Chapter Text
The December snow falls thick outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Hollander family’s home office, covering the manicured lawn in white. Shane sits in one of the leather chairs facing his father’s massive oak desk, his long legs stretched out in front of him, still gangly at seventeen. He’s wearing his Team Canada Under-18 hoodie, the one that’s already getting tight across his shoulders. Growth spurt number three, his mother says.
His father stands by the window, hands clasped behind his back, watching the snow. David Hollander cuts an imposing figure even in casual Saturday clothes — dark slacks, a pressed shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Everything about him is controlled, measured. A man who’s built his political career on being unshakeable.
Shane’s mother sits on the edge of the desk, her tablet glowing in her hands. Yuna Hollander is smaller, sharper somehow, with dark eyes that miss nothing. She’s already in work mode despite it being barely nine in the morning.
“Shane, are you listening?” His mother asks.
“Yeah.” He sits up straighter. “Sorry. Just thinking about practice.”
“That’s exactly what we need to talk about,” his father says, turning from the window. “The International Prospect Cup starts in two weeks.”
“I know.” Shane grins. “I’m ready. Coach says I’m skating better than ever.”
“You are,” his mother agrees. “But being ready physically isn’t enough. You need to be prepared mentally. Strategically.” She taps her tablet. “Do you know who you’re up against?”
“Yeah, I mean the other top prospects. It’s the best seventeen and eighteen-year-olds from around the world.”
“Not just any prospects,” his father says, moving to sit behind the desk. “Your direct competition. The players who are going to determine where you get drafted next June.”
The weight of it settles on Shane’s chest the way it always does when they talk about the draft. First overall. That’s what everyone says he’s going to be. First pick, first overall, the next great Canadian hockey player. No pressure.
“Dad, I know-”
“Do you know who Ryan Kershaw is?” His mother interrupts.
“Yeah, of course. American forward. Fast as hell.”
“Language,” his father says mildly.
“Fast as heck,” Shane corrects, fighting an eye roll. “He’s good. Really good.”
His mother nods, scrolling on her tablet. “He’s been putting up exceptional numbers in the USHL. Very skilled, very intelligent on the ice. But he’s a winger, not a center. Not your direct competition for first overall.”
“Okay.”
“Aiden Brocker,” his father says. “Another Canadian center. Plays for Oshawa.”
“I know Aiden. We played together at summer camp when we were kids. He’s … he’s fine. Good, I mean. But not-” Shane stops himself.
“Not as good as you,” his mother finishes. “That’s right. Aiden’s projected to go in the first round, maybe top ten, but not first overall. The scouts all agree on that.”
Shane shifts in his chair. He doesn’t like talking about this stuff, ranking players like they’re horses at auction. But his parents have been doing this since he was twelve, since the moment scouts started showing up at his games with clipboards and serious faces.
“There’s really only one player who’s a legitimate threat to you going first overall,” his father says.
Something in his tone makes Shane look up sharply. His father’s expression has hardened, the same look he gets when he’s talking about political opponents on TV.
“Who?”
His mother turns the tablet around. On the screen is a photo of a guy their age — sharp cheekbones, light brown hair, light eyes that look almost green in the lighting. He’s wearing a Russian national team jersey, and he’s smiling, but there’s something intense about his expression. Something that makes Shane’s stomach twist.
“Ilya Rozanov,” his mother says.
The name sounds foreign in her mouth, the syllables careful and precise. Ee-lyah Roh-zah-nov.
“Russian?” Shane asks.
“Yes.” His father leans forward, elbows on the desk. “Russian center. Seventeen years old, born in Moscow. He’s been training in the Red Army academy system since he was six years old.”
“Red Army,” Shane repeats. “Like, the actual army?”
“It’s what they call their elite hockey development program,” his mother explains. “The best facilities, the best coaches, the best training money can buy. It produces world-class players.”
“Okay, so he’s good. But lots of Russian players are good.”
“Ilya Rozanov isn’t just good,” his father says, and there’s an edge to his voice now. “He’s exceptional. He’s putting up numbers that rival anything you’ve done. Some scouts think he’s the best prospect to come out of Russia in twenty years.”
Shane feels his jaw tighten. “Some scouts are wrong.”
“Maybe,” his mother says. “But you need to understand who you’re dealing with. This isn’t just about hockey, Shane. This is about politics. This is about what you represent versus what he represents.”
“I don’t understand.”
His parents exchange a look. It’s the kind of look they share before telling him something they think he won’t like, something they’ve already decided together.
“Ilya Rozanov,” his father says slowly, “is the son of Grigori Rozanov.”
The name hangs in the air. Shane knows it, of course he does. Everyone knows it.
“The President of Russia,” he says.
“Not just the President,” his mother says. “One of the most powerful men in the world. A dictator, essentially, though they don’t call it that. He’s been in power for years, and he’s not going anywhere.”
Shane looks back at the photo on the tablet. The smiling teenager suddenly seems different, more complicated. “So this guy’s dad is basically Russian Kim Jong Un.”
“His father,” David says, “is a man who has journalists killed. Who imprisons political opponents. Who’s been accused of war crimes. Who wants to rebuild the Soviet empire and sees the West as his enemy.”
“Okay, but what does that have to do with hockey?”
“Everything,” his mother says firmly. “Shane, you need to understand this. Ilya Rozanov isn’t just a hockey player. He’s a propaganda tool. He’s the golden son of Mother Russia, the perfect example of Russian superiority. They’ve been grooming him since birth to be the face of their regime.”
“He’s beloved there,” his father adds. “Absolutely beloved. They see him as the future — not just of Russian hockey, but of Russia itself. His father is grooming him to eventually take over politically.”
Shane blinks. “He’s seventeen.”
“So are you,” his mother says. “And you’re the son of a Member of Parliament who will very likely become Prime Minister one day.” She gestures between Shane and the photo. “This is bigger than hockey. When you face Ilya Rozanov on the ice, it’s Canada versus Russia. Democracy versus dictatorship. Everything we stand for versus everything they stand for.”
The room feels suddenly smaller. Shane looks at the photo again, at the smiling face of someone who’s supposed to be his enemy.
“I don’t-” he starts. “I mean, it’s just hockey, right? We’re just kids playing hockey.”
“No,” his father says, and his voice is harder than Shane’s ever heard it. “It’s never just hockey. Not at this level. Not for people like you and Ilya Rozanov. Every game you play against him will be watched by millions. Every time you’re on the ice together, it’s a statement. The free world versus tyranny.”
“Your father’s right,” his mother says, softer now. She reaches out and touches Shane’s hand. “I know this is a lot. I know it seems unfair. But this is the reality of your position. You’re not just Shane Hollander, talented hockey player. You’re Shane Hollander, son of David and Yuna Hollander. You represent something larger than yourself.”
Shane pulls his hand away, standing abruptly. He walks to the window, looking out at the snow. “What if I don’t want to represent anything? What if I just want to play hockey?”
“Then you picked the wrong career,” his father says, not unkindly. “And the wrong family.”
It’s true. Shane knows it’s true. He’s known it his whole life, really. His father’s political career has always been part of their identity as a family. The cameras, the reporters, the careful management of their public image. Shane’s been trained since childhood to smile for photos, to say the right things, to be the perfect son of the perfect family.
“Tell me about him,” Shane says quietly, still facing the window. “About Rozanov. As a player.”
He hears his mother’s tablet click. “He’s fast. Not quite as fast as you, but close. He has exceptional hands — his stickhandling is probably better than yours, if we’re being honest.”
Shane turns. “Really?”
“Really,” his father confirms. “But you’re stronger. More physical. Better in the defensive zone.”
“He scores,” his mother continues. “A lot. Forty-nine goals in forty-three games last season in the junior league over there. Twenty-six assists.”
“That’s …” Shane does the math. “That’s insane.”
“Yes.” His mother sets the tablet down. “He’s insane. And more than that, he’s cocky. Arrogant. The way he plays is so distinctly Russian. All flash and show. He celebrates every goal like he’s won the Stanley Cup. He talks trash on the ice. He wants everyone to know he’s the best.”
“Sounds like a dick,” Shane mutters.
His father doesn’t correct his language this time. “He’s your rival, Shane. Your greatest rival. For the next fifteen, twenty years — however long you both play — he’s the measuring stick. Everything you do will be compared to what he does.”
“And right now,” his mother says, “the comparison is close. Too close. Some scouts have you ranked first overall. Some have him. It’s going to come down to performance. Who shows up. Who proves they’re the best.”
Shane’s hands curl into fists at his sides. He feels something hot and competitive burning in his chest, the same feeling he gets in the last minute of a close game.
“I’m better,” he says.
“Then prove it,” his father says. “At the Prospect Cup. On the ice. When you’re playing against him.”
“Is he going to be there? At the Prospect Cup?”
“Yes,” his mother confirms. “Russia’s bringing their best. Rozanov will be their first-line center, probably their captain. You’ll face him directly. Center against center.”
The thought sends a thrill through Shane, part excitement, part something darker. He looks at the photo again, really studies it this time. The confident smile, the hazel eyes, the way he holds himself like he owns the world.
“What else?” Shane asks.
His mother picks up the tablet again. “He was born in Moscow, June 1991. Only child. His mother died when he was young. A car accident, officially, though there are rumors-”
“What kind of rumors?”
His parents exchange another look. “The kind that get people killed for repeating,” his father says. “The point is, he was raised primarily by his father and the state. Everything in his life has been controlled, managed, designed to make him into the perfect Russian icon.”
“He speaks English,” his mother adds. “Fluently. Also French and German. He’s been taking language lessons since childhood — they knew he’d play in the NHL eventually, so they prepared him for it.”
“Sounds like a robot,” Shane says.
“He’s not a robot,” his father says. “From what we understand, he’s charming. Charismatic. People love him. He knows how to work a room, how to say the right things. Just like you.”
The comparison makes Shane uncomfortable. “I’m nothing like him.”
“You’re exactly like him,” his mother says gently. “That’s what makes this so important. You’re both seventeen-year-old centers who’ve been groomed for greatness your whole lives. You’re both sons of powerful men. You’re both carrying the hopes of your countries on your shoulders. The difference is what you represent. He represents oppression, corruption, everything that’s wrong with authoritarian regimes. You represent freedom, democracy, the values that make Canada and the West great.”
Shane turns back to the window. The snow is falling harder now, blanketing everything. He thinks about summer hockey camps, about playing with Aiden Brocker and the other Canadian kids. How simple it was then. How fun.
“I’m supposed to hate him,” he says. “That’s what you want, right? You want me to hate him before I even meet him.”
Silence. Then his father speaks. “I want you to understand what’s at stake. I want you to be prepared. When you step on the ice against Ilya Rozanov, I want you to know that you’re not just playing for yourself. You’re playing for everyone who’s counting on you.”
“No pressure,” Shane says, trying for a joke. It falls flat.
His mother stands, walks over to him. She’s small enough that she has to look up to meet his eyes, but somehow she still seems larger than life. “You’re going to be great,” she says. “You’re going to go first overall. You’re going to have an incredible career. But it starts at the Prospect Cup. It starts with beating Ilya Rozanov.”
“What if I don’t?” The question slips out before Shane can stop it. “What if he’s better than me?”
“He’s not,” his father says firmly. “You’re a Hollander. We don’t lose to people like the Rozanovs.”
Shane wants to ask what that means — people like the Rozanovs. But he already knows. He’s known since he was old enough to understand what his father did, why there were always reporters outside their house, why they had to be so careful about everything they said and did.
“Can I see more?” He asks, nodding at the tablet. “Videos, stats, whatever you have.”
His mother smiles. “That’s my boy.” She pulls up a video, and suddenly the screen is filled with Rozanov on ice, skating with a fluid grace that makes Shane’s chest tighten. He’s wearing number eighty-one, and he moves like water, like the puck is part of his body.
Shane watches as Rozanov dekes around two defenders, cuts to the center, and roofs a shot top corner. The celebration that follows is exuberant — arms spread wide, head thrown back, skating in circles while his teammates mob him.
“See?” His mother says. “Cocky. Arrogant. That’s who you’re up against.”
But Shane barely hears her. He’s watching the way Rozanov moves, the way he reads the ice. It’s different from how Shane plays — more creative maybe, more unpredictable. But there’s something undeniably brilliant about it.
The video cuts to another goal, then another. Each one is spectacular in its own way. Rozanov between the legs, Rozanov on a breakaway, Rozanov threading a pass through three defenders for an assist.
“He’s good,” Shane admits.
“Yes,” his father says. “But you’re better. You have to be better.”
They watch more videos. His parents provide commentary, pointing out flaws in Rozanov’s game — he’s sometimes too fancy, too focused on making the pretty play instead of the smart one. He takes risks that don’t always pay off. He can be undisciplined, taking bad penalties when he’s frustrated.
“He’s emotional,” his mother says. “That’s his weakness. When things aren’t going his way, he gets in his head. That’s when you beat him — get under his skin, throw him off his game.”
Shane nods, filing the information away. He’s always been good at reading opponents, finding their weaknesses and exploiting them. If Rozanov is emotional, that’s something Shane can use.
They spend another hour going over the other Russian players, the team dynamics, strategies for the Prospect Cup. But Shane’s mind keeps drifting back to Rozanov. To that confident smile in the photo, to the fluid skating in the videos, to the celebrations that are so different from how Shane was taught to act.
“One more thing,” his father says as they’re wrapping up. “You can’t be friendly with him.”
Shane looks up. “What?”
“Ilya Rozanov,” his father says. “I know how it goes at these tournaments — players from different countries hang out together, become friends. You can’t do that with him. You need to keep your distance. Be professional, be respectful, but don’t be friendly. Don’t give him any ammunition.”
“Ammunition for what?”
“For making you look weak,” his mother says. “For making it seem like you’re sympathetic to what he represents. The media will be watching everything you do at this tournament. If they see you being buddy-buddy with the son of a Russian dictator, it will be all over the news. It will reflect poorly on your father, on our family, on Canada.”
“So I’m just supposed to ignore him?”
“No,” his father says. “Beat him. On the ice, where it matters. Show him and everyone else that Canada produces better players than Russia. That our system, our values, produce better results than theirs.”
Shane feels the weight of it settling over him like a heavy blanket. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, I understand.”
His mother touches his cheek. “I know this is hard. I know it seems like a lot for one tournament. But this is your life now, sweetheart. This is what it means to be who you are.”
After they dismiss him, Shane goes up to his room. He pulls up YouTube on his laptop and searches for “Ilya Rozanov highlights.” There are dozens of videos, some with millions of views. He clicks on the most recent one.
The video is set to Russian rock music, and it shows Rozanov doing impossible things with the puck. But what strikes Shane most is the joy on his face. Every goal, every assist, every good play — Rozanov looks like he’s having the time of his life. Like hockey is the most fun thing in the world.
Shane thinks about his own highlight videos, the ones his parents’ media team puts together. He looks serious in them, focused. Intense. Like hockey is a job, not a game.
He watches Rozanov score from an impossible angle, then turn to the crowd and spread his arms wide, soaking in their adoration. The Russian announcers are screaming his name, and his teammates are crushing him against the boards in celebration.
Shane closes the laptop.
He stands and looks at himself in the mirror above his dresser. He sees his father’s strong jawline, his mother’s dark eyes. He sees the Hollander family genetics written all over him — moderately tall for anyone who’s not a hockey player, broad-shouldered, handsome in that All-American way. Except he’s Canadian, and that’s different, his parents always remind him. Canadians are polite, humble, respectful. Canadians don’t showboat.
He thinks about his father’s words. People like the Rozanovs. Like they’re different somehow, like they’re less than.
But in those videos, Rozanov didn’t look less than anything. He looked free.
Shane shakes his head, dispelling the thought. His parents are right. They have to be right. Rozanov is the enemy, the rival, the measuring stick. The guy standing between Shane and everything he’s worked for his entire life.
First overall. That’s what matters. Proving he’s the best.
Proving he’s better than Ilya Rozanov.
The next two weeks pass in a blur of practices and training sessions. Shane’s coach at Team Canada knows about Rozanov too, of course. Everyone knows about Rozanov.
“He’s going to try to embarrass you,” Coach Morrow says during a video session. “He’s going to try to make you look slow, make you look stupid. Don’t take the bait. Play your game. Strong, smart, Canadian hockey. That’s how you beat the Russians.”
The other players on the team echo the sentiment. Aiden Brocker, who’s made the roster as a second-line center, pulls Shane aside after practice one day.
“I’ve heard about this Rozanov guy,” Aiden says. They’re in the locker room, most of the other players already gone. “Everyone’s saying he’s incredible.”
“He’s good,” Shane admits.
“You nervous?”
Shane considers lying, but this is Hunter. They’ve known each other since they were kids. “Yeah,” he admits. “A little.”
Aiden grins. “Good. Means you’re taking it seriously.” He claps Shane on the shoulder. “But you’re going to destroy him, man. You’re the best player I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen a lot of players.”
“Thanks,” Shane says, but the words feel hollow.
That night, he can’t sleep. He lies in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about Rozanov. Wondering what he’s doing right now. If he’s nervous too. If he feels the weight of expectations the same way Shane does.
Probably not. From the videos, Rozanov seems fearless. Cocky, like his parents said. Arrogant.
Shane tries to cultivate anger, tries to make himself hate this person he’s never met. But all he feels is a gnawing anxiety in his stomach and a strange curiosity he can’t quite name.
The day before they leave for the tournament, Shane’s father takes him to lunch. Just the two of them, which is rare. They go to a quiet restaurant downtown, the kind of place where politicians have private conversations.
“I’m proud of you,” his father says over steak. “You’ve worked incredibly hard for this.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“And I want you to know — whatever happens at this tournament, you’re still my son. I’m still proud of you.”
It should be comforting, but something about the way he says it makes Shane’s chest tighten. “You think I’m going to lose.”
“No,” his father says firmly. “I think you’re going to win. But I need you to understand that this is bigger than winning or losing one tournament. This is about establishing dominance. Establishing that you’re the better player, the better person. Rozanov is going to have an entire country behind him. You need to have Canada behind you.”
“No pressure,” Shane says again, and this time his father cracks a small smile.
“You can handle pressure. You’ve been handling it your whole life.”
Shane cuts into his steak. It’s perfectly cooked, but he can barely taste it. “What if we actually meet? Like, off the ice? What do I do?”
His father considers this. “Be polite. Shake his hand if you have to. But don’t engage beyond that. Don’t give him anything he can use against you.”
“Use against me how?”
“Any way,” his father says. “These people … they’re very good at manipulation. At propaganda. If Rozanov can make himself look like the gracious competitor and you like the ugly Canadian, that’s a win for them. So be careful. Be smart.”
Shane nods, but inside he feels something rebellious stirring. The way his father talks about “these people” makes him uncomfortable, even though he can’t quite articulate why.
That night, his mother comes to his room to help him pack. She folds his clothes with precise movements, tucking everything neatly into his Team Canada duffel bag.
“I put extra layers in,” she says. “It’s going to be cold.”
“Mom, I’ll be fine.”
“I know.” She sits on his bed, and suddenly she looks tired. Older than her forty-three years. “I know you’ll be fine. You’re always fine.”
Shane sits next to her. “Are you okay?”
“I’m worried about you,” she admits. “This is so much pressure for someone your age. Sometimes I wonder if we’ve done the right thing, pushing you so hard.”
It’s the most doubt Shane’s ever heard from her. “You haven’t pushed me,” he says. “This is what I want.”
“Is it?” She looks at him with those dark, knowing eyes. “Or is it what we’ve taught you to want?”
The question hangs between them. Shane doesn’t have an answer.
“I do want this,” he finally says. “I want to be great. I want to make you and Dad proud.”
“You already make us proud,” she says softly. She touches his face, the way she used to when he was little. “Just remember at the end of the day, you’re my son first. Hockey player second. Don’t lose yourself in all of this.”
But Shane’s already lost, has been lost for years. He just doesn’t know it yet.
The morning they leave for the tournament, his father pulls him aside one last time. They’re in the garage, Shane’s bags already loaded in the car.
“One last thing,” his father says. “About Rozanov.”
“Dad, I know-”
“No, listen.” His father’s expression is grave. “I’ve heard things. About his father, about the regime. The boy himself might seem charming, might seem harmless. But he’s not. He’s been raised in that system, indoctrinated in that ideology. He might play hockey like it’s fun and games, but make no mistake — he knows exactly what he represents. He knows the power his father has. And he’ll use it if he needs to.”
“Use it how?”
“However he can,” his father says. “These people don’t play fair, Shane. They don’t have the same moral code we do. So you need to be better than him. Not just on the ice. In every way.”
Shane nods, feeling the familiar weight settle back over him. “I will be.”
“Good.” His father claps him on the shoulder. “Now go show the world what a Hollander can do.”
On the drive to the airport, Shane looks out the window at the passing city. Ottawa in December, gray and cold. He thinks about Rozanov in Moscow, probably making a similar journey to a similar airport.
He thinks about his mother’s question. Is it what you want, or is it what we’ve taught you to want?
He thinks about his father’s warnings. These people don’t play fair.
Mostly, he thinks about the videos he’s watched dozens of times now. Rozanov skating with that fluid grace, celebrating with that uninhibited joy, playing hockey like it’s the greatest privilege in the world.
Shane wants to hate him. His parents want him to hate him. Canada wants him to hate him.
But all Shane feels is a pull toward something he can’t name, a curiosity about the boy in the videos who seems so different from everything Shane has been taught to be.
It terrifies him.
At the airport, his mother hugs him tight. “Make us proud,” she whispers.
“I will,” Shane promises.
“Beat Rozanov,” his father says.
“I will,” Shane says again.
And he means it. He has to mean it. Because what else is there?
As the plane takes off, Shane looks out at the clouds and thinks In two days, I’m going to meet my enemy.
The thought should make him angry, should make him determined.
Instead, it just makes him feel incredibly, impossibly alone.