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Shane rarely wears these skates anymore. The longer, flatter blades, the toe pick — it almost feels foreign to him now.
It takes a second for him to get used to them again, a couple laps around the rink to get a feel for them, for the flexibility it allows in his ankles, to lose the explosiveness that hockey demands from him, and just glide against the ice. He knows that he can’t do his old routine anymore. The part of him that was once able to turn four times in the air is gone. He’s too big now, anyway; hockey’s bulked him up, more weight on his thighs and arms than there ever was when he used to compete. Hell, he doesn’t think that one of his arms could fit in the legs of his old costumes.
The part of him that is a figure skater is gone, buried under the hockey player he is now. He knows that. It’s okay.
He does miss it a little.
He misses losing himself to the music, the gasps that used to follow a big jump or turn, the precise critiques and praise of judges. He yearns for the feeling of working on a routine over and over, controlling every variable for your performance.
In a few weeks, he’ll go to the Olympics again, but this time for a different sport. Even though he’ll be skating on different ice, in a different event, part of him felt that it was only right to do the same thing he had done the last time he was about to fly out: rent a rink for himself, and lose himself in his skating. That he decided to wear his old figure skates instead of his hockey skates is just part of that need for familiarity.
He does a single lutz. Then a double. He doesn’t attempt the triple.
The expectations are different this time. If he fails, it’s not only his own disappointment he’ll have to reckon with, but his entire team’s, the entire country’s, really. Hockey is the Canadian pastime; losing the gold would be more than missing out on a medal, but a matter of national pride. It’s not as if he’s some nobody, either. Last time around, no one had even known his name before he stepped on the podium. Now, he’s the face of multiple brands, the face of the newly revived Voyageurs, the face of the NHL — they expect greatness from him. There is no choice now; he has to deliver.
Tomorrow he boards the plane. He won’t disappoint them.
─•────
They interview him on CBC, sitting on a little chair with a red and white backdrop in the press building adjacent to the Olympic village.
“Now, Shane, this is your first Olympic games, can you tell us a bit about how you feel about that?”
Shane smiles a little, tense in his shoulders. “Well, it’s actually my second, but I can tell you that I’m really excited for this team.”
“I’m sorry,” the interviewer pauses, shuffling her notes. “I didn’t realize you played in 2010. So this is your first Olympics off home ice, then?”
“Ah, no,” he says. “Sorry. I competed in 2006, in Turin. Not in hockey.” Around him, the entire press set up seems to stutter.
“It feels like we just got an exclusive,” says the interviewer, seemingly struggling to maintain composure. “What sport did you compete in?”
“I competed in Men’s Singles Figure skating,” Shane admits, “For Japan though, not Canada, and under a different name, which is why a lot of people don’t know about it I think.”
“Can you talk about your decision to represent Japan at the time versus Team Canada at this Olympics?”
“Well,” Shane sighs. He has to choose his words carefully. “I originally started figure skating to help with my hockey when I spent the summers in Japan with my mother’s family. There was just a bigger market for it compared to hockey, so when all of the skating coaches were tailored for it, I sort of just went along with it.” He remembers his first coach, Sensei Kinzo, and the way he had broken down skating into a completely new language. “When I started getting really good, it made sense to represent the country that had coached me in that sport. It’s why I competed under my Japanese name as well.”
The interviewer doesn’t interrupt him, so Shane takes it as permission to keep rambling.
“And then for hockey it was the same, but opposite, I guess,” he says, shrugging. “My hockey coaches were Canadian, I played for a Canadian club, and now I play for a Canadian team in the NHL and continue to live in Canada. It makes sense to play for Team Canada.”
“And can we expect a return to the figure skates for you in the future?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Shane says, shaking his head. “I hung up those blades for good, I think.”
─•────
emmie @hollanderclub24
i think i found shane at turin 2006! if you look up shoma kazuta i think it’s him! he won gold ;)
♡ 100.46k ⤷ 30.01k ⇆ 90.21k
⤷ pippa @princeofwasia
omg he is so baby??? i feel so maternal towards him⤷ vivi needs sh24 @mtlforeva
i guess we know why he’s the best skater in the league now 😂
─•────
Rozanov hasn’t texted him back. It’s fine. Really.
He stares at his unanswered text, the chocolate ice cream on his tongue is grossly rich and indulgent. He shouldn’t be eating this, but there’s something about Rozanov that makes him a glutton for punishment.
“Hollzy, what’s up motherfucker!”
Shane nearly jumps out of his skin.
“Boys,” he says, tugging out his earbuds. “What’s up?”
“Can you believe Russia?” says Vaughn, sliding into the seat next to him.
“Be nice, Vaughnny,” says Scott Hunter, sitting down next to him. Shane is now surrounded by Americans on all sides.
“They lost to fucking Latvia,” Vaughnny mutters, “It’s fucking embarassing. Did you see the game?”
“It was a straight up shit show,” Shane agrees. No matter how much his mind might be occupied, he can always talk hockey. “I mean, the defense situation was a tragedy. It’s like they’ve never stepped on the ice, let alone played multiple games together.”
“It was a debacle for sure,” Hunter says. “What did Roz have to say about it?”
“I don’t know,” Shane replies, his phone suddenly feeling hot in his pocket. “Nothing to me, that’s for sure. I, uh, I think he knows that Canada has this in the bag, so.”
“Nu-uh, Team USA all the way baby,” says Vaughnny. “We’re coming for you this year.”
“You look great in silver Vaughnny,” chirps Shane. “Don’t you know it’s your colour?”
“Didn’t know you knew how to chirp, Hollywood,” says Vaughnny, “I’m almost honoured you did it to me.”
“Oh fuck off.” Shane rolls his eyes.
“What are your pre-game plans, Hollander?” Scott asks. “Any special rituals?”
He does have rituals, of course, he does, but the only special thing he wants to do is, embarrassingly, get some time on the figure skating rink. Call it superstition, but last time he stepped on one of those rinks, he won Olympic gold.
“Forget about that, are you going to watch any events?” Vaughn asks. “I mean, when else are we going to get to see…” he pauses, unfolding a program from his pocket. “Men’s short form figure skating.”
“My buddy Joe is in that program,” Shane says before he can stop himself. “Do you guys mind coming to watch? I’d love to show up for him.”
“Hell yeah, man,” Vaughn says, “I’d love to show up for anyone that brave.”
The ice cream in his hands suddenly becomes insanely heavy. “Brave?”
“Well, I’m guessing your buddy might be gay—”
“He’s not,” Shane quickly denies. “I mean, I don’t know. But you shouldn’t assume just because he’s a figure skater, Vaughnny.” Hunter and Vaughn stare at him. Shane blushes. “Assuming based on a random fact is, uh, never the right thing to do, I mean.”
“Oh, shit!” Vaughn says, smacking his forehead dramatically. “You figure skated! I saw that shit on Twitter man, but I didn’t think it was real.”
“Um, yeah,” Shane says, hoping his face is neutral enough, hoping it’s not screaming please stop talking. “It’s real.”
Scott Hunter is staring at him silently. Shane feels like his heart is in his throat.
“I don’t think you’re gay, Hollzy, don’t worry,” says Vaughnny, companionably. “I just meant that most of those guys are probably gay. Not all of them, obviously.”
“Um. Okay, thanks Vaughnny.” Shane says.
“All I meant earlier is that Russia is not safe for folks that are gay,” Vaughn says, shrugging. “And statistically I feel like most of the male figure skaters are at least presenting as pretty flamboyant, you know, with the costumes and stuff. Ergo, brave of them to show up to this place and just do their thing.”
“Right. Makes sense,” Shane manages. “I’m not homophobic or anything, for the record. I just don’t think we should assume.”
“Nobody thinks you’re homophobic Hollander,” Vaughnny laughs. “Right, Scotty?”
Scott Hunter takes a moment to respond, his expression unreadable.
“Right.”
─•────
Joe killed the short program that day. His jumps are stronger than Shane ever remembers them being; the years between them are obvious in his power and technique. If he does as well on his free skate, the podium is a sure thing. Shane, locked into the skating as he was, doesn’t notice that Rozanov had been present for it until he spots the Russian’s back retreating from the arena.
Instead of chasing him down, he tracks Joe down instead.
“Joey!”
Joe snaps his head backwards, smiling when he sees Shane. “Shoma!”
Shane smiles at the sound of his Japanese name. He hasn’t heard it in years.
Joe isn’t as tall as Shane; his shorter stature is stunted at a few inches shy of Shane’s full height. Figure skating has him wiry, but strong, giving him toned arms, but not the larger muscles of a hockey player. His face hasn’t changed too much, despite the space of nearly a decade since they saw each other last, his cheeks still full and his face round and smiley. His hair is a little wet from sweat still, the dark curls sticking to his forehead.
“Killer program man,” Shane says, bringing him in for a hug. The contact is fleeting, but firm. “Your quad lutz was super clean.”
“Not as clean as yours used to be,” Joe says, shrugging. “But I bet I could out skate you now.”
“When it comes to turns and jumps for sure,” Shane agrees. “But I’ve definitely got you in a speed contest.”
“Your hockey blades are made for speed,” Joe says, “Race me in figure skates.”
“I brought them with me,” Shane admits. “I bet I’ll beat you anyway.”
“Bring them down here at eight,” Joe says, “I have some ice time reserved. We can see if you can still spin like you used to.”
Shane smiles. “Sounds like a plan.”
They split off, and Shane feels a little anticipation for tonight. This was exactly what he was looking for to calm down a bit before the Canada/USA final. He knows that his coach would probably disapprove, that they’d say he was putting himself at unnecessary risk, but he needs this.
By the time eight o’clock rolls around, he’s practically buzzing in excitement. His figure skates, old but well taken care of, are tied securely to his feet as he steps onto the rink. Already there, Joe skates in a lazy circle.
“What do you remember?” Joe teases, “I almost can’t believe you can still skate with a toe pick.”
“I thought we were going to race?” Shane asks, rolling his eyes. “Or have you chickened out?”
“Fuck no,” Joe laughs, skating to the far end of the arena. “Let’s just do a straight shot?”
Shane agrees, nodding. As he skates over, he nearly trips over his feet when he spots Rozanov, in the stands, staring down at him. Suddenly, he feels very exposed and almost stupid for agreeing to do this thing with Joe. What was he doing? What would the other guys think if they saw him right now? Would they be like Vaughn and immediately assume he was gay? Would they be worse?
“Ready, Shoma?”
Shane snaps back into the moment. He reminds himself that Rozanov has a much greater reason to think he’s gay than seeing him on figure skates.
“Ready,” he agrees. He takes his position, adjusting his feet. “On three?”
Joe nods. “One. Two. Three!”
The world narrows to just the ice. Shane pushes himself forward with all his force, his legs pumping as fast as he can towards the other end of the rink, burning as he forces himself past his limits. In seconds, he comes up at the other end, stopping like a hockey player despite the blades on his feet.
Joe arrives a few seconds later.
“Told you I would be faster,” Shane says, panting a little.
“Ah. Good thing being fast doesn’t matter as much for me,” Joe sighs, equally out of breath. “I can out jump you. I bet you can’t even do a double axel anymore, let alone a triple.”
“I mean, the triple’s definitely gone,” Shane admits. “But no double, man? You really think so low of me?”
Joe gestures towards the ice. “Be my guest then, Kazuta. Show me you still got it.” His mother’s maiden name warms something in his chest, and though he makes a big show of reluctance, he’s a little giddy to do this again.
He skates towards the centre ice, his feet finding the familiar patterns as he begins to gain speed, approaching the jump in reverse, his legs remembering the movements that they hadn’t performed in so long. When he jumps, the moment in the air feels impossibly long, the fraction of a second it really is stretches into hours as he completes two full rotations before landing on a single leg, and skating out of it.
Joe cheers for him, and Shane laughs.
“Lucky for me you chose hockey,” Joe says, “I think if you kept up with it you’d still be here, defending a title.”
“Hockey is my sport,” Shane disagrees. “I mean, the only reason I started figure skating was for hockey.”
“I mourn that fact every day,” Joe sighs dramatically. “You really were meant for the ice. Hockey doesn’t know how lucky it is that it got Shane Hollander. Shoma Kazuta could’ve been figure skating’s goat.”
Shane doesn’t really know what to do with that. He’s never been comfortable accepting praise. Trophies, titles and medals were different; they came from statistics, from hard, real facts he couldn’t deny. Praise like this without definitive reasoning? It always feels unearned.
─•────
Shane Hollander is a Secret Two-Time Gold Medalist
CBC Canada — Isabella Hammersmith
After Team Canada’s defeat of Team USA in the Gold Medal Match, Shane Hollander—assistant captain for Team Canada in Sochi and captain of the Montreal Voyageurs—has come away with his second gold medal, but his first in the sport.
In an exclusive interview with CBC, Hollander revealed that Sochi 2014 is his second Olympic appearance, after a gold medal-winning run as a figure skater for Team Japan at Turin 2006, at only fifteen years old. Further investigation has revealed that Hollander, who at the time competed under his middle name Shota and his mother’s maiden name Kazuta, had a fairly illustrious figure skating career that included several world championship appearances and wins (Silver in 2005, Gold in 2004) before retiring from the sport after the 2006 games to presumably focus on his equally promising hockey career.
Hollander has long been revered as one of the best skaters in the sport, and fans and trainers alike now wonder how much of that has to do with figure skating training. Should young NHL hopefuls spend some time learning jumps and twists along with checking other players into the boards?
[Read More]
─•────
The Voyageurs give him shit for the figure skating stuff.
It’s nothing he shouldn’t have expected. They tease him for his fairy past, they call him graceful derogatorily and pretend he’s delicate, as if he isn’t as much of a hockey player as anyone else. When they got knocked out in the third round of the playoffs, they had sneered at him for being weak, always suggesting that if he had been a real man, Marleau wouldn’t have been able to check him at that crucial moment, losing them the game, nevermind that Marleau has nearly half a foot and fifty pounds on him.
The league at large mostly forgets about it. He thought Rozanov forgot about it too, until he asks about it in the afterglow.
“I saw you figure skating, at Olympics.”
Rozanov holds a cigarette between his fingers, delicately. He alternates between taking a hit and a sip from his vodka. The lights from the Las Vegas strip glance across his face, highlighting the prominent shape of his cheekbones and brow, casting the rest of his face in shadow.
“I know,” Shane says. “I saw you in the stands.”
Rozanov takes a hit, and though he blows the smoke away from Shane, the smell still reaches his nose, dusty and heavy.
“Why did you stop?”
“Hockey players make more money,” Shane jokes. “Figure skaters don’t make anything compared to us.”
“You love figure skating though,” he says, like it’s obvious.
“I love hockey,” Shane replies. “I mean… You know what people say about me, I’m a hockey robot. I live and breathe for it.”
“But you don’t love it like you love figure skating,” Rozanov replies. “I saw you. You do not smile like that for hockey.”
“It’s just different,” Shane insists. “Hockey is my job. There’s more pressure there. It was different when I was competing too, probably. I don’t think I smiled like that then, either.”
Silence hangs between them. He hears Rozanov take a deep sip of his vodka and the clink of the glass as he sets it back onto the table.
“I used to figure skate,” Rozanov admits. “I loved it like you. I was very good. Obviously. We competed once. I looked it up when I learned you used different name then.”
“I don’t remember skating against you.” Shane searches through the depths of his mind, searching for any glimpse of a memory.
“My father did not want my skating associated with him. He always wanted me to be hockey player, so I used different name then too.” Rozanov takes a long drag from his cigarette. “Still Ilya, but Lebedev, not Rozanov.”
“Like Irina Lebedeva?” Shane asks, the figure skating great coming to mind. She was the Russian figure skater of the eighties, a young girl who could jump and spin with all the technique and power you could ever want. Like many young female Russian skaters, her career ended before her teens did, with a single Olympic appearance and gold medal.
Rozanov’s face does something funny then, a half-smile, half wince. “Yes. Exactly like her.”
“Did you name yourself after her?”
Rozanov just hums, nodding.
“I remember you now,” Shane says, the name triggering an influx of memories for his mind to latch onto. “You beat me in the Juniors Championship in ‘03.” A ghost of a smile flits across his face. There was an image in his mind of a podium, of anger, and a smug kid with a riot of long curly hair. “You were good. We were kind of like rivals then, too. When did you stop? Why did you stop, if you loved it so much?”
That complicated expression is back on Rozanov’s face, though now it’s strained and tinged with something more bittersweet.
“That was my last competition,” he admits. “And I stop because… I don’t know. I stopped having love.” His English seems to fail him for a second, his grammar worse than usual. Rozanov leans back, his head hitting the backboard of the bed with a soft thud. “I, uh, I need to go to sleep.”
The dismissal feels cold, like a hard pivot from the small moment they’d just built together.
“Oh.” Shane blinks rapidly, almost like he’s just waking up. “Um. Yeah. Me too. I should… uh.”
He pulls himself out of bed mechanically, putting his clothes on silently. Rozanov doesn’t look at him, staring instead into the bottom of his vodka glass.
“Um. Bye, then. I’m off.” Shane swallows, smoothing invisible creases in his dress pants.
Rozanov finally looks at him, an unreadable expression in his eye.
“Bye, Kazuta-Hollander.”
Shane’s cheeks go a little warm at the sound of both his names, both his identities in Rozanov’s mouth.
“Bye, Lebedev-Rozanov.”