Chapter Text
Shane arrived in Helsinki with a few objectives in mind.
First, and probably his prime objective, was winning gold for Canada, of course. It felt as though Shane had lived an entire lifetime since last year’s World Juniors in Regina—since then he’d been drafted, left Kingston, moved to Montreal, debuted in the MLH, scored his first pro goal, his second, his fourteenth—but the loss to Russia was at the forefront of his mind when he got to Helsinki. He wanted to redeem himself, to prove that the Metros had made the right choice in not sending him back to Kingston and in releasing him now to go to Helsinki, and the only proof he or they would accept was gold.
The other objectives were mostly minor in comparison. Shane wanted to win tournament MVP, again as good fuel for his case to Montreal. There had been an awkward bit of tension in getting them to release him. Once it was clear that Hockey Canada had made the request to Montreal, Shane had bugged his agent about it, who had then warned him that the response had been very tepid.
“Do you want me to push back on it?” Farah had asked. She sounded like she wanted to push back on it, which Shane supposed was her job as an agent; she knew Shane wanted to go, and that he wasn’t always that great about pushing back this early in his career. He worried about things like humility, gratitude, good character; he never liked to make a fuss.
But it was Farah’s job to make a fuss, and so Shane tried not to feel guilty about telling her, “Um, yeah, can you push back a little?” She pushed back, and also reached back out to Hockey Canada, specifically to an executive that used to work with Montreal’s Assistant GM in the Q, and before long Shane was called in and informed that yes, even though the good of the team was always their priority, part of that was making sure that players like Shane stayed happy, so they were considering Helsinki.
“We know you put the team first too, Shane,” Montreal’s actual GM, Denis Martineau, had told him. Martineau had famously fist-pumped when Boston left Shane on the board at the draft; it had been clipped and played repeatedly on TSN, and some draft expert talking head had exclaimed, “I think all of Montreal feels the same way as Denis Martineau here!” Shane had been sent the clip a few times; it was pretty funny and made at least a little headway into soothing his second overall resentment. Getting to play in the MLH right away did that, too.
“And we trust you not to take any unnecessary risks, play a nice, clean game; keep your head up and your wits about you, you know? You’ll be okay if you go to Helsinki?”
Shane nodded. Of course he would.
“And you will be happy, yeah? To go to Helsinki?”
There was really only one answer to that. “Yeah. I’ll be really happy.”
Martineau smiled so widely that Shane thought he might see another fist pump. He got a hard knock to his shoulder instead, some jubilant French crowed in his ear, and sent on his way with the assurance that he’d be allowed to go to Helsinki at Christmas for the WJC.
Shane wanted to prove that it wasn’t just his happiness on the line here. There was the gold, a tourney MVP; those were important objectives. He also wanted to try something called turkinpippuri (he’d written it down) because one of his Finnish teammates in Montreal had told him it was delicious. He wanted to get souvenirs for his grandparents, catch up with his Kingston teammate who’d snagged a goalie spot for Canada, and see if he could catch a glimpse of the northern lights; Lehtonen had told him that was possible, too, as long as he went out at the right time.
And the last objective, definitely not the most important, like way down on the list of reasons he really, really wanted to go to Helsinki—Shane wanted to convince Ilya Rozanov to come over to the MLH.
That had not been a reason he’d shared with anyone else, not even Farah; definitely not his mom, when she’d asked why Shane wanted to go so bad. It wasn’t important enough to talk about, or even really think about too much. Shane tried to limit his thinking about Rozanov in general.
He’d heard a lot about him, of course; the fact that he was obliterating the rest of the KHL, storming through the league like a man on a mission, was talked about as much as Rozanov’s decision to stay in Russia instead of coming over to Boston right away. It was clear, both through the player rumor mill and general hockey media, that Boston had wanted Rozanov right away, had done all they could to get him on the team as soon as possible. But at some point, late in the summer, Rozanov had signed a contract with Dynamo Moscow and his agent informed Boston he wouldn’t be joining them yet.
Shane was pissed off. All that buildup to the draft, the devastation of going second overall, Rozanov’s shit-eating grin and his psych-out session in the gym, his fake-ass “Boston is nice too?”, the endless media hype of Rozanov vs. Hollander—all that and Rozanov wouldn’t even show up. The news broke after a week of rumors Shane had stubbornly denied, certain that Rozanov would be reporting to training camp, that he’d skipped Boston’s development camp out of arrogance and geography, unable to believe it until every hockey insider was confirming it at once.
He threw his phone across his gym floor when he heard about it. Then he scrambled to pick it up and make sure it hadn’t broken because his dad had bought it for him and he was too old to not take care of his things.
He remained pissed off, though, as he went through training camp, made his debut, scored a bunch of goals, pummeled a Rozanov-free Boston Raiders team at the Garden, scored more goals, and established himself as the preeminent rookie in the league pretty quickly. The anger was allowed to simmer on the backburner through all this, and he was excited to be doing well; the Metros weren’t doing as well, more of a weak team Shane was determined to drag to .500 hockey, spending the early season on the verge of being a bubble team, and the phrase “one man show” was used enough to make Shane a bit nervous, but none of that noise ever drowned out his anger completely. The Raiders were a terrible team, bottom feeders snuffling along the floor of the division, and Shane hated them with a veracity that went over really, really well in his locker room.
The anger grew as people talked about him coasting to the Calder, about breaking rookie records, about Boston having regrets and what a redraft would look like—oh, that one really pissed him off. Shane could use some of it as fuel and took it out on the rest of the MLH, especially Boston—one of his first games back after Helsinki would be against Boston at the Garden again and he couldn’t wait, frankly, especially if he failed in that very unimportant objective of getting Rozanov to leave the KHL—but a lot of it had nowhere to go. So it just lived in Shane like a weird ghost on a season that should’ve been fun. He should’ve been thrilled.
Shane didn’t want to stay haunted by the ghost of a season that could’ve been had Rozanov played. And so he arrived in Helsinki, in very small part, to be a fucking ghostbuster.
“We’re really proud of you for taking these opportunities to make connections, Shane,” his mother told him. It was Christmas Day, they had just finished lunch at the hotel restaurant, and the first game of the tournament would take place on the next day. But before that, there would be a mixer between all the teams in one of the bigger party rooms of the hotel, and Shane had just informed his parents he would definitely be going.
“Are you sure?” his dad asked, which was probably fair; Shane imagined his mom had brought it up to try and talk him into going in the first place.
Shane said all the right things, though, about taking advantage of the chance to get off-ice facetime with these guys, many of whom would eventually be his MLH opponents or even teammates. There were a few other MLH players here, like him—an American winger from Chicago named Something Myers who was playing on his team already because they were worse than even Boston, and a Swedish centerman from Boston who’d been drafted the year before Shane and Rozanov. This center, Shane knew, was named Anton Wahlgren, nicknamed Wally or sometimes Walgreens, shot right but was excellent on weakside draws, didn’t quite know when keep the play in front of him and when to fall back defensively, and would probably be just as motivated to convince Rozanov to join him in Boston as Shane was if he wanted Shane to stop blowing past him like the Roadrunner to score goals. Well, he would still do that with Rozanov in the league, but at least Rozanov could feasibly do it back to Montreal and maybe even things out a little.
So Shane expected Wahlgren to be a key ally in his Rozanov objective. He wanted to introduce himself at the mixer, maybe soften the blow of making him look like a traffic cone on Hockey Night in Canada. He made a mental note to avoid wearing orange, then mentally struck that out because he didn’t think he’d packed anything orange.
Shane didn’t bring up Wahlgren or Something Myers to his parents; he didn’t mention anything about Boston or Rozanov, either. He said, “It’s a good group of guys here and my last chance to really hang out with them like this, so I might as well, right?” and he sounded very casual and easy about it. And his mom was proud of him, so it worked.
His dad was maybe side-eying him a little, but he didn’t ask if Shane was sure again. He just helpfully jumped in when Mom said, “Do you know what you’re going to wear? I can help you pick something out, if you want!” and told her that Shane could probably dress himself at this point.
Shane thanked his dad, hugged them both and wished them a Merry Christmas, and then spent the next few hours before the mixer agonizing over what to wear. He picked up his phone three times to ask his mom for help after all, then put it down each time because that was objectively ridiculous. Eventually he kind of blacked out and put on whatever, nothing orange, which was how most of these spirals tended to end, and he showed up to the mixer with his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched, and his Rozanov objective at the forefront of his mind.
“You got this,” he whispered to himself outside the double doors of the party room, and then jumped when they banged open and a few Swedish guys came out chatting with each other. None of them were Wahlgren, so Shane just returned their creepily synchronized nods, took another breath, and went inside.
The party room had some cheap Christmas decorations up, a buffet table, a speaker system playing what sounded like Finnish pop songs, and dozens of boys and middle-aged men standing around everywhere. It reminded Shane a bit of the one dance he’d been convinced to bring his high school girlfriend, except for the lack of girls, of course, and a lack of dancing, thank god.
“There you are,” someone said as soon as Shane cleared the door, and he jumped again. It was only Soupy, though, materializing at his shoulder in a suit that looked a bit small on him—Shane could see that he was wearing maple leaf socks—and a cup of what smelled like paint thinner in his hand. “Come on, I was waiting for you. Costco is here.”
Shane let himself be led, knowing better than to argue much. Andy Campbell, or Soupy as he was inevitably called by everyone in hockey, had been Shane’s teammate in Kingston and was a goalie prospect drafted by the Hammerheads. He was a gangly farm boy from Thunder Bay and his parents were apparently deeply troubled by the thought of him eventually going out to California, but he was excited about it, of course, and wanted to use this tournament to make his mark and get the Hammerheads to bring him over faster.
Soupy led him over to another gangly teenager—in a room full of them, this wasn’t hard—and introduced him. “Hollzy, remember Costco?” he asked, indicating Matti Koskinen, one of Finland’s goalies and another OHL player promised to the LA Monarchs.
“Hey man,” Shane said, because of course he remembered him; they had knocked Windsor out of last year’s playoffs and Koskinen had bashed his goalie stick over the crossbar after Shane scored a hat trick. Koskinen nodded, mouth a tight, stoic little line, and Shane couldn’t tell if that was because he was still maybe pissed about the hat trick or because he was just Finnish.
“How’s it going?” Shane tried next. That got him a shrug. Shane nodded back like this was an acceptable conversation. Koskinen was also drinking what smelled like paint thinner, and he took a sip of it while staring at Shane with very pale blue eyes.
Shane thought, but didn’t say, good talk and started looking around, hoping for an out, specifically keeping his eyes peeled for Wahlgren or Rozanov. He didn’t spy any of the Russians and assumed they weren’t here yet, but Wahlgren was standing along the far wall with a few of his teammates, and Shane zeroed in on him. Soupy, meanwhile, was carrying the conversation with Koskinen, chattering away about goalie things, and when he paused for breath, Shane jumped back in.
“Hey—do you know Anton Wahlgren?” he asked Koskinen.
Koskinen studied him carefully and took a long sip of the paint thinner drink. There was absolutely no expression on his face, which made it all the more awkward to look up at him—fuck, was he tall. He’d gotten taller since last year’s playoffs, Shane realized. Soupy, too, must have hit another growth spurt; Shane wasn’t short by any means, but both goalies towered over him, heads bent towards each other.
After an eternity, Koskinen said, “Wahlgren is Swedish.”
“Oh, I know, but—”
“I am Finnish.”
“Costco grew up an hour away from here,” Soupy told Shane, cheerful and enviously oblivious to the tension that Shane couldn’t decide if he was imagining or not. “Hey, did I tell you we finally took him to a real Costco when we were in Windsor?”
“Cool,” Shane said, and he patiently leaned over Soupy’s phone to look at pictures of Koskinen posing in front of warehouse pallets full of toilet paper, holding up a hot dog, and examining rotisserie chickens, all with the same exact lack of expression on his face.
“It was sick,” Soupy said, and Koskinen nodded, and Shane wanted the floor to open up below him just to get out of this.
Eventually, he gathered the nerve to tell them he was going to go say hi to more people. Soupy gave him a weird look, eerily reminiscent of his dad, but neither protested when Shane drifted away, waving awkwardly, and then tried to hype himself up again on the walk towards Wahlgren. He got waylaid by the buffet table when he passed Carter Vaughn, another member of his draft class, who wanted to shake his hand and offer him a slider.
“It’s made of reindeer meat,” Vaughn said in a low-ish whisper, and Shane snapped his hand back from reaching for one. “No, try it, it’s really good.”
“Have you seen any turkinpippuri?” Shane asked slowly, to do his due diligence. “I think it’s like hard licorice? My teammate said it’s really good.”
“Nah, man, but I’ll look out for it and grab you some if I see it. It’s so cool that you’re here. What’s it like in the show?”
Shane had been asked that about a dozen times already since his first Team Canada practice. He answered with his rote formula—it’s amazing, hard to believe, sometimes he has to pinch himself, he’s so lucky—but Vaughn let him get away with it, nodding so enthusiastically that Shane wondered for a brief moment if he was being made fun of. But then Vaughn seemed earnest in crowing about how Shane was tearing it up and everyone was talking about it, asking him to take it easy on Team USA, buddy, and knocking his shoulder with his own.
“In your dreams, buddy,” Shane said. He asked about how DU’s season was going and if college was hard, and at the end of it Carter Vaughn was Vaughny and Shane was Hollzy, so it was a successful interaction. By the time Shane got away, Wahlgren had migrated and was talking to different teammates, Shane thought, closer to the sound system, which seemed like a treacherous place for him to go. But he steeled himself and continued his march over, determined to make some headway.
Another treacherous part of this was that Wahlgren was annoyingly good-looking in a way that Shane almost never let himself admit about other guys. He was shorter than the goalies but solid muscle, with swoopy golden hair and intense green eyes. He tossed his head back as Shane approached, the hair doing a flip over his forehead that made Shane feel a bit warm and also angry about it, and gave Shane a half-smile as he approached.
“Hey, Hollander.”
“Hey Wahlgren,” Shane said. They shook hands about it.
“What’s up?” Wahlgren didn’t bother introducing his other teammates, all Swedes Shane didn’t really know, but just looked at him like he was trying to figure him out. That was fair because Shane was also trying to figure himself out—any way he’d imagined starting this conversation had vanished from his mind, obliterated as if he’d been the one drinking actual paint thinner. Actually, his mouth was suddenly bone-dry, and he wished he could snap his fingers and make a ginger ale materialize. Had there been ginger ale at the drinks table? That was usually the first thing Shane checked for at a party, but he’d been distracted and then dragged off by Soupy, and now—
“Hollander?” Wahlgren asked. His voice shook a little, wobbling between his accent and suppressed laughter. His teammates did a little less work to suppress theirs, but Shane was well-practiced in ignoring that, so he did. He laughed a little, too, just as wobbly.
“Ah, sorry, yeah—how’s it going, man? It’s good to see you here.”
Wahlgren’s—unfortunately perfect, what the fuck, what was Shane doing noticing that kind of thing? He locked his gaze on Wahlgren’s left shoulder as penance—eyebrows went up, as if that was weirder than anything else Shane could’ve said.
“Yeah, you too. I am surprised Montreal let you go.”
“Oh, same for Boston.” That was a lie, of course. Boston let Wahlgren go because they sucked and had no chance at playoffs.
“Yeah,” Wahlgren said with a fake chuckle, because he knew it was a lie too. His mouth twisted a little.
Shane swore internally. He’d been reading a bunch of hockey books lately, plus some self-help stuff about refining his mindset. Most of that went over his head, but right then he wished he’d read something that combined the two better, and that maybe gave him very specific advice about how to be normal with a guy he’d humiliated on the ice a non-zero amount. That would’ve been really helpful in this situation, actually. Maybe there could’ve been a bonus section about what to do when he was also unfairly hot.
Maybe Shane could write that someday, if he ever figured it out.
“Hey, so, I wanted to ask you—”
“Hey,” came a voice at his side, and it was Soupy again, Koskinen in tow, nodding at the group around them. He pressed something cold into Shane’s hand and Shane’s throat felt tight when he looked down and caught a glimpse of a plain seltzer, clearly the closest thing to ginger ale Soupy could find.
In Shane’s ear, Soupy muttered, “You had on your hostage smile, bud,” and patted his back; Shane resolved to hug him as soon as it wouldn’t be awkward to do so. “How’s everyone doing?” Soupy asked the group, and there were nods and murmurs, then actual, non-painful group conversation that made Shane feel a little less like a skydiver without a parachute.
Soupy and Koskinen scoped out a goalie in the Swedish group and got him into their little impromptu cult or whatever, and Shane took a fortifying sip of seltzer, ignored Wahlgren’s raised eyebrows on the can, and said, “I wanted to ask you about Rozanov.”
Wahlgren frowned a little. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Have you talked to him about coming over? Has he said anything about next year?”
“I never talked to him ever,” Wahlgren said. “I got here two days ago, go to practice, do Christmas Eve with my family, and then I go to this party. He’s not here?”
“No,” Shane said, looking around to make sure. But no, there were still no Russians, though the room was filling up more. Besides their group, most teams were clustered together, not mixing as much as the organizers probably wanted. Even Vaughny had been pulled back into the Americans, all sniggering together with beers and little reindeer burgers in hand.
“Ah. He’s too good for party too, yeah?” There was enough bitterness in Wahlgren’s voice to shock Shane a little, and he met those green eyes with some trepidation.
“Uh, what d’you mean?”
“He’s too good for Raiders, too good for MLH, too good for World Juniors party—I’m surprised he even comes to Helsinki.”
“Well,” Shane said, a little desperately. “I’m sure he’s—Russia probably wants to go back-to-back, right, so—”
“We will not let them,” Wahlgren said darkly. It was very clear he meant Sweden, not him and Shane. Shane swallowed down a big gulp of seltzer and the bubbles burned.
“Yeah. I mean, we won’t let them.”
“We will see.”
“But don’t you want to talk to Rozanov? See if he might—I’m sure you want him to come over—”
“I don’t care,” Wahlgren told him. He sounded and looked dead serious. “Fuck him. He can stay in Russia if he wants.”
“Don’t you want—”
“We can win without him.”
“Can you? Oh fuck, sorry,” Shane said, horrified. Wahlgren’s nostrils flared for a minute—and fuck Shane’s whole life for finding that attractive, what the hell—and then he tipped his head back—the fucking hair swoop, fuck—and laughed, hard.
“You’re hilarious, Hollander,” he said, and Soupy stopped speaking goalie for a minute to say, “Yeah, I tell people that all the time, no one believes me,” and pulled them back into the talk of the bigger group.
Shane settled into the more comfortable role of letting the conversation wash over him, his duty with Wahlgren pretty much done. It was a bust, which sucked, but it was still good information—he should probably keep Wahlgren away from Rozanov whenever possible. Really, he just had to talk to Rozanov himself. Maybe it always had to be that way; maybe the only person who could get Rozanov to come to Boston was Shane. Was that arrogant to think? Shane hoped not, because he was also starting to think this entire operation was dependent on it being true.
He sipped at his seltzer, nodded along and made a few comments about whatever the group was talking about, ate a few little hot dogs when someone brought the tray over and said he was pretty sure they weren’t reindeer, and subtly watched the door. Maybe not subtly enough, though, because he jolted hard when Soupy elbowed him and said, “Tell them what your teammate said to try, Hollzy, I can’t pronounce it.”
“Turkinpippuri,” Shane said, slow and careful. Koskinen still looked aghast, though, so it was probably terrible, and a few Swedish guys snorted, but Wahlgren looked intrigued.
“What did he say about it?”
“That I should try it because it’s delicious.”
That earned laughter loud and unsubtle enough that Soupy whipped his head around at the offenders and said, “Dude, shut up, we don’t know.”
Wahlgren hummed, sipped at his drink, and said, “Your teammate is fucking you.”
“No he’s not,” Shane all but squeaked, his face red-hot in an instant. Then he cleared his throat and said, “No, what, what are you—”
“He’s fucking with you,” said another Swede with less of an accent; Shane thought he might be playing in the Dub. He gave Wahlgren a little shove. “Do they teach you English in Boston, Ante?” Wahlgren shoved him back, laughing.
“It’s not good for you,” Koskinen told him. “Only Finns like this. You shouldn’t try.”
“Oh. I still want to, though,” Shane said, but it was drowned out a bit by the Swedes arguing amongst themselves about whether Turkisk peppar (it was the same thing, they said, when Soupy asked, but better because it was Swedish, apparently) was any good or not. It got pretty lively, with more shoving, and Shane was so distracted that he almost missed the double doors bursting open.
Almost, though, because that was when Team Russia came in.
They had all forgone the usual suits, polos or button-down shirts their teams had directed them to wear for their Team Russia puffer jackets. They moved in a cluster, casting looks around the rest of the room, and they also brought with them the only girl now in the room—someone with curly hair, wearing intimidatingly high heels, wedged between one of the coaches and, Shane realized with a hard swallow, Ilya Rozanov.
“There’s your boy,” Wahlgren murmured disdainfully, but Shane barely heard him. Rozanov was looking around the room, leaning down—just a little, the heels put the girl nearly at his height—when the girl spoke something to him. His face was set in a hard, cold sort of stare that only barely flickered when it reached Shane, just for a moment, before it moved on. It still made Shane’s heart beat a little quicker, his palm sweating around his can of seltzer.
“Not my boy,” Shane finally said, belatedly; Wahlgren had already gone back to talking about snacks with his teammates. He barely glanced at Shane again, which was good because Shane couldn’t exactly look back; he couldn’t take his eyes off Rozanov.
He wasn’t the only one. That was clear as the Russians made their way through the room, not talking to anyone but each other. They lined up near the food table, commandeering vodka, sneering at what was on offer, jostling each other and laughing. Rozanov was at the center of it and drew all the stares, though after a moment Shane considered the guys might be staring at the girl with him. He should probably do that.
“She’s hot,” Wahlgren said, though it sounded a bit begrudging. One of his teammates laughed and said something that Shane was glad was in Swedish. It was easier to ignore them, to stay focused on Rozanov. He was drinking and making faces about it, speaking only to the girl and in what looked like short, clipped sentences, not really looking at anyone or anything.
Rozanov looked the same as he had the last time Shane saw him in person, that night in the gym at the draft—his hair clouded around his head in snow-frizzed curls; his mouth pursed into his delicate cupid’s bow; he was tall and bulky, on par with Shane, though his hunched, slouchy shoulders made him look a bit smaller.
Physically, Rozanov was all the same, but Shane watched him so carefully—stupidly, probably, he knew better than to look at guys like this—that he caught some differences. He was muted, maybe, standing in that crowd as it moved around him. He looked tired, none of the bounding energy he showed off on the ice. Shane understood that, knew what it was to feel like less of a person off the ice than on it, but Rozanov had never given him that impression before. He knew it was bad, a distant concern he knew about himself but was mostly resigned to. He was not, under any circumstances, resigned to it in Rozanov.
That brought Shane back to his objective. He would have to get Rozanov alone somehow, away from his teammates and coaches, who could all prove to be obstacles in getting him to Boston. Some of them, Shane knew, were his Dynamo Moscow teammates; he recognized them from late night, terrible KHL streams on websites blasting advertisements promising him access to the sexiest chicks in his area. He moved on from them, quickly, barely wanting to admit the association to himself, and looked at the girl instead. He looked at Wahlgren, those green fucking eyes, like a Disney prince, and realized he might have a good plan for her.
“She’s Sergei Vetrov’s daughter,” one of the Swedes told them. “She’s intern with the team—whatever the fuck—”
“I bet she’s there for them to—”
“Do you know her?” Shane interrupted, sharp. It made every head turn towards him; only Soupy looked amused and a bit immune to it. Goalies were like that, though. Shane had been his captain in Kingston and that sharp, exacting tone had done exactly nothing to grab his attention.
Most of the guys echoed each other in saying no, but the guy who’d called her an intern said, “Yes; Svetlana. I said hi after practice, when she was waiting for ice for Russia.”
“Good,” Shane said, and then he gestured between him and Wahlgren. “Introduce us.”
“What? Why?”
“Just do it,” Wahlgren snapped; he also had something of a captain voice, and Shane remembered he was wearing Sweden’s C here, like Shane was for Canada. He wondered if he had designs on Boston’s captaincy, someday, the way Shane had his sights set on Montreal’s. As the three of them started their way over, Shane’s eyes locked on Rozanov, he found himself thinking that Wahlgren would probably be disappointed on that front if Shane had his way and Rozanov came over.
He didn’t say that to Wahlgren, of course. And he resolved to keep himself between Rozanov and Wahlgren, just in case. It would be a delicate sort of interaction, probably not one Shane was suited to, but he was determined.
And in any case, it should be enough to toss a Disney prince at a beautiful girl and watch that take off. Wahlgren’s teammate carted them over to the Russian group, aiming for Svetlana, and introduced them to her while studiously ignoring Rozanov. Rozanov sniffed and pretended to ignore them back, though Shane caught his gaze because he was, of course, staring back at him.
He was staring so hard that it was a bit jarring when Svetlana said, “Shane Hollander,” and held out her hand, limp and palm down like an aristocrat or something.
“Oh,” Shane said, and he took her hand and shook it like he would any other hockey player. Wahlgren snorted, which was a little unfair; was he supposed to kiss it? That wasn’t happening. “Hey. Nice to meet you.”
“It is very nice to meet you too,” Svetlana said, her mouth twitched into a small smile, English careful but firm. Her eyes sparkled at him. Shane spent some time trying to figure out if these things added up to flirting, but then Wahlgren cleared his throat loudly and asked Svetlana what she was drinking—that was flirting, Shane was pretty sure—and Rozanov said something that sounded pissy in Russian and walked off.
“Oh, hey,” Shane said, and he made a move to go after him, but Svetlana spoke to him again and it would be way too rude to walk off midsentence. Probably. Shane tried to tell himself he cared.
“I saw you play in Boston a few weeks ago,” Svetlana told him. She made a face at Wahlgren. “Both of you.”
“Sorry,” Shane lied to Wahlgren, which made Svetlana laugh. Wahlgren looked like he’d swallowed a lemon.
“No you’re not.”
“No I’m not.” Shane managed a humble sort of grimace and shrug combo, which made Svetlana laugh again. She put her hand on his arm in a few light pats and Shane willed himself to chill and not hide behind Wahlgren.
“You live in Boston?” Wahlgren asked; he looked like he wouldn’t mind it if Shane hid behind him.
“Sometimes. I am thinking of going to school there, but—it depends.” Svetlana was the one that looked now, when made Shane feel okay about following her gaze—Rozanov was now standing across the room with one of the Russian coaches in his ear, upper lip curled as he listened, his eyes distant.
It would be a great time to get going, head over there and rescue Rozanov from a conversation he clearly didn’t want to be in. Shane could pay it forward; how many conversations had he been rescued from in his life? But Svetlana kept talking to both of them, with a keen focus on Shane, and once he learned she was Rozanov’s childhood friend—because Wahlgren asked, of course—he couldn’t afford to run away from her. He listened, answered her questions, threw in some compliments about Wahlgren just to be nice, and even tried some little toasts with smoked salmon on them because she recommended them.
By the time Wahlgren finally managed to capture Svetlana’s entire attention and they wandered off together, Rozanov was talking to a different coach—Pelly, one of Team Canada’s assistant coaches, who Shane remembered had worked for Boston last season. Rozanov looked less pained to be in this conversation but was still nodding more than speaking, his eyes still a bit dull. They widened as Shane drew near, though, and a spark of something that could be panic flashed through them as Shane got close enough to hear them.
“—and I guess it’s always a good thing to get to live with family, you know, but there’s no reason they cannot come to Boston with you. You live with your father, yes?” Pelly said, cheerful. He smelled like he’d had a beer or two already.
“Yes,” Rozanov said, but he was grimacing, and Shane could understand that a bit. His mom lived with him in Montreal, just temporarily, she said, because he hadn’t wanted to billet with any of the older guys on the team, but his parents thought he was way too young to live on his own. It was annoying, if not atypical, and Shane clung to it being temporary, to proving to his mom that he could be responsible and live on his own just fine after this season. “Sorry, I should—”
“Ah, there he is,” Pelly interrupted, pointing at Shane and then slapping him on the shoulder when he was in reach. “Here’s one guy that doesn’t want you over in the show, eh?”
“No,” Shane blurted out, then realized that made it sound like he was agreeing and shook his head. “I mean, yeah, I—”
“No, no, I keep up, kiddo; it’s a clear shot for you to the Calder without this one. Maybe playoffs.” Pelly gave him an exaggerated wink. “You should see him at practice, Roz, he’s an animal out there. Unbelievable.”
Rozanov gave them both a small smile, lips pressed hard together and barely curved upwards. Close to him now, Shane could take better stock of the blue of his eyes and the sharp lines of his face; he could remember the brightness they held back at the draft, where all his features seemed to vibrate with joy. Even in the gym, when they—when their fingers—when he would just look at Shane, the same as he’s looking now, there was an intensity that Shane had never felt before.
And fair being fair, he could admit it was way worse than just thinking Wahlgren was hot. Wahlgren was hot in the way that a dozen guys in magazines and on TV were hot. He was hot in a way that never looked back at Shane the same way.
Rozanov looked back, Shane was sure. That was fucking terrifying, but it was also kind of addicting.
“I am sorry,” Rozanov said, directed at Pelly even though he kept looking at Shane. His English seemed stiffer in his mouth than it had been six months ago. “I must go—was good to talk, Coach Pelletier—” He mangled the name in a way that made Shane fight down a smile, annoyed with himself for being charmed; after months of listening to the way KHL commentators pronounced Rozanov, though, compared to North Americans, he supposed it was fair. “—but my team, you know—”
“Oh, go ahead,” Pelly said, waving at him. “You two will see enough of each other this tournament, I’m sure. Hey, crush the rest of your group, you know, so we see you in the knockout round, yes?”
“Yes,” Rozanov said, nodding eagerly. “Bye.” He hurried off then, folded back into Russian teammates as if climbing over a wall, before Shane could stutter out even one protest.
Pelly chuckled after him. “I know what you think, Hollander, but he’s a good kid, really. I hope he figures it out for next year.”
“I hope so too,” Shane said, and at Pelly’s look, insisted, “No, really! I want to be the best by beating the best.”
That made Pelly laugh, and he ruffled Shane’s hair. Shane tried not to hate it. “Oh, Shane, you’re a good kid too. No easy ways out.”
“If it were easy, it wouldn’t be as fun.”
“And he speaks media, too! Câlisse, they must love you back home. Good for us. You go ahead, too, have a beer before we get to work tomorrow.”
Never one to disobey his coaches, Shane went off, though he didn’t have a beer. He went back to Soupy and Koskinen, now talking to Canadians, while trying to subtly track Rozanov around the room. He wasn’t going to give up, no way, not when this would be his best chance to catch Rozanov for a while. They were in different groups, playing at different arenas; this really was the best time to mix.
It was still hard, though. Once his teammates had him, Shane found it impossible to slip away. In theory, he didn’t exactly mind this—his teammates were guys he’d grown up with, guys on the precipice of making it like he was, even if he was a little further ahead; they were all his buddies, and he really was excited to have this chance with them. He said it a dozen times that night and meant it every time: he couldn’t wait to crush the Czech Republic in their first game tomorrow.
But he had multiple objectives here in Helsinki, and only one seemed like it was slipping through his fingers a bit. Shane watched Rozanov, probably way too much, but the only teammate observant enough to notice was Soupy, who only said, “This is one of your hockey freak things, right? Okay, man,” and let him be because he was also a hockey freak, a goalie freak, which was arguably worse.
Rozanov seemed to pointedly not watch him back. He talked to Svetlana and a few teammates in what looked like short, clipped sentences, and otherwise just drank vodka and brooded. He had teammates or coaches around him at all times but spent most of those times slouched against the wall, letting it all happen around him. Shane knew how that went, could recognize it easily, but it still seemed wrong for Rozanov.
At one point, Vaughny rejoined Shane and convinced him to try a reindeer slider. Shane finally agreed, if reluctantly; he kept his ears sharp for any jokes about eating dogs and shit, but there was nothing, everyone tipsy and cheery at him. He ate the slider, which was delicious, and submitted to back pats from Koskinen, the most animated he’d been all night, while the rest of the Canadians rushed to try sliders before they ran out.
Once that was done, Shane looked around for Rozanov again and found him missing. In the flurry of reindeer mania, Shane slipped away with only Soupy’s eyes after him and wandered around the room. He ducked Svetlana’s stare, went utterly unnoticed by Wahlgren talking to her, and once he confirmed Rozanov wasn’t in the room, he steeled himself, took a breath, and followed a hunch outside.
And there he was, of course, standing around the back of the hotel in the small parking lot. The sun had gone down hours ago so it was true dark out and a single flickering light posted on the back wall of the building lit Rozanov up, standing alone a few steps out from the wall, hunched over what Shane was certain was a cigarette.
The door snapped shut behind Shane with a loud, squeaky thump, and he winced. Rozanov’s shoulders went up around his ears, his puffer crinkling. In the light from the wall, the deep blue, red and white stripes seemed to glow, and the light shone through his curls like a halo. Shane shook his head at himself, mouthed you got this one more time, and stepped forward.
“Hey,” he said, coming up beside Rozanov and standing shoulder to shoulder, though he made sure they didn’t touch.
Rozanov didn’t look at him. He remained staring down at the unlit cigarette in his hands, though his lips quirked into a smile.
“Shane Hollander,” he said, slow and drawling. “You are here for more handshakes?”
That took Shane a minute, before he remembered last year, in Regina. He chuckled, shaking his head. “Nah, I mean. I’m good. I just wanted to talk to you.” He watched the side of Rozanov’s face, like he had all night. On this side of the light, backlit now, his profile was a bit fuzzy, dimmed, but still as striking as it had been back in June. It still made his heart pound a little, way worse than Wahlgren.
Rozanov let out a deep breath through his nose, like he was tired. Shane tried not to feel offended, especially when Rozanov said, “So talk.”
“Uh. Okay? I mean, how’s it—how’s it going, dude?”
“Is going good, dude.”
“Fine, okay.” Shane chuckled at himself again, because it felt better than feeling laughed at when Rozanov hadn’t even done any laughing yet. “How is it playing in Russia? I guess it’s nice to be playing for your hometown, right, and it seems like—I mean, I heard you’re doing really well—”
“More points than you,” Rozanov said. Annoyance flared inside Shane, somewhere deep and hot and excited. His heart pounded more.
“You keep track of my points?”
“I hear things, you know. Even when I don’t want.” Rozanov shrugged. “Sometimes I hear you even when it does not matter anymore.”
That didn’t sound good. “Well, it still matters, right? You’ll have to catch up with me next year, so, you’d better keep track. No one cares about more points in a shitty league.”
“Hm,” Rozanov said, and he finally looked at Shane, his eyes flashing. “You don’t care?”
“I don’t. Talk to me when you come over and we can play best on best.”
“Maybe.” That was tossed out with a grimace, and Rozanov looked away again. Shane’s annoyance flared again, less hot and excited and more petulant. He wanted to demand that Rozanov look at him, now. He wanted to use the captain voice and have that work.
“You’re coming over next year, right?” Silence, thin and nerve-wracking, met Shane’s question, and he swallowed hard and tried to push his way past it. “I mean, fuck, Boston would be thrilled if you came over tomorrow, but at the very least you have to be thinking that—”
“I don’t know, Hollander,” Rozanov cut in. “If this is what you talk about, I’m going.”
“No, you—of course this is what I want to talk about. Fuck off. Tell me you’re coming over next year.”
“You are reporter now?” Rozanov looked at him again, anger tightening his features up. Shane thrilled at the sight. “You write book? Enough.”
“Look, just—are you actually happy playing over here? I thought we—I thought you wanted—you were first overall, man.”
“Ah, I see. You are still bad loser.”
“Fuck off, it’s not about that—”
“Poor number two, have to beg number one for—”
“Fuck off!” Shane yelled, swinging around so they weren’t side by side but face to face. He stepped in close, so close he could smell the vodka, the unsmoked cigarette, an awful cologne underneath all of it. Cold clung to both of them, surrounded them, not as blisteringly awful as on the prairie last year but still cold as shit this deep into winter, like they could’ve been standing toe to toe on the ice. They should’ve been standing on the ice together; why was it Anton Wahlgren across the faceoff dot instead, strong on his weakside but weak on the puck when Shane bullied it away from him?
“You want to talk,” Rozanov told him, smirking meanly. “We talk. You lose last year, you lose at draft—why are you here, hm? You play in MLH already; why you come to Helsinki for stupid juniors game?”
“You’re a fucking dick,” Shane said. “Are you seriously going to tell me this is what you want? What happened, huh? You pussied out after the draft? Realized you couldn’t hack it? Fuck that.”
Rozanov leaned in so close their noses practically touched; Shane had to all but cross his eyes to keep glaring at him. “I’m pussy? No, no—you are the one begging me.”
“I’m not begging, you’re the one who—you’re a fucking waste!” Shane shoved Rozanov away from him, breathing gone harsh, and Rozanov stumbled back, laughing and shaking his head.
“Fuck off, Hollander,” he said. His voice broke a little on Shane’s name, and the laughter didn’t reach his eyes or even his voice; he stalked away clutching his unlit cigarette, slammed the hotel door after him without looking back.
“Fuck!” Shane yelled, left there in the Helsinki parking lot, alone.