Chapter Text
March 2024
Shane Hollander was nervous.
Obviously so.
A feeling made worse by the way his internal fight-or-flight instinct was convinced he should be hearing everything around him in stereophonic detail.
The clack of sensible dress shoes on cold pavement.
The crinkle and swish of a massive portfolio tucked under one jacketed arm.
The staccato tap-tap of middle finger and thumb, and a whispered count under a man’s breath. His. One, two, three, four to the beat, over and over again. Soothing.
All that near-painful auditory awareness ceased abruptly as he arrived outside the nondescript office building in downtown Ottawa.
His latest client. And biggest too, by far. Not in scale of production, no; he’d handled contracts with far more zeroes on the budget line. But the name recognition— well. This could be a turning point, an expansion across the province or heck, all of Canada even, if he pulled it off.
A few hours southwest, Toronto’s public and private sectors were well aware of Shane Hollander — that he was excellent at making plans, professionally certified and award-winning even, with contingencies mapped out for every possible events-related disaster. Not only would he turn your half-baked conference vision into reality, he’d do it under budget and with an air of perfectionist professionalism that had been described as almost terrifying to witness.
Nothing ever went wrong at a VQ Event. Not anything the client would notice, anyway.
Caterer forgot the crudités? Handled.
Thunderstorm at a garden party? Solved before the first raindrop could fall.
Point being, Shane was fucking good at his job.
Which is why the anxiety that crept up in his throat as he stood before the Ottawa Centaurs’ admin offices was a ridiculous overreaction.
They’re not going to ask you about hockey. No one even remembers that you—
Shane shook his head to clear the thoughts away. No use in dwelling with old demons.
He tugged on the end of his strategically dark green blazer to smooth it, sucked in a deep breath, and considered attempting the heavy revolving door that marked the main entrance. Thinking better of it, especially after the long walk to the building he’d hoped would settle his nerves (ha!), he instead opted for the automated side door with its press-to-open button. Thankfully, it was operational and allowed him access into the lobby without much fuss.
Looking around, Shane took in the outdated furniture and decor— probably the height of style in the 70s, still functional now but noticeably worn down. An apt metaphor for the Centaurs team, perhaps, who’d been floundering at last place in their division for enough seasons that many fans had all but given up hope for an actual post-season run.
But maybe not for long, now that they have—
“Shane?”
A handsomely bearded man appeared before him, smile jovial and welcoming. He was shorter than Shane with a strong, stocky frame and had wrapped his attractive barrel chest in an oversized, ridiculously soft-looking green cardigan that Shane ached to reach out and touch. A purple badge lanyard covered in tiny green O-shaped logos hung around his neck. On it, two pins — an enamel rainbow apple and a round white button with PROTECT THE DOLLS in black text — were affixed prominently.
Shane thrust one hand out and felt the other man’s fingers clasp his own. “Hi, yes, I’m Shane. Hollander. And you must be—”
“Harris,” he confirmed, executing a firmly gripped handshake before slipping his hand back into the pocket of his cardigan. Harris rocked back on his heels, seeming a little nervous too despite his overtly friendly aura.
“I’m the one you’ve been emailing with. Official title is Director of Communications but we’re a scrappy operation so… they’ve had me doing the work of the Event Production team they axed last season too, I’m afraid. Hopefully I don’t slow you up.”
Shane smiled reassuringly. “If all goes well, you shouldn’t need to do much after the initial planning sessions. Maybe a ‘yes, no, what color’ type of question here and there. But you’ve hired me to handle everything end-to-end. And I will.”
Harris blew out a relieved puff of air. “Ugh, fabulous. I’m up to my ears in short form video scripts for IG and so so behind on actual filming. It was a miracle when the higher-ups agreed to spare the budget I needed to contract your agency. You come highly recommended.”
There was a chiming noise and the Comms Director glanced down at the smart watch on his wrist, a soft smile blooming on his ruddy features as he read whatever message appeared there.
“Sorry,” he said, looking back up at Shane, “Speaking of event planning, my fiancé is dead set on a European destination wedding and I’m doing a terrible job of reeling him in.”
Shane didn’t miss the way Harris placed a little extra emphasis on the pronoun, as if daring him to question it. Which was a little funny given that even a casual sports fan would’ve seen the recent news of the high-profile engagement. Or maybe Harris thought he might be homophobic which was equally funny given—
“I grew up rooting for the Cens,” Shane said instead, watching Harris’ expression shift into one of interest. “If a ceremony at an Italian villa will keep Barrett playing like he has recently, I’m all for it.”
Harris laughed then, a booming cackling sort of sound that surprised Shane into laughter himself.
“I won’t be telling him you said that. He doesn’t need the support or the ego boost. Rozanov has already been a terrible influence and—”
“Ah, sorry, should we head up and get started?” Shane blurted, waving his folder a little lamely when Harris trailed off in surprise.
How embarrassing.
It was just… That name. He wasn’t expecting the mention of the team’s last season acquisition to send shockwaves straight to his core. Still a hockey fan, Shane had been incidentally watching him play for years, of course. The NHL’s biggest star was impossible to avoid. But the thought of Rozanov being so near now…
It’s been more than a decade, Shane. You’ve got to let it go.
“Of course, yes! Follow me!” Harris was saying, “Sorry, I can talk anyone’s ear off, given the chance.”
He glanced down at the cane in Shane’s left hand. “And I really shouldn’t have kept you standing so long. I hope you’re not uncomfortable.”
“No, no,” Shane said, following Harris toward the elevator bay and trying to hide a grimace when his ankle did in fact twinge a few steps in. “I just have a lunch meeting after this,” he lied, “so I’m unfortunately a little conscious of time this morning.”
“Timely and professional, check,” Harris said, miming a tick box list on a clipboard. “Keeping me on schedule already, Mr. Hollander. Exactly why we hired you!”
As the elevator arrived with a ding, Shane let Harris’ excited chatter fill his ears, the name Rozanov all but forgotten by the time the meeting with the Director and his truly meager team of staff had commenced.
This was a huge opportunity and he needed to stay focused. There was no time to live in the past, to let the ‘what if’s’ consume him.
Shane Hollander had a gala to plan.
- 🏒-
“Hey, Roz,” Troy Barrett’s voice called from somewhere across the locker room. “Did Hunter send you those recs for Spain yet?”
Ilya tugged off the last of his pads and turned to find Barrett amongst the post-practice fray.
“Ah yes, I will forward,” he replied, grabbing for his phone on the top shelf of his locker. Barrett crossed the room and Ilya reached out on instinct, unable to resist punching his tiny left winger’s shoulder. “But I have told you this does not have to be like passing notes at school, yes? You can message him directly. You are big boy with phone.”
His fellow Centaur looked down, cheeks pinking. “I know, Cap. It’s just— he’s like The Guy, you know? I don’t want him to think I’m just using him as a… a gay hockey guru or whatever.”
“Hunter does not mind,” Ilya assured, wrapping the forward up and patting him on the head like a little duckling. “It is important to keep elderly minds active.” At Barrett’s snort, he added, “But I can be gay hockey guru too, you know.”
Barrett ducked out from under his arm with a chuckle. “No offense, Roz, but you’re kind of the opposite of settled and monogamous. Which is more so the type of advice I’m looking for these days.”
Ilya gasped in mock offense, clutching his practice jersey to his chest. “Everyone!” he shouted into the room over the sound of Barrett’s mounting laughter. “Barrett thinks I am terrible manwhore!”
“Aw, Barrett, that’s not true,” Boodram called back, “Rozy’s a great manwhore. Really successful.”
“One of the best to ever do it,” Hayes agreed.
A few more disparaging chirps about Ilya’s virtue had the whole team dissolving into laughter, only interrupted by their head coach stepping into the room with a loud clap.
“Sorry to spoil the fun, boys,” Brandon Wiebe said, waiting as the locker room quieted. “Just an admin reminder that we’re hosting a pretty big event in a couple months. I know it’s summer break, but I do expect everyone who is able to come to be there. Don’t go making any last minute vacation plans.”
A few ‘yes coach’s echoed in response.
Wiebe nodded. “Remember, it's for a good cause. And since Rozanov’s charity is involved, he’s leading the charge on player contributions to the silent auction. So if he asks you to sign something, you sign it, okay?”
Wiebe glanced over to where their goalie had raised a hand and sighed. “Within reason, Hayes.”
Ilya smirked, calling out, “Signed jock strap is for my personal collection only, don’t worry.”
Coach rolled his eyes. “Point is, we’re working with a fancy schmancy events agency out of Toronto and paying a pretty penny for it. So everyone behave. Listen to the planner guy we hired. And let’s make some people cough up their money for charity, alright?”
There were a few sporadic cheers.
“Okay, thanks for your time, boys,” Wiebe said, all business. “Oh, and Rozanov?”
Ilya sat up. “Yes, Coach?”
“Offense looked terrible today. Meet me and the assistant coaches in my office and let’s pick some drills for punishment, shall we?
Ilya saluted lazily, ignoring the playful groaning from his teammates. He was pleased to see that his impassioned speech to the full roster and their coaching staff a few weeks ago was being taken to heart. He straight up refused to let Ottawa lose another fucking game, especially with Boston and Montreal on the schedule soon. They had the talent and the passion in spades. They just needed to play like it.
Ilya Rozanov was going to win them a Stanley Cup.
Probably. Eventually.
But he’d settle for a winning season for now.