Chapter Text
“But I think about you often, lately
I have this dream about returning safely”
- Dermot Kennedy
Now
A loud, incessant honking catches Shane Hollander's attention. He snaps back into reality, eyes settling on the glowing green light. He shakes his head quickly and shifts his rental car into drive.
He tried, and mostly succeeded, to ignore the dirty look he could feel through the glass as a silver Prius overtook him.
He took a deep breath as he navigated his way through the not-so-familiar Boston roads. He needed to stay present, stay in the moment. He'd developed a bad habit of checking out over the past couple of months. One minute he was inside his body, and in the next breath he was somewhere floating just above himself. He mostly had it under control.
It was always worse when he was in Boston, though.
He slowed at another red light and avoided looking at the huge Boston Bears billboard that was touching his field of vision. He knew who would be at the centre of that larger-than-life image. He swallowed thickly, forcing his eyes to study the red light. He didn't even blink. His jaw ached from how hard he was clenching his teeth together.
As soon as the light turned, he tore out of the intersection. He ignored the familiar way his heart thudded incessantly in his throat, the way his hands shook when he was in proximity to anything that reminded him of Rozanov.
He drove the rest of the way, vision blurring at the edges as his eyes burned.
xxx
“...Have you heard anything I've just said?”
Shane snapped his head from his dry salmon to look at Rose. Her eyes were soft with concern.
“Shit, no. Sorry,” he admitted, dropping his fork with a clatter. “In my own head a bit today. What were you saying?”
“Is it being in Boston?” she asked, reaching for him. She rested her perfectly manicured nails on his forearm. He studied the gold cross ring on her middle finger. He bit the inside of his cheek, trying to swallow past the tightness in his throat.
“Yeah,” was all he allowed himself.
Rose knew Shane had been seeing someone in Boston. She knew that he wasn't anymore. But she didn't know who it was.
It's not just my secret to tell.
He'd shown up at her front door eleven months ago, wrecked and inconsolable. She hadn't pried, didn't push for details. She'd just held him as he sobbed, sounds he hadn't known he could make escaping from somewhere deep inside him. Held him as he felt his heart break for the first time, torn in half unevenly.
He'd been trying to put it back together ever since.
He struggled at first. The world had faded to grey. His heart kept beating, even when each thud reverberated painfully through a hollow body. He’d gotten better at controlling the pain, locking it away.
He’d learned to live without him.
But, mostly, he was okay now. Some days he wasn’t. Some days, when his schedule was unusually empty or when he was bone-weary from pushing himself, admittedly, too hard on the ice for weeks at a time, he couldn’t chase away that ache that grew from behind his sternum and settled under his skin.
But he hasn't cried. Not once. Not since.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Rose asked.
“No,” he answered honestly.
He didn’t want to spend the limited time he had with Rose spiraling about Rozanov. This lunch would be the last time they would see each other for a while. Rose was in the city to shoot an advert for a perfume she was endorsing and would then be heading to Europe for a couple of months for a film she had been excited to book. This was supposed to be about them, about spending time enjoying each other’s company together. He needed to just pay attention to her.
But it was always harder to stay focused when the games against Boston inched closer in his calendar.
What used to feel like too long between meetings now felt too short. Where anticipation used to thrum through his veins, dread now clawed its way up the cavity in his chest.
He used to love the rush of playing against him. The electricity of it. The genuine thrill of not knowing who was going to win. There was no one he got more excitement from stealing a puck from. No one he'd rather meet in a face-off.
But that all changed; exhilaration crumpled into tolerance.
And in one month, he'd have to face him again.
“You can talk about it, though,” Rose said, squeezing his arm. “If you wanted to. I would listen to you.”
Shane inhaled sharply. He knew that.
He just couldn’t afford to think about him, let alone talk about him.
The first time he’d seen Rozanov on the ice, Shane had been surprised at how easily he’d been able to shut himself down, avoiding the eyes he still dreamt about. It had been a couple of months after that night, at their first preseason meet in Boston. It had also been the first time he’d found himself outside of his body. He did not engage when Rozanov had tried to greet him, didn’t make eye contact when they met at face-offs, focused on an empty seat in the stadium during the obligatory handshaking at the end of the game.
He knew that if he allowed himself the indulgence of studying his face, to ghost his eyes over the crooked smile that had haunted him, he would break.
He’d spent the past eleven months painstakingly packing cement around a box labelled Rozanov that he’d filed away in the back of his mind. It had been grueling work that had left him feeling scraped out and unsteady, but he’d done it.
He was smart enough to know, though, that one gentle touch, one lingering look would take a wrecking ball to all of the brutal work.
Boston was a minefield of wrecking balls.
“It’s not something I can really talk about.” Shane cleared his throat and reached for his fork again.
Rose looked at him, her face drawn, her eyes tinged with worry. “I think it would be good for you, whenever you’re ready. You don’t have to carry this alone.”
Shane nodded in a way that he hoped made it look like he agreed. In reality, it was something he would always have to carry alone.
There was no universe in which he would ever be able to tell anyone the real reason he was dragging himself through a life that so many would kill for.
Shane took a bite of his food, mostly for something to do. He couldn’t really taste anything.
“I’m here for you, Shane. You know that, right?”
Shane looked up at his friend. “I know.”
xxx
Shane stared after Rose’s car as it disappeared around a corner. He tugged his toque lower and started walking towards where he’d parked .
It was unusual for him to be in Boston for reasons not related to hockey, but he was here for the weekend for a fundraiser of some kind. He should have, admittedly, read more of the fine print before he agreed. He wasn’t sure he would have agreed to come had he realised it was in Boston. He didn’t really even know what it was for- he’d just been doing as many of these as he could, trying to avoid his empty apartment. He didn’t get a lot of enjoyment out of these appearances. He didn’t really speak to anyone, and often left early, finding the crowded rooms stifling.
He doesn’t know why he keeps doing it; he’s not any less lonely in hotel rooms.
Shane had been used to being alone. He'd never thought of himself as lonely. He honestly often craved the solitude, found it grounding. But that was before he knew what it was like to have someone to call, someone to touch. He was never lonely before Rozanov, but he'd been lonely ever since.
xxx
Shane opened the door to his hotel room. It was quiet and dark.
He toed off his shoes and loosened the tie on his shirt. The fundraiser had gone well: he’d smiled when he was supposed to, shook the hands of far too many people to count, and left a hefty donation. He’d snuck out early, ready to head to bed and pray for the sleep that he knew was unlikely to come, when he’d caught sight of a picture of Rozanov on the cover of some magazine. He’d averted his gaze instantly, but the halo of golden curls had lingered behind his eyelids and played on a loop in his mind.
He wished it didn’t still weigh so heavily on him. Wasn’t he supposed to feel better by now? It’s been close to a year, and he still felt so far from the person he had been before Rozanov came to his apartment last spring.
He was a better hockey player, at least. He’d poured everything he had into the game. All of his blood and all of his sweat. He was beating records, half of which he had personally set without thinking, without blinking. He was a better player than he had ever been, even if he felt less human than he ever had.
He’d tried. To fix himself. To find a reason to find himself again.
Nothing seemed to work.
Rose had suggested, months ago, that the best way to get over someone was to get under someone else. Shane had barely registered the statement initially. But he found that the thought came back to him when he’d overheard his teammates laughing about a paparazzi photo of Rozanov with a "smoke show” that had made the rounds on Twitter one morning. They were green with envy. As was Shane.
For different reasons, obviously.
That was how he’d ended up outside of a gay club in the middle of nowhere last summer. He’d felt the heavy bass all the way to the balls of his feet. He’d stared at the front door, covered in shimmering rainbow flags. He’d studied the colours intently for about an hour before he’d turned and left.
Shane walked to the bathroom and turned the shower on.
He showered quickly, the hot water a welcome contrast to the Boston chill. He lathered soap and washed himself, starting with the knots in his shoulders and scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing down his arms. His skin was pink-tinted as he moved lower. He cleaned his dick perfunctorily where it hung soft between his legs. It had been months since he’d even attempted to get off. It was likely for the same reason that he left the club.
Nothing made him feel the way Rozanov did. Nothing else came close. No one did.
He knew what it was like to feel out of his mind with desire, to feel high on the feel of another’s skin gliding against his. Nothing else compared. He was terrified that nothing else ever would.
He dried himself off, avoided his eyes in the bathroom mirror, and brushed his teeth. He was mostly good at living his life now, learning how to exist around the absence that was left when Rozanov walked away.
But one accidental glance at a picture made it difficult to keep the box shut. Memories pushed from inside, begging to be seen.
Shane climbed into bed.
He couldn’t do this. Couldn’t allow himself to go there.
But sometimes, something slipped through. And when it did, he had to admit he was just really sad about the fact that he had finally been ready to be honest about what he wanted and how he felt. And before he’d even had the opportunity to say anything, he’d had the rug pulled out from under him.
He couldn’t let himself go there.
He couldn’t think of playful smirks, desperate breaths, soft lips on his throat, or a gravelly voice in his ear. Because he couldn’t think about that without thinking about the broken look on Rozanov's face, of a retreating back, and the echo of a door shutting.
Shane turned off the lamp. His eyes stung.
But he did not cry.
xxx
Ilya Rozanov was incredibly drunk. The kind of drunk that muffled the clamor of loud music and distorted conversations. The kind of drunk that left the world hazy and frayed around the edges.
His phone buzzed, the sound muffled, where it sat on the bar, face down and dangerously close to a puddle of unidentified brown liquid.
He reached for it and frowned as he stared at the screen. The wallpaper looked blurry, and he could barely make out the numbers he was supposed to use to type his passcode. He shook his head, as if it could physically clear it. But when he looked again, his screen was still swimming.
He needed to get some air.
He pushed through the throng of bodies. The heat and the throbbing music, that had become the background to his life, surrounded him as he stumbled. The strobing multicoloured lights made it difficult for him to see, but he mostly knew the route by now.
He manoeuvred around a group of girls trying to enter the club as he reached the front door. They were giggling and making eyes at the bouncer.
He was very hot, to be fair.
The winter air hit him like a slap, and he inhaled the icy smell as he made his way around the corner of the building. He could still feel the bass like a second pulse, but the sound was not so overwhelming out here. He shivered while reaching for a cigarette.
He has mostly given the habit up by now.
But he indulges when he's drunk. Which, admittedly, has been more often than before.
It's fine. Whatever.
He inhaled deeply, the familiar pull into his lungs helping clear his mind further. He looked up, searching for stars, but the city lights bleached them out of view. He took another drag before reaching for his phone. His vision had steadied enough for him to focus on unlocking his screen. His wallpaper was visible now, no longer twisting and untwisting: a hazy sepia image of a vintage ginger ale advert.
He saw that he had a Google alert.
He swallowed. Fuck. He should have done another shot before coming outside.
The thing is, Ilya has become… obsessed… with Shane ever since they called it off. In an unhealthy, should probably talk to a therapist, kind of way. He watched all of his games and all of his interviews. He streamed speeches he gave at hockey events (although those had become increasingly infrequent). He read think pieces on his astounding performance and record-breaking upon record-breaking season. It became so intrinsic to his daily routine that he eventually got into the habit of starting his mornings by opening his Instagram profile. He almost never posted. And when he did, it was always related to the Voyageurs or a brand deal. Ilya loved seeing him, any version of him, but the posts made him unhappy.
Shane's smile was often fake. Still beautiful, always beautiful, but placating. It was nothing like the smiles he'd given Ilya when they'd bent at face-offs, or when he stole the puck after checking him into the boards. They were a poor imitation of the unsure, shy grin that had grown on his face the last time they'd FaceTimed. The night he'd kissed two fingers and touched the camera. The night Ilya had finally admitted to himself that what they were doing could only be described in one irreversible way. It had also been the night he'd come to the decision that seemed like the only logical choice at the time, but had been his biggest regret ever since.
That smile, his real smile, he missed. Missed so much it made his teeth ache and his throat tight.
It haunted him.
The obsession and regret had resulted in a decision, when Ilya had been incredibly drunk last summer, to set a Google alert for Shane Hollander.
It meant that his phone was buzzing almost hourly, but the fixation was soothing in its own way. Through watching grainy paparazzi pictures and thank-you posts from a surprisingly large number of charities, hospitals, and museums, Ilya felt like he was still getting to experience life, if not with him, alongside him. He could at least see it.
His worst fear was a world in which Shane Hollander was not the centre of his world.
He took another drag of his cigarette as he studied the Google alert notification. He opened the article, published on some trashy puck bunny site, and saw a blurry picture of Shane in a suit, because of course he fucking was, walking through elaborate front doors. Ilya’s heart plummeted into his stomach. He dropped the cigarette.
Ilya recognised the building.
Fuck.
Shane was in Boston.
Shane was in the same city he was, right fucking now.
He scanned the article. Apparently Shane was in town for a museum fundraiser. He stared at the picture, his hands shaking as he studied him. Shane was alone, and his face was blank. There was no spark, no emotion in his gaze. Just some shadows brushing underneath his eyes.
It was probably the camera quality.
Ilya swallowed heavily and stomped the dying ember of the cigarette out.
xxx
Ilya was halfway to the museum before he even let himself think about what he was doing. He glanced out of the window of the taxi, the lights of the city blurring together.
He knew it was completely irrational to strongarm Shane into a conversation, in public, when they hadn't really spoken in eleven months.
He just needed to see him.
Ever since he left Shane’s apartment last spring, he’d felt off kilter, like he’d been walking on a tightrope, always struggling to stay balanced. He knew, he just knew, that speaking to Shane would be the only thing that would centre him again.
He’d tried a couple of times to speak to him. On the ice. He’d smile and greet him, try to catch his eye as they warmed up on their respective sides. But Shane was steadfastly ignoring him. It didn’t even look like that much trouble; he didn’t seem pained. His eyes were far away.
It was half the reason he did not reach out and try to beg Shane to forget what he said, that it wasn’t what he meant. He’d only had the courage for half a second last June when New York had won the Cup. But even then, he’d chickened out. Unsure of Shane’s response, unsure of what he could even offer Shane if he decided that he’d be open to seeing each other again.
He’d broken his own heart; it was his to deal with.
But Ilya had this vision, a dream that had played so frequently in his subconscious mind, that when they ran into each other in person everything would click into place. That one conversation, away from the ice, from their reputations, from the expectations, would magically provide the answer. He created scenarios in his head, accidental moments where they would pass each other. Maybe at a grocery store, or at a club. And they would lock eyes and just talk.
Most days it felt like he was going crazy, not being able to tell someone, anyone, how much he missed Shane. How his absence scraped him raw.
He’d tried to find ways to force a chance encounter before, but he hadn’t had any luck. Turns out living in different countries made not-so-spontaneous run ins quite difficult to orchestrate.
But Shane was here now, in his city.
His heart was beating in the back of his throat as the taxi stopped outside the museum.
xxx
Ilya opened his front door, his body heavy with disappointment. The clock in his front hallway read 03:50.
Of course Shane would have left already. He felt stupid for even thinking that the universe would have aligned for him this way.
He trudged towards the stairs, the frustration, nausea, and impending headache pulling him towards his bed. He just wanted to collapse, shut it all off for a while. It took him an embarrassingly long time to register that the lights were on in his lounge.
“So are you just going to ignore me then?”
Ilya’s head snapped up at the Russian words, his eyes landing on Svetlana. She was lazing on his couch, a glass of vodka in her hand.
“Sveta?” Ilya wasn’t sure if he was dreaming. Had he made it to bed and fallen asleep already?
“You’re home late,” she said, tucking her legs underneath her.
“I was out,” Ilya responded. He dropped down beside her, his head in her lap.
She carded her fingers through his hair gently. “You smell awful.”
Ilya barked out a humourless laugh. “I may have taken it a bit far.”
“Two nights before a game?” Her tone wasn’t accusatory, but it was...something.
Ilya’s shoulders tightened. “I’ll be fine by the game.”
Svetlana was silent for a while. Ilya held his breath.
“What’s going on with you?”
Ilya’s face tightened and his eyes burned. A part of him, a large part of him, wanted to just say: nothing. He should tell her that he’s fine. That he’s just enjoying being single in his twenties, being rich and famous. But another part of him, a smaller but honest part of him, wanted to tell her everything.
Grieving silently and in plain sight was heavy.
But he settled for saying nothing, her question just hanging between them.
“You’ve been avoiding my calls,” she said softly after a while. “I see pictures of you out more, even during the season. You're playing aggressively. You’re taking unnecessary risks.”
Ilya sniffed.
I’m fine. He wanted to reassure her, but he was too tired.
He fell asleep shortly after.