Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

April, 2017 — Montreal

Shane wakes up slowly. 

Everything aches. His head, his chest, his ribs. He shifts slightly and the pain flares everywhere. He hears himself groan as he knuckles his way to full consciousness. 

“Yuna—Yuna—come quick, he’s waking up.” 

Shane hears hurried footsteps and the rustling of clothes, and then a cool hand is slipping into his. He manages a weak squeeze and hears his mom gasp in return. 

“Shane?” she asks, and it’s filled with so much grief that he fights to open his eyes. 

He’s in a hospital room. The lights are bright and the sheets are crisp white and his parents are there. They look worn out. Older. Their faces are creased with worry. 

“What happened?” he manages to ask, tongue clumsy as the room struggles to focus. 

“I’m going to kill Cliff Marlow,” his mom swears, punctuated with a squeeze to his hand. 

“What?”

“You got hit,” his dad fills in gently. Shane tries to make sense of it. 

“By Cliff Marlow?”

Cliff Marlow was in San Francisco. Just last week, Shane’s mom was reading some blog post about him, about how he might get traded soon. New York and Boston were in the mix. Had the deal gone through?

Why was Shane on the ice with Cliff Marlow? 

His mom is still grumbling, seething, swearing. It’s making Shane dizzy. “They probably coordinated it on purpose, Marlow and Rozanov. Anything to slow you down in the playoffs.” 

“Yuna.”

“What? You agreed with me an hour ago. It’s dirty play, and I don’t respect it,” she huffs. “What’s worse is that they’re better than that. I’ve been keeping up with Rozanov’s stats, and, granted, they don’t look as good as they did last year, but it’s because he took all that time off last month—but Boston had a real shot at the cup this year,” she looks at Shane. “That is, until you guys made the playoffs. Once you guys beat Tampa, and then Buffalo? Oh, the clock was ticking for Boston. And they knew it, and that’s why—”

There’s a ringing in Shane’s ears. 

He’s not stupid. He’s a little slow on the uptake sometimes, he can admit, but Shane knows hockey, knows that hockey is a collision sport. He knows about all the career-ending injuries he needs to watch out for. He’s gone through enough concussion protocols to know the drill. 

Yes, his head hurts. It pounds. Aches. There’s mounting pressure between his temples and it’s getting worse by the second. 

No, he’s not nauseous right this second, but he might be on anti-nausea meds, maybe, he doesn’t know. 

Yes, he’s sensitive to light. He’s dizzy. He’s lightheaded. 

If asked, he can tell you what year he thinks it is, but with every passing second, more words spill out of his mother’s mouth that make him a little less sure.

“Hey, mom,” he says, and—oh, hey, there’s that nausea. It found him. He swallows it down. “I think there’s something wrong.”

———

It’s a bit bewildering, losing his memory. His mother had gentled her voice and tried to fill in the gaps. 

He made it, he’s a hockey player. The number 2 draft pick of his season. He’s an Olympian. An All-Star. A captain. 

He still is all those things; they haven’t been taken from him, not for good. He can still play, technically, once his body heals. He just—doesn’t remember his teammates. Doesn’t remember playing with them, or against them. Doesn’t know who his friends are, or who he doesn’t get along with. He’ll have to relearn strategies and relationships and player weakness, but if that’s the worst of it—he’ll be okay.

He thinks. He hopes. 

It’s overwhelming, is what it is, but he’s trying not to freak out. It’s fine. He’s breathing through it. 

The last thing he remembers is being on the ice. 

He was on the ice, and Rozanov was there. He was chasing him for the puck, and they were flying, almost. He was on the ice, and he was about to make his move, and Rozanov was—

Rozanov is standing in the doorway of his hospital room, silhouetted and back-lit by the bright hallway. 

They’ve upped his pain meds, and given him something for the nausea, and something for his mounting panic that left him feeling kind of dazed—and for a second Shane thinks he’s hallucinating, but then Rozanov shifts his feet and the shadows dance across his face, highlighting the strength of his jaw and the sharpness of his cheekbones. Shane’s mouth goes dry, and later, he’ll blame it on the drugs in his system, but right now, Ilya Rozanov looks like he was sculpted from marble. He’s grown up, impossibly, since he was already tall and strong and gigantic the last time Shane saw him. The recent images online didn’t do him justice; the man is masculinity incarnate. 

Shane sits up straighter—and then instantly regrets it when his collarbone twinges, even through the haze of drugs. He groans. 

Rozanov is by his side in an instant. He holds his hands out like he wants to help, but stops himself just centimeters away from actually touching Shane’s skin. His gaze is piercing as he watches Shane settle back against the pillows. 

“Hi,” Shane manages to say. He’s breathless—from the pain, most definitely, no other reason. There is no other reason. 

Because this is Rozanov. His rival. Shane might not remember how the last few years have played out, but if his mother’s disdain is any clue, they still hate each other. He can play this part. 

“Hi,” Rozanov says back. 

“What are you doing here?”

“I just needed… Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m—I’m fine,” he says, and it’s true. He is fine, relatively. His collarbone is broken, and his concussion is going to be a problem for the immediate future, but long-term, he’ll heal. They were manageable. There’s no need to tell a rival team captain all about his weak spots, especially not Ilya fucking Rozanov. He’ll put on a brave face, because he can’t very well come out and say I don’t remember the last few years of my life without raising some eyebrows.

Rozanov hums. “Marlow is…he feels bad,” he says with a bow to his head. “He was…very angry at himself. And I am mad at him as well.”

Shane snorts. Yeah, right. “It’s all part of the game,” he forces himself to say. “We all get our bell rung eventually, right?”

Rozanov’s gaze drops to watch his hands twitch against Shane’s blankets. Shane has the insane thought that he's going to reach forward and grab his hand, the way his mother had, and that would be crazy, right? Why would he do that? That doesn’t make any sense—

“You hit the ice hard.”

“Unlucky hit,” he says. “I’ll bounce back.” 

“You scared me,” Rozanov says quietly. His hand moves a fraction closer. 

“I’m okay. I’ll be back on the ice in no time at all.”

Rozanov nods once. “I was looking forward to last night,” he says, soft. His pinky finger touches the back of Shane’s hand, just barely, feather light, as if Shane is something fragile. 

“To what, beating me?” His pulse races under his skin. 

“Yes.” 

“Asshole.” The word rolls off his lips easily. There are lots of questions on the tip of his tongue, bubbling in his chest, and they nearly spill over when Rozanov meets Shane’s eyes, something like humor dancing behind them. 

Something is—off, that has nothing to do with the floaty feeling of the painkillers in his system. Rozanov is looking at him, and his gaze is weighted, pinning him in place. There are bags under his eyes and a slight tilt to the corner of his mouth and his pinky is hooked onto Shane’s and there’s something at the edge of Shane’s consciousness, like chasing a dream, that’s telling him he’s missing something, he’s supposed to remember something—

“I’m sorry,” Shane stammers out. “Did we have plans or something scheduled for last night? I’m having some trouble remembering.”  

So much for keeping that fact to himself. 

Rozanov stills. “...You have a concussion.”

He doesn’t phrase it like a question, but Shane answers it all the same. “Yeah.”

“You don’t remember…” he trails off, watching Shane carefully.

“Should I?” Shane laughs awkwardly. Rozanov’s face remains painstakingly blank. “Is there something to remember? I’m sure we had our moments throughout the years of playing together, but—are we friends?”

There’s no evidence that they are. His mom had said they weren’t. When Shane looked through his phone—against doctors orders—he hadn’t seen Rozanov in his contacts. Shane had even googled the two of them, and the only photos that came up were from award nights and ad campaigns with professional photo shoots. Nothing casual. Nothing to suggest they ever hung out outside of the ice. 

“How long?” Rozanov asks. 

“How long what?”

“What is the last thing you remember?” 

If his arm weren’t in a sling, he’d shrug. “I don’t know,” he lies. Rozanov’s eyes narrow, and Shane’s tongue unsticks itself to answer truthfully. “We met at the World Junior Hockey Championships. Your team was beating the shit out of mine.”

Rozanov finally takes his hand back, and there’s no reason why Shane feels bereft at the loss, but something in him quiets anyway.

“That was nine years ago,” Rozanov says. His voice has gone gruff, his accent thick. 

“Feels like yesterday.” 

Rozanov clenches his jaw. Gone is the amusement, the hint of a smile. Now, when he looks at Shane, it’s cold. Indifferent. Shane feels small under his gaze.

He turns to leave. 

“Wait!” Shane says, stopping him in the doorway. “Are we friends?” he asks again. “I’m sorry, I just—I feel like—I’m missing something, right?”

“No, Hollander. We are not friends.”

“But you came here. You visited me.”

Rozanov cocks his head. “League sent me. I’m team captain. It’s—” he swallows, and Shane watches him find the right word. “...Formality.” 

“Oh.” Right. The sting of—something he can’t quite name. Maybe Rozanov was as much of a dick as the internet made him out to be.

Still. He hesitates in the doorway. Almost as an afterthought, he throws over his shoulder, “Hope to see you on the ice soon.”

And then he’s gone. 

Ilya Rozanov would like the record to know that he does not run from the room. He’s too dignified for that.

He walks out on two legs, and they are strong, and do not quake. They carry him down the stairs, and outside into the sun, and he breathes through the tightness in his chest. He breathes, and he walks, and he doesn’t think about Shane’s dark eyes and the lack of recognition in them. 

Cliff Marlow is leaning against the hood of Ilya’s car. “How is he?”

Ilya doesn’t acknowledge him. It’s either that or Ilya puts a fist through his face, and they have a game tomorrow, so he really shouldn’t break his own hand on Marlow’s jaw. 

He reaches into the car for his bag and comes out with a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He leaves Marlow standing there, calling after him while Ilya walks away. Walks. He’s walking. Speed-walking is still walking. 

He speed-walks a lap around the hospital. 

Shane doesn’t remember him. 

He lights a cigarette. 

The burn in his chest helps marginally. He breathes in, he holds, he breathes out acrid smoke. The wind blows it back into his own face, a cloud of woe of his own making. 

A month ago, his father died, and Ilya didn’t cry. He didn’t cry, but he did call Shane, and confessed to more emotions than he’s ever admitted to having before in his entire life. Confessed to feeling anger, at his father and his brother and his step mother, for their callousness, for their greed and the small-minded lives they led. He confessed to feeling sorrow, at missing his mom, at knowing she’d have loved to see where he was now. Confessed to loving Shane, in words he didn’t understand, but it was real. It happened. 

Ilya said the words. Said, I’m so in love with you and I don't know what to do about it. Out loud. Shane heard them. 

And now? 

If a tree falls in a forest, does it make a sound? If a heart breaks that no one even knows exists, does it even matter?

His cigarette ashes down to the nub. It burns his fingers, so he stomps it out and lights a new one. 

It’s better, this way. 

Ilya had been thinking of ways to end it. He had talked himself in circles for hours on his plane ride back to the States, testing different phrases, different scenarios on how Shane would react. They were going to meet last night, and Ilya was going to do it. He was going to end it. He’s sure of it. 

And now, the universe did it for them. 

He takes another long drag. His lungs burn. 

He had to end it. He was going to end it. Ilya was in love with him, but they both valued their jobs too much. They were never going to make it work. 

They had a good thing going, and Ilya was going to ruin it by having feelings, but now he doesn't have to. 

He waits the length of four cigarettes before he forces his legs to walk back to his car. Marlow is chewing on his thumb. 

“That bad?” he asks when Ilya gets within earshot.

Ilya ignores him and doesn’t slam the door. The car rumbles to life, and it’s not until they’re on the highway that Ilya can speak. 

“He says he will be back next season.”

“But?”

“Broken collar bone. Concussion. Was very out of it, so. We’ll see.”

“You don’t think he’ll be well enough,” Marlow guesses. Ilya can’t dignify that with a response, lest he wants to crash this car into the median. At his silence, Marlow whistles. “Shit. It was an accident. I know I hit him at a bad angle, I didn’t mean—”

“Marlow. Shut. Up.” 

They sit in silence for a bit. 

Ilya doesn’t reach for the radio, but he does roll down a window. The wind whips his hair. 

Marlow fidgets. And shifts in his seat. And adjusts his weight. And taps his hands against his knees. 

“Maybe I should send him something,” Marlow breaks the silence, ten minutes later. “My girl has been making these, like, charcuterie baskets, y’know, with a bunch of different bread loaves and cheeses and deli meats, do you think—”

“Do fruit instead.”

Marlow hums. “You think?”

“He will eat fruit, not the bread.” 

With something actionable on his mind, Marlow finally leaves Ilya to drive in peace as he texts his girlfriend. 

He drives the speed limit. He doesn’t cut anyone off. He doesn’t break any traffic laws. He has his hands on the wheel and stays between the lines as he puts Montreal in the rearview behind him.

———

Somewhere over Georgia

No one on the Bears cares. 

That’s not true, technically, but that’s what it seems like. Everyone had winced and frowned and hummed in sympathy like they were supposed to, because this was real, and injuries were common in their line of work, and there’s a healthy level of karma that everyone fears that says if you celebrate someone’s misfortune, then you were next. No one would outright say they were glad Hollander was hurt. Everyone was wishing him a speedy recovery. 

But sympathy only stretches so far when you’re in the playoffs.

The energy on board is certainly a buzz of barely-concealed optimism. The thing no one wants to say out loud is this: with Hollander out of the playoffs, the Bears might have a shot. It had looked dire there for a second, but things were looking up. 

Someone tries implying that to Ilya. He stares at them blankly until they go away, leaving him to his corner of the plane. 

Nine years. 

None of them are strangers to injuries on the ice. In the span of nine years, Ilya alone has dealt with bruised ribs, a broken nose, sprained fingers, fractured toes. He’s been checked and knocked down too many times to count. Players were always trying to take him out. Shane, too. 

Ilya wonders what’s different, this time. Why this hit? 

Why the hit from nine years ago?

Because Shane had gone down that time, too. Ilya remembers. They had been seventeen, and Ilya had been exhilarated on that ice. He was playing well and he knew it, and he was zooming, and Shane Hollander was keeping up with him. Ilya had long-since been the fastest guy in his league back home, but here was this Canadian keeping pace and giving Ilya a run for his money. 

For the first time in a long time, hockey was fun. Racing down the ice, chasing after the puck, Hollander on his heels—

—and then the whistles had blown, and when Ilya looked back, Hollander was laid out, sprawled on the ice, with one of Ilya’s teammates nearby with a smug look on his face.

Shane was fine. Up on his feet in seconds. They made him sit on the bench when play resumed, and Ilya assumed he was checked out somehow. He rejoined the game in the last period, and Ilya was glad to have him back. He was the only player on the ice that gave him any kind of challenge. 

He loves playing against Shane. Had yesterday been the last time? Is this the last memory they had together? 

Shane has been hit before. Not knocked out cold, but he’s certainly had his fair share of injuries. If his stupid brain had to reset his memories, why couldn’t it be to last week, when he’d collided with Carter Vaughn? Or six months ago, when he took a puck to the helmet in a game against Philadelphia? Or even last year, when Dallas Kent took a swing and Shane dodged by going head-first into the goal pipe? Why did he have to lose nine fucking years, and leave Ilya here with the curse of remembering? 

“Yo.”

Ilya looks up to see Victor St-Simon. “What.”

“Just wanted to check on you,” he shrugs easily. “It’s not like you to be in a corner all by yourself. You’re usually in a great mood when we beat Montreal.”

“He usually gets laid,” Mitchell says from where some of the guys are huddled together playing cards, chatting, laughing. “I bet his detour with Marlow got in the way.”

“Aw, is that it, Rozy? Couldn’t get your dick wet? There’s no need to be sad about it,” Reilly laughs. 

“Dude, you were a menace when you didn’t see Becca in Texas,” Marlow throws at him. “You don’t have a fucking leg to stand on.”

Ilya takes a breath. “I am thinking about our path to the cup,” he lies. 

St-Simon ducks his head, a smug smile on his lips. “I mean, our path just got a little easier, am I right?”

He fights to keep a glare off his face. “Why do you say that?” 

“C’mon, Roz, don’t be dense. You can admit you’re stoked, we all know you hate the guy.”

And there’s the problem, isn’t it? 

He should be playing the part of a rival. If he leans into it, everyone will get off his back. They were always so worried about being found out, but Ilya was just handed the best out ever. He has a secret, and now he’s the only one who knows it. All he has to do is give in to the asshole routine, let everyone think he was as awful as they thought, and celebrate Shane’s injury with the rest of the team. It’s a perfect situation served up on a silver platter. 

If only his mouth was on the same page.

“This is the difference between me and you,” he hisses. “You think because Hollander is hurt, that we will have easier time getting the cup.” Ilya glances around the room. He raises his voice. “We can’t be the best if we don’t beat the best. Just because Hollander is out of the playoffs doesn’t mean we are in the final. We will all look fucking stupid if you celebrate before you deserve it.”

St-Simon just grins a little wild. “Then let’s fucking deserve it. Let’s go kick some Floridian ass!”

Some of the guys give a half-hearted cheer; the others eye Ilya carefully. 

Whatever. Fuck them. Let them think whatever they want.

May, 2017 — Montreal

“—another disappointing night for Rozanov. This was his sixth game in a row without scoring a goal.”

“Not just that, Jerry, but he hasn’t even gotten an assist since that final game against Montreal a few weeks ago. What do you think is going on?”

“It’s really unfortunate that the season is ending like this. Rozanov’s had bad games before, everyone has, but this has been the longest stretch of his career thus far. We saw him get that major penalty early in game against Miami and that seemed to throw him off—he’s lucky that the rest of Boston had done well enough without him to squeak out a win. And then today, we saw him collide with Wozniak and skate away holding his ribs, and—look, it’s no secret he’s had a tough year with everything happening in his personal—”

The television mutes. “You’re supposed to be limiting your screen time.”

“I wasn’t watching it,” Shane says miserably. He’s on his back staring up at the ceiling on the floor of his parent’s living room. His mom peers down at him, blocking the TV in his periphery. From this angle, he can’t tell if her eyebrows are worried. They probably are. They always are, these days. 

“How are you feeling?” she asks, five times a day. 

“Fine.” He’s trying not to overdo that word. Sometimes he says good. Other times, alright. 

“Are you dizzy at all?”

“No.” He’s still on a hefty dose of meds for the vertigo.

“How’s your head? Your collar?” 

“I’m fine, mom.” He has a low-level headache. They cut back some of his painkillers yesterday when he finally took the sling off. Everything is a dull, persistent ache—but nothing he can’t handle. If it were worse, he’d say so. 

She bites her lip. “Any new developments?”

No. He still doesn’t remember much of the last nine years. 

He had been discharged from the hospital pretty quick. Once they knew he was okay physically, a doctor with kind eyes and a firm voice had sat down in front of him. 

“The brain is tricky,” she had said. “I can’t give you a timeline on what to expect. There’s a chance you wake up tomorrow knowing everything. There’s a chance you recover them slowly over some time.” She had put a hand on his arm. “There’s also a possibility you won’t remember at all.” 

He’d been thankful that he was already halfway to being discharged and wasn’t still hooked up to a heart rate monitor; he’s sure it would’ve gone off and sent the nurses running. 

“What do I do?” he asked. “I can’t not remember. I have to remember things.”

The expression on her face had been sympathetic, he can remember that. “You rest. You heal your body first.” He could do that. “And then, when you’re up for it—ask questions. Spend time with friends and loved ones. Try to fall back into your same routines—you’ll be surprised how much the body remembers.”

“You’re saying I should rely on muscle memory,” he said. 

“I don’t want to get your hopes up. I can’t promise you anything,” she warned.

“But it’s worth a try.”

But trying was hard. He couldn’t just go back to his own apartment; his mother nearly brained him again herself when he suggested it before stuffing him into her car and taking him to her house instead. He’s a little glad. He doesn’t even know where his apartment is.

The important people know about his memory. His coach, his manager, his agent. Hayden Pike, who showed up at his parent’s house and declared himself Shane’s best friend and planted himself at his side whenever he wasn’t busy with the rest of the team. 

And Ilya Rozanov. He knows. And hasn’t told anyone, Shane doesn’t think. If it had gotten out, he’s sure it would’ve gotten back to him. 

He’s sure the guys on his team were told he had a concussion and was avoiding being overwhelmed, because they had all clapped him gently on the back and wished him a speedy recovery and promptly left, jetting off to Detroit. It had been nice, seeing them, even if he didn’t remember half of them.

He had a team behind him. They were rooting for him.

And then they lost in the first round of playoffs. When his mother told him the news, Shane tried to swallow his guilt and ended up nauseous all night. He blamed the concussion. 

He has to fight to make his way back to his team. It’s the most important thing. 

“Shane,” his mother says, and he sighs. 

“No progress.”

“Why are you on the floor?”

He’s on the floor because he wanted to watch the hockey game, Boston vs New York, but he had gotten a little dizzy with the fast camera work, so he’d taken his meds, and they had helped, but not all the way. He didn’t want to turn the game off, so he laid on the floor so he wasn’t tempted to look at the screen. Instead, he had watched a faint reflection of the colors play across the stucco ceiling as he listened to the announcers call the game. 

Boston lost. One more loss and they were out of the playoffs, just one round further than Montreal. Shane’s not quite sure why the whole thing has him feeling miserable.

Maybe he wanted to beat Boston himself.

“No reason,” he says, and then he hauls himself up. When he glances at the TV, Rozanov is on it, giving a post-game interview. There’s a bruise on his cheek, and he’s scowling. His brows are furrowed as he stares intensely at whoever is speaking. They’re probably asking him about where he thinks they went wrong, can they pull off a win to stay alive, what’s going on with his game, yadda yadda yadda. It’s always the same. At least that hasn’t changed in nine years. 

The TV is still muted, but Shane watches Rozanov’s mouth as he shapes his sentences, and he can almost hear his accented words in his ear. His lips glisten when he licks them. His forehead is lined with sweat. There’s a flush on his cheeks, and it reaches all the way down his neck. 

Shane’s mother clicks the TV off. “Hayden is coming for dinner,” she says as she walks away. “Why don’t you go clean up?”

With nothing else to do, he listens to his mother. 

He changes, and he washes his hands in the bathroom. He splashes some cold water onto his face. He meets his own eye in the mirror and tries not to spiral at the sight, the way he has been. 

He’s still him, but he’s older than he thinks he should be. He’s only 26, but there are lines on his face that weren’t there before. There’s a wrinkle starting to form by his mouth that he knows comes from years of stretching his lips around his mouth guard. There’s a scar on his chin from an injury he doesn’t remember. His hair isn’t cut the same. 

He doesn’t recognize himself, and that leaves him far dizzier than the initial hit did. 

But it’s fine. He’s getting through it. 

Hayden comes over and they all sit around the dinner table and make polite conversation. After, when his mother excuses herself out the door to run errands and his dad excuses himself to his office, Hayden pulls out a bulging manila envelope and wags his eyebrows. “I brought the goods.”

Shane blinks at him. “What?”

“I texted you.”

“My mom still has my phone.”

“Dude, she knows you’re not actually 17 again, right?” he asks. 

Shane punches him in the shoulder and doesn’t mention how he turned it on the other day and the immediate influx of notifications nearly sent him into a panic. He shut it off and hasn’t been able to work up the courage to turn it on since. “Shut up. You know the concussion protocol. No screens.”

“You don’t have to be such a goody-goody. You know, 26-year old Shane breaks the rules sometimes.”

Shane doubts that. “I just don’t want to risk it, I need to get better as soon as possible,” he says. “I need to get back on the ice.”

“About that,” Hayden grins. “Since you don’t read my texts, now you get to be surprised.” He dumps the context of the envelope onto the table. It’s cardstock, and they spill over each other. 

Shane picks one up. On one side is a photo, a hockey player he doesn’t know. On the other, in bold black text:

FREDRICK “Frenchie” MANDURI (#28) Montreal Voyagers. POS - D. 

• Drafted by the Admirals in 2012, Rd 3, Pk 4
• Traded to Montreal in 2016
• A bit slow on rebounds, but good instincts. Works well with Palmer.
• Married to Lizzie, 2 year old son named Paul.
• Quiet, keeps to himself. Likes to play dominoes. Buys everyone cologne for the holidays (the good kind!!)

“They’re flashcards!” Hayden looks proud of himself. “I figured you can study up, get your memory back. You can learn all the fancy-schmancy hockey stats from ESPN, but I wanted to make something more personal. I wrote the fun facts myself.” 

Shane could cry. “Thanks, this is great.” He reaches for another one. 

SAWYER DAWSON (#62) Montreal Voyagers. POS - G. 

• Drafted by the Voyagers in 2013, Rd 4, Pk 2
• Out on injury until next year :(
• Great presence in the net (watch Nov 23rd 2015 game against Detroit, 2nd period against Aiden Ostell - what a save!!!)
• Girlfriend named Peyton, who bakes cupcakes when we’re in California (not so good but you like the carrot cake ones, she makes them just for you)
• Loud. Pushy w/ alcohol but fun, life-of-the-party type.

“I didn’t get to everyone,” Hayden says ruefully. “I didn’t have time to go through the entire league, but I made our team, and teams in the playoffs. My goal was to have them done in time for you to watch the games play out, but they took a while to make and now the season is nearly over… but whatever! I figured if you like them, then I could make the rest of the teams, and you can study all summer until you’re back.” That sounds like a good enough plan to Shane. 

They start with Montreal. Shane isn’t terribly off; he knows most of the players older than him, for one. Even some of the players drafted his own year, he’s vaguely familiar with. It’s the young people that are the problem, but after about two hours of studying their faces, he feels a little more settled than he did when he woke up this morning. He doesn’t remember them, exactly, but he knows them, now, just a little. 

He says as much, and watches Hayden smile, wide and bright. “That’s good! That’s progress! I—”

Hayden’s phone rings from where it’s plugged in on the other side of the room. He glances at it quickly, and then throws a guilty look Shane's way. “It’s past my curfew,” he says as he’s bringing his phone to his ear. “Hey babe! I was just about to call you—yeah, Shane is doing well, say hi Shane!”

“Hi, Jackie,” Shane says when Hayden holds his phone out. He brings his phone back to ear and talks to his wife, so Shane turns his attention back to the cards scattered around the table. 

They’re color-coded, based on the teams. Montreal is red, New York is white, Detroit is yellow.

His eyes catch on a head of blonde curls, framed in blue.

He reaches and uncovers the headshot of Ilya Rozanov. The photo must be old, because he looks younger than he did in Shane’s hospital room. He looks almost like he remembers him. He’s scowling in the photo, trying to look tough, and yet—Shane swears he can hear laughter. 

He can almost imagine how it must’ve gone: Rozanov, posing for his photos, being told to look fiercer, more serious, furrowing his brows and pursing his lips—and then, a snort. He must’ve dissolved into laughter between takes, snickering too hard to compose himself. 

He wonders if he’s ever heard Rozanov laugh. 

He probably laughs on the ice when his team is winning, Shane tells himself. It’s probably sadistic and mean-spirited. 

And yet. 

Shane touches his fingertips to the glossy image before flipping it around to read what Hayden had written. 

ILYA ROZANOV (#81) Boston Bears Captain. POS - F.

• Russian.
• We hate him. 

Simple. Straightforward. There’s no reason for Shane to stare at the words as long as he does. He doesn’t know what he’s searching for, but he doesn’t find anything except for an itchiness under his skin.

His chest aches. 

He wishes his doctor hadn’t cut back his painkillers just yet. He sighs and throws the photo back onto the pile. 

“I know, I will,” Hayden says into the phone. “I love you too. See you soon. Bye-bye.”

“She okay?”

“Yeah, I was just due home an hour ago. Whoops,” Hayden exaggerates a shrug. 

Shane rolls his eyes. “Get out of here before she grounds us both.”

“She would never, you’re her favorite,” Hayden says as he grabs his coat. “You should come over for dinner soon, though. She’d love to see you.” 

Shane walks him to the door. “I don’t know if I’m up for that just yet.”

“Fair. But hey, we’re here for you, okay?” he says, clapping Shane on the shoulder. “Keep studying, you’ll be on the ice in no time.” 

“Thanks, man.”

“Take care of yourself,” he says, and then Shane is alone. 

He sighs. 

The house is quiet. 

He makes his way back to the table, towards the pile. It’s still staring up at him. 

ILYA ROZANOV (#81) Boston Bears Captain. POS - F. 

• Russian.
• We hate him. 

The words feel wrong, in the way that everything about Shane’s life feels wrong. Like everything is three inches to the left, and he keeps bumping into furniture. Like he’s wearing his shoes on the wrong feet, but he can’t get them right no matter how many times he swaps them. Like his clothes are a size too small, pinching weirdly. Everything is wrong, and off-balanced, and Shane is exhausted from tying himself in knots trying to make sense of it all. 

He tries to shake the feeling. He drinks a ginger-ale. He walks a lap around the house. He lays down in bed, fully clothed, and stares at his wall, pale blue and bare. 

He’s not sure how long he lays there. Eventually, he falls asleep. 

1 week later — Boston

Ilya watches the championship with his team. 

Watches is a funny word. “The game is on and Ilya is also in the room” is more accurate. It’s hard to feel excited about hockey these days. He couldn’t give less of a shit about Scott fucking Hunter leading his team to victory, which is becoming increasingly likely given the clock counting down on the top of the screen. 

He downs another shot. He’s already feeling loose and tipsy and warm. This one goes down smoothly, which says more about his drunkenness than what they’re drinking, because the quality of American alcohol is shit. 

He wonders if Shane is watching the game. 

Probably. Even concussed, Ilya doubts Shane could stay away from hockey for too long. He eats and breathes and shits hockey. He can’t imagine a world where Shane isn’t watching the game right now. 

Noise. New York scored another goal. 

The guys around Ilya cheer and boo in equal measure. Money changes hands. Someone had started a betting pool, yelling about over/unders and shot counts, and Ilya had thrown down cash saying that there better be blood shed tonight, because that was the only way to make this bearable, but there’s less than five minutes left in the game and everyone is still blood-free. Punches and sticks were thrown, but Ilya hasn’t seen one broken nose or busted lip. 

“This is so boriiiiing,” he whines, pointing at the TV with his empty shot glass. “I would rather gouge my eyes out with my skate than watch Scott Hunter miss his shots any more.”

“It should be us,” St-Simon seethes. 

“Get your shit together next year and maybe it will be,” Marlow ribs. 

Next year. Even the thought of it makes Ilya snort. Who knows where anyone will be next year. With any luck, Ilya will take a puck to the head during the off-season and forget any of this year ever happened. 

Another burst of noise. Scott Hunter misses a shot. Ilya rolls his eyes so hard he nearly gives himself a headache. 

“Another?” Reynolds asks, holding up a vodka bottle. Ilya holds his shot glass out dutifully. 

He wonders who Shane is with, if he’s watching the game surrounded by his team, or maybe just his parents. Maybe he’s not watching at all, but that seems unlikely. He’s definitely not getting drunk. He wonders if he’s still on painkillers, and if he’s using that as an excuse to not drink tonight, or if everyone on his team already knows he opts out of alcohol so they don’t even offer it to him. 

Unless he does get drunk with them, because he’s actually friends with them and not… whatever he and Ilya were to each other. Ilya bites his tongue to keep from frowning at the thought. 

He takes his shot. He doesn’t even taste it. 

He wants so badly to text him and ask. He could do it. A simple are you watching the game? could be fine. Or a Scott Hunter looks good tonight, just to get under Shane’s skin. Or just hi. At this point, Ilya would settle for hi. 

But Shane hasn’t texted, and Ilya isn’t sure if he’d even respond if he reached out first. 

What’s bugging him most is being kept in the dark. He doesn’t know anything, and it’s driving him crazy. 

Does Shane still not remember anything? Does he have any inkling, or is he just painfully blank? Or—does he remember, and is he taking this out provided to them, ignoring Ilya the way Ilya should be ignoring him back? 

He wouldn’t blame him. It’s a clean break. Ilya’s telling himself it’s easier this way. He’s almost halfway to believing it. 

Maybe in the fall it’ll hurt less.

The clock counts down, and at the final whistle, the New York Admirals have won.

Ilya stands up. “Ugh. I am going to go vomit.”

He shoulders his way past his team. He can still hear their muffled shouts and jeers through the bathroom door when it shuts. He doesn’t throw up because he’s above that, but he does take a spectacularly long piss. 

When he looks at himself in the mirror above the sink, the world tilts, just a little. 

He’s drunker than he realized. 

He doesn’t know how many shots he’s had—eight, nine? He wasn’t keeping track, only knew that he hadn’t wanted to come at all, but he had to, because he’s captain and he needed to show face, and the only thing worse than watching Scott Hunter win the cup was watching it sober. So he made sure he wasn’t. 

He pulls out his phone. He still has no messages. 

He types Shane Hollander into the internet search bar with careful, steady fingers. There’s still no news. No one on his team has made any comment past the initial get-well-soon hollow bullshit copy-pasted from every player injury statement. There were a few fans online who had speculated on some theories, but those threads have gone dry. There’s no movement on his Instagram, or his Twitter. 

It’s not just Ilya in the dark. No one has seen him. No one knows anything. 

He opens their text thread. He could just text him. Or call him, maybe that’s better. He can call him, just to hear his voice. 

There’s a roar of noise, like someone started a fight. Someone pounds on the door. Ilya startles, dropping his phone. He curses in Russian. 

“Ilya!” It’s Cliff Marlow, heavy-fisted. “Dude!”

“Fuck off,” Ilya shouts back.

“No, man—you’re gonna want to see this! Get your ass out here!”

He has to stoop to pick up his phone and nearly stumbles getting back up. He stuffs his phone back into his pocket and spares another glance at himself in the mirror.

Who was he kidding? Shane doesn’t want to hear from him anyway. 

If he doesn’t remember Ilya, he probably shouldn’t want to. If he does remember… well, then Ilya should just take the hint. 

“Get it together,” he whispers to himself in Russian. He’s not sure if he’s talking to his downturned lips, or the dark circles under his eyes, or the hollow feeling that’s taken residence in his chest the past month. “You are fine. Go be fine.”

His reflection stares back at him. Blinks at him. 

“Fuck off,” he tells himself, and then he rejoins his team to see what all the fuss is about. 

Montreal

Shane watches the championship game with his parents. 

They watch with the volume on low, the rest of the lights dim. It’s the first game he’s been able to sit through without needing a brain break, so he should be punching a metaphorical fist in the air at the progress. 

Should. The truth is, he resents the fact that he’s expected to celebrate something that used to come easy to him, but his mom keeps pushing him to focus on the positive, so. 

He’s trying. It’s just complicated, is what he’s saying.

It’s a good game, and he watches it in full, enraptured. He doesn’t ask many questions now that he can name the players on the teams thanks to Hayden and his flashcards, but his mom keeps up a running commentary of player stats and personal anecdotes anyway. She has a story about everyone, and a lot of it goes over Shane’s head, but being here, sitting between his parents, watching a game while he tunes his mother out—it feels normal. 

Maybe they do this a lot. Maybe this is his routine. He’s settling into it.

The game is a fierce back and forth, but in the third period, one team starts to pull ahead. At the final whistle, New York has won. 

He and his parents cheer, a little understated, but there’s a fire in his chest. He loves this game. It’s an intrinsic part of him. Even watching others play—he’s hit with longing so strong it nearly takes his breath away.

He watches as Scott Hunter holds the cup over his head, and Shane tries to recall how it feels. He’s won twice, he knows, but he can’t remember what it feels like to hold it. He can imagine it, but he can’t tell the difference between fantasy and memory.

He’s seen the pictures of himself holding it. He looks at his own hands, trying to conjure the memory from thin air. Tries to remember how heavy it is. Were his hands sweaty? Did he almost drop it? Is it easier, the second time? 

When Shane looks up, Scott Hunter has handed it off to the rest of the guys on the team, and they all hold it up together while he—

Oh.

Scott Hunter is kissing a man. 

Shane’s parents both gasp. “Oh my god,” his mother says. “David—”

“I know, I see, I’m watching.”

“Oh my god,” she says again.

Shane can’t look away.

Scott Hunter is kissing a man. He’s kissing a man, on live television. It’s—it’s definitely a man, he’s tall and broad and bearded, and they’re kissing. It’s not a polite peck on the lips, but something more. Something… fuller. Something desperate and whole.

The camera hasn’t cut away. Shane can’t hear the commentators over the roar of the crowd—or is it the rush in his own ears? It can't be his own breathing, because he's pretty sure he's stopped.

Scott Hunter won the cup, and now he’s kissing a man, and when they stop kissing they keep their faces close, pressing their foreheads together and smiling in each others faces, and they look happy, look elated, and Scott Hunter kisses this man again and—

“Shane?”

“Yeah?”

He manages to tear his gaze away from the screen to look at his mom. There's concern etched deep on her face and, oh. Shane's cheeks are wet. He's not sure when that happened. 

“Are you okay?”

His breath catches in his chest. It takes him three tries to speak. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

When he looks back to the TV, they’re not kissing anymore, but the team is celebrating. There's champagne everywhere. There are so many people on the ice, players and reporters and loved ones, and they're all joyous. Everyone looks so happy, and Shane’s throat goes tight at the sight. Scott Hunter flashes a smile to the camera, big and wild, and then he’s being embraced by that man, and they’re not kissing, not again, but they’re pressed cheek-to-cheek, their arms locked around each other. 

“Shane,” his mom says, soft, too soft. She touches a hand to his arm.

Shane watches Scott breath deeply. He exhales, and it looks so peaceful.

“Excuse me” Shane says, standing up abruptly. 

“Shane—”

“I’m fine,” he says, though his vision is blurry. “I’m okay, I just—I need a second—”

He locks himself in the bathroom. 

In the mirror, his face is growing splotchier by the second. He can barely see his own freckles under the spreading redness. It’s becoming a struggle to breathe normally. He watches as his face crumples. He tries to fight it, tries to swallow it down, but a sob releases from somewhere in his gut. He turns on the faucet in time to mask the sound that rips out of him. 

The force of it brings him to his knees, hands clutching at the porcelain as he struggles to breathe. He kneels there, knees on hardwood, forehead pressed to the lower cabinet, hands raised above his head gripping the sink, and he cries.

He sobs, again and again. He hiccups, and tries to catch his breath, tries to get it under control. He wipes at his face with his hands, but the snot and the sobs and the tears don’t stop. It just keeps coming, until he’s drowning in it, until he’s sure he could drown the whole world. 

“Why am I crying?” he whispers fiercely to himself, voice cracking. Shane watched Scott Hunter kiss a man after winning the Stanley Cup, and now it feels like—like he’s shattering. Like he’s mourning something. He feels excavated, hollow. “What am I missing?” 

He stands on shaky legs and looks up at himself in the mirror, hoping to find the answers on his face, but there’s nothing there. Just Shane Hollander, 26, a man he doesn’t recognize. In a life he doesn’t know. 

His body is remembering something his brain doesn’t, and Shane has never felt this adrift, this lonely, in his entire life.

He shuts his eyes. He searches. He tries so hard. 

There’s something. An impression. A shadow. A hint of something fleeting. An embrace? But when he tries to chase it—

It’s gone. And Shane is left alone.