Chapter Text
“You have your mouth guard?”
“Huh? Uh-huh.”
“And your tape. You have your tape?” Shane rummages through the duffel bag balanced on the trunk of his car for the fourth time. “Nevermind. I got it.”
“Dad,” Noah says and places a hand on Shane’s shoulder, forcing Shane to face his son. “Please relax. I think you’ve got everything.”
Shane smiles sheepishly. Maybe Noah is right. Still, he can’t help it. He remembers his first practice with the junior league in Ottawa; how nervous he’d been, the pressure he felt to be better, faster, stronger than the other guys because of his stature.
And Noah is so much like him, at least where looks are concerned. Dark hair, pale skin, almond eyes, and the same constellations of freckles. He also has the best parts of Rose. Her small nose, her full lips. But Noah is even skinnier and shorter than Shane had been at this age and forgive him for worrying about how cruel he knows children can be.
Personality wise, Noah is all Rose. Thank god, Shane thinks, that he inherited her confidence and extrovertedness. Even now, he’s the one comforting Shane with a big, gap-toothed grin even though he’s the one about to step into the rink for the first time.
Before they divorced, he and Rose had agreed that Shane would have primary custody of their son. It made sense, considering Rose’s career was only growing the older she became and Shane was retired from hockey.
It was lonely and impossible, at first. A baby. Who was he to think he could do this? But Noah had wrapped a little hand around his and Shane knew it would always be alright as long as they had each other.
For sixteen years they’ve been inseparable.
When Noah had first voiced interest in hockey, Shane attempted to steer him away from it. Part of it was because he didn’t want his son to grow up in a sport where he’d feel the pressure of his father’s legacy.
The Ottawa junior arena looks just like Shane remembers. It smells like he remembers; remnants of a concession stand and the cleaning supplies. It feels the same too. Cold and bright and his son looks at the stadium lights like Shane did decades ago; with wide-eyed awe and the excitement that this was truly the beginning.
His eyes, so much like Shane’s, reflect the spotlights. So warm, like Rose’s, that Shane thinks it might melt the ice in the arena. He clasps a hand on Noah’s neck and guides him forward.
“Com’on. You’ve barely seen anything yet.”
He feels the first tendrils of his own excitement. This was his home for so many years and now he gets to share it with his son.
There’s section 102 where grandma used to watch me practice every day. There’s where they keep the Zamboni. There’s where we used to dare each other to stick our tongues to the metal load-bearing poles.
“This place is sick as shit.”
Shane blushes. A group of parents look over with furrowed, judging brows until they recognize him and turn back to whisper excitedly among each other.
“Language.”
His son also inherited Rose’s foul mouth, that’s for sure, which Shane could do without. A moody teenager with colorful language was not something he was equipped to handle. And it made other parents give him that look.
You don’t know what you’re doing, you’re a bad father, is this truly what Shane Hollander has become?
And Shane wouldn’t care. He doesn’t care what other people think of him so much anymore. The people who care don’t matter and the people who matter don’t care. He wished he’d learned that a long time ago. Before.
It’s just that he doesn’t want Noah to suffer for the sins of his father. He didn’t ask to be born to a former hockey pro and a movie star. He didn’t ask for his face to be plastered on tabloid magazines since he was a baby. Shane wishes he could have— could protect him from that.
But Noah isn’t Shane. Thank god, he thinks again, when his son catches the group of parents so obviously whispering about them and rolls his eyes. He” doesn’t care what people think. He’s so young and yet he knows exactly who he is and is comfortable enough in his own skin that things like gossip and judgment have never bothered him.
Is it wrong to be jealous of your own child? Shane wishes he’d been like that at Noah’s age. Before. Hell, he wishes he could be like his son now.
“Where’s your coach?” Shane asks, to get Noah away from the crowd before he does something impulsive.
His temper… Shane and Rose both have no idea where that comes from. They’re both relatively mild mannered and easygoing, but Noah has a quick fuse that ignites at the drop of a hat. It reminds Shane of someone. Someone from Before.
“On the ice, I think.”
Shane furrows his brows and looks at his watch. “Are we late or something?”
“Nah. They asked the older players to get here early to be ready for introductions.”
“How’d you hear that?” Shane arches an eyebrow. Shouldn’t he, the parent, know this stuff?
Noah shrugs, looking bored and antsy to get on the ice himself. “I made some friends at camp who are going here too. We’ve been texting.”
“Right. Okay.”
Something in Shane’s stomach that he hadn’t noticed was knotting up releases. He hadn’t realized just how anxious he was about his son fitting in. Most of these kids didn’t have parents like Noah did. Or maybe Shane was, again, projecting his own insecurities onto his son.
“Look,” Noah points, “he’s right there.”
Shane cranes his next to get a better look at the ice. Coach Crane had been a rookie assistant when Shane had been in the league and worked his way up to head coach. Shane was excited to see him again after all these years.
The sound of skates scraping against ice makes him turn his head.
Everything moves in slow motion.
That hair. Golden and curling around the buckle straps of the helmet. That jaw. That strong nose. The player turns his head so damn slow until he’s looking right at Shane.
He can’t fucking breathe.
Those eyes.
He’d remember those eyes even now, even more than a decade later. Green and gold like sunlight shining into a murky pond.
A memory hits him; Before.
December 2008- Regina
Two days before Christmas, Shane and his parents are not preparing for the holidays. Instead they’re in Saskatchewan, at an ungodly time in the morning, trudging into a rink with about a hundred other players and their families.
Mom has her second coffee of the morning in a to-go cup, cradling the warmth into both hands. The thin, translucent skin under her eyes is slightly bruised from the long drive from Ottawa and lack of sleep.
They hadn’t been able to get a flight so close to Christmas and traffic had been less than ideal crossing the border. Dad’s eyes are still half closed as he adjusts to the bright lights in the dark, early morning.
Shane knows how much they’ve sacrificed, not just for this weekend, for him to be here.
He can’t believe he’s really here.
The junior league championships banner is proudly strung next to the flags of the different countries competing this year.
There are many players Shane is excited to see. He’s excited to watch Phillippe Bozon and Benoit Groulx from France, Jesper Wallstedt from Sweden, Aleksander Barkov from Finland. But he’s perhaps most excited to play against Russia and their captain; Ilya Rozanov.
Any whisper of Shane Hollander’s name is always parallel to conversation about the Russian hopeful. They’re undeniably the best and it only depends on who you talk to whether they think Shane or Ilya will be the first overall draft pick in June.
Shane has seen Rozanov play while his team watches game tape or in short clips on Facebook, but he’s eager to see the player in person. See his grandeur for himself.
They’re going to be at the top together, Shane thinks, and part of him is relieved that he won’t be there alone.
He’s not sure Rozanov feels the same way. Actually, he’s pretty confident he doesn’t. Especially when he walks into the rink for their first game against Russia and a boy with a ‘C’ stitched onto his jersey turns to glare at him.
Shane will remember those eyes forever.
It’s not Ilya Rozanov, obviously. Not only is he decades too young to be; the more Shane looks at him the more differences he sees. His skin is darker and stands out against the blue of his jersey. His cheeks are rounder and his expression is open and unguarded and not filled with the distrust and hardness Shane recalls.
The boy in front of him now doesn’t glare. If anything, his eyes are bright and wide with recognition. Time comes back to Shane as the boy turns and skates away quickly.
The back of his jersey flashes. Rozanov 14.
Shane’s stomach lurches.
“Dad? You good?”
Shane realizes Noah is staring at him oddly. His grip on his son’s neck has tightened considerably and he forces his grip to loosen. His hand drops to his side, limp and heavy.
“Yeah,” he lies. “All good. The locker room is through that way, go get changed so you’re ready for the ice.”
“‘Kay,” Noah says, none the wiser about this inner turmoil his father is experiencing. “Love you. Sit over here so I can see you, okay?”
“Yeah,” Shane parrots again. He’s distracted by number 14 flying across the ice. “I will. Love you.”
He even moves like Rozanov did at that age; jerky, unelegent, but full of power. It’s nothing, Shane tells himself. Maybe it’s not the most common Russian name, but it can’t be–
“Hollander.”
Shane’s eyes slip close.
December 2008- Regina
“You’re supposed to smoke over there.”
Shane had snuck away after his team’s ice time. He’d seen Rozanov slip through the back exit and told himself that getting some air would be a good idea, even if it was colder outside than it was in the rink. He zips his coat up to his chin and follows Rozanov outside.
He has a beanie pulled down over his ears, curls falling below the black hat and touching his cheek. They look so soft, Shane thinks, and then blinks because why would he think that about another guy?
“What?”
Shane realizes Rozanov is responding to him. His accent is heavy and even just that one word sounds like it punches out of him awkwardly. Maybe is English isn’t great, Shane realizes, and he wasn’t able to read the sign above his head.
“The smoking area is over there,” Shane points to a far corner of the parking lot and mimics puffing a cigarette, just to be sure Rozanov understands him.
Blinking slowly, Rozanov takes another slow drag. His gaze trails down Shane’s body assessingly and Shane has the terrible, insecure urge to curl up and hide. What is it that Rozanov sees? Why does Shane care what he thinks?
“I’m surprised you smoke.”
“Okay.”
Shane hesitates. This is not going well. Actually, this might be in the top five most embarrassing moments of his life. It’s so obvious that Rozanov wants nothing to do with him, why can’t he just walk away?
There’s an uncomfortable silence and then Shane tries again. “I wanted to meet you,” he sticks out his hand. Does Rozanov notice he’s shaking? “Shane Hollander.”
Fuck, Shane is going to die of humiliation.
Rozanov looks at his outstretched hand with narrowed eyes; an expression Shane will come to recognize as distrust. He didn’t know it at the time, but Rozanov was a hurt, scared kid. He wasn’t used to people like Shane, who were so openly kind with no other motivations for it.
But slowly, staring like a cat deciding if it should trust this strange human, Rozanov sticks the cigarette in his mouth and places his palm against Shane’s. He almost gasps. His hand is warm, so warm. How can it be so warm even in this weather? It seeps into Shane’s fingertips and shivers down his spine.
“Yes,” Rozanov murmurs around the smoke in this mouth. “Have heard lot about you, Hollander.”
“Hollander.”
Ilya looks the same, except not at all. His features are unchanged, but there are lines around his smiling mouth and eyes that betray his age.
It’s unfair, completely fucking unfair, how handsome he is when he’s pushing fourty. It makes Shane angry, it makes a fog of insecurity cloud the small, secret thrill he feels at seeing him again.
“What are you doing here?”
He’s thankful his voice doesn’t shake, but he’s trembling. And he knows Ilya notices. Even all these years later, he’s sure he can still read Shane like a fucking book.
Ilya’s smile softens and he points to the ice, where the player whose eyes had brought Shane back to Before lines up with the other boys.
“My son.”
Shane looks at the lineup as if he hasn’t been staring at the younger version of the man in front of him since he spotted him.
“Mine too,” Shane says awkwardly and gestures to the tunnel where the new players skate out one by one to shake hands with their teammates. Noah skates confidently to the line and introduces himself. Shane’s heart throbs with pride as his son makes people laugh and they clap him on the shoulder and then his breath is knocked out of him entirely.
It’s like looking into a mirror of their past. Of the time Before. Noah reaches out to shake Rozanov’s son’s hand and the two boys stare at each other with tight lips and furrowed brows.
-
June 2009- Los Angeles
“Shane, could you move a little closer to Ilya, please?”
Shane’s mouth trembles with the force of keeping the smile on his face. To his left, Rozanov is grinning, holding his Bear’s jersey, and throwing up a number one with his hand.
Rozanov had been drafted first.
It’s ridiculous because Shane wanted to be picked by the Voyageurs. He liked the idea of being within a couple hours drive of his parent’s house and staying in Canada. It’s no one’s fault that Boston had gotten first draft pick and it’s no one’s fault that Rozanov’s play style fit their team better.
Shane wouldn’t have been happy playing in Boston. But pride is a sticky, terrible thing and since he and Rozanov are both centers, it was a blow to his ego not to be chosen first.
Not as if Rozanov didn’t deserve it, Shane begrudges. They’d both had a lot in common, career-wise. They were both captains, both led their team to championships that year, both had been named MVPs, and their scoring stats were nearly identical.
Except, Shane had a silver metal at home and Rozanov had gold and now Shane had come second to the Russian again. Fuck this guy.
To add insult to injury, Boston and Montreal were league rivals. They’d play often and Shane knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that his and Rozanov’s careers would be inescapably linked.
“Congratulations,” Shane mutters. This time, he doesn’t offer his hand to shake.
“Thanks.”
Rozanov doesn’t congratulate Shane. Instead, he’s pulled away by the media crew for interviews. He looks handsome and older than eighteen, which he’d turned just last week. Shane knew because Shane had been secretly obsessing about him since they met last year.
In comparison, Shane doesn’t physically match up. He’s short where Rozanov is one of the tallest in the room. And Rozanov is broad, muscular, and built for power while Shane’s sinewy frame is good for speed and stamina.
It makes him feel jealous. It makes him feel insecure. It also makes him feel other things that he can’t put words to; a stirring in his stomach as he watches Rozanov smile for the cameras and lick his lips before answering questions.
Shane turns away, vowing to ignore Rozanov for as long as he can. They’ll meet on the ice, but that doesn’t mean Shane has to pay any more attention to him.
That night, Shane can’t sleep. He blames it on the adrenaline and overexcitement of the day. Or maybe he’s just used to his dad’s snoring lulling him to sleep.
He’s an adult now. He told his parents that he wanted to get his own room and he can pay for it himself with the signing bonus from the Voyageurs. They’d agreed, wanting to give him his independence, but now Shane is regretting it.
He pulls on his socks and running shoes. If he can’t exhaust his mind, he’ll exhaust his body. He closes the door carefully behind him so as to not alert his parents in the adjoining room.
The gym sensor lights come on and he sets up his IPod to play music while he runs. He almost has a heart attack when, a few minutes later, someone gets onto the treadmill next to his. A quick glance over confirms it’s Ilya Rozanov, setting himself to a similar speed as Shane and then, once realizing Shane is looking at him, cheekily increases the speed by one.
It becomes a battle of wills. They push themselves higher and higher, neither of them wanting to admit defeat, until Shane’s lungs burn and he has to pull the emergency plug on the machine to stop it.
He rips his earbuds out and collapses onto the floor, panting. Rozanov stops his own treadmill and joins him on the floor. He’s sweaty, panting, grinning. Shane has to look away. It’s not any better; Rozanov’s legs are splayed wide and showcases his muscular calves.
God, what is wrong with him? Why won’t his heart rate slow down even though he’s not running anymore?
“Hey,” Rozanov says suddenly and Shane’s eyes jerk up to meet his. The color is unreal and Shane feels like he’s sinking into a sunlit lake. “We will see a lot of each other.”
Shane swallow, bobbing his head awkwardly. Hopefully his cheeks aren’t as red as they feel or hopefully Rozanov passes it off as exertion.
“Oh. Yeah. Montreal and Boston play against each other a lot.”
“Should be interesting.”
Rozanov takes a long drink from his water bottle. Shane wishes he’d thought to bring one. His mouth is so dry and only getting drier as he watches a Rozanov’s throat work as he swallows and a bead of sweat trail down his Adam's apple.
He blinks when Rozanov extends his arm and shakes the bottle in offering.
“Oh. I’m alright. Thanks.”
With a quirked brow, Rozanov silently shakes it again and Shane takes it. He needs water, it would be silly to refuse.
Their hands brush. The tips of Rozanov’s fingers trail over the back of his hand softly. It wasn’t a fluke the first time. There is electricity passing from Rozanov’s hand into Shane’s. Warmth unlike anything he’s ever experienced before. Warmth that spreads across his skin and sinks into his gut.
“Hollander, sit. You look like you are going to pass out.”
Shane complies, but only because he thinks he really might. Horrifically, Rozanov takes the seat next to him.
“What are you even doing here?”
“I said. My son–”
“In Ottawa,” Shane snaps. “What are you doing here?”
He blinks. “I retired with Centaurs. I’ve lived here for few years now. You don’t read the news?”
Right. Shane’s face flames. He’d almost forgotten Rozanov’s trade towards the end of his career, of their career, to Ottawa’s team. It was their final effort to rally a good team and make the playoffs with Rozanov as their captain.
Shane had very deliberately not followed Rozanov's career After. If they saw each other on the ice, Shane worked very hard to see faceless, nameless jerseys.
That didn’t stop him from Googling him, though. There were many lonely nights once Noah was born and Shane was up in the wee hours of the morning dealing with colic. It was easier, alone in the dark, to give into temptation. The only one who would be any wiser was Noah and he was a baby who couldn’t see more than a few inches in front of his face.
He secretly followed Rozanov’s career, followed the events of his personal life through social media and news articles, until one night he came across photos that made him sick and immediately drop his phone.
Ilya Rozanov Marries Hockey Royalty’s Daughter in Elaborate Wedding
Shane could recognize Svetlana from photos. Both from Before, in Ilya’s house, and After on his social media page. He hadn’t even known they were dating. He cried that night and Noah, sick and sensing his dad’s pain, had cried along with him.
Now that he looks at Rozanov’s kid he sees Svetlana in the all the places he didn’t see Ilya. He is such a perfect mix of the two that it makes Shane irrationally angry.
“What’s his name?” Ilya asks.
His face is carefully blank, but his eyes watch Noah like a hawk. Does he see it too? Does he also see Before right in front of him?
“Noah.”
“Mm,” Ilya hums. “Boring.”
Shane laughs, but it’s a choked sound that’s forced out of him. “Okay. What about yours?”
“Theon,” Ilya says proudly. “But, ah, we call him Teddy.”
“Poor kid,” Shane looks back at the ice.
“So how is… Rose?”
Shane smirks without looking at him. He knows Ilya remembers her name. He’d thrown it in Shane’s face for months Before, when they’d had a break in their… whatever they were doing, and Shane had very publicly dated Rose Landry.
It had excited him, then. He was so young. Ilya’s obvious jealousy made him happy. Made him feel wanted. It was mean and juvenile, the way he used to throw it in Ilya’s face back then. But Ilya had made him jealous, too, always being photographed with someone on his arm.
The difference was Ilya didn’t do it maliciously. He didn’t do it to hurt Shane. And Shane’s motivations had been selfish and immature and driven by insecurity.
“She’s doing good. How is Svetlana?”
If Rozanov is surprised that Shane remembers, he doesn’t show it. “Good. Great. Is in Greece, I think.”
“You think?” Shane snorts. “What? For work?”
He tries to recall if he read somewhere what Svetlana does, but draws a blank. Ilya laughs and Shane’s heart thrums wildly at the little wrinkles that appear at the corner of his eyes. Good. It means he’s been smiling over the years. He’s been happy which is what Shane should want for him.
But Shane hasn’t been happy. Not since Before. His son is the beacon of light in his darkness, in the loneliness, and maybe he’d thought Ilya would have felt it too. They’d always understood each other on a different level, both on and off the ice, but now Shane thinks he may be alone in this.
“For her lover,” Ilya laughs. “You really do not read the news. We are divorced many years.”
Oh.
“Oh,” Shane whispers. His chest does something stupid and his stomach flips. “Um. Same.”
Ilya smirks. “I know, Hollander. I read news.”
June 2011- Las Vegas
In every room, Shane looks for Rozanov. It’s been two years since Shane had lost himself in Rozanov’s eyes and found himself in his arms. Two years, but not an isolated incident. It would be much easier if it had been.
But, no. Like moths they’re drawn into each other’s light and every city they find themselves in together has seen their deepening need for each other.
It’s dangerous, so dangerous. Worse than star crossed lovers– rivals, men, Rozanov’s ties to Russia. Being caught could ruin them both, but still…
There’s a flame that burns in them and every time they find their way back to each other it grows hotter and hotter. It’s not a matter of if but when either of them will get burned.
Tonight, Shane doesn’t find Rozanov in the crowd. Out of everyone, he’d been hoping for a handshake from him tonight after winning Rookie of the Year.
He wanted to say; see? I can stand at the top with you. I deserve to be next to you. But Rozanov is nowhere to be found and so the fire grows and grows until it consumes him.
Fuck that guy. Did he go back to his room? What a fucking baby. If Rozanov had won Shane would have readily congratulated him in whatever way Rozanov wanted. But he couldn’t bother to show his face when it’s Shane?
“I’m just gonna step out for some air,” he tells his father. “Just for a minute. I’ll be right back.”
He doesn’t wait for a response. He dodges through the crowd until he finds himself at the rooftop bar. Whatever. He’ll get a drink, douse some of the flame, and return. This is his night. He deserves to enjoy it.
Still, the beer settles heavily in his stomach. The win doesn’t feel a satisfying as it should, not without Rozanov next to him.
Doesn’t it mean something? He didn’t think they were friends or anything but they were something. Weren’t they?
He takes another sip and walks the perimeter until he comes across a familiar profile surrounded by the familiar smell of menthol smoke. The fire comes back tenfold, spewing ash from Shane’s mouth.
“So you’re just sulking up here tonight, then? It bothers you that much that I won?”
Rozanov takes another drag, but Shane sees his entire body tense imperceptibly. See? He knows Rozanov enough to tell. They’re fucking something.
“What was that?” Shane hisses when he hears Rozanov say something under his breath and he explodes with his own fireballs of anger.
“Not everything is about you, Hollander,” and then the blaze is gone, replaced by something sad. Tired. “I go back to Russia. In three days.”
“Okay? That’s… nice.”
He should have said something else. He should have said more like; don’t go somewhere that doesn’t love you, don’t go somewhere I can’t keep you safe.
He shouldn’t have pushed him away when Rozanov turns suddenly in his nice suede shoes and backs him up against the wall to kiss him. He should have tasted the fear, felt the desperation in his hands and mouth.
Instead he breaks away and hisses, “No. No way. Not here. What is wrong with you?”
Rozanov’s expression is completely empty besides a crooked grin that shakes the corners of his mouth. Shane should have known it was fake.
“See you next season,” Rozanov says and leaves Shane burning, burning, burning.
Next season would be different. He was going to end this thing with Rozanov and focus on his game. He’ll never let Rozanov walk away from him, leave him feeling like this, ever again.
They sit in silence, both focused on the drills. Surprisingly, standing right next to each other, Teddy is even smaller than Noah.
“How old is he?”
“Sixteen.”
Shane’s eyebrows raise and he looks over to see Rozanov’s fond expression. “And he’s already been in the junior league?”
“For a year. Early birthday, will be seventeen soon.”
“Still,” Shane turns back to the ice. “Impressive.”
“Yes,” Rozanov says proudly. “I taught him everything I know. He is the best of me.”
Shane bites his bottom lip. It chokes him up a little. A lot. It reminds him of how he feels about his own son. At one point he was scared that Noah would worry about living up to his legacy, but now Shane is positive he’ll transcend it.
As a parent it’s the most horrible, wonderful, humbling feeling. And he sees that reflected in Rozanov’s face now; jealousy because Teddy is living the days that they would do anything to get back and yet undeniable pride.
Noah does not play like Shane. He’s more aggressive, more assertive and combined with his mother’s quick use of foul language; he lands in the penalty box more than Shane ever did.
His stomach turns nervously. Noah and Teddy go for the puck at the same time and although Teddy is shorter, he inherited his father’s bulk. It knocks Noah into the boards and onto the ice while Teddy escapes with the puck.
He knows Noah is fine because he gets up immediately, but he also tosses his gloves off and in a flurry of motion, he and Teddy are grabbing at the front of each other’s jerseys and yelling things that are probably not very nice.
People are looking at them, then looking at Shane and Ilya. The coach lets them have it on for a minute before skating between then, effectively breaking up their alteration, but that doesn’t stop them from screaming obscenities across the ice to each other.
“Should we go, like, talk to them?” Shane asks nervously, feeling the other parent’s judgement across his skin.
“Why would we do that? Is funny. Your son, he did not get that language from his father.”
Shane blushes. “No, but yours did.”
Rozanov grins. Shane can’t stop looking at the way it transforms his face. When had he started smiling so freely? He never used to.
“Look at them,” Rozanov sighs and then sides his gaze in his peripheral to look at Shane. “Doesn’t it remind you? Of Before?”
Shane sucks in a breath.
February 2014- Sochi, Russia
Even after their argument (if you could even call it that) and against Shane’s better judgement, they do not stop seeing each other the next season.
Or the next season.
Or this season, which is nearly over. He can’t stay away, he’s so damn weak, and Rozanov seems determined to drive him into insanity. Maybe it’s a strategy, which is why Lily’s contact will pop up before games. Maybe he’s trying to throw Shane off.
It doesn’t matter. Shane is helpless to resist. He hates it. Hates him.
“I hate you,” he told Rozanov last year.
“Yes, I know,” Rozanov moaned. “Show me.”
But there’s only so much spite and vitriol he could spit from on his knees. Humiliating, terrible, but he loves it. He fucking loves it and he can’t fucking stop.
He didn’t know what to expect from Russia. Rozanov spoke very little about his home country and any effort Shane made into getting to know him was cut off quickly by Rozanov’s mouth on his. When he returned from his trip home after Vegas, he was noticeably more withdrawn. Different.
Shane wanted to know why. He wanted to know what changed. He wants to know how Rozanov feels now; back in his homeland, in the Olympics, playing for his country.
Not that he’d ever tell Shane. It’s a bitter thought that acts as kindling.
He’s sitting in a cafe with some of the USA players, talking about the different sports they wanted to check out on their off time, when Carter says, “Those fucking guys are brave to be here, you know?”
“Brave?” Scott Hunter asks.
“Yeah, like… because of the gay thing. Not saying all figure skaters are gay but, yeah. Some of those guys are risking their lives to be here. Brave as hell.”
Shane swallows. He has an urgent need to see Rozanov. Now. To just make sure he’s okay. He pulls out his phone.
Shane: Having a good time?
It’s simple. Boring, like Rozanov always accuses him of being. But there’s nothing weird or gay or wrong about checking in on another player, right? He waits anxiously for a reply that never comes.
He’s young and doesn’t know how to deal with the fear, the anxiety, so it turns into anger by the time he sees Rozanov again; standing at the top of the lower bowl during the Sweden versus Finland game.
He was alone, always alone but at the time that never mattered to Shane, and he turns to shake his head as soon as Shane gets down the stairs to meet him.
“Not here.”
“No,” Shane says quickly. “I’m not… I just wanted to see… how you’re doing.”
“Fine. Go. Sit down.”
Hurt stuffs itself into Shane’s throat. He’d been so relieved, initially, to see Rozanov here. Looking at him now, Shane can see the dark rings under his eyes and the playful spark that was always in those beautiful eyes fully extinguished.
“I–”
“We are not anything. Not here, Hollander.”
He just wants Rozanov to look at him. He wants to see if he’s scared, even if he can’t show it. He wants to show Rozanov that he’s scared for him.
“You didn’t answer my texts and I thought…”
“No, I did not answer your boring texts. Now will you go?”
Shane bites the inside of his cheek. He has a terrible feeling he might cry. Rozanov is being an asshole, but that’s nothing new. He doesn’t even seem to really mean what he’s saying.
In fact, he looks a whole lot like he’d really like Shane to stay.
But this isn’t the time or place. They don’t do this, whatever this is. Whatever these feelings are. And so Shane is the one to walk away this time.
Shane takes a deep breath. He doesn’t know this man, he reminds himself. Not anymore. At one point, he knew Rozanov better than he knew himself and he’s confident the man would say the same about Shane.
And he would be right.
But that was years ago. They have children and divorces and entire lives lived between then and now; Shane won’t fool himself into thinking they’re still connected like they were Before.
Before. There is so much After that Shane wants to tell him. Would he even care? There’s so much he wants to ask; how was Teddy as a baby? Why didn’t you have more children when you always said you wanted a house full? Why did you get divorced?
What happens now?
He tucks his lips between his teeth and refuses to let them come out. It doesn’t matter now. This is the After and Shane needs to accept that.
Practice ends and Shane all but flies up from his seat. Rozanov is looking at him like he’s crazy, but who cares? He needs to get Noah and get out. Now that he knows Rozanov will be a staple here, maybe he could find a different league to put Noah in. Maybe he can move to the other side of the country, as far away from Before as possible.
But Noah leaves the locker room, smiling so hard that the gap in his front teeth show, and Shane knows he won’t do that to his son. He’ll just need to do whatever possible to ignore Rozanov.
Which would be easier if Theon Rozanov wasn’t grinning with his arm slung over his son’s shoulders like they’ve been friends for years.
“Jesus Christ,” Shane mutters and, if that wasn’t bad enough, feels Ilya come up beside him.
“Mal’chik,” he calls to his son and the deep rumble of his voice, paired with the term of endearment, makes Shane shiver.
He used to call Shane things too. Weird things like tomato and lawnmower that Shane didn’t understand back then, but sounded sexy. But also things like sweetheart, darling, my beloved. That was Before, of course.
Now, Rozanov pulls his son off Noah and kisses his temple dramatically. “You did so good! Wow! Where did you learn this hockey?”
“Papa,” Teddy gently shoves his father away with an embarrassed grimace. Oh god. Seeing them next to each other is making Shane’s chest fucking clench.
And worse– seeing Noah next to Rozanov. His mouth open and his eyes nearly bugging out of his head. Shane closes his eyes. He can’t do this.
“Holy shit,” Noah gasps. “Your dad is Ilya Rozanov.”
“I fucking told you!”
“Language,” Shane and Ilya both reprimand. They look at each other and then Shane looks away.
“I’m a huge fan,” Noah gushes, which is true. Do you know how hard it was for one of his son’s favorite players to be Ilya Rozanov? “My dad talked about you all the time.”
“No I didn’t,” Shane practically shouts and three pairs of eyes blink at him.
“Oh,” Ilya smiles at Noah kindly. “Did he?”
“Yeah. About how hard of a time you gave him on the ice.”
And off, Rozanov’s eyes seem to say. They’re shining with mirth and Shane scowls.
“I didn’t realize you two were friends,” he says to change the subject. “Weren’t you just fighting on the ice?”
“Dad,” Noah rolls his eyes, a true teenager. “It’s hockey. Teddy is cool.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Hollander,” Rozanov’s son says. “I’m actually a fan of you too.”
“Terrible taste,” Ilya tuts and shoots Shane another heart stopping grin. “Gets it from his mother.”
Teddy whines. “Stop, Papa. You’re so embarrassing.”
“Is what fathers are for,” and then to Shane says, “He has poster in bedroom of you.”
Shane laughs. He can’t help it. Teddy’s face is completely red and slack with mortification.
“Oh my god, no I don’t! It’s–I’m a Voyageurs fan! It’s a vintage poster! What the fuck!”
“You should come over,” Noah says and Shane tries to kill his son with his eyes. “We have a ton of Voyageurs stuff.”
Shane can tell Teddy is attempting to play it cool, but he looks like an overly excited puppy with a treat dangling in front of his face. He looks to Ilya pleadingly.
“That would be cool, right? Can I go?”
“You ask me as if I ever say no to you. It’s Hollander here you have to convince.”
Noah and Teddy both turn to him and Shane freezes under the pressure. No. He’ll say. No. Noah has homework. It doesn’t matter that it’s a weekend and school has only just started. No.
“Dad?” Noah asks hopefully.
Fuck. Is Shane really so selfish that he’d deny his son making a friend just because of Shane’s history with his father?
He smiles tightly. “Of course he can, buddy. He can stay for dinner.”
“And Mr. Rozanov too,” Noah says, the damn fanboy. Shane wishes his eyes were lasers. If he didn’t love his son so much he’d strangle him right now.
“Yes?” Ilya confirms. His brow is quirked. It’s mocking Shane, asking what he’ll do.
“Sure,” the word tears out of Shane’s chest. There’s no way Rozanov will make him look like a punk in front of his kid. “Mr. Rozanov too.”
Ilya grins.
November 2016- Boston
Nothing changes between them until everything does. In 2014, Shane watches Rozanov win the Cup with quiet, private tears in his own eyes. He was terribly jealous and even more terribly proud.
His texts from Sochi continued to be unanswered. He doesn’t see or speak to Rozanov until June of the following year at the NHL Awards, where Rozanov tried to pretend everything had been fine. That he hadn’t ignored Shane for months, left him high and dry and fucking worried.
Did Shane forgive him? No necessarily. He had a whole speech planned in his head for when he got Rozanov alone. About how he was fucking around with him, how he was cruel and obviously didn’t care about Shane’s feelings so they were done. Really. Done.
Did it go that way? No. Because Shane is weak, so fucking weak to those eyes that remind him of his lakefront cottage in Ottawa.
Rozanov had found his spark again. Shane was already angry at him for being late to the awards show and then he was angry at him because who the fuck put that light back in his eyes after Shane walked away?
It’s wrong. Terrible; that he wants Rozanov to be happy but only if it’s with him. This isn’t like Shane at all, but Rozanov seems to expose the worst parts of himself.
The best parts of him, too. He’s never been able to be more himself than when it’s just them. He doesn’t feel like he has to mask, he doesn’t feel like he has to be Shane Hollander; hockey god and role model to children.
With Rozanov, he can just be Hollander. Someone flawed and forgivable and human. He can be just Shane; someone lovable. Someone worthy of it.
It goes on for more years. The fire grows, but it doesn’t engulf them. Instead, it keeps Shane warm until the next time they see each other.
Oh god. He likes him. Really fucking likes him.
It’s so obvious, does it Rozanov see it all over his face? What would he say if he knew?
He invites Shane over to hookup at his place while the Voyageurs are in Boston for a few days. He opens the door and they collide together like magnets pulling, pushing, never breaking apart.
After, he tells Shane to stay. He cooks him a meal. He bought fucking ginger ale to have around.
“I like girls.”
“Yeah, no shit.”
“But I also like you.”
Shane is going to fucking die.
“Well, lucky me,” Shane grumbles.
“Not as a person, of course. But you have a good mouth.”
They smile at each other until Rozanov’s phone ringing interrupts them. Something shifts after that phone call. He knows it was Rozanov’s father. He knows he’s been unwell because Rozanov told him so; a sliver of his life he’s shared with Shane.
His eyes are hurt. Scared. Shane wants to take it away, needs to make it better, and all he has to offer is his body. He gives himself willingly.
It’s different. He has to feel this like Shane does, doesn’t he? It’s never been like this.
“Shane…”
So soft, almost not even there. Shane can’t even catch it in the space between them.
“Ilya.”
They kiss, but it’s not full of need or desire or desperate lust like Shane is used to. It’s sad. It’s an apology.
Oh no. Oh fuck. Oh no.
Shane has to leave. He does leave. He makes a bullshit excuse about a forgotten team meeting and ignores the pained, disbelieving expression on Rozanov’s face.
“Goodnight, then,” he tells Shane and Shane covers his eyes the entire ride back to the hotel so the driver can’t see the tears falling.
After that night, he meets Rose Landry.
Shane still lives in the cottage in Ottawa. Even after he and Rose married, he never gave it up. They had moved into something nicer, bigger, expecting to fill it with children and love and laughter.
Obviously that didn’t work out.
Rose had probably begun to suspect Shane wasn’t all that into her by the end of their first year of marriage. Conceiving Noah was a miracle and one that took many, many mental pictures of muscular arms and hairy thighs.
It was during their anniversary dinner that Rose, blunt and confident as ever, had just… asked. Told Shane it obviously wasn’t working and was it because he’s actually gay?
And he told her. He loves her. He will always love her. He will always mourn the life they could have had together; the normal life, the life where both of Noah’s parents were together.
Marrying Rose was the biggest mistake of his life. He loved her, yes. But not like that. Not like him. He doesn’t regret it, though, because Rose gave him Noah and Noah gave Shane purpose.
He and Noah ride home silently, Rozanov’s SUV tailing them. Shane smirks a little at the fact that he’d traded in his collection of sporty, luxury cars for a dad-van.
When they pull up, Teddy and Noah both race out of the car and inside, leaving Shane and Ilya alone.
He already feels like one raw, exposed nerve from today. And to have Ilya here…
“This is nice place.”
Anger bubbles until Shane is choking on it.
January 2017- Tampa Bay
He and Rose are on a “break”, which is code for; Shane is lame in bed and Rose is filming in Italy surrounded by exotic men.
He can’t blame her. He’d prefer exotic men too.
But he’s secretly relieved that she called things off. Not just because of the obvious reasons, but also this weekend is NHL All Star Games and the first year out of six that he and Rozanov will play on the same team.
They haven’t spoken in months and Shane isn’t sure what sort of welcome he’ll receive. He wears his best clothing, ones he paid good money to look good in, just to see Rozanov’s face as he walks through the team lounge and finds him sitting at the bar.
Just as he’d hoped, Rozanov’s gaze travels down his body. A thrill that Shane hasn’t felt in months shoots up his spine.
They laugh and they talk about nothing in particular. It’s nice. Shane makes sure to speak about he and Rose’s relationship in past tense and Rozanov, of course, picks up on it.
“Are you and her not…”
Shane shakes his head. “We’re not. No.”
Rozanov smiled at him. A real smile, one that Shane thought meant very real things.
They have a fun weekend. On the ice, they’re unstoppable. They barely spare a glance at each other to pass and they have trust that the other person will be there to get the puck. They always are.
Rozanov kisses his cheek after Shane’s game winning goal and Shane feels his body being flung into the sun. This is right. Whatever it is between them, Shane is sure about it. He wants this.
He thinks Rozanov wants this too.
On Sunday, they find each other on the beach. Well, Shane sits and waits because he knows Rozanov will come looking.
“What room are you in?” Shane whispers.
“Twelve seventeen.”
“I’d like to talk. Somewhere private.”
Rozanov stands and dusts the sand from his pants.
“See you soon.”
Shane tries not to think about that night often. It was the beginning of the end. The end of Before.
He’d gone to Rozanov’s room and for the first time his clothes stayed on the entire time. They talked for hours, until Shane’s throat was hoarse and Ilya’s eyes were wet.
It was hard. Ilya told him about his mother, about losing her, how he almost lost himself. He bared his heart to Shane and Shane promised, in so many words, that he would take care of it.
“It’s… It’s not just me, right?”
“Not just you?”
“I mean… you feel it too, don’t you?”
Shane’s hands tremble as he separates the burgers onto the grill. It wasn’t just Rozanov who was vulnerable that night. Shane had said… so much. Too much. But at the time it made him feel light and absolved from all the secrets and hurt that had been weighing him down.
Rozanov called him Shane that night. They kissed before he left with the unspoken promise that they’d see each other again.
They do. In March of that year, Shane visits Ilya’s home in Boston and thinks, something is wrong. It’s not something he could put a finger on at the time and Ilya had acted so… normal.
He’d kissed Shane like he needed him and Shane told himself he’d ask about it later. After. He thought now there would always be time.
He and Rose stayed on friendly but distant terms like exes would. He started building a future that included Ilya, that included coming out to his parents and building an addition to his garage to house some of Ilya’s cars.
That future was written for them somewhere out there. Shane wishes he could read it.
Because, instead, Shane had left and the next day he found out Ilya had gone to Russia to deal with the passing of his father. Shane couldn’t reach him for days. He bit his nails down to the quick waiting for a text or call or fucking something.
He wished he could have been there for him during it all. He tried, when Rozanov had called late one night and cried and cried and Shane suggested he say whatever he needed to say in Russian to just let it out.
God. To this day, he wishes he knew what Rozanov said on that call. It always felt like he missed something important.
Shane jerks as a hand gently encircles his waist.
“We have a lot to catch up on,” a voice purrs close to his ear.
Shane tries not to shiver. “Do we?”
He flips the burger and attempts to sidestep Rozanov’s roaming hand. “Don’t.”
“Why not? Nothing has changed for me.”
A long forgotten fire that Shane had thought was gone forever blazes back to life. He sucks in a breath, feeling smoke gather in his lungs and suffocating him.
He whirls around to face Ilya who looks so damn serious. There’s no laughter on his face anymore, no teasing.
“Exactly,” Shane snaps. “Things haven’t changed. That’s the problem.”
April 2017- Montreal
They’ve texted a few times in the weeks since Rozanov’s return from Moscow, but this is the first time seeing each other in person in even longer.
Shane skates the perimeter and comes to a stop in front of him.
“Hi.”
He sees Rozanov’s mouth twitch, but his face is set in a glare. “Hollander.”
Shane tries very hard not to smile. “We still on for tonight? After?”
Shane watches Rozanov’s jaw tighten. “Hey,” he says, his eyebrows furrowed. “Are you alright?”
“We will talk later.”
“Yeah. Later.”
Later doesn’t come. Shane doesn’t remember it, but he must have gone down pretty hard because the next time he’s conscious it’s in a hospital room hooked up to a million beeping monitors.
He does remember some things, though. He remembers calling out of Ilya. He remembers hands prying them apart and he remembers begging them to let Ilya know he was okay, that he was going to be okay.
It’s not until the next morning that Ilya is allowed to visit. He walks into Shane’s room at exactly 10:01am, one minute after official visitations begin. He has a sticker with a blurry black and white photo of himself on it.
So fucking cute. Maybe Shane can convince him to keep it for him.
He reaches his arms out for Ilya. A concussion, a fractured collarbone, no playoffs. But it could have been worse.
And now Ilya is here so everything is great and perfect and Shane will be just fine because Ilya is here!
“I wanted to talk to you last night, before this happened.”
Ilya’s face twists into something painful. Why? Shane doesn’t understand. Everything is so good, why is he making that face?
“Shane,” he sighs.
“Will you come to the cottage? We can have a week or two, Ilya. Haven’t you ever wanted more time?”
Ilya kisses the back of his hand, but his pained expression never goes away. “Of course I have.”
“Is same here,” Ilya touches his chest, where his heart is, and then taps his temple. “But not here. I am different now. A man, a father, a fucking Canadian citizen. The fears I had then… I was so young.”
“Yeah? So was I.”
“We were so young,” Ilya corrects and his other hand cautiously comes up to the other side of Shane’s hip. “I did not think that life would be good to us.”
“I needed you,” Shane whispers, pathetically.
Ilya shakes his head, his face pinched and tight with pain. “Moy lyubimyy.”
“Fuck you. You don't get to call me that anymore. Not now. Not after…”
After.
June 2017- Montreal
He hasn’t heard from Ilya since the hospital, but he tries not to think too much of it. They’ve gone much longer without speaking and Ilya had promised he’d let Shane know about coming to the cottage later that month.
Shane hopes he says yes. He hopes he gets to show Ilya the lake and the loons and the the firepit and the indoor rink and he hopes they can make love on every surface until every room is christened by their love.
He loves him. Fuck, Shane loves Ilya. Why had that been so scary before? Now it only feels wonderful because he thinks that Ilya might love him back and what could be scary about that?
He shakes his head at the TV. He can’t believe New York is finally going to win the cup. Scott Hunter is dominating the ice right now, leading his team into the last thirty seconds before victory.
Shane sighs. He wishes he could call Ilya now. They love making fun of Scott Hunter together.
The buzzer sounds and red and blue confetti fall onto the ice. Player’s families rush on to hug and kiss each teammate, except Scott Hunter who is looking lost and alone and searching the crowd for something the camera can’t pick up on.
Shane leans forward. Hunter is waving at someone. His girlfriend? But when the cameras turn, there’s a guy awkwardly taking the steps two at a time. A really hot guy. A really hot guy who is taking Scott Hunter’s hand to hop over the banister.
“No fucking way.”
Shane’s heart gallops in his chest. He and his parents watch, stunned, as New York’s captain pulls the random hot guy into a kiss.
On TV. Right after winning the Cup.
He needs to talk to Ilya.
Holy shit.
He doesn’t bother to make an excuse as to why he gets up, his parents aren’t paying attention to him anyway.
Lily: Call Failure
Lily: Call Failure
“Come on, Ilya.”
Shane is shaking as he types out a text: What the fuck?!!!? Did you see that?? Is that his boyfriend????!!!!!
Noah is giving Teddy the grand tour. By the time Shane finds him, they’re in the living room admiring his Voyageurs memorabilia.
“This is so sick, dude. Your dad must have, like, hundreds of awards.”
Shane is humbled by the pride in his son’s voice when he says, “Yeah. Look at this one, he won Rookie of the Year.”
“Don’t rub it in, man. My dad was a rookie that year too.”
Noah laughs. “Well your dad won a cup in, like, two years. Insane.”
Teddy hums, his shoulders squaring a little as he seems to remember that his father is also a well decorated hockey pro, but Shane understands that it loses its grandeur over the years.
“I can’t believe you keep all this stuff in the living room,” Teddy points to the various sports merchandise and the huge slapshot practice net that takes up most of the room. “Doesn’t your mom, like, hate it?”
“My mom doesn’t live here. She stays in the states, mostly, for work. But I get to see her a lot during the summers and when she’s not filming,” Noah defends his mother and Shane feels a pang of sympathy and fondness.
“Oh, I feel that. My mom still technically lives with us, but only because she spends so much time traveling she says it’s not worth having something permanent.”
Shane sighs a little in relief until Teddy follows that up with, “But she’d never let dad have all this out. She says girls don’t like stuff like this.”
And his son responds. “That doesn’t matter. It’s just me and my dad right now and he’s gay, so.”
Noah. Oh my god. Lasers. Why don’t eyes have lasers?
But then Teddy laughs. “Yeah? That’s cool. My dad is bisexual.”
Shane freezes. Never did he think Ilya Rozanov would be out. That his son would be comfortable to speak so freely about his sexuality, as if it was just another cool fact about his father.
Shane… Shane doesn’t know how that makes him feel.
A little wonderful. A little terrible.
After
Shane waits.
He waits and waits and waits and waits and fucking goddamn fucking waits. He wastes a whole summer in his cottage doing nothing. Nothing but waiting.
Summer ends and it takes everything Shane ever hoped for with it.
Rozanov never comes to the cottage. No. Beyond that, he never responds to Shane’s texts at all. Shane would have thought he was fucking dead if he wasn’t obsessively checking social media for signs of life.
Rozanov posts photos of nothing. His cars, his clothes, a fucking sunset somewhere that definitely isn’t Boston. He leaves Shane dealing with this terribleness alone.
Scott Hunter becomes the first NHL player to be publicly gay and he suffers for it. Every news station talks about it, every Reddit comment is cruel and scary for someone like Shane. Scott and his boyfriend have to filter their Instagram comments.
But there’s also so much fucking good that Shane tries to hold on to. New York City’s pride parade was overrun with Scott Hunter’s jersey and every photo is a sea of red and blue and white and Shane’s eyes sting every damn time he sees them that the colors blur together.
It had given Shane hope. More hope than it did fear.
Obviously Ilya did not feel the same way.
By September, Shane has accepted that Ilya is not coming.
He was never going to come, was he?
He cries until he makes himself sick and only then does he promise himself this is the last time.
For real this time.
Teddy and Ilya leave after dinner. Shane feels like the odd man out; the boys make conversation with each other and with Ilya and they politely try to include him but Shane just… can’t.
Maybe it’s rude but he excuses himself so he doesn’t have to awkwardly say goodbye and he only crawls out of his hole when he hears the Rozanov SUV pull away.
He goes looking for Noah and finds him in his room, sitting cross legged on his bed and reading a comic. It’s Marvel and Shane smiles, realizing it’s the one that is being adapted into a live action starring Rose.
“Hey, bud.”
Noah looks up, his face turned down in concern. “Hey. You okay?”
“Yeah. Just didn’t feel well. Must have been the burgers or something.”
“I feel fine,” Noah shrugs. “Wanna sit?”
Shane takes the invitation and rests on the corner of his son’s mattress, his elbows resting on his knees.
“Did you have fun today?”
Noah grins, which makes every terrible thing worth it. “Oh hell yeah. I think this is gonna be a great team.”
“You and Teddy seemed to get along.”
Noah’s face brightens even more at the mention of his new friend. “Totally. Thanks for letting them come over.”
“Of course. I’m glad you made a friend so quickly.”
“Did you know Mr. Rozanov is bisexual?”
Shane freezes. “Oh yeah?”
“Yup,” Noah pops the ‘p’ dramatically.
“Do you even know what that means?”
“Dad,” Noah sneers. “Obviously. What do you think I am?”
Shane raises his hands in surrender and laughs. “Sorry, sorry. I’m just checking.”
“So?” Noah prompts after a moment of Shane not continuing.
He furrows his brows. “So…?”
“Oh my god. Dad. For real. You’re gay, he likes guys… come on.”
Shane’s heart stops beating and then starts again, kicking rapidly against his sternum. “You can’t seriously… Just because we both like men doesn’t mean we like each other.”
“Why not? He’s, like, hot for an old guy. And you still look my age.”
“Noah,” Shane places his head in his hands. He feels dizzy and a little sick. “Please.”
“I just…” His son’s voice is suddenly small, vulnerable, and Shane picks his head up.
Noah is twisting the corner of the blanket like he did as a kid when he was anxious about something.
“I just don’t want you to be lonely.”
Oh god.
“I’m not lonely. I have you. That’s all I need.”
“Lame,” Noah rolls his eyes, but his expression is still pinched. “I mean, Ilya Rozanov would be a pretty cool stepdad to have.”
“Hey. Donnie is a pretty cool guy.”
“Sure, but he’s not a famous hall of fame hockey player.”
Shane scoffs. “He’s literally a movie star!”
Noah’s scowl deepens. “You’re being difficult. Grandma would say so too.”
“Do not,” Shane warns, “Tell your grandmother about this. She’d lose her mind if she found out you were trying to set me up with Il- Rozanov.”
They were supposed to face that together. It would have been easier if they were younger and they had time to plan. They would have made a plan together.
“Grandma would agree with me!” Noah snaps. “She’s always saying that you need to get out and find someone! I’m gonna go to college sooner or later, dad, or maybe go pro and how am I–”
Shane is shocked. His son, his boy, is baby is crying.
“Hey,” Shane quickly pulls him to his chest. “Hey. Stop that.”
“How am I supposed to leave you here alone?” Noah sobs. “Mom is married again and she’s happy and– and–”
Shane pulls him in tighter and cradles him like he did when he was a child. “Okay. Okay, shh. Relax. Okay.”
After
They’re not strangers. They’re something much worse.
They’re figments of each other’s past, two ships in the night, never fated to meet again.
Shane doesn’t text. Ilya doesn’t reach out.
They’re thrust into the After.
Life After Ilya Rozanov is terrible because there was almost a During. There was never supposed to be After.
They see each other on the ice. It gets easier as time goes on, but it never hurts any less. Shane never looks up during their face offs. Only down at the puck. Only away from those eyes he loves, he loves, he will always fucking love.
He doesn’t come out. What’s the point if it’s not with Ilya by his side? It’s not worth it if it isn’t for him. For them.
He marries Rose Landry. It feels less like a wedding and more like a movie set with how many cameras are there. Rose is used to it, Shane isn’t. He spends the entire night insecure and sweaty and waiting for it to be over. Not how you should feel on the best day of your life.
Rose gives birth to Noah on December 23rd. Shane will never be able to escape Ilya Rozanov and their Before.
Shane is an okay dad. He thinks. He hopes, at least. But he’s not silly. He’s not wild. He worries about every scraped knee and cut lip. How did his parents do this?
He finds himself wondering what Ilya Rozanov would be like as a dad and he can’t help that it makes him smile. He’d be fun, definitely. He’d be the parent you call when you needed to talk about girl problems. Or boy problems. He’d take them out of school on a random Tuesday to go to the zoo.
Irresponsible, immature, but Shane thinks it would be the luckiest child in the world.
It’s hours after he finally got Noah to calm down, but Shane is restless.
This has been far and away the most emotionally taxing day of his entire life. Maybe he should call Rose. She knows now that there was someone in his past, a man, but he’d never told her who.
Shane smiles a little. Rose would freak out. But he needs to talk to someone. He can’t sleep in this silent room filled with his echoing thoughts any longer.
He picks up his phone and realizes he already has a text from an hour prior. His breath stutters.
Lily: the hollander i know would never change his phone number
Shane’s fingers tremble, flying quickly over the screen.
Shane: you don’t know me anymore
Lily: looks like i do :)
Lily: come to practice on monday
Shane: Why?
Lily: want to see you. i didnt want to leave without saying goodbye tonight
Shane bites his bottom lip.
Shane: You’ve left without saying goodbye before.
Lily: i was stupid idiot jerkoff
Lily: there is so much i want to say
Lily: pick up
Shane stares at his screen, confused, until it starts to vibrate in his hand. He drops it. No way. He’s practically panting. No way is he going to pick up the phone! He isn’t in his 20s anymore. He’s a grown man, he made a promise to himself.
“Hello?”
“Shane.”
Shane covers his mouth. It’s been so long. Too long. He thought… Never again…
“Please, moy lyubimyy. Listen to me when I say this. If still, after, you want nothing to do with me… I will accept it.”
Shane says nothing, but he doesn’t hang up either, which gives Ilya the permission he’s looking for.
“From the beginning– I’ll start there. From the beginning, the way I felt for you… it was so scary. Never in my life have I felt what I did, then. I have not since. I wanted to come to you so badly, sweetheart–”
“Why didn’t you?” Shane whispers. “I-I fucking waited for you. All summer, Ilya. For years after, probably.”
Ilya makes a distressed noise over the phone. “When my father died I thought I would… that I would be free. I had nothing to take me back to Russia again and I decided; yes, we would be together. We would make this work.”
“What changed?”
“You were hurt. And I could not go to you. I had already lost so much; my mother, my father, my country. And still none of it made me feel what I did that night, seeing you like that. I say to myself; if I remove you from my life, I would not have to fear losing you. I would not have to worry for the day I would lose you like I always lose everything.”
“Ilya–”
“No,” he cuts in quickly. “Please, Shane. Let me– I say this to myself, but I lost you anyway. That summer was worst of my fucking life. I drank it away so I would not have to think about where you were, who with. I grieved you, sweetheart, more than anything else I ever lost.”
“I was trying,” Ilya sucks in a breath and Shane curls into a ball at his side. He feels ridiculous. He has butterflies. He’s a retired professional hockey player and he’s blushing.
“By the time I realized what I had done… was too late. You were married with a baby on the way and I was– I had nothing to offer you. I was so mad that you marry her, but mostly at myself because I think: that should be me.”
“You married Stevlana,” Shane points out. “Not that long after. What, like a year? Forgive me if I find this too little too late.”
“Svetlana is my best friend. My oldest friend. There were things we needed that we could find each other.”
Shane grumbles, jealousy gripping him tightly. His stomach roils with it. “Like what?”
Ilya laughs. “You are jealous!”
“You realize how thin of ice you’re walking on right now?”
“Sorry, sorry,” but Rozanov’s voice is laced with a smile. “Fuck. Hearing your voice again. When I heard it today my heart… Anyway. Stevlana needed a husband to appease her family— they are very big deal in Russia— that would let her be free to do what with whoever she wants.”
“And you needed?”
“Citizenship, dummy. So I could leave Russia behind for good.”
“You had a baby,” Shane mutters.
“You had a baby! And you are so gay, I am at least attracted to women!”
Shane’s mouth pulls into a smile. Oh god. He’s a teenager all over again. All these years later and Rozanov can reduce him to this.
“Shut up.”
“How did that even work? Am surprised you could finish.”
“Ilya,” he laughs, really laughs. His body feels light, vibrating a little in excitement. Joy. Pure fucking joy. “Jesus.”
“What? Is real question!”
“Finish your apology before you get to question my sex life, Rozanov.”
“Right,” Ilya’s voice sobers and Shane’s grin softens into a smile. “I am so sorry. I should have come you. Biggest mistake of my life and I have lived with it every day. And then I saw you today…”
“Fuck, Hollander, you are still so…. You are gorgeous, sweetheart, even now. Especially now. Your freckles are still the same.”
“I’m old,” Shane says shyly.
“We are old-ish. Young for most, but our jobs make us feel ancient. You could be thirty with that ass.”
“Oh my god, Rozanov.”
“I don’t want you to forgive me,” he tells Shane, which makes him freeze. “How could I ask that? I don’t even forgive myself. But I want to see if there is possibility of moving forward. Together.”
Shane swallows. “Wow. That’s pretty selfish to ask.”
“Yes. Some things never change.”
“I don’t have an answer for you right now. It’s been almost two decades, Ilya.”
“I will wait, moy lyubimyy. You have waited long enough, is my turn now.”
After
Shane tries to date. It’s disastrous.
He regrets telling his ex-wife he’s gay. Rose is kind, well meaning, but painfully straight. Shane’s first date is with a Hollywood twink. Not Shane’s type, but his eyes were a pretty green.
They argued over who got to bottom that night. They decided to leave it as a draw and part ways amicably.
His second date is only a little better. He is physically more appealing to Shane; taller, more muscular. Brown eyes. Shane frowns.
He’s perfectly nice, but that’s the problem. He’s perfectly nice. He pays for dinner and kisses him chastely goodnight and not once did he make fun of Shane’s corduroy pants Rose made him wear.
(Ilya would never let him live it down)
He didn’t understand Shane’s need to fill silences. It’s an anxious habit of his, he knows it’s annoying, but the silence makes him crawl.
(Ilya always listened)
He makes a face when Shane doesn’t laugh at his jokes because he doesn’t understand them. He doesn’t make fun of Shane for it, but he’s obviously bothered by it and dinner lapsed into awkward nothingness.
(Ilya never cared if Shane didn’t laugh, and he never stopped trying)
That night he tells Rose he’s not ready to date, but thank you for trying.
She frowns as she passes a babbling Noah to his father. “Is it ‘cause of that guy? From before?”
“No,” Shane lies and kisses Noah’s fat baby cheek. “I’m completely over him.”
On Monday, Shane hesitates before deciding whether he’ll sit next to Rozanov or not. The request was to come to practice on Monday, not join him to watch their kids play.
Ilya’s leg is bouncing. He looks down three times in as many minutes to check his watch face. Is he waiting for Shane? He’s definitely glancing around the arena looking for someone.
“Hey.”
Ilya startles in his seat and turns around, his face split open in unmasked relief. “Hi.”
“Mind if I sit?”
After
On Noah’s sixth birthday, he asks for a hockey themed party. Shane does so gladly, with the help of Rose and Jackie and Hayden.
He stays in touch with his old teammates. Ruby and Jade are nearly in high school. Shane feels so fucking old.
JJ comes with his new wife, Kiara, and he’s grinning mischievously with a nicely wrapped present.
“What is that?” Shane asks nervously.
“Don’t worry about it!” JJ tells him in French. “It is nothing!”
It’s not nothing. It’s an Ilya Rozanov Boston Bears jersey exactly Noah’s size. His heart stops.
No one know, he reminds himself, and forces himself to laugh along with the people clapping him on the shoulder.
Hilarious joke. A harmless joke about a formal rival.
Shane excuses himself to the bathroom and doesn’t come out for a very, very long time.
They pick up where they left off. Shane likes watching his son on the ice, but practices are often monotonous and consists of the same drills over and over.
In between, he and Ilya get to know each other again.
He asks Ilya all the questions he wanted to:
How was Teddy as a baby? Beautiful. Quiet.
Why didn’t you have more children when you always said you wanted a house full? Stevlana hated pregnancy and it seemed selfish to ask it of her when they weren’t being conceived out of love.
Why did you get divorced? It was time.
What happens now? Whatever Shane wants.
He asks Shane his own questions.
How are your parents? (Shane finds this incredibly sweet.) They’re good. Enjoying their own retirement.
Why the name Noah? It was Shane’s paternal grandfather’s name. Rose thought it was pretty. They couldn’t agree on anything else. She also liked the name ‘Quarry’.
Are you serious? Yeah. Dead serious.
“You can not name a baby that, Hollander, is cruel!”
“Yeah,” Shane laughs. “That’s what I told her.”
After
Shane wakes up, just like he does every day.
He brushes his teeth, brushes his hair, shaves the remnants of stubble from his chin. Every day is the same.
He lives a life of consistency and boringness. Always the same. When was the last time he was excited for something?
He smiles a little. In a few hours, he’ll be driving Noah to his first junior league practice.
That’s something to be excited about.
It’s during a game when a fight breaks out. But it’s not between opposing players. Ilya is up on his feet first.
“Is that…” Shane gets up and rushes after him.
Noah and Teddy are on the ice, their helmets off, their fists flying at each other.
The ref hesitates before sending them both to the penalty box. It doesn’t matter, the buzzer runs out in thirty seconds and Ottawa loses.
“What the fuck were they thinking?”
Noah storms out of the locker room first. His nose is red and his teeth are grinding together. His eyelashes are wet.
“Noah—“
He passes Shane without looking at him and pushes open the exit to the parking lot. He looks back at Ilya.
Go, his face says. Go to your son. I’ll talk to you later.
Shane nods. When had he started being able to read Ilya like that again?
Noah is in the passenger seat, hoodie over his forehead, curled up against the door. He’s very, very still except for his shoulders which keep hiccuping.
“Do you—“
“Can we please,” Noah croaks, “just go home?”
Shane starts the car. He doesn’t turn on the radio. He’s itching to say something.
“He was just talking shit,” Noah says suddenly. “I don’t even know why— he was just saying that I, like, fucked up the pass. But I got so angry.”
“It was your first game,” Shane says gently. “You were already feeling nervous about doing well. He shouldn’t have said that. I though you guys were friends?”
“We are! He’s… he’s my best friend, I think. I don’t know, I think he is. He gets me, you know?”
Shane nods. “Yeah. I know.”
Noah sighs and presses his forehead to the glass. “I’ve never met someone who I didn’t have to explain shit to. He just… got it. I didn’t have to feel weird about my mom in another country or my gay dad—“
“Hey.”
“— because he just didn’t judge me for any of it.”
“Well,” Shane points out. “He has a pretty similar life.”
“Yeah,” Noah whispers. “But I think, even if he didn’t… I don’t think he would judge me for anything. That’s a best friend, right?”
“I think so.”
“And best friends fuck around with each other all the time. You and Uncle Hayden are always saying shit to each other.”
“I’m really trying not to correct you about your language, but Jesus, Noah. Calm it.”
“Sorry,” he mutters. “Locker room. Ya know?”
Shane sighs and pulls into their driveway. Neither of them move.
“Okay. So he’s your best friend and best friends neg each other. So why did it bother you so much?”
Noah is silent for a long moment. “I don’t like when he says sh-stuff like that towards me. I’m not a kid but it, like, hurts my feelings.”
“Adults get their feelings hurt too. It’s not a kid thing.”
Noah ignores. “I think it hurts because I care about what he thinks of me. I’ve never cared before, but I just… don’t want to let him down.”
Shane’s phone vibrates.
Lily: they are starting to remind me more and more of us
Lily: my son throws a better punch fyi
Shane: I’m so sorry. How’s Teddy?
Lily: sad. but not because of punch. He is hormonal and thinks his friend is mad at him.
Lily: he told me what he said. I tell him save that for the other team!! not your friend.
Shane hides a smile behind his hand, not that Noah is looking. He's sulking in his seat and making no move to go inside.
Shane: Yup. Noah’s feeling it right now too.
Lily: how badly you want to meddle right now?
Shane: So bad.
Lily: *Location Shared*
Lily: ice cream run?
Shane puts his car in reverse.
“Where are we going?” Noah grumbles.
“You need ice cream.”
Noah is silent for a long moment. “Woah. You never let me have ice cream. Am I in trouble or something?”
Shane ignores him until they’re pulling up to a dramatically decorated shack. He spots Rozanov’s car as he forces Noah out of the car.
“Wow!” Ilya pretends, very badly, to be shocked when the little bell rings and the Hollander boys step inside. “What a surprise! I can not believe—“
“Okay,” Shane cringes. “Too much.”
Teddy and Noah look at each other silently. Teddy has a red cheek that Shane hopes won’t bruise and his usually cheerful smile is pulled into a frown.
“You guys are so annoying.”
“Is what fathers are for!” Ilya stands and gathers Teddy and Noah under each of his arms. “Okay. Now hug.”
“Ew.”
“God, ew. No.”
Ilya looks down at them, confused. “What? What is wrong with hugging friends? Look. Me and Hollander will hug to show you.”
And then it’s Shane being pulled into Ilya’s arms. He feels a little softer around the middle, but he smells the same. Shane hasn’t felt so warm in so long. Sixteen years long.
Ilya lets him go, but his hands linger just a second longer than necessary. His cheeks are a little red. Shane smiles. Adorable.
“Okay,” Ilya claps his hands. “I want ice cream. You boys go on long line and wait.”
Before they can protest, Shane crosses his arms. “No complaining. This your punishment for…”
He looks to Ilya for help. “For hurting your friend! Now go. Hollander, give them money.”
“You kidding? You told me to come here!”
“Your father,” he tells Noah. “Such a cheapskate. Do not be like this.”
For the first time in hours, Noah cracks a smile. There’s something about Ilya Rozanov that breaks through the generational divide of the Hollanders. Somehow Shane is sure his dad will love Ilya too.
Teddy and Noah disappear together, bumping their shoulders in silent apologies.
“You’re good with them,” Shane says when he and Ilya find an empty table to wait. “Noah likes you.”
“He has good taste. Gets it from his father.”
Shane grins. “You know, he’s been trying to set us up since the first practice. Why don’t you look surprised?”
“What? I totally am! Is it working though? Him trying to set us up?”
“Oh my god—” Shane pauses. “Ilya. You did not recruit our children to get me to go out with you.”
“Of course not. But let’s say I did… is it working?”
Shane laughs, his heart soaring. He grabs Ilya’s hand under the table.
Teddy and Noah come back with enough ice cream to feed a small village. They must have spent a fortune on Shane’s credit card.
It doesn’t matter.
There’s so much warmth radiating from the table. Noah’s gap-toothed smile, Teddy’s laughter, and Ilya’s hand in Shane’s; the ice cream will melt under it.
He squeezes Ilya’s hand. There was Before, then After, and then; Now.
A Different Time- Somewhere Else
Ilya stares at the television, at Scott Hunter and his probably boyfriend. Or whoever the lucky son of a bitch is that he’s pulling out of the crowd.
Ilya can barely believe what he’s seeing. How is this possible?
But, yes. There Scott Hunter is; looking at this man like he’s the only thing in the world that matters. Holding his face as he leans in to kiss him.
Ilya’s phone vibrates.
Jane: What the fuck?!!!? Did you see that?? Is that his boyfriend????!!!!!
Ilya presses the call button.
“Holy shit, Ilya! Can you belie—”
“I’m coming to the cottage.”