Chapter Text
Ottawa was humid around the July and August months, still bleeding along the edges of the summer gauze pad that marks the steady beginnings of winter and hockey season. This would often strike Ilya as somewhat exciting, a chance to throw his body to the push and pull of the sport.
To a degree, it does, and it will probably continue to do so as long as he lives. But he hasn’t been made anew for a long time, six or so years to be exact. Regardless, a thrum of excitement skates along his veins as he makes the familiar drive to the Hollanders, or at least, David and Yuna.
It was David’s birthday, turning 60 years old in the in-between of heat and cold, an age that was truly remarkable considering that the man still has relatively good eyesight and a perpetual strength to his person.
With a gift bag safely secured in his passenger seat, Ilya makes a turn to the comforting driveway of their warm home. He can see from behind the wheel that both elderly Hollanders were at home, two figures standing opaque behind the glass wall. Ilya turns off the reliable Porsche Spyder and exits the vehicle, making sure to grab the gift bag on the way out.
As he quietly enters the foyer of their house, he can hear the sound of the TV turned on to a Netflix documentary and David’s voice filtering through the volume of the show.
“- can’t believe that it was her mother all along!” David’s voice, boisterous and shocked, pierced Ilya’s ears. If he were to make a guess, it was probably a commentary on the show; he waits in the foyer to listen to the two Hollanders talk.
And it was not supposed to hurt; if anything, he should be happy, but the slight ache in his stomach didn’t lie.
“I know Dad, I can’t believe it too, I think she has an obsession with her daughter’s high school boyfriend.”
David was talking to Shane, the cellphone on speaker as they both seemed to have watched the same documentary. Ilya wasn’t a gambling man, but if he was, he was willing to wager that Shane was the one who suggested the show to his father, their new bonding this past year.
Ilya coughs lightly and noisily takes off his shoes to put them in the rack.
“Ilya? Is that you?”
Yuna peers around the wall of the entryway, much like she did when Shane first introduced him to his parents in their first summer at the cottage.
“It’s me, happy birthday! Papa David is now sixty years old, yes?” Ilya makes a show of lifting the gift bag above his head, smiling at Yuna and greeting her with a hug. From his peripheral vision, he can see David waving at the camera as he ends the call with Shane.
God, it’s almost crazy that he’s celebrating this fucking milestone with his ex-boyfriend’s parents while said ex-boyfriend, son of the couple, was miles away in Vancouver.
“Hello Ilya, how are you son?” David greets him, like he wasn’t just holding the love of his life’s voice in his palm a while ago. The three of them hug briefly, as Ilya closes his eyes against the push of his tears that seemed determined to make a show. Here he was, in Ottawa, embracing the two most amazing gifts that Shane has given him.
“Still good, excited for pre-season this year. Here you go! Gift is simple but you can use it all the time. Got you iPad, so you can watch Netflix while travelling.”
“Thank you son, you shouldn’t have gotten me anything, we just wanted to celebrate with dinner.”
“Nonsense, sixty is very big deal, yes?” Ilya replies, waving away the thanks with a smile.
He takes off his jacket and hangs it over the back of the couch, all the while peering at David’s cellphone, placed carefully on the coffee table.
Ilya knew David had ended the call, but for some reason, he hoped that he was still on that call with Shane; a glimpse of the other’s face would light him alive and bury him dead, but a glimpse was still a glimpse.
He hasn’t seen Shane in years, except on the TV and the commercial billboards placed along the Canadian Tire Centre, unavoidable. Not when Ilya’s job rotates in that arena.
“Are you hungry, Ilya? David made chicken parm and pasta. There’s also brownies in the oven and vanilla ice cream in the freezer.” Yuna says while guiding Ilya to the dining table, another piece of the Hollander house that makes him want to pull his hair out.
He gently pulls her hand free of his arm to walk towards the cabinets where he knew they kept the plates and glasses. They cooked him dinner; at the very least, he can set the table.
“All these sweets, Mama, what would Shane say?” He replied, desperate for their conversation to take a turn towards his favorite topic, towards Vancouver, and towards the what-could-have-beens.
“He’d say you should eat for both of you, since he’s already starting practice for pre-season,” David answered for Yuna, already sitting at the table where he adjusts the tablecloth for Ilya to set the plates, utensils, and glasses down.
Ilya cleared his throat.
“Is he not going home today?” He asks while he pretends to be busy with placing the plates and forks in their respective position, unsure of what he wishes the answer to be. He can see from the corner of his eye how the two looked at each other before Yuna gingerly places a pan of chicken parm and a pot of spaghetti in the middle of the table
“He called a while ago before you arrived, greeted his Dad happy birthday. Apparently, Martineau is already starting their conditioning for pre-season. He just got home when he answered the phone.” Yuna answered as they started putting food in their plates, an invisible thread going down Ilya’s throat with the response.
He last saw Shane in the MLH awards held in Anaheim, California, where the other received four awards on stage: the Lady Byng Sportsmanship Trophy, the Conn Smythe Trophy, the Ted Lindsay Award, and the Hart Memorial Trophy. The first player in the history of hockey to ever do so.
The audience clapping and the simultaneous camera shutters were deafening. Ilya was half sure that the actual floor of the events hall was trembling with the excitement of the crowd. Hoots and shouts from Shane’s teammates seem to hype everybody up.
Certainly, a camera was probably trained on his face, hoping to catch a sliver of envy to revive the age-old rivalry between Hollander and Rozanov. Ilya couldn’t even manage a frown if he tried.
He felt so fucking proud of Shane, years and tears between them since that fateful Boxing Day fight, but he was proud. And in love. And longing made the alcohol swim to his head like heroin or some other drug that probably comes with the name Shane Hollander.
Shane gave a speech to thank his team, his GM, coaches, fans, and his parents, whom Ilya can see sitting near the stage. He doesn’t process any of it, too busy trying to bottle up the sound of Shane’s voice for the days when he’s not doing his best.
Media and press people, even most of the players in the league, dubbed the four-award feat The Hollander Phenomenon.
“Understandable, with the season they had last time. I’m surprised they didn’t immediately start practicing after the awards.” Ilya says after a bite of chicken parm, his tongue heavy as he chews carefully.
“Shane says he’s fine either way. You know how he is. Can’t seem to leave hockey well enough alone, he joked a while ago that he might come for the four trophies plus the Art Ross,” Yuna takes a sip of water to clear her throat, “I’m not sure he’s actually joking though.”
Ilya huffs out a laugh.
Oh, that’s Shane Hollander for you alright.
----
As he reverses out of the Hollanders’ driveway, he ponders for a moment before making a split-second decision to turn his steering wheel to the right towards the cottage and the lake.
It was a force of habit now, the cottage being only a 10-minute drive from David and Yuna, every time he visits the two, he almost always goes to the cottage afterwards.
Ever since the breakup, Ilya made a point to visit the cottage when he could, hoping to catch Shane inside and beg him to take Ilya back, but he knew he wouldn’t. Surely, if Shane took a flight to Ottawa, Yuna or David or even Hayden would text him as a heads-up or some kind of way to say, ‘Hey, Shane’s in Ottawa, maybe get your head out of your ass and do something about it.’
Entering the driveway, the porch lights were off and the trees swayed lightly with the wind. Ilya still had his key to the front door, given to him when he first visited the summer of 2017, accompanied by soft kisses to his cheeks and eyelids, crooning ‘This cottage is yours now too, this is ours. We will build our life here so here’s a key to my place, my life, my secrets and my heart.’
A funny word that is, too. His frequency in visits and the distinct lack of Shane in this space makes Ilya wonder if the cottage was just his alone at this point. But that’s wrong.
This is the house that Shane designed and carefully planned, where there is a well that flows water that is good enough to drink, the walls are made of glass so that sunlight can pass through to the open living room and the kitchen, the bonfire where Ilya first laid bare and stripped naked of his truth, the bedroom where they first said I love you and Shane was brave here, in this cottage.
He chose Ilya in this cottage, and Ilya had thrown doubt in his face while he was at his lowest. They both were.
He entered the open kitchen and touched the counter lightly; a thin scattering of dust littered its surface. He hadn’t been here for two weeks, so it made sense. But it hurts nevertheless, the reminder that the July occupant of this house was all the way in Vancouver, knowing full well that six or seven years ago, they used to spend their summers here, falling in love and choosing each other all over again and again and again.
He knew that the fridge was empty, the plug was pulled out despite the fact that the electricity in the cottage was still running, and Shane pays it every month without fail.
Framed pictures of the two of them, some with David and Yuna, adorn the walls of the living room. Ilya hadn’t had the heart to take them down because this cottage was theirs. By God, a tornado could miraculously find its way to Ottawa, and Ilya would stand with his arms outstretched, ready to brace for impact right there by the front door.
Ilya sits on the floor, his knees already creaking in protest, gazing out of the floor-to-ceiling windows and spotting the bonfire pit in the backyard. He felt sick, he felt worse for wear, and he’s been holding it in because it was David’s birthday.
But July had just passed, pre-season was next month, and he just saw Shane in the MLH awards, where he looked happier than he ever did when he was with Ilya because Ilya was too busy hurting that he didn’t even notice that Shane was dying on his own in Montreal.
He wouldn’t have noticed too, if it wasn’t for Hayden fucking Pike telling him that Shane spent months withdrawn in his own locker room, secretive and hurting on the other side of the equation.
Because he wanted to tell the world, too, that he was in love with Ilya Rozanov, but things are complicated now, not when Ilya hasn’t processed his Canadian residency yet, and Shane was running dry on pressure and his team, with the pain of knowing your partner is suffering, but they shut you down every time.
Ilya opens his phone and lightly scrolls the Centaurs’ group chat, filled with memes and banter from the rookies and vets.
Hazy: Woah is this real?!!!
Bood: Hell yeah!!! They released the trailer just now
Barrett: They titled the documentary ‘Phenom’, fucking goat as hell
LP: Goddamn hollander is the man!!
Young: Oh i know haasy is screaming his head off rn like thats dada right there
And like Pavlov’s fucking dog, the name makes Ilya stand up, already walking towards the living room with the flat screen TV, MLH games in neat little rows in the cabinet beneath it.
He scrolls some more in the group chat until he comes across the link posted in Youtube. Ilya opens the link on his phone while navigating the TV remote until he can cast the trailer to the bigger screen.
Oh this will actually kill him. Not dementia, not depression, it was a Shane Hollander documentary titled Phenom about Shane’s hockey career, spanning the rivalry, his time in Montreal, being traded to the Vancouver Spartans, and building a dynasty with a new team.
In the trailer, a montage of Shane playing in Montreal Blue and Vancouver Red is shown, dramatic and anticipating, while a soundbite of Shane narrating the thrill that comes with hockey is overlaid.
And Ilya couldn’t breathe with it; the shots of Shane were up close, in a way that ESPN coverage wasn’t. He’s followed the others’ careers religiously since he began playing for the Spartans; each game and each playoff, Ilya memorized them because there was nothing else he could do about it anyway.
Vancouver was all the way in the Western Conference, while Ottawa, Boston, and Montreal were in the Eastern Conference. That distance, that 43-hour drive between Ottawa and Vancouver stabbed Ilya in the heart when he’s reminded that the previously 2-hour distance between them has widened into a chasm of nothing.
But he deals with it anyway, through game recaps and rewatching highlights and a pack of cigarettes clutched tightly in his hands because even though he and Shane haven’t been together in years by that point, it felt treason to break a promise that he still holds so dearly.
He wonders if Shane does the same, on the other side of the country. Does he still drink protein shakes in the morning? Does he still sleep on the left side of the bed, or has he moved to the middle because his body has gotten used to sleeping alone? Does he run the laundry twice when he’s washing his compression shirts because it’s only right, Ilya, they’ve practically marinated in my sweat during practice? Like Ilya, does he spend some nights holding a well-worn hoodie and hoping that the other’s smell can still be traced in the fabrics of clothing that haven’t been worn in half a decade?
Half a decade is a long enough time for Shane to build a new life in the east, long enough for crow’s feet, as faint as they are, to make an appearance near his eyes. Permanent evidence that Shane smiles enough and often for them to develop.
Ilya can see them now, on the TV, where the thumbnails of other related videos are shown because the trailer ended some time ago.
He opens his phone to pull up their most recent chat, dated at the last MLH Awards.
Lily: Congrats on your awards! Proud of you!
Jane: Thank you.
Quick and concise, like every interaction between them has been in the past six years. But Ilya owes it to himself to try, owes it to Shane to always extend that proverbial olive branch for what happened in the past. Owes it to Shane to show him that he’s still here, in Ottawa, where they used to plan the next years of their life. But Shane is now in Vancouver, and Ilya is still in Ottawa, hoping against all odds that Shane might still pick up the pen and help Ilya draw the architecture of their future.
Shane is in Vancouver, where Ilya’s texts and attempts are just a cameo in his new life.
Lily: I watched trailer just now, congrats on documentary, when is it coming out?
One step forward, and he waits. Knowing this, Ilya prepares to leave, unplugging the TV and straightening the throw pillows he had disturbed. Shane likes them arranged a certain way, never mind that he hasn’t been here in over a year; the last time had been during his bye week last season, where, coincidentally, Ilya was in an away game in Columbus.
As he returns the cottage to its previous state, the phone in his pocket kept buzzing as the continuous stream of the group chat resumed, presumably, still talking about the documentary trailer. No reply from Shane yet, Ilya hasn’t heard the notification sound set specifically for the other.
Driving back to his house, he wonders if the documentary would cover their rivalry. He assumed it would, especially since it has become such a huge part of their career, only dying down when Shane got traded to the Vancouver Spartans, and their games against each other only ever happened during the finals.
Sometimes, it made Ilya hope that Shane purposely got traded to a team far away to help the rivalry die down. After the argument, he knew Shane had driven to his parents' house, crying and devastated. When Yuna was retelling this story two months after Boxing Day, it hadn’t even occurred to Ilya that Shane had been considering being traded.
Shane had reached out after the argument, had apologized, and told Ilya he understood where he was coming from. That he still loves Ilya, nothing would ever change it.
Ilya didn’t reply, too stricken and hurt by what he thought was hesitation on Shane’s face that day. In retrospect, he now knows that it was simply worry and hurt, hurt that Ilya even thought that his love was unrequited in strength, that Shane wasn’t also quietly dying by the secrecy of it all, like Shane wasn’t also madly in love.
Four days later, Ilya had replied, but after that, they had been distant, a string of away games, a slight time difference, and the general busy schedules of a professional athlete with brand endorsements between them.
Two months, Ilya and Yuna were retelling their version of the stories.
Four months, Yuna calls Ilya in a panic, wanting to talk about Shane and about them.
On a random day in April, nearing the end of the regular season, Yuna Hollander sweeps Ilya off his feet as he tells him that Shane talked to Farah today, and he wanted to get a trade to another team. At the time, he hadn’t known what to feel then; he was dizzy one moment, then another, he was bowed over the Hollanders’ kitchen sink, dry heaving.
As he rinsed his mouth with water, he took a glance at the woman who had become his supporter throughout this entire ordeal. Her right hand was placed on Ilya’s back, and the other clenched tightly beside her hip. Her mouth pinched and eyebrows furrowed. He didn’t even notice when he got in, but her hair was slightly disheveled in a way that was not common for Yuna Hollander.
She guided him to the living room sofa, carefully sitting down with her hands folded on her lap.
“Did he say where?” Ilya asked her then, knowing somehow that the answer wouldn’t have been Ottawa, they couldn’t afford Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov on the same team, not with the salary cap, unless one of them took a significant pay cut.
“He told Farah that he wanted a team on the Western division, preferably Edmonton or Vancouver,” she responded.
Lead had settled in Ilya’s stomach, and he placed his elbows on his knees, covered his face with his hands. It was all just so confusing to him. Was Shane asking for a trade because of Ilya? Or was it the Metros? Was he unhappy here? They hadn’t talked about what happened on Christmas, but Ilya thought they just needed time and space before talking about it after the season.
“Is everything okay, Ilya? Did Shane talk to you about this?” Yuna continued after clearing her throat, clearly not expecting his reaction.
He shook his head as he pulled his hands off. God, the fucking Western Conference.
“No, he did not. I am- I wasn’t aware of this,” he whispered. His hands felt tingly and numb, like he accidentally slept on top of them. But the sensation made it all real for him. He wanted to take his phone and call Shane; he wanted to drive to the cottage and scream his lungs out. But most importantly, he wanted to see Shane so they could fix this.
It seemed hyperbolic and extreme; to travel halfway across the country over an argument when neither of them was in their right mind to say the right things.
Nevertheless, it was real. And it was here.
“I need to call him Yuna, I need to talk to him, where’s- I don’t- what do I even do?” he panicked, breath going fast with the thought.
“Calm down Ilya, we’ll talk to him, and maybe, this is just a spontaneous decision, and he hasn’t fully decided yet, okay?” Yuna comforted him; it all seemed so far away now.
---
Ilya made it back to his own house in complete silence, lost in thought over the past. He unlocked his door and managed to avoid waking Anya up from her sleep. Poor girl. Even he knew that Anya missed Shane sometimes, often bringing Ilya some shirts or old slippers that the other wore whenever he came over.
He opened his phone and immediately zeroed in on the notification of a message from Jane.
Jane: Thank you. It comes out next Monday.
It was Wednesday now, and Ilya had enough time to compose himself before he spiraled down on whatever Shane decided should be seen in the documentary. It could be anything, the rivalry and history of his career, his time with the Voyageurs, or what made him move to Vancouver, or worse, an announcement about his life, like something so inexplicable like marriage…
Jesus fucking Christ, Ilya, the documentary isn’t even out yet and you’re already making assumptions.
Lily: I am looking forward to it