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Winter, 2010 — Montreal, Canada
Shane is ritualistic in the way people become ritualistic when something matters more than they’ve allowed themselves to stop and think about.
He wakes up early. He goes for a run, the same long route around St. Lawrence. Shane could do it blindfolded. After, he comes home, showers (body, then head), and makes breakfast. Three fried eggs and one piece of sprouted grain toast. He prepares a smoothie that he drinks too quickly.
Only after these tasks are completed does he allow himself to open his laptop. There, at the top of his inbox sits his reward.
From: ruboy800
Subject: I have a big house
Shane opens the email with haste, but reads each line slowly. Then once more—quicker, greedier— just to embed the words into his head so later, when he’s away from his computer, he can pull up the words in his mind and smile to himself. Simultaneously, surges of dopamine hit his nervous system better than any drug ever could.
Dear Loon,
Today I am in a new city. Different from yesterday. Montreal. Here, there is snow on the ground. It is the ugly kind. Very brown and sad. I am thinking of inventing a machine that cleans the snow. Maybe I will send you snow that is clean and you will be happy to have snow that does not make you sad. What are you doing today? Do you have big plans or are you staying at home? What does your home look like? Mine is very big. Twenty windows. I would like to see your home one day.
Shane exhales, long and quiet. So ruboy800 is in Montreal, too. He’ll save that freak out for later.
The emails always end mid-thought, mid-sentence, as if ruboy800 has simply stood up and walked out of the room without explanation. Shane likes to imagine a sudden interruption: the fire alarm, a taxi to catch. Maybe a burglar climbed through one of those twenty windows, but politely allowed him just enough time to hit send before stealing the computer.
If you asked Shane, the thing he likes most about their thing is that it was fate.
A year ago, ruboy800 had meant to write to someone else. Someone with an email address close enough to Shane’s to make the mistake feel almost intentional in hindsight. Normally, Shane would have deleted it. He doesn’t answer wrong numbers, doesn’t engage with strangers. Still, ruboy800’s email had been unmistakably human, written with the expectation of being read by someone who was also a human. It felt… wrong to let it vanish.
So Shane replied. Just to say “I think you meant this for someone else”. He didn’t expect anything back. However, when he came home from practice that night, there was another message waiting for him. An apology and a little thank you. And, a question. They haven’t missed a single day since.
Shane closes his laptop, already thinking about how he’ll answer later. What he’ll say about his apartment, about the way the light comes in through the kitchen window in the morning, about how he doesn’t mind the snow even when it’s ugly, but he’d be happy to have snow that was made just for him.
On the way to the rink, Shane tries to picture what he thinks ruboy800 looks like. He has a thousand different variants that he cycles through: maybe he is tall with brown hair and brown eyes (he’s not very fond of that one), or maybe he has blonde hair, blue eyes. Maybe he would stand at Shane’s eye level. He has to be handsome–it’s just something Shane is sure about. Shane thinks he’s foreign. There’s something about ruboy800’s grammar and English that doesn’t sound native-speaking. Be that as it may, Shane is afraid to ask any personal questions.
They don’t know each other’s real names, or what they do for work. Now, the only real thing Shane knows is that ruboy800 is in Montreal, too, but. But what does that mean? Could they… meet? No way.
Well, maybe? Would Shane want that? Yes, he does. There is a certain thrill that comes with anonymity, though. Maybe that’s what keeps Shane replying. He could be talking to anyone! He could be talking to a movie star! That would explain the constant moving that ruboy800 mentions often.
Or, Shane realizes with a stab in his chest, he could be an athlete, just like you.
Shane pulls into the garage at the rink and grips the steering-wheel tightly. There’s a new red Ferrari parked in the spot next to his. He had almost forgotten that today was a specific day. He almost forgot that today was the day that their new teammate was joining them.
He almost forgot that today was the day that Ilya Rozanov was joining the Montreal Metros.
— — —
“Man, that guy is annoying,” Hayden says to Shane as he sits down to take his pads off.
Shane shrugs. “He’s a good player.”
It’s the diplomatic thing to say, not what Shane wants to say. Hayden is referring to Ilya Rozanov, whom upon entering the locker room asked to be in charge of music. He then played weird techno Russian club music while they all dressed. It was an odd first impression to make, Shane had thought, still, he was determined to approach having Rozanov on the team with an open mind. He wanted to form his own opinion, not let the bad press that had followed Rozanov around the league color it. Shane was the captain, after all. Diplomacy came with the job.
Shane was so determined that when they all were on the ice practicing, he suggested that Rozanov start on his line, center. Shane thought it was a nice gesture, to extend an olive branch of camaraderie. A way to say welcome to our team. Shane knew that Rozanov was an excellent player, maybe on-par with Shane himself. Drafted first (just like Shane) a year earlier than Shane, only to the western market. The two played against each other, but Shane rarely shared ice time with Rozanov. It seemed like they were always passing each other on their respective benches. Still, Shane’s assessment was clear: Rozanov was talented. He would make the Metros better. With a player like him, the playoffs felt within reach.
What Shane hadn’t fully accounted for was that Rozanov was also an uncompromising ass.
He slid into Shane’s top-line role with unsettling ease. Shane caught himself getting irritated with his linemates, who seemed to sync with Rozanov automatically. These were his linemates. They laughed at Rozanov’s jokes, clapped him on the back, fell into an easy familiarity that rubbed Shane the wrong way.
To make matters worse, Rozanov was handsome. Shane decidedly did not want to dwell on that, nonetheless, Rozanov was objectively very handsome. Blond curly hair, blue eyes that tracked the puck like a hawk, and, most infuriatingly, a blinding superstar smile that Shane caught himself ensnared by a few times.
Hayden throws his gloves behind him, the noise pulls Shane back to the present. (Hayden has taken the side of loyalty to Shane and has decided that he does not like Rozanov because Hayden is convinced that Rozanov is gunning for Shane’s C.)
“You’ll warm up to him,” Shane says, but he feels stupid saying it. It’s the easy way out. It’s the captain thing to say. The truth is, Shane is miles away. Thinking about the email he wants to send when he gets home. He’s thinking about how to explain Rozanov to ruboy800 without exactly saying anything specific.
There’s this really handsome asshole who just joined my team and I can’t stop staring at him even though I think I might want to strangle him.
“Right,” Hayden replies, dragging out the syllable. “And hell will freeze over and we’ll play a game on it!”
“Sorry,” Shane laughs. “You’re right, he’s kind of an ass—“
“Don’t say but he’s a good addition to the team or whatever else your captain brain is thinking,” Hayden interrupts, laughing too.
Rozanov emerges from the showers and makes his way toward his stall with an unhurried confidence, steam still clinging to him. A red Metros towel hangs low around his hips, revealing a narrow line of blond hair at his waist. His skin is flushed from the heat, water still tracing slow paths down his stomach where his abs are slick and unmistakably defined under the harsh locker-room lights. The room seems to move in slow motion around him. Shane’s hands still on his pants knot. His breath goes shallow without him meaning it to. He blinks.
Only then does Shane realize he’s staring.
— — —
From: loonholl2400
Subject: New People
Dear 800,
Have you ever had a coworker who you didn’t like? A new person just started and I am trying to like them, but I’m having a hard time. I’m sure you’re easy to get along with. Now that you’re in Montreal, maybe we have run into each other. Maybe we know each other in real life. Do you ever think that? I’d like to see your house one day, too. I live in a building that overlooks the river. In my kitchen, the sun comes through in the morning. Sometimes I feel like I’ve known you for a long time.
English is difficult for Ilya sometimes, speaking it especially, when he has to think ahead of his own mouth. Reading it is easy, or, reading this is easy. Whoever loonholl2400 is, they make sense to him. Their thoughts follow a logic he recognizes immediately, careful and precise, every sentence formed just for him to read. Just for Ilya.
Thoughts like that are dangerous, though. Because Ilya understands the shape of what they’re doing together. This strange agreement that they have never named. It was founded on privacy, security, and mystery. Whoever loonholl2400 is, they’re playing the same game as Ilya.
Though sometimes, Ilya feels like… well, he feels like he might break. He feels like he might break their unspoken rules and ask loonholl2400 for some real information. What’s their name? Where did they grow up? Do they want to meet? Would they recognize Ilya Rozanov, the world famous hockey player? Would they tell everyone?
No, loonholl2400 wouldn’t. Well, maybe they’d recognize him, but Ilya knows that whomever he’s been talking to wouldn’t tell the world. They value privacy just as much as Ilya.
Ilya sinks back onto the couch and closes his laptop, annoyed at their circumstances. It’s been a year of this back and forth, something that they’re both playing into willingly, and yet, he can feel himself teetering closer to the other side.
His attention shifts to the TV that is on SportsCenter Canada where Shane Hollander’s sweet little flushed Canadian face is speaking.
A reporter pushes their microphone in Shane’s face. “Are you looking forward to having Rozanov on your team for the rest of the season?”
“Yes,” Shane says easily. Ilya’s heart beats quicker for some reason he won’t be interrogating. “Rozanov is a proven player. We’re all excited to play with him.”
Ilya huffs. Such a captain thing to say.
All day, he watched Hollander skate. He looked so… so pretty? He is definitely prettier than the other men on the team. Stronger, more confident, too. It had made Ilya’s stomach ache in a way that felt unfamiliar and faintly irritating. He’s been around hockey his entire life. He’s played with legends and against stars. And yet he’s never seen anyone quite like Shane Hollander. Or, at least, he’s never noticed anyone like Shane. So effortless, so damn perfect.
Ilya, more irritated now that he has Shane’s stupid face on his mind, moves his thoughts back to the email. His heart surges with butterflies.
Maybe we know each other in real life. Do you ever think that?
Sometimes I feel like I’ve known you for a long time.
Yes, Ilya also feels like he’s known loonholl2400 for a long time, too.
— — —
Sometimes, when you’re on the ice, you don’t know how much time is left in a period. Sometimes, you’re having so much fun and winning that time slips away and when you hear the buzzer it’s kind of a shock.
That is not what happened tonight. The sound of the second period buzzer felt like a blissful mercy ending twenty minutes of misery.
Ilya was first off the ice, already powerwalking down the hallway. He imagines that there is a cloud of anger rolling off of him like a cartoon. He knows that Shane fucking Hollander is behind him, probably waiting until every other player has left the ice until he makes his way down the hall because he’s a good captain, the perfect captain. Did he go to fucking captain manners school or something?
He’s so nice to everyone it’s kind of hard to be mad at him. Still, after that fucking—
“Rozanov.” Hollander’s voice is right there, Ilya feels it at his back before he hears it properly.
He glances over his shoulder. Shane is barely a foot behind him, helmet unclipped and shoved up against his forehead, hair damp and curling at the edges. His cheeks are flushed and splotchy with exertion.
Ilya turns back toward his stall, jaw tight.
“What was that shit?” Shane asks, stepping closer. His voice drops, rougher now, meant only for Ilya. Around them, the room hums with laughter. They are, after all, winning the game by two points. There’s not much to be upset about, unless you are either Ilya Rozanov or Shane Hollander.
Ilya decides, right before he turns around, that he’s done playing nice. He reaches for the only weapon that ever really works on Hollander: The Sexy Asshole.
“Me?” he asks, finally facing him, all innocence and widened eyes. “What are you talking about, Hollander?”
Shane’s gaze narrows for half a second. “I know you did things differently on your other team—”
“Yes,” Ilya cuts in. “We passed each other the puck.”
“If you were fucking open, I would have passed it,” Shane snaps, color flooding deeper into his face now.
Something stupid and distracting crosses Ilya’s mind. He finds himself wondering how red Shane’s cheeks can actually get. What he looks like when he’s flustered for a different reason. What that mouth would look like after he’s been kissed. The thought derails him completely. His eyes dip, betraying him, tracking Shane’s mouth before he can stop himself.
“I’ll be open,” Ilya says, his accent over-powering the words. He drops his gaze, lashes shadowing his eyes, then looks up through them at Shane, slow and deliberate.
Shane’s cheeks burn brighter, and this time, Ilya knows it has nothing to do with hockey at all.
— — —
From: ruboy800
Subject: Montreal
Dear Loony,
We should meet. I am in Montreal now. You are here too? I have been thinking about this for a little while. It seems only natural? I am not a murderer. Just normal guy. Let me know.
Shane stares at the screen. His eyes unfocus as the words he has just read make their way into the conscious part of his mind. He blinks back into focus to read it again, just to be sure he’s not hallucinating.
Ruboy800 wants to meet? Now?
Dread stabs through Shane’s chest. Before he can spiral, he hears his mother’s voice in his head telling him to try to pin the fear down before it consumes him. Is it because Shane is afraid ruboy800 will not like him in person? Is it because he’s afraid he won’t like ruboy800? Definitely not that. He has such a strong inclination that he already really, really likes ruboy800. Maybe that’s the fear. That Shane is way more invested in this whole silly thing than ruboy800 is and that he will make a fool of himself if they ever met. It’s a silly thought—ruboy800 asked to meet, not Shane.
Shane closes his eyes and tries to picture meeting this stranger. Maybe they’ll meet in a cafe downtown, old Montreal. ruboy800 would walk in and Shane would know it’s him immediately, even without knowing. They’d chat about anything and everything, laughing, being serious. The date would last all day and at the end, they’d not want to part, so they’d have dinner together.
Shane sighs.
They can’t keep this up forever. He knows that. The anonymous emails, the careful mystery, the pretending that none of it leads anywhere. It either ends happily or horrendously.
Fuck it, Shane thinks.
From: loonholl2400
Subject: Re: Montreal
Yes. I’d like to meet you, too. How about Cafe Du Monde this Tuesday at 11:00am. I’ll be wearing a black Metros hat.
— — —
Ilya throws his stick into his stall. It catches the edge wrong and clatters to the floor in a way that echoes dramatically, drawing a few glances from down the row. It’s louder than he meant it to be, but honestly, if he has to go back out there in the third period and still not score, he’s going to be a lot louder than that stick.
“Alright, Rozanov.”
Hollander’s captain's voice cuts cleanly through the noise in Ilya’s head. Ilya looks up just in time to see Shane take a few steps closer, measured and calm in that infuriatingly even-keeled way captains have. Ilya narrows his eyes, already shaping an insult, something sharp and clever that will at least make him feel better for half a second. Then Hollander’s gaze flicks down to Ilya’s neck, lingering just a fraction of a beat too long then back up to his mouth, before sliding away entirely toward another teammate like nothing happened.
The insult dies on Ilya’s tongue. He swallows and looks away, irritated by the faint, unwelcome shiver that follows.
His second Metros game and they are losing to Edmonton. This is very embarrassing considering Edmonton’s current record. It’s almost like they are playing a college hockey team and still losing. Very embarrassing! Nationally embarrassing.
In all honesty, it might be Ilya’s fault. Though consciously, he is not ready to admit that quite yet—but maybe his playing isn’t the best tonight because of the events of the morning. Maybe that is kind of affecting his game. Maybe, okay?
Ilya had woken up with so much vitality that morning, you would have thought that he had been slipped drugs. He had danced in the shower to Muscovite club music, carefully chosen his outfit (a tight black sweater, grey pants—very sensible), and fussed with his hair until he realized he only had fifteen minutes to get downtown to Cafe Du Monde.
It’s not every day that you get to meet your crush who is also your secret unidentified penpal! This is a momentous day. He had to look his best.
Ilya parked his red Ferrari around the corner to avoid any immediate attention. He kind of wanted to blend in, just to make the interaction as lowkey as possible. He was being considerate, loonholl2400 was about to meet a celebrity!
As Ilya rounded the corner, his stomach began to twist in sweet knots. As much as he wanted to make this out in his head like he wasn’t nervous, wasn’t very invested in this relationship, he was deeply invested. He liked loonholl2400’s boring emails. He liked opening his email and seeing an unread note waiting for him. He liked knowing that somewhere out there was a person who belonged, just a little, to him.
The door bell chimed lightly as Ilya pushed it open. The cafe was busy enough, people milling around. A tourist in a beret ordering an almond milk latte in bad French.
Almost immediately, Ilya spotted a black Metros hat, pulled low over dark hair in a booth near the back corner.
Ilya’s breath caught as his gaze traveled south.
Because sitting there, hands wrapped neatly around a steaming cup of coffee, posture familiar even at rest, was Shane Hollander.
He had two choices that he had to decide between almost within a single second. First, he could ignore Hollander. Ignore the whole thing and pretend like the last year of exchanging emails was fake and Ilya was just kind of lonely and maybe a little crazy. He could, sensibly, pretend like he had never seen Hollander’s black hat and just order a latte and be on his way. He could spend the rest of his life maybe ignoring that the person that he’s pretty sure he’s in—
The second option is what he decides on.
Shane’s eyes met Ilya’s. It’s hard not to notice the panic that flashes across his face. But Ilya smiles at him as the well-practiced mask of European coolness slips into place. Shane’s cheeks flush and he takes a long sip of his coffee.
Ilya works his way through the maze of tables over to where Shane is seated. He listens to the knee-jerk need to be near Shane as if there’s a rope pulling him around like a dog.
As Ilya approaches, Shane looks so lovable up close. There’s no other word for it. He’s an open book, waiting for Ilya—no, waiting for ruboy800, to come in and sweep him off of his feet. Ilya almost loses it, almost tells Shane the truth, but the look on Shane’s face is a far-cry from I’m so happy to see you, it's more like Oh, God. This is worst case scenario.
“Is this seat taken?” Ilya asks, already pulling out the chair across from him.
“Yes,” Shane says quickly, reaching out to stop him. “I’m meeting someone.”
“Oh,” Ilya says. He sits down anyway and enjoys the flicker of irritation on Shane’s face far more than he should. “Like a date?”
“No,” Shane says, clearly annoyed now. “I’m meeting a… a friend. Could you move—”
The door opens and Shane’s attention snaps to the front of the cafe. An old woman wrapped in a scarf walks in and coughs loudly. Like a phlegmy cough. Like an old person cough.
Ilya laughs. “Is that your date? Seems like your type.”
“Fuck off,” Shane mutters, shoulders sagging as the seconds stretch on, as the door stays stubbornly absent of ruboy800.
Shane Hollander is loonholl2400. Of course. Holl. 24. God, Ilya almost groans. How obtuse could he have been? Of course it was fucking Hollander. He’s just as boring over email as he is in real life.
Ilya suddenly feels a pang of self-consciousness. What if Hollander puts two and two together and figures out that Ilya is ru (as in Russian) boy 800 (as in how many goals he wants to score in his NHL career)?
“Really,” Shane says, trying out his best serious voice. “I’m meeting someone.”
Ilya nods and stares at Shane’s mouth. “Okay.” He taps his foot on the ground, a small bubble of nervous energy working its way out. “I’ll just stay here until they come.”
Shane rolls his eyes and fixes his hat, yet the bravado loses its grip and Shane’s eyes fill with disappointment as he realizes that he is being stood up. Or, thinks he’s being stood up.
Ilya knows this is cruel. Knows that he should just get up and leave him alone, but Ilya isn’t ready to get up just yet.
His heart sinks into his stomach. Shane is not waiting for Ilya. He’s waiting for ruboy800, who is definitely not Ilya. To Shane, ruboy800 is perfect, not an asshole, not a cocky Russian man who is stealing his spotlight. Shane is not waiting for Ilya because Ilya is the last person ruboy800 could be.
“Please, just go,” Shane snaps. “I don’t have time to fight with you, okay? I do that enough on the ice when you don’t listen to me.” Shane’s eyebrows crease together.
“Okay,” Ilya says softly, pushing his chair back and standing up. “I will go. See you later, yes?” He nods at Shane and turns to leave before he can reply.
— — —
Shane wipes a stubborn tear from his eye before he turns his car off.
It’s been… a long day.
He woke up so hopeful that the night would end differently. He stupidly thought that maybe after he met ruboy800 (and they hit it off, of course), that Shane would invite him to the Metros game (that they would win) and after… well, maybe something would happen. Shane had ideas of what, sure, but he doesn’t really let himself go out of control like that usually, so the fantasy sort of ended in a cut to black.
Now, after being stood up, running into Ilya and saying something he regretted, and losing to Edmonton, Shane can’t help a few tears escaping. He’s not usually one to cry. He’s normally in good control of his emotions, in spite of that, he really let this thing get to him.
He shuffles inside and drops his backpack by the front door. He heads directly to the kitchen where he opens the fridge and removes a beer. He pops it open and drinks half of it in a single drink.
It hits him pretty quickly with his empty stomach, the fact that he is a known lightweight, and his currently high emotional state.
He opens his laptop as he finishes the last of the beer.
To: ruboy800
Subject: ?
I waited for you. Where were you? It seems so unlike you to not show up, but I guess I don’t really know you. What happened?
It’s silly to be so upset. Still, Shane thought there was something in the messages, something mutual, something romantic. Maybe he’s stupid after all. Maybe he’s so romantically stunted that he was beginning to fall for a stranger! Not just a stranger, nay, a totally anonymous person! Most people know shreds of information about the people they’ve been talking to for a year, but no, not Shane! He doesn’t even know if ruboy800 is real. They could be a robot.
He reaches for the keyboard with the intention of deleting the email entirely, ending this before it can bruise him any further, but his elbow catches the beer bottle and in the frantic, stupid scramble to stop it from tipping over, he somehow manages to hit send instead.
“Fuck,” Shane groans, scrubbing his hands over his face hard enough that little sparks of light flare behind his eyes.
The truth is, he knows ruboy800 is real. He knows he isn’t ridiculous for feeling this way. He’s just hurt. He got stood up. And, as if that weren’t enough, he ran straight into Ilya Rozanov.
The look on Ilya’s face from that morning pushes to the front of his mind without warning. He’d looked… sad, actually, after Shane snapped at him to leave. At the time, Shane had been consumed with the fear that ruboy800 would walk into the café and see him sitting across from Rozanov and immediately draw the wrong conclusion. The problem is that Rozanov is almost offensively attractive without trying, all that effortless Eastern European sex appeal that makes it difficult to stay neutral in his presence, let alone calm. Shane had known the second Ilya sat down that keeping his cheeks from heating up or his temper from flaring was going to be a losing battle.
What if ruboy800 had walked in right then, taken one look at Shane flushed and rattled and clearly affected, and assumed Shane was there for Ilya and not him?
So Shane snapped and told Rozanov to leave. In hindsight, it hadn’t been fair. Ilya was clearly just there for coffee, and Shane was probably carrying more leftover irritation from their last game than he wanted to admit.
After Ilya left, Shane waited another thirty minutes. His coffee went cold in his hands. No one approached him, which was both a relief and a new kind of humiliation, because he started to worry about the possibility of being recognized anyway, of someone posting online that Shane Hollander had been publicly stood up in a café downtown. He did not need that added to everything else.
He reaches to close his laptop, ready to be done with the night entirely, when a new email pops onto the screen.
To: loonholl2400
Subject: re: ?
I’m sorry. I am working on a project that is taking a lot of time. It needs a lot of work. I will be out of town coming up. Please tell me how you are? I am thinking of you.
Shane reads the message several times. He can’t seem to understand the words. The individual words and even the sentences made sense, sort of, but taken together they seemed to have been written in some other language. There is a sorry and maybe even an excuse, but there is no rescheduling promise which Shane realizes that was what he was hoping for before he opened the email.
He decides, very diplomatically, that it is too late to reply to such an email and that after a long sleep, maybe he will feel fine enough to reply.
— — —
Ilya watches Shane’s head bob slightly with the turbulence. He’s seated three rows ahead, trapped next to the most annoying man alive, Hayden Pike. If Ilya weren’t already fairly certain that Shane had a crush on ruboy800, he might be genuinely concerned that Hayden would make a move and that it would work.
Hayden has a wife, or a girlfriend, or something like that, but the way he hovers over Shane, the way he laughs too loudly at his jokes and leans in too close, makes Ilya’s skin prickle. He recognizes the feeling with a sense of mild disgust. Pure Jealousy™. He wants to be the one sitting next to Shane on every plane and every bus, sharing headphones, sharing space, sharing nothing at all! Instead, he has to watch Hayden’s stupid face light up every time Shane smiles back at him. Hayden should take a puck to the face. Then he wouldn’t be smiling so much.
Ilya’s seatmate clears his throat and bumps his elbow. “Gotta hit the john,” he says, already gesturing for Ilya to stand. Americans can be very crude.
Ilya sighs and hauls himself up into the aisle. From here, he can see Hayden leaning toward Shane, showing him something on his laptop. Shane’s shoulders shake as he laughs. The screen flashes a grainy image of some stupid video of a donkey, probably. Ilya rolls his eyes and drops back into his seat as soon as he can.
Shane never replied to his email.
When Ilya had first seen Shane’s message asking where he’d been, why he hadn’t shown up, Ilya had immediately started typing an apology. He hated that he’d hurt Shane. He hated that Shane was upset with ruboy800. But more than anything, he hated that the real reason was cowardice.
Because Shane hadn’t wanted to see Ilya. He’d wanted to see anyone else. Anyone who wasn’t standing right in front of him with a recognizable face and a public life. And so Ilya had made the choice to keep the secret intact, even if it meant letting Shane think the worst.
The seatmate returns, jostling the seat again. Ilya stands too fast and cracks his head hard against the overhead compartment.
“You good, man?”
Ilya rubs the spot, wincing. “Yes,” he says. He has a hard head. He’ll be fine. Instinctively, his gaze flicks forward, expecting Shane to have missed it entirely, to still be laughing at whatever’s on Hayden’s screen. Instead, he finds Shane already watching him, concern unmistakable.
And for a brief moment, it feels like they are the only two people on the plane.
— — —
Shane taps his foot against the carpet as he stares at the email from ruboy800, again.
They’re in sunny San Jose with a game in three hours. Hayden is out hunting for a birthday gift for his girlfriend, and he’d asked Shane to come along, but Shane had said he wanted to relax before puck drop. The truth is, he wanted to read this email for the four hundredth time. He’s been staring at it for two weeks now, completely unable to come up with a reply. Basic communication has apparently abandoned him. They’ve never gone this long without emailing each other, and it’s starting to feel like something is hollowing him out from the inside.
The truth is simple: he doesn’t know what to say because there has been something else brewing inside of him lately. A weird hangover, a gut-deep feeling he gets whenever he sees Rozanov. It’s definitely just irritation, like a rash or something. It’s definitely just because Ilya is annoying and hard to understand and kind of irresistibly sexy. It’s not because Ilya is turning out to be kind of sweet and watches Shane like he’s watching his favorite movie. It’s not because Ilya has been very kind to Shane lately by passing the puck and setting him up for amazing goals, actually listening to Shane, and, like, actually being a really great teammate to everyone.
It’s definitely not because Ilya is the last thought that goes through Shane’s head at night and the first thing he wakes up thinking about.
No! It’s not that, okay?
No, he hasn’t replied because ruboy800 stood him up and he’s still upset about it. Shane knows that he’s being childish. That he should just move on with their correspondence and pretend like they never had the plan to meet up to begin with. In hindsight, he wishes terribly that they never made those plans because he’d be sitting here writing about how San Jose is nice because it’s sunny, but so boring, and that would be fine.
Instead, he has to sit in a hotel room alone, reading the same message again and again.
Please tell me how you are? I am thinking of you.
Is ruboy800 still thinking of Shane or did he move on? Shane had begun to worry if he had been the victim of some elaborate hoax. What if ruboy800 was just an invention by someone to string Shane along and get sensitive information out of him?
But they’ve been talking for over a year, and people don’t waste a year of their lives on pointless games with strangers. Why would anyone go to that much trouble just to confuse him? He has no choice but to believe it’s real.
To: ruboy800
Subject: crazy
Hotels always make me feel crazy. Like I don’t live in the world, just the inside of this hotel exists. The world stops existing. Paris doesn’t exist when I’m in a room. Times Square doesn’t exist. As soon as I leave the hotel, I feel better. Do you know what I mean? Tomorrow I’ll be home again and I think I’ll feel better there. Earlier, I saw a man feed a squirrel a piece of bread. I hope you are doing well.
Shane rolls his eyes at the ending. He deletes the last line and retypes something different a few times—just trying to sound out something that sounds less stupid and boring than I hope you’re well. Each time he tries to formulate a real sentence, words leave his mind. He could say Please tell me you still want to talk to me, but then he’d sound really obsessive, which is objectively true, though not something ruboy800 needs to know.
In the end, he keeps “I hope you are doing well”.
— — —
Ilya has started to feel like he’s living two separate lives. In one, he’s with Shane in real life, as Ilya Rozanov, teammate. In the other, he’s ruboy800, online persona, very much deep in crush territory with loonholl2400.
The lines blur more often than he’d like. He catches himself almost giving things away, little scraps of knowledge he only has because of the emails. The other day he nearly told Shane that he knew that Shane’s favorite coffee was an Americano. He stopped himself just in time, because only ruboy800 knows that, not Ilya.
He isn’t lying to Shane, exactly. He really does have a project he’s working on. It’s just more metaphorical than Shane probably assumes. Ilya’s project is simple in theory: get Shane Hollander to like Ilya Rozanov as Ilya Rozanov, and then, somehow, at some point, figure out how to tell him that Ilya is also ruboy800 and is also, unfortunately, sort of in love with him. Very simple plan.
So far, things are mostly going according to schedule. Shane has started replying to ruboy800 again, sometimes even breaking their unspoken rule of one-for-one and emailing twice in a row. And Shane, in real life, has been orbiting a little closer too, lingering longer after practice, finding excuses to talk. The other day, Ilya had been running through old Montreal when he spotted Shane sitting on a bench with a book in his hands. It struck him as a strange place to read, especially with the sky darkening, rain clearly on its way.
“Hollander, it will rain soon,” Ilya called out, stopping in front of Shane’s shoes. “Your real estate book will be ruined.”
Shane jumped, clearly deep in concentration, his cheeks flushing bright red. He snapped the book shut and placed it face-down on the bench.
“What? Where did you come from?” he asked, looking behind Ilya as if he appeared from thin air.
“Your book will get ruined.” Ilya put a hand on his hip, letting his breathing slow. “You read here often?”
“Sometimes,” Shane said, curiously. Ilya didn’t miss the way Shane’s eyes flicked to his arms, tracking the flex of muscle under his sleeves. “I live right there.” He pointed to a building off to their left.
Ilya glanced toward the building Shane had pointed out (marking it like a freak!), then back at him. “Ah, overlooking the river, yes.”
Something flickered across Shane’s face and his eyebrows creased minutely, but whatever it was that occurred to him, he let it pass. A single drop of rain darkened the cement between them, then another, and then suddenly the sky seemed to open. The rain came down all at once.
Ilya held out his hand and pulled Shane up from the bench.
“There is a café right here,” Ilya said, nodding toward the street behind them as Shane got to his feet. The rain was already soaking through their clothes. Ilya took this as a sign from God, who was clearly determined to shove them together lately.
“I should just go home,” Shane kind of yelled, but his protest was half-hearted.
Ilya shook his head. “The book will be ruined,” he insisted, already starting toward the café. The rain came down harder, in thick, comical sheets. For a second he wondered if Shane would really turn and leave, if he’d misread everything again. He risked a glance over his shoulder, bracing for disappointment, but there Shane was, jogging to catch up, hair already plastered to his forehead.
The café was quiet, only a handful of people clustered near the front, all deeply invested in their own books and drinks, thankfully uninterested in the two drenched hockey players who had just burst inside. Ilya steered them toward a booth tucked into the back corner, a cozy little space clearly meant for private studying, and collapsed into the seat. Even though the walk had only taken a minute or two, they were both completely soaked. Ilya fought the urge to wring out his shirt right there on the floor.
A few seconds passed between them, long enough to let Ilya notice the hesitation move across Shane’s face. Stay or go. Engage or escape. His hand hovered over the back of the chair.
“I will get you coffee,” Ilya said, breaking the tension and going to stand. He stood before Shane could answer, before he could change his mind.
“Okay,” Shane said right away, relief slipping into his voice as he finally took the back of the chair and pulled it out.
Ilya weaved through the empty chairs, painfully aware about how deep in shit he was. There’s no way Shane is ready for the truth. He still sometimes avoids Ilya. Even now, he’s still weighing even being seen with him.
At the counter, Ilya ordered two Americanos in a haze of anxiety. He gave a thirty percent tip.
“Here,” Ilya said as he set Shane’s cup down. “Americano.”
For a split second, Shane’s face flashed again with something close to… knowing. Ilya’s stomach flipped. He was being careless with the information he had been given. What was next? Was he going to start reciting Shane’s emails out loud? Was he just going to say—
“Americanos are my favorite,” Shane said, lifting the cup. “Thank you.”
Ilya sat down. The world felt dangerously close to falling out from beneath him. Ilya and Shane. Not ruboy800 and loonholl2400. Just like it was supposed to happen a few weeks ago, just not how either of them had imagined.
He knows that Shane has forgiven ruboy800. The emails have returned their sweetness, but he wonders if Shane has forgiven Ilya.
“My book is about the Russia-Canada rivalry in the eighties,” Shane said, sheepishly. “Before you ask.”
Ilya could not help the grin that broke free. “Research?”
Shane laughed which felt wonderful to Ilya. “You could say that.”
Ilya picked up the book and examined the cover. A very famous Russian player and another random Canadian man looked into each other’s eyes at a faceoff. Large text that said BORDERLESS RIVALS hung above their heads. Ilya kind of thought that they looked happy, maybe even excited to be facing off against each other. He wasn’t sure if that was the vibe he was supposed to be getting. In fact, he was sure it was supposed to be a very contentious picture, meant to stir up feelings of rivalry and hatred. But all Ilya could do was picture himself and Shane on the cover of a book like that. Would the world remember them only as a sexy Russian and a boring Canadian who were rivals? Would they never get past the idea that they were supposed to be rivals? Born to be rivals? Ilya’s stomach clenched.
“Is it good?” Ilya said, swallowing his feelings and finally releasing the book.
Shane had shrugged. “I don’t know. I can’t get past the first chapter.”
“Distracted?” Ilya teased, but he felt a tension creep up his spine. It was hard to look at Shane. His wet hair kept dripping onto his shoulder. It was really getting to Ilya.
“Maybe. I just keep wondering if they would have been friends, you know, in another world.”
Ilya stared into Shane’s eyes. “They would have been. Maybe they are.”
The smile that crept up on Shane’s face was nothing less than sublime.
— — —
Ilya stumbled into his hotel room and headed straight towards his laptop.
He had left the club at two, so he knew that it must be around then. He had seen Shane at the beginning of the night, celebrating their win and subsequent cementation into the playoffs with Pike and some of the other forwards in a corner of the club.
Ilya had gone over to them, angered by Pike’s proximity, and spent the entire thirty minutes he was with them antagonizing Pike. You kind of look like a muppet. It was too easy to get under his skin, and Ilya loved nothing more than to poke at him. Shane hadn’t minded, even found Ilya’s jokes funny and joined in on occasion. Then, Mr. Business Shane had excused himself after an hour or two, and Ilya knew he was going back to his hotel room to read the email that Ilya had sent to him that morning.
It was almost too much to bear. Knowing that Shane was right there—right there! Heart beating, breathing in and out. Just waiting for it to happen. For ruboy800 to ask again to meet, for ruboy800 to break the barrier. He knew Shane was never going to make the move, and fine, he could understand that, but sometimes. Sometimes Ilya couldn’t handle it sober. Couldn’t handle the hole he had dug himself into.
From: ruboy800
Subject: flowers
Dear loony,
I spent today thinking about how nice it would be to send you flowers. I think that is nice. Flowers are nice for everyone. I’d buy you a big bouquet. I used to pick flowers for my mother. We lived near a meadow. She was always so happy to get them. She had a yellow vase she kept on the kitchen window. If the flowers died, I would get her new ones. I will pick you flowers. Would you like that?
Ilya hit send and quickly discarded his laptop onto his suitcase. He fell back onto the bed, imagining Shane who was undoubtedly in his own room down the hall. Mere feet away. Shane was probably sleeping. Did he sleep on his back or his side? Ilya longed to know what he looked like when he slept. He longed to know if Shane wore a shirt or nothing to bed. He wanted to know if Shane had a bedtime routine. Did he snore? Did he toss and turn like Ilya did?
He longed for peace in his head.
— — —
Although they had secured a spot in the playoffs, they still had a few games in the regular season to finish. These games are supposed to be played cautiously, they are supposed to be played respectfully by the other teams you’re facing.
The third period had begun against Ottawa, who had been knocked out of the playoff contention earlier and who had a reputation of playing rough and dirty. The first two periods were brutal on Montreal. Ottawa was knocking them senseless into the boards, drawing penalties left and right. Fights broke out after almost every whistle.
In hindsight, Shane should have seen it coming. Rozanov was going back and forth with the Ottawa defenseman the whole night, trading expletives in Russian like they were dancing. The defenseman had been rough on Ilya, shoving him, rattling his bones into the boards if Ilya ever came near the puck. But, the hit that laid Ilya out had been clean, although Shane—almost out of pure anger—had wished that it had been a major penalty and the guy would have been ejected.
Ilya went down hard onto his back and slid across the ice into the boards. His shoulder hit first and the rest of his body followed. Shane stood up from the bench and started yelling at the referee to blow the whistle, for something, to do something! Ilya was just laying there, rolling around in pain as play continued around him. Finally, the ref stopped play and called a penalty on Ottawa.
Ilya rolled onto his knees and tried to stand, only to wobble. Two teammates skated over quickly, hauling him up and helping him to the bench. Shane could only look on in silent horror.
He couldn’t… do anything. He couldn't push his way down the bench and go up to Ilya and hold his face and make sure that he was okay. But, wait—why did he want to do that so much? Why was it so important to Shane that he knew that Ilya was okay? Why was he gripping his stick so fervently? His heart was racing.
He watched as Ilya stepped onto the bench. Blood ran from his nose where his visor must have caught him. Shane silently urged him to look over. Just once.
Ilya was being guided toward the tunnel when he turned his head and scanned the bench.
Their eyes met. Shane finally exhaled.
— — —
From: loonholl2400
Subject: re: sick and tired
Dear boy,
Your emails always make me happy. You said you were feeling bad. Are you okay now? I am not a doctor (sorry if you were hoping for that), but I know a lot of good remedies. I saw a tree with blossoms on it today. Even though Montreal is fine in the winter, I get excited for summer. I hope you’re feeling better. How is your project?
Yours,
loony
Shane had started, very recently, signing the emails that way. He had first thought that maybe it was a step too far, that maybe he was being too forward, but he kind of stopped caring about that when ruboy800 had emailed him at 3am two nights ago. Those were precious hours. Intimate hours. You don’t give up those hours for just anyone.
He sent the email with a smile on his face. He was happy to be talking to ruboy800 again, to have returned to this normalcy and routine. He tried to focus on that feeling, but his mind pulled in another direction. He found himself lately wishing that Ilya was ruboy800. He knew it was just wishful thinking. He knew he was just being silly.
Ilya’s bloody face flashed in Shane’s mind. His blue eyes. Ilya had looked for him. He had looked over every other teammate on the bench just to find Shane’s eyes.
He wondered how Ilya was doing. He had been hit the previous night and hadn’t returned to the game. Shane had played the remaining minutes in silent anguish. Shane had watched in horror as Ilya stumbled on the ice. It felt like Shane was watching a car accident happen in front of his eyes. He had felt helpless. He had wanted to go to him. He had wanted to beat the shit out of the guy who hit him. (Someone else took care of that for Ilya.)
Shane rolls his shoulders in an effort to release himself from these thoughts. He couldn’t possibly be falling for Rozanov! Not only would that be, like, crazy, it could very well be against the rules. Like, nepotism!
Without a second thought, Shane calls his mom.
“Hello, honey,” she answers.
“Does the NHL have nepotism rules?” Shane asks, not bothering with a hello.
“Uh,” Yuna says, “I don’t know. Probably for managers and people like that—”
Shane nods to himself. “None for players though, right?”
“Shane,” Yuna says, with a little laugh. “Can I ask—”
“It’s probably better if you don’t,” he interrupts. Then he feels bad. “Well, just for right now.”
“Okay,” she says slowly. “Love you.”
— — —
It’s objectively a stupid idea. Getting in your car, stopping at a pharmacy, picking up flowers, and driving to your injured teammate’s house. Objectively, it’s stupid. Maybe crossing a line. Maybe Ilya doesn’t feel the same way, but this isn’t really about that. It’s just a captain checking in on his—no, it’s a friend checking in on his friend.
Shane realized half way there that he had picked up in conversation with others that he knew where Ilya lived. He had stored the information. It was startlingly close to Shane’s house in Old Town. Had it not been raining, Shane could have walked to his house. They were practically neighbors!
He parked his car and stared at the building. Every thought that passed through his mind was confusing. Nothing landed straight. It was true, really. That he was sort of in love with Ilya Rozanov and that if he would have stayed in his home, he would have been obsessing about Ilya’s health. It was true. And there was nothing Shane could do to reason it out of his mind.
Shane looked down at the flowers on the passenger seat. A few petals had fallen onto the floor and the seat, and he knew he’d keep them there for a while. He had bought yellow daisies. Something about Ilya reminded Shane of the color yellow. Maybe it was the golden hair, maybe it was the golden chain around his neck.
He gently picked them up and got out of the car. There was no going back now. In Shane’s mind, he was going through with this even if it ended poorly. Inside the vestibule, an old man was waiting to go up the elevator. Shane ducked inside as it arrived and looked at the buttons stupidly.
“Sorry,” Shane said, realizing belatedly that he didn’t know where to go now. “Do you know which floor Ilya Rozanov lives on?”
The old man looked over at Shane with a smile. “Yes, Ilya lives on the fifth floor.” Shane could hear the accent curling around his words, just like Ilya’s.
The fifth floor opened up to a short vestibule. Two identical doors faced each other. One, had a pink doormat that said WELCOME. The ‘O’ was a cat’s head. A stab of dread pierced through Shane’s heart. Maybe Ilya lived with a woman? He had no idea if he had a girlfriend. There was certainly no mention of one, but who knew really? Oh, God. Had Shane come all this way just to find out that Ilya was married?
Shane drug his eyes away to the other door and his heart relaxed. A small placard said ‘ROZANOV’ under the peep-hole. He took a step towards it, only hesitating for a moment before he rapped his knuckles against the door.
In the moments that followed the knock, Shane’s heart rate must have been at 180 beats per minute. He was being so stupid, so shortsighted. So selfish. So reckless—
The doorknob turned and there was Ilya’s face peeking out. “Hollander?”
He had a little bandage over the bridge of his nose. He was shirtless. Shane could see a purple bruise on his abdomen that curled around to his back and another crawling across his shoulder. But he looked okay. He looked fine. He looked more than fine, actually.
Shane cleared his throat. “I brought you flowers.” He held the daisies out, stupidly.
For a moment, Ilya’s face flashed with something unreadable. Was that dread? No, Shane was just being crazy. Ilya accepted the flowers and opened the door.
“Thank you.” Ilya’s voice was small. “Come in.” He turned around, leaving the door open for Shane.
Ilya’s apartment was open and modern, but conversely, the walls were painted dark green and the floors were a very dark, expensive-looking hardwood. On the walls were framed prints of landscapes. Shane was speechless. He didn’t expect this. For whatever reason he had never pictured Ilya’s apartment, but even if he had, he wouldn’t have pictured this kind of style. He seemed more like a grey and white. Millennial modern. But no, no. That would have been wrong. Staring down the hallway, taking it all in, Shane all at once knew. This was right. This was Ilya. Color, warmth, a deepness to him that was just waiting to be discovered.
Ahead, Ilya disappeared around a corner. Shane stood in the foyer. He thought he knew precisely how a fish out of water must feel. He didn’t know why he suddenly felt like he had no thoughts in his head. Every rational, normal human thought has abandoned him and stayed in the hallway.
Stand here forever? Maybe. Should we follow him? Yeah.
Shane took his shoes off (out of respect for the waxed floors) and padded down the hallway in the direction that Ilya had disappeared. When he rounds the corner, his breath fled from his lungs.
Ilya stood at the sink filling up a yellow vase.
All at once, Shane’s mind flooded with quotes and moments and tells and relief and oh, God. It was him. All along. In the cafe. It was always Ilya. The yellow vase. The Americanos.
Ilya turned the faucet off and began unwrapping the daisies, gently placing the stems into the vase. He seemed content, unhurried. Shane has no idea what Ilya’s mother looks like, but somehow she feels present anyway. Those are her hands placing the flowers, that is her contented smile.
Shane took a slow, steady breath. Maybe Ilya doesn’t know yet? Maybe he hasn’t put it together. Maybe Shane will have to live with this knowledge alone for a while longer. For now, all he could do is stare at the vase. The way Ilya holds the flowers is so gentle, such a contrast to the strength Shane knows those hands are capable of.
It’s Ilya, it was always him. Shane could cry. He feels so relieved. He feels so confused. He feels—
“Ilya,” Shane says, unable to keep his thoughts inside. “Your vase.” His voice breaks.
Shane Hollander is a captain. In the locker room, words come easily to him. He can pull a team together, steady a rookie, turn the mood with the right sentence at the right moment. But standing here, watching Ilya put the flowers Shane bought him into his mother’s vase, language abandons him entirely.
He is staring at the sun.
Ilya looks over at Shane and then back down at the vase on the counter, his gaze lingering there as something finally settles into place.
“I forgot I told you about this,” Ilya says, looking back down at the vase. “I had a lot to drink that night.”
Shane is still speechless. His body feels slightly disconnected from the room. He tries to orient himself in reality by reaching out for the edge of the counter.
“I wanted to tell you,” Ilya continues as he turns towards Shane. “There were so many times I wanted to say that it was me. I’m sorry I didn’t earlier, at the cafe, I just. I didn’t know if you…” he fades off considerably less strong than he started.
Shane blinks rapidly as the words tumble out of Ilya’s mouth.
“I wanted it to be you,” Shane hears himself say. It’s the truth. Just a simple little fact, but it feels larger than the room they’re standing in. Ilya’s face changes immediately, with a sweet blush rising to his cheeks. Shane notices that he has freckles, too. They come out with the pink.
“You did?” Ilya asks, daring to take a step closer.
“Yes,” Shane says, exhaling. “I did. I thought–I thought I was crazy. For wanting it to be you.”
Ilya moves around the counter until he’s standing directly in front of Shane. The distance between them closes to almost nothing. Inches separate them. Shane can see the darker lines of blue in Ilya’s eyes, he can smell the shower Ilya must have just taken. It feels like he’s close to the edge of something perfect.
He reaches out, knowing that Ilya needs him to make the move. His hand touches Ilya’s wrist and they both smile at the touch. He leans in and presses a kiss into Ilya’s lips and it’s as though a dam has broken.
There has never been a clearer truth: loonholl2400 and ruboy800 had been finding their way toward this all along.