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Shane Hollander never claimed to be a good landlord. Hell, he wouldn’t even need to be a landlord if he wasn’t sneaking his rival into his apartment every time he was in town. So Shane didn’t have much of a choice when something went wrong.
His mom told him over and over again to hire someone to deal with it but Shane convinced her he could manage one tenant.
How hard could a couple of girls be?
When they’d first moved in, Shane made the mistake of telling Hayden about his new side hustle, who proceeded to convince him these girls were going to sneak paparazzi into his bedroom.
Shane, being Shane, let that thought burrow deep into his head. To the point where all he could see was him and Ilya sharing their morning coffee on the front page of every tabloid.
So, he did the only logical thing he could think of, pretended to be someone he’s not.
What else was new?
Which come to think of is probably illegal somehow but there had never been an issue.
To them he was George, a reclusive man who was rarely home and whom they’ve coincidently never met in person. George kept up on repairs, never raised their rent, and didn’t care about anyone they brought home.
The picture perfect landlord.
His communication with his tenants stayed mostly through emails. Sometimes they’d slip notes under his door which he wouldn’t see for weeks while he was away and they’d spam his phone with texts over a lightbulb being burnt out, but Shane couldn’t complain. They didn’t question him and he didn’t question them.
That is, until the apartment floods.
Today is the first time in months he’s seeing Ilya. Montreal is playing Toronto tonight and Boston is playing Ottowa tomorrow. Somehow Shane had convinced Ilya to come early to Montreal.
He can’t imagine a better feeling than beating Toronto, coming home high on adrenaline to Ilya in his bed, and watching him beat Ottawa tomorrow.
The dream quickly fades as reality sets in. Right now, Shane is sitting in the locker room, an hour before the game, pleading with every Montreal repair man he can find.
“You don’t understand. Water is pouring out of the dishwasher. The hardwood is being destroyed literally as we speak.” Shane pleaded, scrubbing a hand across his face.
“Look…George..was it? I’m not working and I guarantee most of the other guys in town aren’t either. It’s a massive weekend for hockey, dude.” The repair man said as Shane heard loud cheering in the background of the phone and simultaneously, from outside the locker room.
This guy was at the fucking game. Shane rolled his eyes and mumbled a “Thank you,” before hanging up.
As if he didn’t know it was a massive weekend for fucking hockey.
He dropped his phone on the bench next to him and racked his brain for every possible solution. His phone vibrated non stop with texts from his tenants threatening to sue him.
“FUCK” Shane yelled, and let his head fall back to hit the lockers.
Of all nights for this to happen, of course it was tonight.
A shrill ringing cut through his thoughts and his heart dropped. They were calling him. The girls had never called him before.
Fuck, what does George even sound like.
Shane cleared his throat and gathered his breath before putting on a low voice and clicking answer.
“Uh..hello?” He mumbled.
“GEORGE! Have you been getting our texts? The water is literally seeping into everything, it’s an inch high in the kitchen right now!” One of the girls shrieked and he could hear the other screaming in the background.
Shane sighed, “Uh..sorry, I’m trying to get someone but business is…slim..tonight.”
“George, if you don’t have someone here within the hour, I’m calling the fire department and I’m taking you to court.” The second girl snapped as she grabbed the phone.
Panic rose through Shane’s body, not only would everyone find out it was his apartment building, the NHL wouldn’t be too happy with their star player being sued. Suddenly, a crazy—no, an insane, thought popped into his head. It was his only option.
“Okay okay, I’ll get someone I promise, just pick up everything you can and..I’m on it. I promise.” Shane stammered out before hanging up.
This might be the worst idea he’s ever had.
There was only one person in Montreal right now that he knew wasn’t at this game.
“Hollander, are you forfeiting game?” Ilya mused from the other end of the phone, “I do not fuck losers.”
Shane could practically hear Ilya smirking, and any other time it would have gone straight to his head.
“Rozanov”, Shane said probably too loudly before looking around the empty locker room and lowering his voice, “I need you to be fucking serious right now,” Shane trailed off, then threw in, “..please.”
Shane could hear Ilya sit up on what he assumed was his bed.
“What is wrong?” Ilya asked, a light concern in his tone.
“The apartment below, the one I rent out, the fucking dishwasher is flooding and every goddamn handy man in Montreal is in this arena.” Shane yelled, throwing his hands in the air.
“I don’t know what to do,” Shane’s breath came quicker as he struggled to breathe.
“Hollander, you need to calm the fuck down. Breathe.” Ilya said quietly, trying to radiate calm through the phone. In typical Shane fashion, this only made it worse.
“Fuck you, don’t tell me to calm down. I have to be on the ice in 10 minutes and the Firemen are going to find you sleeping in my bed!” Shane sputtered and Ilya couldn’t help but laugh, “It’s not funny!” Shane cried in frustration.
“Hollander, I will tell them to wait until you are in bed too, do not worry.” Ilya mused and Shane wished he could strangle him through the phone.
Shane didn’t respond, the line went quiet and he heard Ilya sigh.
“What can I do?” Ilya asked, with a more serious tone in his voice.
Shane sighed, “I’ve called every repair company in the city,” he paused, then finally blurted out,
“Do you know how to fix a dishwasher?”
Ilya Rosanov knew how to do a lot of things.
Instead of hanging out with his father as a child, he taught himself practical skills. He could chop wood, he could change the oil in a car, he could probably turn water to wine, and unfortunately, he could fix a dishwasher.
When Shane had invited him to stay the night, he didn’t think he’d need clothes. But now his choices were, wade through a soap flooded apartment in his practice clothes or find something in Shane’s drawers.
So now he found himself standing in Shane Hollander’s stairwell like an idiot, wearing a cut off tank top, too tight athletic shorts and Shane’s mothers polka dot rainboots.
Shane had tried everything to get him to wear a disguise.
“Hollander, you want me to play dress up? You want me to be Canadian, too?” Ilya joked as he rummaged through the drawers for something Shane wouldn’t kill him for ruining with dish water.
“What are they going to think when Ilya Rosanov shows up at their door?” Shane shouted, louder than he should have in a locker room that could be taken over by his teammates any minute.
“Uh, they will be so happy someone is fixing dishwasher, probably.”
Ilya put Shane on speakerphone and pulled on an old tank top that had clearly been cut from a t-shirt and grimaced at his reflection.
“You can’t say anything about me.” Shane said quietly.
Ilya frowned and picked the phone back up, “They do not know they have landlord?”
Shane sighed, “No they do, obviously, they just think his name is…George.”
Ilya paused before bursting out laughing, “Oh yes, Hollander, now that you mention it, you do look like George.”
Shane rolled his eyes, “Look, I didn’t want them to know I was their landlord and then I don’t know..” Shane trailed off, “tell anyone..”
Ilya frowned, “and Hayden told you that would happen, yes?”
“Maybe.” Shane sighed.
“Fine, I guess,” Ilya sighed, “I am friend of George then?”
Shane sighed in relief.
“Thank you, so much really, Ilya—Rosanov,” Shane stammered and cleared his throat, “Uh thank you, Rosanov.”
Ilya’s mouth quirked up on one side, a smile threatening to break through, “You thank me later Hollander, with Firemen there.”
Shane laughed, “Fuck you, bye.”
Ilya opened the door to the second floor of the building and immediately was met with water seeping from the apartment door. He knocked loudly and the door swung open. He was met by a frantic looking young girl whose eyes widened more than they already were when she saw him.
“Hello, I am..” Ilya managed before the girl’s mouth fell open.
“You’re…why are you..” the girl stammered before shouting, “My house is flooding!” She gestured behind her to the inch of water gathered on the floor.
“Yes, um, George called me. I am in town for game.” Ilya said then quickly added, “He is Russian too.”
The girl looked at him confused, “Uh, are we talking about the same George? I just talked to him and I’m pretty sure he’s not Russian, just a grumpy old man.”
Ilya had to bite his tongue from laughing, “Yes, well I mean he..likes Russia. We are friends.”
The girl just stared at him, “So are you also a repair man or something? My dad would kill me if he knew I was about to throw out Ilya Rosanov, but..” Ilya cut her off.
“Oh, yes, I am here to fix dishwasher,” he said and held up the singular tool he could find in Shane’s apartment, a rusty screwdriver. The girl gaped at him. Her eyes traveled from Ilya to the screwdriver, back to Ilya.
“I’m Sarah and I have a tool box.” She stuck out her hand and Ilya shook it.
“Ilya and thank fuck.” He replied.
She led him to the kitchen where another girl was on her hands and knees trying to scoop water into a bucket. She looked up and her eyes widened.
“Holy shit.” She said and was immediately met with a gush of soapy water pouring out of the dishwasher.
“Uh, Holly, Ilya Rosanov is here to….fix our dishwasher.” Sarah said with slight annoyance rubbing sweat off her forehead.
Holly, covered in bubbles, threw the bucket at Ilya and stood up, wringing water out of her shirt.
“This is the weirdest day of my fucking life,” she mumbled and pointed Ilya toward the pink tool box laying open on the counter.
“Mine too,” Ilya laughed and splashed through the kitchen to the tool box, “but at least kitchen is clean!” He smiled gesturing to the bubbles. Both girls frowned at him and he turned back to the toolbox.
“You fucking owe me, Hollander.” He mumbled.
Two hours and many swear words later, the dishwasher was fixed. Ilya leaned back on the kitchen cabinet with a sign, throwing the wrench to the side and trying not to think about the puddle of water he was sitting in.
Sarah and Holly sat on the counters wringing out the items that had been caught in the flood and gossiping about people from their work.
Ilya had interjected with a question every once in a while and once the house wasn’t actively flooding anymore, the girls let him join their conversation.
“Ladies, dishwasher is fixed” Ilya signed and pushed back his sweat soaked curls from his forehead.
“Everytime I have to share a fun fact about myself, this is going to be it.” Sarah laughed as she jumped off the counter. Holly followed.
“I’m putting this on my dating profile,” She giggled and yelled as Ilya started to get up, “Wait! I need photo evidence, no one is ever going to believe me.” She shook her phone at Ilya who sighed and threw his hands up
He briefly considered how appalled Shane would be at him letting these girls take his photo but Shane had also let their belongings get ruined so this was the least he could do.
“Fine, fine! What do I do?” Ilya asked, picking back up the wrench.
For the next 10 minutes, Ilya gave in while the girls gave him a photoshoot in their disgusting kitchen. One shot pretending to actively fix the dishwasher, one smiling with a thumbs up, pointing at his work, and somehow he ended up with his shirt off, dramatically wiping soap from his chest.
They were all in a fit of laughter when Ilya’s ringtone cut in. He opened his phone to see “Jane” calling and hit accept.
“Yes?” He asked.
“Oh my god” Shane cried, “I’ve been texting you all night, what’s going on?”
“Hello, George.” Ilya purred, “Everything is okay, it is fixed.” Across from him, the girls swiped through the photos of him, pointing and laughing.
He heard Shane let out a sigh of relief, “Thank fuck, jesus Rosanov, I really owe you.”
Ilya smirked, “Be careful what you wish for...George.”
“Forget it, fuck you. I’m on my way home.” Shane huffed.
“Should I remind you of my preferred payment method?” Ilya mused and rolled his eyes as Holly showed him a photo of him biting the end of a screwdriver.
“Fuck. You. I’ll see you soon.” Shane said and quickly hung up. Ilya pocketed his phone and put his hands on his hips.
“Well ladies, call plumber on Monday. They bring fans and maybe fix wood.” Ilya shrugged as he stepped down on a particularly soggy plank of hardwood.
Turning back to them, he said, “George will pay, don’t worry.” He assured them with a smile and held out his hand to tell them goodbye.
The girl’s arms were around him in seconds, two damp bodies sandwiching his between them.
“You should quit hockey and just work for George. He never sends any hot repair men” Sarah mumbles and Ilya lets out a laugh.
“I will tell him that, definitely. He is no fun, very boring.” Ilya says and pats them both gently on the back.
He pulls away and smiles at them both, “I have to go, big game tomorrow” Ilya says as he walks to the door.
“Call Mr. George if it breaks again.” He says grabbing the handle.
“Bye Ilya!” Sarah calls, then quieter,
“I hope he sends Shane Hollander next time.”