Chapter Text
Shane woke up before the ring of the alarm clock he didn’t need to wake up on time. He stayed in bed and waited for it to blare at him. It was an oddly comforting sound. He liked to confirm that it would wake him up if he ever needed it to. It was a top of the line model that plugged into the wall and came with batteries in case of a power disruption. His apartment had never lost power in the all years he had lived in it, but he liked to be prepared. He appreciated its reliability. A machine could be relied upon in ways that a body couldn’t.
It was an easy routine.
Turn off the alarm clock.
Brush his teeth.
In the warmer months, he went for a thirty minute jog around the neighborhood. In the winter months when the sidewalks got too slippery, he drove to the pool and swam for an hour. He did that in the summer months too, if his knee needed the rest.
Shower.
A breakfast smoothie with Bio Titan protein powder. The name was stupid, but they were the first brand to ever feature him in a commercial and he had stayed loyal to them even after they stopped sending him free samples.
Then he spent at minimum an hour at his desk. It was the worst part of the day, but it had to be done. There were always emails to respond to or a client that needed a schedule adjustment. After that he went to the rink to prepare for sessions with his clients.
He didn’t have any clients at the moment.
During the season he worked with multiple players but over the summer he liked the challenge of focusing on one person. It took him time to pick the right candidate. It had to be someone that challenged him as a coach. In the beginning he had worked mostly with players looking to make the sorts of microscopic improvements that made all the difference at the top levels of the game. The career ending injury to his knee had been too raw in his mind to contemplate working with anyone hoping to recover from a similar experience. In recent years though that had been his specialty. It had surprised him to discover that there was an area of hockey that he hadn’t obsessed over yet and that was a good feeling. It was satisfying to direct his singular focus towards something that produced observable results. No one had been able to get him back on the ice, but he had succeeded in extending the careers of several other players. He was proud of that.
His phone buzzed, reminding him to stay on schedule.
An early lunch with Wiebe.
The invite had been unexpected, but not unwelcome. Brandon was only a couple years older than him and had been a solid player without a big fan base and a reputation for being a pain in the ass the manage. It made him a perfect fit as a coach for the Ottawa Centaurs, a team of decent players without a fanbase and a reputation for destroying the optimism of a string of coaches all of whom had failed to produce a team that could reliably win a game.
“Shane,” Brandon greeted him the moment he opened the door of his car in the driveway of his home. He hardly ever went to someone’s home to eat lunch. A lot of people still recognized him, but now that he was retired, he could generally go to any restaurant he wanted without being swarmed by people asking for autographs or selfies. “It’s been too long.”
“Hi.” He directed his first greeting at Lolly. Over multiple encounters he had developed a somewhat reluctant fondness for the golden retriever that was currently wagging her tail and staring at him with the complete adoration she directed at any and all visitors. He patted her heard then turned his attention back to her owner. “Good to see you too.”
“Come on.” Wiebe clapped him on the back. “I’ve got your favorite grain bowl waiting.”
Shane loved a good grain bowl.
“Remember when you first started out as a private coach and I gave you Scott Hunter’s number?” Brandon asked the moment they sat down at the table on his patio. “Do you remember what you said to me after that call?”
“Of course.”
It was impossible to forget. When he’d first started out, he had found plenty of players that wanted to work with him, but none at the level he wanted to work with. Not that he had blamed them. The skillset of a top player didn’t necessarily translate to effective coaching. His career and its end getting overshadowed in the press by his very public, if amicable, divorce from Rose Landry hadn’t helped. Wiebe convincing Scott Hunter to come to Canada and train with him for a summer had. The controversy of his coming out aside, everyone knew that Scott was an excellent if at times inconsistent player. Coming back for another season after an ankle fracture at his age following a few months of training with Shane had made waves in the hockey world.
“I’m calling in my favor.”
“Okay.” Shane nodded without reservation.
Maybe Brandon wasn’t a close friend in the same way as Hayden, but that didn’t mean they weren’t close. He was one of the few people that he had come out to. He wasn’t in the closet anymore. Not exactly. It was simply a fact of his private life that he didn’t advertise. It made things easier. Besides, no matter how much his mom insisted that he could be a role model for gay athletes everywhere he had no interest in stepping into the part. He had done his time in the limelight as a role model and thanks to sound investment advice from his dad early on in his career he had all the money he could ever need. He didn’t have to parade around dressed in a rainbow for whatever brand wanted to rehabilitate its reputation in time for pride month.
“I want you to take Ilya Rozanov as a client this summer.”
Shane managed to keep himself from immediately pointing out that there was no way in hell that was going to happen. “I wasn’t aware that he’s looking for private coaching.”
“He isn’t. Not officially. You probably know that he’s a free agent.”
“I don’t really track that sort of thing anymore.”
He knew. It was impossible to be connected in any way to the hockey world and not follow Rozanov’s career. He was without a doubt the best player in the league. Probably the best player in decades. He had yet to work with a client that didn’t ask him if they would be able to do something ‘like Rozanov’ after their sessions together. Over the years Rozanov had continued to expand and improve his skillset. The same could be said of his reputation although that was decisively less admired. Getting photographed leaving nightclubs with a different woman on his arm every night hadn’t been much of an issue early in his career, but after years of the same it had started to raise some eyebrows. Especially after Dallas Kent got a multigame suspension for leaving the bench to punch him. Neither of them had confirmed, but rumors were that Rozanov had slept with more than one of his exes. The conviction for possession of cocaine hadn’t helped.
“Well, he’s a free agent. And I happen to know that he’s going to leave Boston.” Brandon grinned and looked around the patio as if he expected paparazzi to be hiding in the bushes of his backyard. “He wants to sign with Ottawa.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Shane loved the Centaurs. They were his hometown team so they automatically had his loyalty, but they were fucking terrible. Only players with no other options came to play for Ottawa. Not to mention that the city wasn’t exactly a hotspot for the nightlife Rozanov so famously enjoyed. “He can sign with any team that can afford him, why the hell would he play for Ottawa?”
“Thank you for the vote of confidence.”
“Sorry.” Shane grimaced apologetically. Brandon Wiebe was so unlike any coach he had ever come across in his career that he sometimes forgot he was a coach. “This past season was the best the team’s had in years. I mean it.”
Brandon waved away his apology. “He wants to come to Ottawa because he has good reason to think that coming out will be better received here than in Boston.”
“Coming out?” Shane repeated this as if he had never heard of the concept. “As what? An asshole?”
“No.” Brandon didn’t seem amused. “As bisexual.”
It was shocking. Not the bisexual part, of course. That part wasn’t news to him. Not that this was the time or place to explain that to Wiebe. Which made him realize that technically this probably wasn’t a conversation they were supposed to be having at all. “I don’t think we should be talking about this. It’s… private.”
“Of course. My god, I forgot to say.” Brandon looked stricken for a moment. “He gave me permission to tell you. He thought you should know in case it changed your mind about working with him.”
That was probably even more shocking. “He wants to train with me?”
“Shane, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’re kind of a big deal. You work with the players that have an endless list of private coaches willing to take their money, but no coaches that actually believe they’ll make it back to the ice.”
“Yeah okay," he cut him short. He was good. He knew that, but he had never been comfortable under a shower of professional praise. Being good only meant that he could do better. “But he isn’t injured. He’s been back on the ice for months since that shoulder dislocation. Why would he need me?”
“He hasn’t played at his best since the surgery.”
“The Raiders won another Stanley Cup, didn’t they?”
“Yeah.” Wiebe nodded in acknowledgement. “They won because even on his worst day Rozanov is better than half the players out there with him. That doesn’t mean he’s at the top of his game.”
Shane sighed and looked away. That still helped him to gather his thoughts and regain control over his emotions. He tried not to watch Rozanov play, but it was impossible. If he did his job right then his clients would go back to facing him on the ice so he had to track the way he played. Wiebe was right. Something had been off about his performance for a couple months although he couldn’t quite place his finger on the problem.
“It’s not… You’re not hesitating because he’s bisexual, are you?”
“What?” Shane looked Wiebe in the eye. “No. Of course not.”
“I’m just checking.” Wiebe got up and went over to the electric cooler he kept on his patio anytime the weather allowed for outdoor socializing. “You have to know that not everyone in the gay community is welcoming to bisexual men. Especially ones with a very public history of dating women.”
If he were honest, Shane didn’t know. When he wasn’t working with clients, he was busy improving his coaching or reading about the impact of injuries on athletes and the science of recovery. That didn’t leave him with a lot of time to socialize with the community, gay or otherwise. “I’m not the gay community.”
“Okay.” Wiebe handed him a can of ginger ale. “Then what? You’re not still hung up on being rivals back when you were both kids, are you?”
“No.” Shane accepted the sweaty can and cracked it open. He took a sip determined to be truthful in his response. “I’m not hung up on anything. Fine. If that’s what you want to use your favor on then I’ll do it.”
“That’s not the favor.”
Shane raised his eyebrows.
Wiebe grinned and grabbed a beer for himself. “I want you to let him stay with you at your place in Montreal while you get him back into shape.”
“Why? He’s too cheap to rent a place for the summer?” That couldn’t be the case. Rozanov had never hesitated to spend his money on whatever he wanted. He'd watched the documentary about all his cars.
“Because if my plan goes to hell then you’re going to file a registration as soulmates and guarantee he gets citizenship in Canada. It’s an easier sell if you’ve lived together.”
Shane laughed.
“I’m serious.”
“No.” Shane shook his head. “You can’t be serious. That’s fraud. You’re asking me to commit immigration fraud.”
“Not really.” Wiebe’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Technically neither one of us has any evidence that you aren’t soulmates. So, no. It’s not fraud. Yet.”
Shane gave him his best effort at a death glare.
Wiebe raised a hand as if trying to calm a spooked animal. “It’s just a backup plan. Once Rozanov comes out, he won’t be able to go back to Russia. It won’t be safe. He has the money to pay for the best team of lawyers in the country to help him apply for asylum here in Canada. But it’s going to be a complicated case. You know very well that he has a reputation as a ladies’ man and a criminal record isn’t going to make it any easier. I’ll feel better knowing that I’ve got a backup plan in case anything goes wrong.”
“How is that a backup plan? They’ll figure out it’s a lie the second we apply.”
“Not necessarily.” Wiebe took a sip of his beer. “I looked into it. There’s no single scientifically accepted exam to prove the existence of a soulbond and we’ve got the advantage of an even more complication situation. I happen to know that Rozanov had his soulmark surgically removed. Most doctors in Canada aren’t familiar with the procedure. That puts us at an advantage.”
Shane contemplated excusing himself so that he could go to the bathroom and throw up the single bite of an excellent grain bowl that he had managed so far.
“It’s not going to come to that,” Wiebe reassured him. “You’re going to get him into shape before the season starts and he’s going to sign with Ottawa. We’ll time his coming out for once we’ve got all our ducks in a row. This is just so I can sleep at night.”
“This has to be the craziest idea I’ve ever heard.”
“Thank you.”
Shane swiped a thumb over his lip. It was such a bad idea. “Okay.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” He nodded. “It’s Ilya Rozanov. There isn’t a private coach on the planet that wouldn’t give an arm and a leg to work with him. I’m not going to turn down an opportunity like that.”
“That’s the spirt.” Wiebe clinked his bottle of beer against the can of ginger ale in his hand. “Oh, just one more thing. He doesn’t know anything about the soulmate backup plan, so keep that to yourself, yeah?”
Shane tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and breathed out.
Fuck.
This was it.
He stepped out of the car and pushed his sunglasses up on his head.
He was standing next to a set of automatic doors with a black suitcase that looked too small to hold the items one might need on a summerlong excursion. And just like the first time, he was fighting with an uncooperative lighter.
“You can’t smoke here,” Shane said. “Or in my car.”
Rozanov looked up. His whole face transformed when he grinned at him. “Hollander.”
He couldn’t stop himself from smiling back. He’d missed that grin. Fuck. He had missed him so much. “Rozanov.”
“You got old.”
“Fuck off.” The response flew out of his mouth automatically, as if no time had passed at all. He took his suitcase. “If you’re an asshole I’ll make you take the bus.”
“I can carry my own bag.”
“Get in the car before someone sees you and starts asking for autographs.”
Which seemed to be a convincing argument because Rozanov stuck the unlit cigarette in the pocket of his black tank top and got in the car. He was already buckled in by the time Shane got back in the driver’s seat.
“It’s a quick drive to my place.”
“Yes,” Rozanov said, not meeting his eyes. “I remember.”
“Right.” Shane cleared his throat and put his sunglasses back on. “Off we go then.”
For days he had been worried about what he would say when they saw each other again. He didn’t have to confront that concern until a couple minutes later when they had made their way out of the chaos that was the area surrounding the airport.
“Are you hungry?” Shane had stocked his fridge with plenty of food including the sorts of junk he saw in the refrigerators of other hockey players, but he had no idea if Rozanov ate any of that stuff. “We can stop somewhere for dinner if you want.”
“No. I’m okay.” He laughed lightly. “I’m too nervous to eat. I think.”
“Yeah, I get that.” It was good to know that he wasn’t the only one worrying about how this was going to work. “Well, in case you do get hungry I’ve got plenty of food at the house and there’s a grocery-”
“Thank you for letting me stay with you.” The words burst out of him as if he had been holding them back the entire flight from Boston.
“Yeah. Of course.” He took his eyes off the road so that he could offer a small smile when he told him the truth. “I’m really glad you’re here.”