the group around Shane seemed to remember they were there too. Respect for Ilya's request to have a one-on-one vanished as people started calling for his attention.
Shane was almost too shell-shocked to pick up on the subtle tilt of his head Ilya gave, as if to instruct him to follow as he turned from the cameras and stalked off.
Shane waited for people to start to trickle out of the hall before following after Ilya.
What did he just do?
What is he doing now?
***
Ilya felt rather stupid waiting leaned up against a wall just around the bend for Shane Hollander.
He thought he'd gotten over the weird complex he'd developed around Shane, but just one glimpse of him reminded Ilya of just how selfish he was.
He hated that Shane couldn't play, not even for Shane, for himself. It wasn't fair.
They'd been thrust into the public eye and had the same weight of the same expectations dropped on their shoulders. As much as Ilya played to the cameras and even to every hockey player he came across, the only benefit to all of the pressure and visibility was that he shared the burden with someone. That he would have his own challenge in Shane.
But Shane got injured, and now it was all just on Ilya. And the rest of the hockey world had moved on, from the rivalry, from Shane. But Ilya couldn't; he had been getting better. He was having an incredible rookie season and he let his stats and smart mouth speak for him as a player. He thought maybe he'd eventually move on from the Hollander thing, but then he saw him, and he realized that had never been an option.
Ilya braced himself against the wall considering just walking away, for two reasons. He shouldn't be indulging this obsession again. Boston was making a huge comeback and that was because of him. He should let himself enjoy this. The other reason being that he'd been waiting over a minute for Shane, who hadn't yet taken the 30 steps it would take to get to Ilya.
Still, he knew he'd wait.
And he did.
Shane did eventually turn up.
He was wearing that same haunted and miserable expression he had when Ilya first noticed him hiding in that crowd.
Ilya leaned off the wall straightening up. He took a step toward Shane, who took a mildly frantic step back.
He shoved his right glove into the helmet under his arm, and picked the lanyard up off of Shane's chest. "Ho-lland-er," he drew out like it was his first time seeing the name.
Shane rolled his eyes, face flushing an angry red that made his freckles jump off his cheeks. "Oh fuck off, you know who I am." He shoved Ilya back lightly, a small smile pulling at the corners of his mouth as Ilya stumbled.
Ilya laughed, as he righted himself.
Shane Hollander was already a problem for Ilya, may as well make himself a problem for Shane as well. "Yes, reporter. Timid at first but cut throat too. You will get me in trouble."
Shane scoffed, but his face betrayed him. He was as amused as Ilya.
"I'm going to get you in trouble? I wasn't even supposed to be there! The only instruction they gave me was not to say anything." Shane groaned, "I'm so fired."
Shane looked pensive for a moment, then he shoved Ilya again.
Having not expected it, Ilya stumbled back into the wall; he was seriously dulling his skates on the ragged rubber mat. This was not a space meant to be tread by players.
Ilya gasped, and mock shouted, "Security! Security, I am being attacked!"
Shane snorted again, "They won't help you. I always bring the extra coffee and doughnuts to security. Sal would help me hide a body."
The statement reminded Ilya with a painful suddenness that this was Shane's job, his life.
"I am sorry," Ilya turned away, not wanting to face Shane in that moment.
Shane shrugged, "Don't worry about it, I hate this job. Getting fired would be a relief."
Ilya frowned, forcing his gaze back to Shane, "Is not what I meant."
Shane stilled, although he looked winded at the realization of what Ilya meant. Like he too just remembered the reality of his life. He looked down but Ilya could tell he was biting his lip and had his eyes shut tight.
"It's a dangerous game," Shane shrugged, but he kept his eyes on the floor and his voice was much rougher than it was seconds ago.
"Give me your phone," Ilya said without really meaning to say anything at all.
Shane looked up at him with a bewildered expression that, honestly, Ilya should probably be wearing too.
"What? Why?"
Ilya sighed impatiently, "Just give it," he whined.
Shane passed his phone over; Ilya began scrolling through his contacts. "Who is your boss?" he asked, realizing he had no idea what he was looking at.
Shane laughed a little disbelievingly before scrolling to a contact on the phone in Ilya's hand.
"What are you even doing?" Shane asked right before Ilya hit the call button. "Oh my g- Rozanov no-" Ilya waved his hand in Shane's face, batting away his searching hands and going just short of shushing him.
The call went through, and almost immediately an irate voice rang through the line "Shane! What the hell--"
Shane looked horrified, but with their height difference, especially factoring in the skates, getting the phone back would be more effort than it was worth.
"No, not Shane. But he is here! Say hi Shane," Ilya pronounced 'Shane' like it was some sort of inside joke. He snickered as Shane stared blankly at him, "Hollander does not want to say hi. This is Ilya Rozanov, and I will not take interview from anyone other than Shane. Big news for you, very exciting. Everyone will have to watch your channel if they want to hear from me. You should celebrate. Hollander is such good employee; he deserves raise, no?"
Ilya hung up before Shane's boss could get a word in. He almost tossed the phone back to Shane but paused. And not just because he looked like he was too stunned to catch it.
Ilya created a new contact and filled in his number even as his mind screamed that every part of the past two interactions was a huge mistake. He opened a text thread, as Shane's brain seemed to come back online.
He stomped down the part of him that tried to inform him that he was mostly doing this because Shane was cute. Obviously, he was cute, but Ilya was doing this for strategic reasons yet to be determined.
This certainly wouldn't help with his obsession but maybe in some way it could ease the weird version of survivor's guilt he'd been experiencing. Maybe he could still share some of the weight of the expectations placed on him with Hollander.
See again, Ilya is selfish.
He began reciting the text he was drafting out loud.
"Hello Rozanov, it is me Shane Hollander. I am your number one fan. Can I please have your autograph, and also I-Dee-Kay if I said but I am huge fan. Enter, dash, Love comma Shane." He hit send on the message and handed the phone back to a thoroughly unimpressed looking Shane.
"Great, thank you. Who did you even send that to?" Shane said, looking at the contact that was just labelled #1.
"Me, obviously. You are only person who can interview me; I need to be able to contact you. I have many important things to say." Ilya winked at Shane and walked away like he wasn't internally asking himself what the fuck he was doing.
***
Shane felt oddly exhilarated and yet nauseous since the interview, and maybe especially after Rozanov had given him his number.
It was all just so weird.
Ilya had seemed so uninterested the first time Shane had spoken to him.
Yes, Shane had gone about it extremely strangely. Opening by informing him he shouldn't be smoking where he was wasn't his best move but it seemed like Rozanov wouldn't have been really receptive to any conversation until he decided to chirp at Shane about the finals.
It was the first time Shane had been able to think about that moment, or the entire tournament really, without a tidal wave of dread and self-loathing sweeping him away into a soul crushing depressive spiral.
Driving back to his parents' house, where he still lives, was only half as much the bummer as it usually was.
Even the horrible chat he'd had with his boss before he could escape work wasn't as horrible as Shane had been expecting. The older man was definitely pissed, but he could recognize that Shane hadn't asked to be a part of any of the events that unfolded. Still he ripped into Shane over his choice of questions, which he could admit weren't exactly appropriate for the circumstances.
Neither of them could deny, however, that the ratings were entirely unheard of.
His stunt had gotten the attention of everyone who was anyone in the world of hockey. Hopefully, that would be enough to save Shane's job.
Maybe they'd even fly him out to some of Ilya's games if he was serious about only being interviewed by Shane.
But that probably wouldn't be the subject of the meeting about him tomorrow, a meeting he was notably not invited to. There would be another meeting next week to announce his fate.
In the meantime, Shane would keep doing his nothing job, living his nothing life, definitely not thinking obsessively about the fact that Ilya Rozanov now had his phone number.