Archive of Our Own

Shane Hollander’s hockey career didn’t end all at once.

It started in Pittsburgh. Nothing special, a regular season game. He had just caught the puck after a sling against the boards from Haas, preparing to bring it back around the front of the net, Holmberg already in his sights.

The hit was high. A defenseman coming in hard. Shoulder to the head just past the blue line.

Shane would watch the replay obsessively afterwards. The way he went down. Flat on his stomach, helmet long gone. He watched Dykstra and Bood dropping gloves against the Penguins. Ilya had been on his wing at the time, in a driven attempt to tie up the score.

Ilya hadn’t joined in on the scrum. His attention was on Shane and Shane alone. He hovered over his husband with hesitance. It was different than that last time in Montreal, it wasn’t out of fear of revealing himself. It was a fear of making things worse.

Shane had only been unconscious for a few seconds. He was up on his elbows quickly, despite the pleas from Ilya to stay down until the trainer arrived.

“Stay down, solnyshko,” Ilya said, his voice low. Not that it mattered, the roar of the crowd around them was already making Shane’s head pound even worse.

“I’m okay,” Shane said, his eyes still closed. He just needed a moment to collect himself.

It would be about another minute of the fights wrapping up and Shane convincing both the trainer and Ilya that he was okay before he was able to skate off the ice on his own. He remembered sitting in the locker room, confused. He was in his gear, but why wasn’t he on the ice? Why was he in here?

He had listened in confusion as the trainer explained that he had been playing. He had scored a goal, then he had gone down. Shane didn’t remember any of it.

He’d had worse. That hit in Montreal had left him in a sling, and he'd had the occasional concussion here and there since he was a kid. That was just the game. He was back on the ice within a month. Shane hadn’t known that it was the beginning of the end.

Seven months after the ill-fated Pittsburgh game, only four games into the 2024–2025 season, Shane went down in a game against Calgary. This time, it was a complete accident, a collision with one of Calgary’s defensemen while neither had possession of the puck. This time, Shane didn’t get back up.

It was difficult to fully understand what happened to Shane in the months following that hit. He knew the proper words for it, he had heard it every day since. Post-concussion syndrome. He was familiar, of course he was, his whole life had been centered around a contact sport.

But reading about it, watching players careers end because of it, it was different than experiencing it.

Shane had been ashamed about the way he had tried to hide it. As if by pretending it wasn’t real would make it go away. Like it would get him back in the game. He couldn’t hide it from his husband. The dizziness, the irritability, the insomnia, his migraines that got so bad he’d find himself up in the middle of the night on his knees on the bathroom floor, emptying the contents of his stomach into the toilet bowl as his husband rubbed his back and hurriedly called their doctor.

It was like someone had scrambled his brain up in a blender. His body wasn’t doing what he wanted it to do anymore. Days went by. Then weeks. Then months. It didn’t get better.

Ilya was worried about his husband.

They had always thought that they were opposite sides of the spectrum. Where Ilya was relaxed and confident, Shane was uptight and an overthinker. Where Ilya liked to drink and party, Shane liked quiet nights. Where Ilya had bouts of withdrawn depression, Shane sunk into ceaseless anxiety spirals.

Ilya had never seen Shane so…apathetic. So unmotivated. Those first few months, nothing seemed to interest him. Not cooking, not hockey, not his boring books, Ilya even offered to do yoga with him. Yet…nothing.

Shane had been out for the rest of the season. Months passed, and while his psychological symptoms had mostly healed, he was still being tormented by unrelenting headaches, dizziness, and insomnia.

At the end of the season, despite Shane’s pleas, the doctors had made up their mind. They weren’t going to clear him to return to play. His hockey career was over.

Ilya held his husband as he wept that night. There, laying against Ilya’s chest, Shane admitted to sharing the same fear that had plagued his husband ever since he saw Shane go down on the ice.

“I’m scared,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. Muffled as he spoke into Ilya’s chest. “I’m scared of what might happen to me if I get hit again. But I don’t know what I am without it.”

Ilya blinked back his own tears, rubbing his hand through Shane’s hair. “I cannot lose you, lyubimyy.”

The idea came about in July of 2025. After nearly a month straight of alone time at the cottage, Ilya had decided that he and Shane needed to interact with someone who wasn’t each other or Shane’s parents.

Shane had been doing better. Physically, his symptoms had minimal improvement, but he had become better at managing them, and communicating with Ilya. More importantly, he had been coping a lot more with his future prospects. He had been regularly talking to a therapist, after Ilya’s needling, and he had thrown himself into his work with the camp.

They had expanded west this year, starting up in Vancouver and Winnipeg. They were both taking on more of an administrative role in the camps, after all, it wasn’t exactly feasible to have NHL players coaching all their camps, and they wanted to maintain accessibility. Ilya was mostly just relieved that Shane was feeling up to it. He had been back on the ice a few times, recreationally, mostly able to handle short stints skating with breaks in between. Anything too intense would exacerbate his headaches.

When Ilya invited Sveta to visit the cottage, he thought that she might take his attention off hockey. He was wrong.

“Ugh, Ilyusha,” she sighed. “I thought you said this was a cottage? More like a McMansion.” She pushed her sunglasses up into her curls and dropped her bags at her side. When she walked into a room, it was like all the lights turned to point right at her.

“Blame Hollander,” he said grinning as he went in for a hug. “He is the one who calls it this.”

“It is a cottage,” Shane said, appearing in the door jamb. “It’s more about use and location rather than appearance.”

Sveta rolled her eyes, shifting her attention to the Canadian. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “It’s good to see you, Shanya. All in one piece.”

“Mostly,” Shane shrugged.

Shane liked Svetlana. He was hesitant, when they first met, out of a weird sense of jealousy and trepidation at the prospect of interacting with someone who knew such a specific side of Ilya. He quickly learnt his concerns were unfounded.

Honestly, Ilya might have regretted introducing the two of them. Svetlana spent five days at the cottage, and about half that time was spent talking puck with Shane.

“They’re idiots for not adopting a new playoff seeding,” Svetlana practically shouted, as if anyone in the room was disagreeing with her. “The second best and the third best teams in the regular season shouldn’t be playing each other in the first round of the playoffs.”

“But I do like the rivalry aspect of it all,” Shane said, dangling his can of ginger ale in his hand as if it was a wine glass, “no one wants to watch the first two rounds for them to sweep 4–0.”

Svetlana groaned. “If they want to promote rivalries, they should be doing that in the regular series and letting them carry over. Stop forcing them in the first round! It always comes down to money. More game sevens, more money in the commissioner’s pocket.”

“But you can see how it benefits the fans,” Shane added. “If you just do a top eight seeding, you could get stuck with entire divisions without a team in the playoffs. You think someone from Vancouver is gonna tune in to watch a bunch of Central teams play each other in a row? You lose half your viewership.”

“They need to return to a conference based system,” she said, slamming her hand against the table. “It was fucking fine the way it was, why are we handing out participation trophies to shitty divisions?”

Ilya raised his eyebrows from where he hovered in the kitchen, cracking open another Red Bull.

“This is fun,” he said, deadpanned. “You guys should start a podcast or something. I would not listen, you are both terribly boring.”

Shane rolled his eyes. He hadn’t realized how loud they had gotten. He hadn’t even noticed his husband getting up from the table.

“You’re funny,” Svetlana said, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “Was that on purpose or an accident?”

“Ouch,” Ilya said, dramatically clutching at his chest. He wandered back over to the kitchen, thunking himself down into the chair next to Shane and throwing his arm over his shoulder. “I invite you into my home, and yet you are so mean to me.”

“It’s Hollander’s house, no?” She said, turning her eyes back to Shane. “I know you know this, I caught you watching his little TV special.”

“Yes, of course, every night when I need help sleeping.”

Shane elbowed Ilya in the ribs, turning his attention back to Svetlana. “Anyway, sorry, we probably should be talking about normal people things. What are you up to these days? Are the Bears treating you well?”

“Ah,” she said, setting down her drink. “I quit.”

Shane blinked in surprise. He turned to his husband, who looked equally as shocked.

“Why did you do that?” Ilya asked, incredulously.

“Ilyusha,” she replied, giving him a tired look. “The question should be, ‘why didn’t you quit sooner?’ I am tired of putting up with pigs talking down to me every time I open my mouth. No amount of climbing the ladder will ever fix that.”

“You just quit? Like that? You were dreaming of this,” Ilya pushed. “What, you’re just going back to selling luxury cars?”

Shane looked between the two. His brow was furrowed in concentration. His Russian had greatly improved in the last few years, and he could generally understand conversations with time to translate, but it had been harder for him lately. He was a bit…slower, with some of that stuff. His doctor said his cognitive issues should fully clear in the next few months.

Ilya caught Shane’s eye, his expression softening. He switched to English without comment.

“How long?” Ilya asked, looking at Svetlana. “You did not tell me.”

She frowned. “I wasn’t hiding it, if that’s what you think. It was recent, end of the season. I figured you had more important things to deal with.”

She looked at Shane for that bit. She wasn’t wrong.

“What’re you gonna do now?” Shane asked, in a tone he hoped was inviting, and less like the interrogation his husband was putting out.

She shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s true, I love working in hockey. I just don’t know if there’s a place for me. Maybe it’s better if it stays a hobby.”

Shane frowned. He knew what it was like, to feel like an outsider in the sport he loved. He had plenty of reasons to choose from. The gay thing, the Asian thing, his lack of social awareness (Rose liked to call it his “touch of the ‘tism”). Yet he never even once considered stepping back. It was unfathomable. It seemed like it should have been the same for Svetlana, she lived and breathed hockey. Maybe she was just stronger than him.

Shane was ripped from his thoughts when Svetlana spoke again.

“What about you?”

Shane blinked. “Hm?”

Svetlana tipped her head to the side a bit. “What will you do now that you can't play?”

Shane felt Ilya’s arm curl a bit tighter around him, as if he was bound to run away. But, honestly? The question was refreshing.

Everyone danced around the topic. Like he was a piece of glass that would shatter if he was faced with reality. His teammates avoided talking about it. His mom talked about all his new potential opportunities. Hayden wouldn’t shut up about how great retirement was. But not Svetlana, she didn’t pull her punches.

“I don’t know,” Shane admitted. “Mostly I’ve been focusing on recovery. I haven’t been thinking about a lot past that. Maybe I’ll do some more work with the foundation or something,” he shrugged. “My mom has lots of ideas.”

“You do not need to worry about this now,” Ilya said, a sentiment he had been echoing for the past few weeks. “You are Shane Hollander, you can do anything you want.”

Shane smiled half heartedly. “Well, not everything,” he said under his breath.

The topic didn’t come up again for a few weeks. Shane hadn’t even realized it was anything more to anyone than an offhand comment.

Unknown: what if we actually did it

Shane: Sorry, who is this?

Unknown: oh sorry its svetlana
Unknown: Ilya gave me your number

Shane: Oh. Hi!
Shane: What did you mean? Do what?

Sveta: the podcast

Shane paused and looked around the room to gather himself. Ilya was out walking Anya at the moment. Shane would normally join him for the fresh air, but he’d been having a particularly difficult headache day. It was noon and he hadn’t left their bed.

Shane: What about it

Sveta: you and me. do a podcast together.

Shane: what

The phone started buzzing against the mattress. Shane pressed the accept button, turning it to speaker and reducing the volume as low as it could go without being inaudible.

“Shane Hollander,” Svetlana said, a tone to her voice that made it clear that she was dead serious.

“Yeah?” Shane answered, his head still resting against a pillow.

“I mean it,” she said. “This could be our next project.”

Shane propped himself and immediately slumped back down. “What are you talking about?”

“I’ve been looking into it, I think it’s a really good idea. Both of us, getting the opportunity to say what we really want to say about the game. We control the narrative. Why should people like us get pushed out of hockey just because a bunch of old white men say so?”

Shane paused. “I have PCS.”

Shane could practically hear her rolling her eyes through the phone. “Shut the fuck up. You know what I mean.”

Shane sighed. “There are a million hockey podcasts out there, why do we need to start one?”

“There’s a million hockey podcasts, all by annoying straight white men. Ours would be different. For the people.”

“Are we starting a revolution now?”

“Maybe.”

Shane tried to think about it. It was a cute concept, sure. Shane had been the victim of many hockey bro podcasts, who always seemed to single him out as the sole perpetrator any time Montreal was performing poorly. He was never physical enough, he was weak defensively, and that only got worse after he was outed. It was a nice idea, to have another podcast showing a different side of things. Just, it probably shouldn’t be him.

“I just…” Shane started. “I don’t think anyone wants to hear me talk about hockey.”

“Are you kidding me? You think people don’t wanna listen to Shane Fucking Hollander talking about hockey?”

He shrugged to himself. “I mean, I’m kind of a hockey stereotype. I’m not very interesting, pucks in deep is about the extent of what I have to give. Aren’t podcast people usually making jokes and stuff?”

“That can be our bit, you’re the straight man, I’m the beautiful fun one.”

“I’m gay,” Shane said.

“See? That’s perfect, it’s what the people want to see. And you’re not boring, you just have to be when you’re playing for the league. I’ve seen you talking about how trash the player assistance program is, okay? You have hot takes.”

Shane huffed. He looked out the window, where Ilya was just returning, Anya bounding at his feet. He was trapped on the sidewalk in conversation with their neighbour, but Shane knew he secretly loved it.

“I’m just not so sure it’s a good idea,” Shane said.

It wasn’t just the idea of putting himself out there. It was doing it after his fall from grace. He wasn’t sure he could handle the embarrassment, especially if it failed.

“Just give it a try,” Svetlana urged. “Maybe we try and it doesn’t work at all. But let’s just do one episode.”

Ilya was laughing at something Kate had said. Shane frowned, he knew that his whole…situation, had been a lot for Ilya too. He knew he worried about him, about what he might spiral into without hockey. Shane worried too.

“Okay,” Shane agreed. “We can try it out.”

“This is supposed to be serious,” Shane said.

“It will be serious, Shanya,” Svetlana insisted. “But we need to get people in the door, something to catch their attention.”

“We are not calling our show ‘Puck Buddies.’”

Svetlana and Shane sat around the kitchen table, laptops open. Despite her size, Anya had managed to curl herself up on Shane’s lap.

Svetlana had come up to Ottawa just for logistics planning. She insisted that if this did continue, there was no way she was moving to Canada, but, for now, this was easier than Shane travelling.

“I like it,” Ilya said. “What are the options so far?”

Svetlana held out the whiteboard she had acquired from their gym. “So far we have: Puck Buddies, Hockey with Hot People, The Gongshow, and Too Many Men.”

“Huh, I wonder which one was Shane’s idea?” Ilya mused.

“Fuck off. It’s literally the only normal one on there.”

“You should listen to Sveta,” Ilya said, rounding over to give Anya a pat on the head. “She is the one with a degree in marketing.”

Shane blinked. “You have a degree in marketing?”

“And statistics,” she said. “I’m smarter than the entire NHL.”

“Well, I won’t disagree with you there,” Shane said. Most of the league barely finished high school.

Ilya moved to peer over Svetlana’s shoulder where she was typing away. “Can I be in the podcast?” He asked.

“No.”

“What? Why? I am very entertaining. You will get many viewers.”

“You’re a distraction. Shane at least has common sense.”

Svetlana grinned behind their frankly ridiculous microphone setup.

“I feel like an idiot,” Shane said. His headphones made his head look impossibly wide.

“You look cool,” she said. “Very professional.”

That was easy for her to say. Svetlana actually did look cool, she always looked like she was about to walk into fashion week. Shane didn’t understand why they needed to film at all, this was a podcast, right? Didn’t they just need their voices?

That was an important element, to be sure, which is why they had converted one of the offices into a studio, layering the walls with padding and even putting up an LED sign in the background that read “Puck Buddies.”

“This is a lot of effort for something we’re just ‘trying out,’” Shane had remarked.

“You need to get the whole experience, otherwise you won’t really know what it’s like,” Svetlana insisted.

Despite his whining, Ilya had been completely barred from the room, banished to run his Captain’s skates prior to training camp. Svetlana had told him that this was her and Shane’s thing. No Ilyas allowed.

“You ready?” She asked, a grin spreading across her face.

Honestly, Shane had been getting more and more hesitant the further they got into this. He just couldn’t see how this was going to work. But how could he say no to her? When it was so clear that she was just dying for the chance to work in hockey again?

Shane would have banged his head against the table if it wouldn’t cause him to keel over.

“The Penguins should trade Crosby,” she declared. “I said it, and I stand by it. He is 38 years old and is sure to make the Olympic team, he should still be in cup contention. The man didn’t even make the playoffs last year.”

“Does loyalty mean nothing to you?” Shane asked.

“I think loyalty means too much to you,” she countered. “The only reason half this league is surviving is because of this weird importance that North Americans put on fairness and loyalty. That’s why we have such a low salary cap. That’s why McDavid is taking salary cuts to stay in Edmonton. If this was the MLB, he’d have moved as soon as his rookie contract was up.”

“Okay, I’m not saying I totally agree with the salary cap, but I don’t think that totally losing the ceiling is a good thing either. What fun is the game if all the players just get sold to big market cities as soon as their rookie contract is up? No one wants to see New York win every year just because they have all the money.”

“No, but at some point you have to prioritize the players,” she said. “You know this, Shane, you took a cut just to play on the same team as your husband. How many teams are making billions off these players and then paying them scraps? Losing the cap means they’re forced to pay players what they’re worth.”

“No, and I agree,” Shane huffed. “But part of the beauty of hockey is that it isn’t big in the way baseball and football is. Don’t get me wrong, obviously it’s run by a bunch of suits, it’s a business, but we aren’t throwing Superbowls. There’s a lot more of a community mentality.”

Svetlana rolled her eyes. “That’s just what they want you to think so you roll over and take it. You deserve what you’re worth, Hollander. You’re a once in a generation talent.”

“Maybe twice in a generation.”

She smiled. “Don’t gas him up any more than necessary.” She paused. “What were we talking about again?”

“Crosby.”

“Oh, right.” She tilted her head. “Silver fox.”

“I have to agree with you there.”

Shane sat side by side with Svetlana, listening to the completed edit.

“How did you get the intro music?”

She shrugged. “I know people.”

Shane leaned back in his chair, sliding off his headphones. “It’s not…totally awful.”

“It’s good. You know it’s good,” she said. “This is something people will listen to. You just have to put it out there.”

Shane huffed, rubbing his hand along his temple. “I feel like this is the kind of thing I’m going to end up regretting in the middle of the night.”

She grinned. “As is anything worth doing.”

Puck Buddies ✪ @puckbuddiespodcast
Our first ever episode of Puck Buddies with Shane Hollander and Svetlana Vetrova just dropped on YouTube! Check out the link to watch the two hottest people you know talk puck.
[see link]

> Rose Landry’s Left Foot @bbemery8
IM SORRY WHAT????!!?!??!!??!?!

> Sonya @rowantreerowantree
Now how didn’t I know about this

> Jack @gocanucksgo
Shane “Cow Eyes” Hollander and Sergei Vetrov’s daughter?? Sign me up

> matii @haloallo
Ilya isn’t even in the room and yet he’s always there like a vengeful spirit

> Ally @hollzyhatty
Not them calling crosby hot. Crosby u better watch out because a jealous russian is about to throw hands

>> SidGeno #1 Truther @8771gilzy
Which one?

> Mads @curiousbifocal
I just got into hockey recently and I’m not normally a podcast fan, but I actually really enjoyed this!

> Alexxx @HollanderHo88
Jesus they weren’t kidding about watching hot people talk about hockey. I started ovulating three different times

> Syd @worldsmostdangerousfrog
I really liked this but I wonder if they’re gonna stick so much to hard hockey. I think they could add a bit more whimsy into it. Maybe I just like the idea of Shane being forced to be fun.

> Nick Diaz @twominuteminor
It’s good to see that Hollander’s up to something new, but man does this hurt. Hollander’s really done in the NHL, huh?

> mikeyman @capsfan202
jesus fucking christ noone wants to hear what a bunch of chicks have to say about hockey shut the fuck up

“We need something new,” Svetlana said, her feet kicked up on the coffee table.

Shane was opposite her, compiling a spreadsheet of all the offseason's trades and their stats, as well as his predictions for how they’ll benefit their respective teams. “What do you mean?”

“Something fun, something to break up the statistics.”

Shane frowned. “I thought we acknowledged I’m not good at being funny.”

“That’s why you’re not the one who has to be funny. The segment is the funny thing, you’re just in it.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Compromise,” she said, staring Shane down. “We do my thing, I let you do your weird history fun facts section.”

Shane smiled. “Deal.”

“So,” Shane started, already giddy with anticipation, he had spent all night perfecting his write-up. “The Punch-Up in Piešťany was a brawl that occurred in the Canada Russia game in the 1987 World Juniors in Piešťany, Slovakia, or Czechoslovakia at the time. The brawl cleared both benches and went on for twenty minutes—”

“Insane.”

“—and went on for so long that the officials had to turn off the lights to try and get them to stop.”

“Did that work?”

“No it did not. They just kept fighting, so eventually they turned the lights back on. Both Russia and Canada were removed from the competition, Canada being escorted out of the country by armed soldiers. At the time, Russia was out of medal contention, but Canada was still in the race for gold.”

“So, Shane,” Svetlana said, leaning onto her forearms. Her job was asking the questions. “Tell me about this brawl.”

Shane smiled. “The brawl was first incited after a Canadian, Theoren Fleury, scored the first goal for Canada and proceeded to slide across the ice on his knees, pretending to use his stick as a machine gun opening fire on the Soviet bench.”

“Yikes.”

“Yeah, not great, and it was followed by a lot of slashing from both teams. The actual brawl started after two fights started following a hit and a slash from the Russians, which then escalated into a line brawl. Following a commercial break, both benches cleared to get on the ice and join in on the fight.”

“Awesome.”

“You just like watching men fight.”

“This is true.”

“So,” Shane said, pausing from his computer to look up at Svetlana. “Are you very familiar with this story?”

“Just vaguely.”

“Okay, so first I'll paint a picture. At this point in time, bench clearing brawls weren’t totally uncommon in the NHL. Usually when the benches cleared, 90% of the players on the ice weren’t actually fighting, they’d just pair up, so that’s what the Canadians expected. Except, the Russians didn’t know that, so when they paired up, they started fighting for real. They were sucker punching, kicking, two guys on one, it was a mess.”

“For twenty fucking minutes?”

“It gets better, there’s a lot of great anecdotes from this fight. First, Vladimir Konstantinov headbutted Greg Hawgood so hard during this fight that he broke his nose. Brendan Shanahan, who was on the Canadian team, described it as ‘the greatest head-butt I’ve ever seen.’”

Svetlana laughed, her eyes widening. “You’re telling me that Konstantinov and Shanahan were there?”

“So was Sergei Federov. Of course, Fedorov and Konstantinov would go on to defect from the Soviet Union and join the Red Wings, along with Shanahan, and the three would all go on to win two cups together.”

“You know I love Fedorov."

“Also, both backup goalies fought each other, as well as the teams’ top goal scorers. Theo Fleury described Keane as ‘fighting like it was for the world title.’”

“So how did it end?”

“Well, all the officials left the ice, that’s a whole other issue. The ref was a Fin who had been chosen for his neutrality despite his lack of experience, and obviously that didn’t help the situation.”

“No shit.”

“Eventually they all just got tired and were escorted into their locker rooms. Both teams were disqualified from the competition, but were also shunned by their home countries. The event was declared a stain on Canada’s reputation, though it caused junior hockey popularity to skyrocket.”

“So when you say that Canada took a ding to its reputation, was that from fans or…?”

Shane smiled. “Not fans, no, the players were actually pretty well supported by their countrymen, but any official hockey association condemned it. In Russia, the sentiment was similar, but it wasn’t as huge a deal because they didn’t lose out on a medal.”

“Nice.”

“And one more addition before we finish up, it should be known that not all players participated in the fight. Pierre Turgen initially abstained until his head coach convinced him to get on the ice. To this day, many of his teammates from that game haven’t forgiven him for not joining right off the bat, especially because his absence resulted in their teammates getting double teamed by the Soviets.”

“Shane Hollander,” Svetlana said, crossing her arms. “If the same thing happened to you, World Juniors, 2009, Canada vs Russia. Benches clear, would you get on the ice?”

Shane thought for a moment. “I’d get on the ice.”

“Well, normally, my follow-up would be ‘who are you pairing up with?’ but I think we all know the answer. As if there wasn’t enough sexual tension on that ice already.”

Shane rolled his eyes in response and hoped it translated through audio.

“Well, that’s our first installment of ‘Hollander’s Hockey History,’ I hope you didn’t fall asleep.”

“Thanks, Sveta.”

“Next up,” she grinned, “we have a special guest joining us in the studio, everyone welcome Scott Hunter!”

Scott wandered in a bit awkwardly, situating himself in the chair between Shane and Svetlana. He hesitantly put on the pair of headphones that lay waiting for him.

“Hey guys,” he said. “Thanks for having me. I’m honoured to be your first guest.”

“Don’t thank us just yet,” Svetlana said, ignoring Scott’s widened eyes. “Let’s give you an introduction here. Scott Hunter, career player with the New York Admirals, playing since 2008, captain since 2010. Stanley Cup champion, Conn-Smythe, and Hart winner in 2017, and…oh, looks like I have a note here…oldest man to ever play hockey.”

Scott blinked. He looked to Shane. “I’m only three years older than you.”

“Well,” Svetlana said, “Scott Hunter, not only are you our first ever guest, but you are also joining us on our first ever installment of our newest segment…”

She pressed a button on the computer, causing a trumpet sound effect to echo throughout the room. It wasn’t all that loud, for Shane’s sake, but she said it would be louder in post.

“...Does Ilya Rozanov Owe You Money?”

Scott looked side to side, as if this was all an elaborate prank, which, in a way, it was. “Sorry?”

“We would like you to share your worst Ilya Rozanov story, and we—” she gestured between her and Shane, “certified Ilya Rozanov experts, will tell you how much money he owes in reparations.”

Scott raised his eyebrows. “So this whole segment is just me complaining about Rozanov?”

Shane shrugged. “Let it be known this was not my idea.”

“If this was Shane’s show, he’d spend two hours straight talking about the politics of hockey in 1990s Sweden,” Svetlana said. “Luckily, I understand the importance of engaging an audience.”

“Oh, okay…is it supposed to be a hockey story or a personal story?”

“Dealer’s choice.”

Scott looked into space, thinking for a moment. “Well, I’ve got a few. His first year in the league, after one of his first games against me, he somehow got a hold of my address and mailed me a copy of Hockey for Dummies. He drew a little heart on the inside of the cover.”

Shane smiled to himself. Classic.

“Come on, Hunter,” Svetlana said, leaning forward on her elbows. “You can do better than that.”

“Uh…” Scott pondered. “The first time he met my husband—boyfriend at the time—Kip, he told him that he had many gay friends that weren’t born before the founding of America that he could set him up with instead of me. Honestly, at the time I was mostly relieved he wasn’t homophobic. So I didn’t think too much about it.”

“I can’t believe you invited your poor boyfriend to the NHL awards immediately after coming out,” Shane said. “Really put him through the ringer.”

“Yeah, he really wanted to come,” Scott said. “I had planned all night to have a protective barrier of Admirals around him, but at some point he ended up by himself at a bar. I just remember watching from across the room as Rozanov rounded on him in slow motion, I was panicking so bad trying to get out of my conversation. Next thing I know, they’re hamming it up, and mostly making fun of me.”

“I can’t imagine what the two of them would talk about,” Svetlana said.

“Oh, I can,” Shane interjected. “I’ve had a front row seat. One time when we were out at Scott’s bar, Ilya had Kip list out and describe every great Russian work of art and personally took credit for every single one.”

“Sounds about right.”

“Yeah,” Scott added. “Also, I didn’t know this until like a month after they first met, but they had also exchanged phone numbers. The only reason I found out was because I got suspicious that Kip suddenly seemed to know a lot about hockey and he was asking me all these questions about how the draft worked. It turned out that Rozanov kept sending him draft prospects and asking him if I was gonna cradle rob them next.”

Shane muffled a laugh under his palm.

“To this day I’m pretty sure they still text regularly. When I got the invite to your wedding you sent the invite to Kip with a plus one.”

Svetlana laughed. “Is that true?”

“In my defense,” Shane said, holding his hands up in surrender. “Ilya was in charge of the invites. I was in charge of the venue.”

“So we have you to blame for the lack of chairs.”

“Fuck off.”

“Well,” Svetlana said, she pulled out a big old fashioned calculator. “Shane, what are we thinking? How much money does Ilya Rozanov owe Scott Hunter?”

“I’d say…maybe 500 dollars?” Shane offered.

“500?” Scott said with a frown.

“I think 100 for the book,” Svetlana offered. “1000 for the husband stealing.”

“A thousand?” Scott asked incredulously. “Do you guys understand how money works?”

“The man has an AAV of 15 million,” Svetlana said. “We gotta pack some heat.”

Shane sat propped up against the padded headboard as he read.

He’d been trying to branch out from exclusively hockey books lately, though Ilya claimed that his newest purchase, a book on the origins of lacrosse, didn’t really count. Baby steps.

Shane felt the mattress dip as his husband crawled towards him. The Russian unceremoniously pulled the book from his hand and placed it on the nightstand, propped open on the page Shane was reading. He didn’t even care that it would probably cause the spine to crease.

It had been a good day, most things considered. He hadn’t been hit with any migraines, and he’d even felt well enough to go out for a run with Anya while Ilya was at his morning skate. He had only once throughout the past twenty four hours felt the aching feeling that he should be doing something else.

Ilya kissed his way up Shane’s chest, allowing his husband to rest his hands in his curls. Shane’s glasses were still resting comfortably on his face in a way that was sure to get Ilya going.

Shane felt his husband’s lips trail kisses up across his collarbone, to his neck, along his jaw, and right up to his ear. His breath was hot as he tugged on Shane’s earlobe with his teeth. Ilya paused, hovering over his husband.

“Can I be on your podcast?” he asked breathily.

Shane froze for a moment, then pushed Ilya back on his haunches so he could look at him face to face.

“Are you trying to seduce me into letting you on our show?”

Ilya huffed, letting out a whine as he thudded his head on Shane’s chest. “It is not fair, Shane. You have a segment named after me, you are bullying me by not letting me on.”

Shane reached up to scratch at Ilya’s scalp, feeling absolutely no sympathy for the grown man lying on top of him. “It’s not up to me, anyway, ask Sveta.”

“She said no.”

Shane raised his eyebrows. “And you asked me anyway?”

Ilya looked up, propping his chin on Shane’s stomach. “You are much easier to convince. What if I said I will not fuck you until you let me on the show?”

“You gave in after three days last time you said that.”

Ilya groaned, rolling onto his back and exhaling like a child having a tantrum. “You are so mean to me, Hollander. You enjoy abusing your husband?” He raised his voice as if calling out to a crowd. “Everyone, Shane Hollander is emotionally abusing me, he is keeping me from feeling joy.”

“You’re being a baby.”

Ilya scrunched up his face. “I may never forgive you for this. You will have to find a way to make it up to me. Show me how much you love me.”

“We aren’t getting another dog.”

Ilya flopped back down again with a moan.

Shane wondered if he could convince Leah Campbell to be a regular guest on their show.

She fit in well, comfortable in front of the camera and was able to keep up with Shane and Svetlana. Plus, now that she was playing for the Ottawa Charge, she was around plenty.

“So, the PWHL is obviously growing very quickly,” Shane said. “You guys just expanded to Vancouver and Seattle this year, with plans to expand to at least four more cities in the next two years.”

“Yes,” Leah smiled. “Honestly the fact that we finally have a professional league like this is surreal, it’s a long time coming.”

“No kidding,” Svetlana said. “Finally the women are getting the attention they deserve. I’m especially excited for the Olympics this year, I think it’s gonna bring a lot of traffic for the league.”

“So, Leah,” Shane said. “Where would you like to see the next teams pop up?”

“Well, I’ve gotten to play in a few new places with our takeover tours. Detroit has a really great crowd, Edmonton as well, and I haven’t played there but I’d love to see a team in Quebec City.”

Svetlana whistled. “You think they’re ready for that? There’s still a sore spot from the Nordiques.”

“I’d love to see a QC team,” Shane said. “Montreal could use a good rivalry.”

“I really want to see a Saskatchewan team,” Svetlana offered. “They haven’t done a takeover there yet, but I think it’s the perfect place. No NHL team, just a bunch of crazy football fans. They’re dying for a hockey team.”

“Roughriders fans are insane,” Shane agreed.

“But a big part of what it comes down to is venues,” Leah said. “We need a place to play, and Saskatchewan just doesn’t really have the facilities for it like they do in other cities.”

“Your first World Juniors was in Regina, Shane,” Svetlana said, “do you think they can host a PWHL team?”

Shane shrugged. “Well, Regina is about 50% roads, so they at least wouldn’t have any trouble getting there.”

“Okay, Leah,” Svetlana said, turning back to her laptop. “We love the PWHL, and I think one of my favourite things about it is that it’s not trying to be the NHL. There’s a lot of really great differences, the jailbreak rule, the point format, and as well, you guys are still playing with cages.”

Leah nodded. “Hell yeah we are.”

“Do you think you guys will ever make the shift to visors?” Shane asked.

Leah shook her head. “There’s been talk, but I don’t think we should. I mean, for one, this is the first time in a long time I've had proper health insurance, and in the NHL their insurance is top notch, they're gonna be able to get whatever they need fixed. Also, the guys have been playing without their cages since juniors, so they’re already a lot better at controlling their sticks than us, our sticks are flying everywhere.”

“Not that much better,” Svetlana interjected.

“Exactly, like, guys in the NHL are losing teeth once a week. High sticks, pucks to the teeth, I just don’t see a need for that. And not to mention, I’ve got a beautiful face, I don’t wanna fuck it up.”

“Yeah, I have to agree,” Shane chimed in. “There really isn’t a good reason for guys to be breaking their jaws and noses and teeth when there’s other options.”

“Maybe big dental is behind it all,” Svetlana offered.

“I get that one of the appeals of the visors is seeing the players’ faces,” Shane added, “and I know the league is gonna want to hang onto that, in that case I think the solution is bubbles. As it is now, you’re actually not allowed to wear a bubble unless you’re recovering from injury. I’d love to see a rule change there, maybe we’d see some guys adopt bubbles permanently. And you know, not only is it gonna make the guys safer, but it’s gonna make you play better too when you’re not worried about getting your jaw shattered.”

“Shane, remind me, have you lost any teeth?” Leah asked.

Shane shook his head. “One chipped tooth,” he said, “high stick in juniors. But none in the show.”

“And how many is Ilya at?” Svetlana followed up.

“Jesus,” Shane said. “I think it’s about a dozen.”

“Well on that beautiful note,” Svetlana said, tapping on her computer to set up the sound effects. “We’re back with another segment of ‘Does Ilya Rozanov Owe You Money?’”

Leah sat up straighter in her chair. “I came prepared.”

“Hit us with it.”

“So I first met Ilya at the Sochi Olympics. I ran into him while we were watching one of the women’s figure skating events. He and one of the other Russian players, I don’t remember who but I know he wasn’t an NHL player, they came and sat right next to me and Max. I tried to talk to him since I recognized him a bit, I asked him if he liked figure skating and he was just, very chill, just kinda shrugged.” She smiled fondly to himself. “I then made the mistake of commenting on how I thought the American had a good performance, and he proceeded to spend the rest of the event mansplaining figure skating to me. It was actually so jarring, he was really into it, and he knew the names of all the jumps and everything. Every once in a while, because for some reason I was still trying to get him to like me, I would try to offer my opinion and he would say,” she put on an absolutely atrocious slavic accent, “‘no, no, is terrible triple jump, undercomplete rotation, blah, blah, blah.’”

“That was so bad,” Svetlana said.

“My apologies to Russians,” Leah offered. “He also got really overzealous when the Russians performed, like he was out of his seat cheering like it was a game seven. Anyway, for years following that before I spoke to him again, I was sure that he was just an insanely misogynistic asshole. But then I met him at an All-Stars Game and he was pretty cool, very annoying obviously, but not in a sexist way. So after that I figured that he must have just been overcome by the power of figure skating or something?”

“Yeah,” Shane said. When Shane looked back on his time in Sochi, there was a lot of turmoil. He had mostly imagined Ilya spending most of his time there lurking in corridors. Apparently he was trolling multiple figure skating events. “His mom used to skate, I had the pleasure of listening to him break down all the drama in Beijing. He had some very strong opinions.”

Leah raised her eyebrows. “Was he team Shcherbakova or Trusova?”

Shane held up his hands. “I’ve been sworn to secrecy.”

“Okay,” Svetlana said, pulling out her calculator. “I decree that Ilya owes you…2,014 dollars. For symbolism.”

Shane raised his eyebrows. “Really? I didn’t think this one was that bad, at least compared to Scott’s.”

“He still gets dinged for the mansplaining, intention irrelevant. And I never promised to be consistent.”

Ilya held the phone up in front of Shane’s face.

Shane squinted. It was too close, and he wasn’t wearing his glasses. He was also busy at the moment, making them dinner, though Ilya didn’t seem too concerned about that.

“What?” Shane asked.

Ilya raised his eyebrows. “Twitter likes your show very much.”

Shane nodded. “That’s good.”

Ilya frowned, crossing his arms. “They are also talking about me.”

“Oh?”

“Many people are writing fanfiction where I am a figure skater and you are a hockey player.”

“That’s nice.”

“Ugh, Hollander,” Ilya groaned. “You are not listening to me.”

Shane sighed, setting down his knife. “I could finish this conversation in my sleep.”

“Your show is all about fun stories about me. I have many of these, think how many people would watch if I was there.”

“First of all, it’s not the whole show, it’s just one segment, and we don’t even do it every week. Second, Sveta says part of the branding is that you aren’t allowed on the show. It adds mystery.”

“Nothing about me is mystery,” Ilya moaned. “I ran out of secrets when I married you.”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” Shane said, resuming his chopping. “I feel like I keep learning more and more about you every day. Is it true that you offered your team a thousand dollars if they scored on Montreal?”

“I cannot confirm. Who told you this?”

“I cannot confirm.”

“With us today we have Cliff Marleau, former left winger for the Boston Bears, Stanley Cup champion, and former teammate of Ilya Rozanov. Cliff, tell us, why does Ilya Rozanov owe you money?”

Cliff leaned into the microphone as if he was doing ASMR. “Before we start can I just confirm for the public that the reason I wasn’t at your guys’s wedding was because it was a last minute invitation and I was already in Cabo, not because I’m homophobic.”

“Thanks for that, Cliff,” Shane offered.

This episode of the podcast was conducted over video call now that Svetlana had returned to Boston. They had started planning the occasional visits, Svetlana to Ottawa and Shane to Boston so they could still do some in person interviews, but it was mostly going to come down to when and where their guests were available. Cliff, for example, had ended up in Florida for his retirement.

“So I guess, actually I have two, can I do two?”

“Sure.”

“So, this was my third year playing with Rozy, and we had just won a home game and we all went out to karaoke. One of the rookies was singing ‘My Heart Will Go On,’ and he was really drunk already and he started crying talking about how sad the Titanic was and how they didn’t deserve to die in the Atlantic. He knew weirdly a lot about the Titanic, like, historically.”

“Hockey players love Kate Winslet,” Svetlana said. “I don’t make the rules.”

“But the kid, it was Bondy, Jake Bondar, he got all the other rookies into it and they were all crying in the corner of the karaoke bar talking about it. Then, Rozy comes up to me, and he tells me he needs my keys. I’m looking at him, like, what the fuck? But he’s demanding my keys, he said his car was too nice to be vomited in, and next thing I know he’s driving all the rookies two hours to Provincetown in the middle of the night. They didn’t even invite me, I’m trying to tell him, we’re in Boston, the ocean is right there, he said that wasn’t close enough. He said they needed to connect properly to the sea.”

Svetlana cackled, throwing her head back. “He stole your fucking car?”

“Wait, hold on,” Shane said, his eyebrows drawn up in concern. “Please tell me you’re not describing a crime. He was sober?”

“Oh, yeah,” Cliff clarified. “He never drank when the rookies were out, he kept saying that it was his job to keep the ‘sad American lightweights’ alive.”

“So I’m guessing you got your car back eventually?” Shane asked.

“Yeah, not until, like, 5 A.M. I had to Uber home sober. They kept sending pictures in the group chat too, they went to Dunkin and bought like three dozen donuts, my car was covered in powdered sugar and the glovebox was stuffed full of napkins.”

“So, I guess we’re all wondering, did they make it to the ocean?” Svetlana asked seriously.

“Yeah,” Cliff huffed. “I unfortunately received several recordings of the boys dunking themselves in the Atlantic in the middle of February while singing Celine Dion. I should actually dig those up, they might come in handy.”

Svetlana sat back in her seat, looking impressed. “Not gonna lie, Marleau, that’s a solid anecdote. At the very least he owes you the gas money.”

“Wait, you said you had a second story?” Shane asked.

“Well, now that I think about it, it’s not as good a story,” Cliff admitted. “Basically there was this period of, like, two months after he and his girlfriend broke up that he was just an absolute monster. Bag skates every practice, he didn’t allow anyone to play music in the locker room, he was walking around like a fuckin’ time bomb. I feel like we all deserve a reward for going through that one.”

Svetlana stared Shane down through the computer screen. “You said he just broke up with his girlfriend?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry man, don’t mean to make you jealous or anything,” Cliff said apologetically to Shane. “Honestly, I never even met the chick, but they were texting for years. We just called him his Montreal Girl. Her name was…Jane? I think.”

Shane tried to school his expression into a neutral expression, unsuccessfully. Svetlana did not make so much of an effort, but at least covered her face with her hands.

It took about twenty seconds of dead silence as the gears turned in Cliff Marleau’s head.

“Holy shit,” he finally said. “That was you? You’re Montreal Fucking Jane? Dude I was limping around my house for fucking weeks.”

“So was Shane,” Svetlana added.

“In my defense,” Shane said, “the first time I went to his house he kept talking about all the women he was seeing. I deserved to freak out a bit.”

“Oh my god,” Cliff said, placing his hands in his hair. “This was, like, 2016. Was that when you were dating Rose Landry?”

Shane winced. “Yeah…”

“I thought I was going crazy, I kept wondering why he always had the Rose Landry subreddit open.”

“So, really,” Svetlana said, looking considerate. "I think Shane is the one that owes you money for that one.”

“We have a joint chequing account anyway,” Shane offered.

“I can’t believe this,” Cliff said. He looked like he had just been told for the first time that the Earth was round. “This whole fucking time. Wait a minute…that time at All-Stars that I knocked on Rozy’s door and he was—”

“Okay and that’s all the time we have for today!” Shane interjected, pulling out his own calculator. “Let’s say, Ilya Rozanov owes you three thousand dollars? That fair?”

“How much do you owe him, Shane?” Svetlana asked, cheesy grin and all.

“Just my dignity.”

“Amazing game today, Ilya,” the journo said, whoever it was that got the privilege of interviewing him immediately after he came off the ice. He was sweat drenched in his gear, towing over the woman in his pads and skates. “Really came together in the third, how’s it feel playing without your husband after so long?”

Ilya shrugged, as if he hadn’t been asked this question a million times. “Yes, yes, the team is just a little less handsome without him on it, but I think we are adjusting as well as we can. Still a very strong team.”

“And your husband hasn’t been doing too bad for himself either,” the journo replied with a smile. “His podcast has really been taking off, can we expect you to guest anytime soon?”

“Ah, maybe not,” Ilya said, giving his best sad face to the camera. “I am very expensive, they cannot afford.”

* * *

“So this week has been a crazy time for trades,” Shane said, turning to Svetlana. They were back in person in Ottawa. “First off, Hughes to Minnesota.”

“I mean,” Svetlana said with a shrug, "we saw this coming. No way was Hughes going to stay in Vancouver, he was begging to leave. I’m not surprised Minnesota was the one to make this move, and I’m not surprised they got what they did for him.”

“Just to recap,” Shane said, “just for Quinn Hughes, the Canucks received Rossi, Ohgren, Buium, and a 2026 first round pick.”

“Insane, but deserved I think. Hughes is one of the best defensemen in the league, and a move like this absolutely stacks the Central Division. Everyone should be fucking scared of Minnesota right now.”

“And he’s only got, what, a year left on his contract? If Minnesota can carry him to the playoffs, I think there’s a good chance he’ll resign.”

“Him going to Minnesota at all is a shock, to me at least,” Svetlana said. “I think we were all expecting the Devils, maybe the Red Wings, but there weren’t exactly rumours flying around when it came to the Wild.”

“Well, only to add to the devastating storylines,” Shane added, “We have Stu Skinner for Tristan Jarry.”

“Scratch that,” Svetlana interjected, “Jarry for Skinner, and a bunch of other shit.”

“Yeah, they lost me with that one. I mean, you know I’m a big Skinner fan, I don’t think Jarry is worth any more than he is. Let alone Kulak and a second-round pick. I think Edmonton really got the short end of the stick here.”

“Though I will say, even though I think a lot of Edmonton fans will be devastated, another part of me thinks it’s probably good that Skinner got outta there,” Svetlana said. “I mean, goalies get more flack from their fans than anyone, and you know better than most what a toxic environment can do to a player.”

“In that case, for sure, I really do hope he does well in Pittsburgh, but holy fuck, that first game.” Shane rubbed his hands over his face like it was physically painful to talk about. “Stu’s first game as a Penguin was against his former team, the Edmonton Oilers. Pittsburgh lost 6–4, but on top of that, Leon Draisaitl scored his 1000th career point against his former goalie. Then, all the Oilers proceed to pile onto the ice to celebrate, right next to Skinner, who is standing very sadly in his crease.”

“Devastating,” Svetlana said. “Shane, I can imagine you lying awake at night thinking about this.”

“It always sucks playing against your old team, but this is just an extra slap in the face. And you could see it for the Oilers, too, it was sad all around.”

“Very sad, of course,” Svetlana admitted. “But, honestly? These kinds of storylines are what makes me love hockey. All of it, the wins, the losses, they just don’t mean as much without the story behind it.”

“Speaking of exciting storylines in hockey…”

“Look at you and your segues,” Svetlana grinned.

“Thank you. Today on the podcast we have with us…Troy Barrett.”

“Hi,” Troy said. For someone who was dating a social media manager, you’d think he'd be more comfortable in front of a camera.

“Troy Barrett,” Svetlana said, already pulling up her introduction. “Drafted to Toronto in 2013, called up from the CHL in 2015, initially as a center but shifted to right wing. Then, traded to Ottawa in 2021. Also,” she said, “you used to be kind of an asshole.”

Troy winced. “Yeah. That’s my bad.”

“We forgive you,” Shane said.

“I only forgive you if you give us a good story,” Svetlana declared. “Now, Troy Barrett, why does Ilya Rozanov owe you money?”

“Okay,” he said, readjusting in his chair. “I think this is pretty good one, at least, Harris told me I should use it.”

“Shoot.”

“Okay, so this was about two years ago, the whole team was kind of in the middle of a prank war.”

Shane huffed. He knew where this was going.

“Everyone was pranking everyone,” Troy continued, “but I guess Rozy came into the locker room one day and all his sticks were taped together, and he assumed it was me because the week before he had taped all my gear into a big ball, classic stuff, right?”

Svetlana rolled her eyes. “Men.”

“Anyway, he saw that and decided he needed to get me back, so he gets a hand on four of my sticks, and he takes a hacksaw. I didn’t know this, but apparently if you cut into a specific part of the stick it loses all its strength, you can’t even see it.”

“Right,” Shane said.

“So he does this, we’re at a practice, I guess the goal is just that I’ll go out, break a couple sticks, I’ve got a bit of a temper, everyone will find it funny, whatever. But he ends up getting called out to a meeting with coach, and I end up grabbing a different stick for that day, so they never get used.”

“That day,” Svetlana offers.

“Exactly,” Troy said. “So the next day we’re playing St. Louis. I’m on the ice for a powerplay, my stick breaks.”

Svetlana cackled.

“I think, whatever, I go back to my bench and grab another stick. Two minutes in, it breaks.”

Shane made a face, as if he was too distracted by the potential risk the prank had on the team to truly enjoy this story. “I was sitting next to him on the bench when this was happening, he told me he had totally forgot he’d done anything. Like, it wasn’t until stick number three broke that he remembered.”

“Well, I was properly losing my mind,” Troy admitted. “During a TV timeout I started yelling at poor Dykky because I thought it was him, I had gotten him with something the week before.”

Shane finally started laughing as he remembered the expression on his husband’s face. “That was when Ilya finally clued in,” he said. “You were shouting, ‘who touched my fucking sticks!’ and he turns to me white as a ghost, like holy shit. These were never supposed to be used in an NHL game.”

“I was losing my shit.”

“And you know what else?” Shane said, “Tanner and Dillion were the only ones that had been in the room apparently when he’d done this, so they were just dying laughing on the bench and Ilya was trying to threaten them if they ever said anything. He was ready to take it to his grave, but I made him tell you.”

“Yeah, he tells me when I’m back on the bench, like, I’ve never seen him like that before he looked like fucking Eeyore admitting he fucked with my sticks. And, like, I can’t even be angry because I’m just so baffled. Like, here’s the team Captain, we’re trying to make the playoffs, and my sticks are falling apart in the middle of a power play.”

“Yeah, Ilya scored a hat trick that game.”

“The power of guilt,” Svetlana said. “So you guys won?”

“Fuck yeah, we won,” Troy said. “I guarantee no one would be hearing this story if we lost. I’ve never seen Rozy like that before.”

“Troy, I think this is a very solid contender for most expensive Ilya story,” Svetlana said, pulling out her calculator. “What do we think? 400 per stick and an extra two thousand for reparations?”

“I think that’s fair,” Shane said.

“Do I actually get this money?” Troy asked.

“No.”

“So,” Ilya said, slouched back in the passenger’s seat of the car. Shane was driving him to practice, he had to go into the city anyway for a doctor’s appointment. “You are familiar with the Carolina mascot, Stormy?”

Shane narrowed his eyes, looking between his husband and the road. “Yes?”

“Well,” Ilya proceeded. “Did you know that when the mascot was first debuted in the 90s, they brought him out in a zamboni compartment with a bunch of dry ice and he ended up having a seizure from the lack of oxygen? All you could see was his twitching legs poking out of the zamboni.”

Shane blinked. “What is happening right now?”

Ilya shrugged. “Did you know about this?”

“No I didn’t know about this,” Shane said incredibly.

“Huh,” Ilya said, looking out the window. “Weird, I guess there are some things about hockey that I am very knowing about.”

Shane took a moment to process. He looked at the road. Then to his husband. Then back to the road.

“Did you seriously google weird hockey facts just to try and get yourself on the podcast?”

“I know things, Hollander!” Ilya exclaimed. “I have very interesting opinions. Even about boring history things. The Russians have very unique view on hockey, yes? Maybe you should branch out.”

Shane sighed fondly. Five months of this podcast and his husband still hadn’t let up. He probably cared about it more than Shane did. “How about this, I’ll make you a deal,” Shane said. “I’ll let you on the podcast…”

Ilya’s eyes lit up.

“...When you retire.”

Ilya banged his head against the dashboard.

“I think that the Americans made a big mistake not including Jason Robertson on the Olympic team. He’s the leading American goal scorer. They’ve put too much focus on physicality for an international tournament. He’s an above average defensive player, and yet they say he’s not physical. It's obviously a very clear showing of racial bias.” Svetlana said.

“Yeah, I mean, I totally agree,” Shane said. “People hate to admit it, but racism is alive and well in hockey. They did a really interesting study about this, they call it the ‘black quarterback affliction.’ In hockey, this presents in black hockey players being viewed as more athletic or physical players, and having lower hockey IQs, even when the statistics don’t show it. The opposite is true for Asian players.”

“I mean, hockey is already an insanely white sport,” Svetlana added. “It’s disappointing, but it’s not surprising that racial biases are going to elevate ten-fold when you’re in an environment like that. And people don’t think about how attitudes like that affect a player’s development, which actually will have an impact on a player’s performance. And in that case, they’re the ones being blamed anyway.”

Shane had been hesitant to cover the Olympics. He had slowly been coming to peace with the fact that his time playing hockey had come to an end, but the idea that it had happened just before the NHL’s return to the Olympics was especially difficult. It was a sore spot, especially when his own husband would be playing for Team Canada for the first time ever.

But when he had heard about the USA roster, he knew he needed to take the opportunity to talk about this. If he didn’t, no one else would.

When it was finally time for their next segment and Carter Vaughan slid into his seat, he levelled a grin at them both.

“Did you guys invite me for this episode because I’m black?”

Svetlana tipped her head consideringly. “Unfortunate coincidence, but I think it worked out.” She set off the sound effects. “Today we have with us Carter Vaughan, right winger and alternate captain for the New York Admirals, and recently named to Team USA. Also, he is not white.”

“Thanks,” Carter smiled.

“Carter Vaughan,” Shane said, “why does Ilya Rozanov owe you money?”

“Well, honestly, I think after hearing all y’all’s stories on here so far, I might disappoint you. I’ve only really talked to him mostly on the ice. But the one I always think of is that in his very first game against New York, I lost hold of my stick in a scrum. After everything broke up, I was looking around for it on the ice, and then I turn, and Rozanov’s up behind the net.”

He paused, holding up his hands in order to gesture. “You guys know how there are those little holes in the glass so that the photographers can poke their cameras through?”

Shane and Svetlana both nodded.

“He had taken my stick and passed it through that hole, and he gave it away to some Boston fans. Benny tried to get it back, but it was long gone.”

“I think I remember seeing a clip of that or something!” Svetlana laughed. “Those sticks are like 400 bucks.”

“Ah, you get them for free,” Shane said, relaxing back into his chair. “You got something better?”

Carter looked up to the ceiling, thinking. “Oh, well once when we got into a bit of a scrum, and the refs pulled us apart. I heard him arguing with the ref, he was trying to convince him that we weren’t actually fighting and we were good friends. Then he went on to tell the ref the names of all of my siblings and my nieces and nephews. Like, the guy did fucking research. That wasn’t even on my Wikipedia. I spent that night wondering if he was about to climb into my house through my window.”

Svetlana nodded approvingly. “Psychological warfare. I like it. I decree—” she tapped some numbers into her calculator. “500 dollars for two therapy sessions.”

“I could also tell you about the time I came home and my girlfriend was watching ‘Ilya Rozanov Sexiest Moments Compilations’ on the TV in the living room.”

“Huh,” Shane said. “Me and your girlfriend have that in common.”

Shane sat in the grass overlooking the Ottawa River. Ilya was running back and forth across the field in an attempt to rile up Anya.

It was a warm day considering it was mid-march. He needed only a sweater as he allowed the sun to warm his face. He laid back into the soft ground.

He was only allowed a short moment of reprieve before he felt his face go cool, the sun blocked by a tall shadow.

Shane opened his eyes, watching Ilya move to sit down beside him. Shane looked back to Anya, who had found a good time in playing with two little girls who threw a ball back and forth for her.

“I think we would be good at it,” Ilya said.

“What?” Shane said, still not fully paying attention.

“That,” Ilya said, gesturing to the field. “Kids.”

Shane was at full attention now. “Really?”

Ilya nodded, nudging his shoulder up against Shane’s. “Yes. Not right away, maybe, but, I would like to, yes.” He turned to Shane, a hopeful glint in his eye. “Would you?”

Shane smiled. “I would.”

“We are getting old,” Ilya admitted. “I do not want to be old dad who cannot do anything fun,” he said. And I do not want to play hockey forever, I much prefer to be with you.”

“So, soon?” Shane asked.

“Soon,” Ilya answered.

“Before we bring on our guest, we have a quick installment of Hollander’s Hockey Histories,” Svetlana said. “Take it away, Shane.”

“So,” Shane started. “In 1974, in the eleventh round of the draft, the Buffalo Sabres selected forward Taro Tjusimoto. That year, he’d have a locker set up for training camp, he had a number, all his teammates were wondering where he was, there were rumours that he had issues with immigration, and in the end, he never made it to camp. Do you know why?” He asked, turning to Svetlana.

“Tell me why, Shane.”

“Because Taro Tjusimoto never existed. He was a fake player created by the Sabres management that they drafted as a joke, mostly to protest just how long the draft went on. Later, the joke was discovered, and the draft pick was invalidated, but his story lives on. In 2010, he was the subject of a trading card, and to this day, you can still spot the occasional Tjusimoto jersey in Buffalo.”

“Man, I love hockey,” Svetlana said. “Between this and the octopi, you’d think everyone in this league was on drugs.”

“No one is on drugs,” Shane clarified. “The testing process is completely legit.”

“On that note, let’s introduce our guest for today, Hayden Pike.”

Hayden took his seat between Shane and Svetlana. He looked a little too giddy to get to wear the headphones.

“Hey guys,” he said. “Happy to be here.”

“For now, at least,” Svetlana said. “So, let’s introduce you. Hayden Pike, former left winger for the Montreal Voyageurs,” she paused to pretend to vomit, “you played there 14 years before recently retiring, and 11 of those years were played with our very own Shane Hollander.”

Hayden smiled as he shared a fist bump with Shane.

“Let’s see, what else do I have written down here…” Svetlana said, flipping through her notebook. “You have eighteen children—”

“Four.”

“—and you once scored an own goal.”

“It was an unfortunate rebound.”

“Hayden Pike,” Svetlana said. “Why does Ilya Rozanov owe you money?”

Hayden rested his hands on the table, presenting himself as if he’d been waiting his whole life for this moment. “So, back in, like, 2022ish, Rozanov came to my house to babysit my kids. I was playing in Montreal that night, Jackie had to leave at short notice to take her mom to the hospital. Shane, you were out with, was it the flu? Anyway, Rozanov was the only one available, so he came up from Ottawa to babysit. Obviously not my first choice, but he’d kept them alive before, so, whatever.”

“He babysat for you before?” Svetlana asked.

“Yeah, why?”

“No reason.”

“Okay, well, I don’t hear anything the whole time I’m at the rink, no text messages, no nothing, and so I get home, and what do I find? All the kids are up, well past their bedtime, and they’ve set up, like, some kind of stage in the living room with all the bedsheets in the house. They’re reenacting the Abraham Lincoln assassination, and Rozanov is sat back on the couch with a bag of popcorn watching whatever the fuck they’re doing.”

Shane made a considering face.

“And I’m wondering, ‘where’s the baby?’ Turns out she’s John Wilkes Booth, they’ve just drawn a mustache on her in sharpie. I’m then forced to sit down and spend half an hour post hockey game to watch them put on the weirdest play I’ve ever seen in my life.”

He finished his story with a huff, sinking down in his chair. Shane and Svetlana didn’t say anything for a while.

“That’s it?” Svetlana asked eventually.

“Yeah?” Hayden replied, confused.

“So Ilya drove three hours to your house, babysat your eight million children, and helped them put on a beautiful show for you, and you think he owes you money?”

Hayden blinked. “I mean—”

“If anything, it sounds like you owe him money,” Shane replied. “Literally, he babysat for you.”

“That’s not what this is—” Hayden tried.

“That was a terrible story,” Svetlana insisted.

“Wait, I have other things,” Hayden said. “Like that time I was chewing my mouthguard and he grabbed it out of my teeth and put it in his mouth.”

Shane and Svetlana both stopped to look at him. No one spoke for a solid ten seconds.

“You know,” Svetlana said at last. “If you think about it, it’s like you’re only one degree of separation from kissing Shane. What with the saliva sharing.”

“Gross,” Shane said.

"Wait, wait, I have so many more better ones—" Hayden tried.

Svetlana brought out her calculator, cutting off any more protests. “Unfortunately, that's all the time we have left. Hayden Pike, I declare that you owe Ilya Rozanov 100 dollars in babysitting fees.”

Shane settled into the Puck Buddies studio for one last time. Svetlana was across from him, the two were both wearing their pink branded t-shirts.

After three years of their show, it was coming to an end.

It was bittersweet. Shane didn’t expect to love it as much as he did. He was grateful to be connected to hockey, even if it wasn’t in the way he had planned. But now, Ilya had retired, and they were about to start fostering, and they had both agreed it was better to stay out of the limelight.

Shane would have felt bad about leaving Svetlana behind if it weren’t for the fact that she had just taken up a new job as general manager of the Boston Fleet. She was on to bigger and better things.

“Hey everyone,” Shane said looking into the camera. “Here we are, in our last ever episode of Puck Buddies. It’s been a wild ride.”

“Indeed it has,” Svetlana said. “And for our last episode, we have a very special treat for you all. For our last ever installment of ‘Does Ilya Rozanov Owe You Money?’ we have the one, the only, Ilya Rozanov.”

Ilya took his seat, wearing a grin so big you could see his molars. He was also decked out in Puck Buddies merch, but more specifically, a t-shirt that read: “Ilya Rozanov Owes Me Money.”

“Hello, privet,” he said. “So glad to be here. They have been asking me for years, and I have finally said yes.”

Shane rolled his eyes.

Svetlana reached down under the table and emerged with a massive binder, dropping it onto the table with a dramatic thud. She opened it.

“Ilya,” she said. “Over the years, you have been accused of many things in this very room, including but not limited to:” she paused as she flipped through the pages. “Licking your opponents, stealing a car, hitting on people’s wives, hitting on people’s mothers, hitting on people’s dads, untraining someone’s dog, throwing up in someone’s bathroom trashcan and not telling anybody, purposefully incorrectly translating for a Russian rookie for media availability, replacing all your good vodka with water and serving it to your teammates as if it’s the real thing, and also convincing your entire team that they don’t have bicycles in Russia. What is your reply to the charges placed against you?”

Ilya didn’t speak for a moment, looking around the table. He reached up to slick back his hair before leaning forward into the microphone.

“I fucking did all of it.”