Chapter Text
Ottawa, June 2021
“Fucking hell…how many times have they played our documentary since you moved teams?”
Shane lowers the TV remote to the couch, forfeiting channel surfing in favor of gripping the forearm that has just wrapped around his chest. Despite Ilya’s grumble from behind, they remain still for the time being, glued to both the screen and to each other.
“I’m not keeping track.” His fingers absentmindedly rub against his fiancé’s wrist. “But I’m sure it’s bringing in lots of viewers right now.”
Ilya snorts. “Yeah well, those producers did terrible research. Why does anyone watch this shit when it doesn’t have juiciest details about us?”
“I don’t think they can include those anyway.”
“Happy to tell them whatever they want…too bad they never ask me.”
The joke draws chuckles out of both their throats, and they share an unspoken agreement to give this inaccurate trip down memory lane a few more minutes of their night. Soon enough, the graphics transition into ancient highlights from opposite ends of the globe. Blurry clips of a young, fiery Russian cut between sharper moments featuring a slightly older Canadian, supplemented by bland narration of how their skillsets had differed, yet also complemented one another over the years.
“Look at you, Mister-Almost-Hollander-Rozanov…so pretty.” Going along with nostalgia, Ilya repeats the flirtation that had started it all, before planting a tender kiss to the side of Shane’s neck. “Still pretty.”
Shane grins, leaning comfortably into the gesture. “30 feels wildly different from 16.” He sighs. “I was so naive back then, so focused on hockey…and not much else.”
“Until you met me?”
“Well, meeting you didn’t exactly distract from hockey either, considering how much I wanted to beat you at the time.”
He mentally groans as soon as those last words slip out, for Shane Hollander - no longer naive - knows exactly how Ilya Rozanov will respond.
“But instead of beating me, you were beating me off.” As always, his fiancé obliges the prediction.
Shane smacks the limb around him playfully. “I beat you in the rink plenty of times.”
“Not as much as the other beating…”
“Didn’t keep track.” He reiterates an earlier claim for this new context.
Suddenly, Ilya repositions himself, looping a second arm around Shane to deepen their embrace.
“Mm. Probably could have counted, since we only saw each other a few times a year.” Slowly, a more forlorn tone creeps into his words. “Never thought I could spend everyday like this with you. If not for hockey…maybe I pick this life years ago. Just you and me. Simple. Some days stay on couch, some days go on dates, but most days in bed.”
The tinge of wishful sorrow pricks at Shane’s own heart, with imagined visuals of what Ilya had described adding to the aching. Yes, they are finally, finally together in more ways than one, and only weeks away from exchanging heartfelt vows. But he knows too well that missing pieces from a decade past will always haunt them both in some fashion, each truncated moment a poorly healed scar, never stitched due to words never spoken.
He watches as the documentary shifts to 2008 in Regina, where one private handshake had marked the beginning of their tumultuous story.
What if - it’s not too late for a rewrite?
“Ilya, I have kind of a crazy idea.” Pragmatic thoughts string together as he gathers optimism for a barely-there proposal. “If you’re into it, that is.”
“Tell me.”
Shane turns slightly within the arms enfolding him, delivering an earnest look into curious hazel eyes. “What if we…go back in time? And I mean literally - go back to places we met at over the years.”
A mix of confusion and intrigue bends Ilya’s lofty brows. “Tell me more.”
“Like you said, we never even spent proper time together at some of them.” The spontaneous plan self-formulates as he speaks aloud. “Before we get married, maybe we can…play pretend, one last time.”
“What is ‘play pretend?’”
“Hm, roleplay? If that makes sense.”
Inquisitive eyes widen, and Shane quickly grasps that Ilya has only heard that term under very, very specific circumstances.
“No, not that kind of roleplay.” Slightly panicked, he tries to discourage further perversion. “I just think we should try what you wished for us - spend time outside of Ottawa and go on some actual dates in those cities. You plan one, I plan one, so on so forth. On top of that, maybe…we should also pretend to be our younger selves, so we can finally have some conversations that never happened.”
Ilya falls into pensive silence, contemplating each segment of the ambitious idea with surprising care. A full minute passes before his next words arrive.
“I never knew this definition of roleplay.”
Shane smiles, perceiving genuine interest behind the pseudo jest.
“That’s the original meaning, Ilya.” He leans forward to peck a beloved nose bridge. “Come on, what do you think?”
“Confusing, but this feels like year to try new things.” His fiancé shrugs. “So, where do we start?”
An announcer’s boisterous voice sounds from the TV then, and when Shane turns his attention back, he’s greeted with a side-by-side edit of their 18-year-old selves walking onto an illuminated stage, soon to be draped in their first professional jerseys. On young Ilya’s face was sheer elation, while young Shane’s was somewhere between polite celebration and restrained disappointment.
Draft Night.
“Why don’t we start in…Los Angeles?”
==
One Week Later
The proximity from his destination lowers one mile at a time, but Shane’s mind works in opposition as it recites ascending numbers, each followed by one rule he and Ilya had agreed upon for these complex charades.
Well, somehow managed to agree upon.
- Two weeks. Five cities. Five dates. (“Simple. I like that.”)
- Whoever plans gets the privilege of the other following along, no matter what. (“Anything goes? No? Well, better not to give me freedom like that anyway.”)
- The date itself must include at least one conversation, roleplaying the proper year. (“Can we put time limit on the talking?”)
- Both travel and hotel rooms must be separate, for the sake of immersion. (“Shane. That’s fucked up.”)
He knows the last one will drive Ilya nuts before the week’s end - hell, it might actually be impossible for Shane to endure. They had been inseparable ever since his move to Ottawa, savoring every second together at home and in play. But on the other hand, such a rule also doesn’t feel like regression. After all, something had been broken even when they were only two hours apart. Between duty and disguise, a lack of communication had wormed its way into their relationship and nearly unraveled them both. At least, they’re now conscious of the chronic flaw, and Shane hopes that this bizarre, unnecessarily-expensive idea will be therapeutic above all else - especially prior to them stepping onto another daunting lifestage.
He tugs at the collar of his dark t-shirt, trying to ease intensifying nerves.
“To the right over here, sir?”
The driver’s query snaps Shane back into the present. Outside his passenger window, low-rise concrete buildings conceal the setting sun, but not the glorious colors of a Californian dusk. Not far from where he has stopped stands a fidgety Russian hockey player upon the curb. As usual, the chiseled angles of his face are perfectly lit, enough to reflect beauty above frustration. His outfit of choice is casual yet sleek, all simple pieces in black fabric that Shane knows will feel luxurious to the touch.
“Yes, this is fine. Thank you.” He mutters, somewhat distracted.
As he exits the rideshare, Ilya approaches with an air of confrontation, as if ready for one of their face-offs.
“I disagree, you know.”
The atypical greeting halts Shane in his tracks. “Disagree with what?”
“You would’ve asked me out first at 18? No no, I don’t think so…”
The complaint stirs a mix of relief and amusement, and Shane wonders exactly how long Ilya had been begrudged by this inaugural scenario. Quite possibly the whole plane ride from Ottawa, and then some.
“Don’t forget that I introduced myself to you in Regina.” He quips back and walks onward alone, fully prepared for this debate. “I took initiative.”
Ilya chases, clearly dissatisfied by both the attitude and their unusual lack of touch. “My English wasn’t good enough! I would’ve looked for you first if I knew more than fifteen fucking words.”
“You would’ve?” The revelation nearly pauses Shane again.
“Yes!” From close behind, exclaim precedes explanation. “If you must know, I saw pictures and videos of you long before I ever left Russia. Shitty quality, but enough to feel…interested.”
Shane remembers well how much distress his freckles had caused upon their meeting, but never that any attraction had spanned even further into the past. It had been similar for him after all, those teenage wrestles of whether he appreciated the unique curvatures of Ilya Rozanov’s skating or lips more, whenever a rare film surfaced. Hell, Ilya might have been the first boy he ever considered in that way. Had neither of them taken leaps of faith years later, Shane dreads to imagine where other choices would’ve led them instead.
He slows his steps to turn and peek at those very lips, dwelling in faint memories of how often they’ve caressed his skin since.
Thank god bad English never slowed that mouth from doing other things.
“Let’s talk more about this later.” He shakes scandalous thoughts away. “We’re almost there.”
“So since you gave random corner for address, where exactly are you taking me?” Though accepting of the change in subject, Ilya now feigns a change in concern. “Fuck, you’re not also a serial killer, are you, Hollander? I know there are many in California…must be something in the water.”
The premature attempt at their de-aging roleplay forces Shane to hold back a chuckle. “Considering at draft time I also knew nothing about you outside of hockey…you could’ve been a serial killer, too.”
“Always happy to murder in the rink. But not anywhere else, sorry.”
“Well, right after the banquet, you almost murdered me during our bike race in the hotel gym.”
Right then, Shane feels Ilya speed up until they stroll side-by-side, his Slavic features barely controlling a wide grin. “I thought you might bring that up.”
“Later.” He waves off the topic as they wind around another street corner. “Because we’re here.”
In front of them stands the old-school theater Shane had selected, fully alabaster save for its glittering marquee and large neon letters spelling out AERO. To his relief, the crowd of waiting patrons out front number few on this Monday evening, and everyone present seems too focused on their own plans or cinematic immersion to pay them any mind.
“Shane.” Beside him, an incredulous voice sounds. “A movie?”
“Fuck you. We’re barely drafted at this point, remember? So not crazy rich yet.” Rather than allowing Ilya’s reaction to trigger any doubt, Shane laughs as he reminds them both. “And come on, we’re near Hollywood. It makes total sense for a first date as teenagers.”
Ilya rolls his eyes. “Fine, Mr. Not-Crazy-Rich-Asian-Yet. But you have to get me all those shitty American snacks, or I’m leaving.”
“High expectations for a first date…fine, whatever you want.” Stifling a snicker at his new nickname, Shane moves towards the concession stand while addressing another disclaimer. “And don’t worry, I didn’t pick a serial killer movie.”
“I’ll watch anything as long as I get those snacks.”
==
102 minutes of film, forging 102 minutes of delayed memories.
As promised, no violence took place in the arthouse dark comedy Shane had chosen, save for one jumpscare that had caused Ilya to spill half of his popcorn and grip Shane’s hand in sheer terror. It was a standout moment amongst many sweeter details: Ilya leaning over constantly to ask the meaning of a joke; Ilya muttering Russian curses at unhinged plot developments; Ilya laughing wholeheartedly at the physical comedy he could understand.
By the time floodlights turn back on, Shane barely remembers much about the movie itself. Whereas Ilya had been engrossed by the screen, his own thoughts ricochet between fondness and what-if’s, weighing down both heart and footsteps as they step through the exit doors. Under the guise of nightfall, they pass a few dimly lit shop windows before settling into a more secluded corner, safe from any threats of recognition.
“Okay. That was pretty good.” Ilya confesses as he tosses pieces of Buncha Crunch into his mouth. Regret quickly fills his face, however, as he realizes those to be the last, and another Russian curse accompanies his trashing of the empty box.
In that second, Shane feels fondness surge again, and he clutches onto it in hopes of not letting troubled emotions overwhelm.
“See? A trip to the movies is never a bad idea.”
“Yes, I think we should do this more. As long as–”
“...you get your snacks. I’ll remember.”
Hazel eyes light up, already anticipating their next cinematic outing. “So uh…what now?”
“Um…we walk over to this nice bar that’s two blocks away.” Shane scrambles for his phone, pulling up a trusted map. “And we’ll have a chat - like we just finished the MLH draft.”
“What?” Ilya’s expression contorts into dismay, seemingly having forgotten rule number two. “Hollander…”
The minimal distance between them closes quickly, with Shane being towed into arms that had likely withstood hours worth of longing. As enjoyable as the movie had been, the chaste experience would not dull a single old habit. But this Ilya does put up one boundary: even while their torsos stand seamless, their faces remain apart, awaiting further permission from either side.
Seizing the rare gap, Shane removes the tempting, almost wandering hands from his waist before he admonishes.
“This is supposed to be our first date, and we’re still learning to communicate, remember?” Each word induces a deeper and deeper pout on Ilya’s face. “Plus, I'm not putting out this early in a relationship.”
The pout morphs into a curt laugh. “You? Mr. ‘1410?’”
“That shower was not a date.” Shane flushes at the call out but retorts with ease. “Plus, all that technically hasn’t happened yet.”
“Fine. Fine.” Ilya throws up both arms, declaring a rare surrender. “But if we’ve started roleplaying, don’t we need…what do you call it…’fake ID’s for a bar? If we’re supposed to be ‘18?’”
“We’re not going that far.” Shaking off any lingering contact, Shane turns in the proper direction before offering an arm back to his dejected partner. “Come on. I’ll…let you hold my hand at least.”
At an instant, Ilya’s expression turns cheerful again. Before long, their fingers link together in a gentle fashion, the joint warmth both familiar and nostalgic at once.
What if - we actually held hands at 18?
Shane forces himself to swallow back the abrupt whisper of tragedy.
==
The bar bears a typical Californian ambiance, its rustic color scheme much warmer than any designs from the far north. Out of necessity, Shane had asked Farah to call ahead and secure them a more secluded booth (“Why are you two heading to L.A.?” “Personal business.”). It doesn’t exactly abide by the rules, but it doesn’t break any, either - and he’d prefer to not have this part of their evening be interrupted.
“Ah, welcome! Right this way.” A helpful server greets with a smile before leading them on an alternate path, circumventing the center layout of furniture and customers. As by Los Angeles standards, she clearly understands the incognito needs of certain guests.
As Shane leads Ilya, hands still clutched, he marvels at how comfortably the two of them can roam within these public spaces today. Long gone are the years of paranoia or hiding, and their only concern now is the general nature of their fame, rather than the specific nature of their love. Unfortunately, however, that is one aspect few teenagers, hockey phenoms or not, would’ve understood how to navigate.
They finally separate before settling into reserved seating, initial drink orders already on the tongue.
“Glass of Beluga and a beer? Comin’ right up.”
Left alone, Shane returns Ilya’s stare in a relaxed silence, letting nearby faint chatters and glass clinks serve as white noise. Though his fiancé’s eyes are often feverish in such privacy, they’re terribly gentle at this very moment, and Shane summons his entire will to resist reaching out for him, to forego these juvenile ideas that currently blockade his more indecent desires.
“So what’s next?” Ilya pipes up first, tone one of sincere curiosity.
“Well, we talk.” Shane answers, matter-of-fact. “Talk like we both just got drafted. Tell me what’s on your mind, Rozanov.”
Ilya winces in slight discomfort, but breaks their eye contact in reminisce. “Honestly wasn’t thinking about much at 18. Hockey. Girls. Boys. One Canadian boy with freckles.”
The sudden reference makes Shane shift in his seat, almost annoyed at how much Ilya’s unpredictable turns of phrase still affect him after all these years.
“Tal…talk to that Canadian boy, then.” He tries his best to remain steadfast. “Tell me what you would’ve told him…besides that exchange in the gym after you almost murdered me.”
He hadn’t wanted to bring up that incident again, but an earlier promise must be kept.
Ilya breaks into a sly, triumphant smile.
“That was hot. I thought about you a lot…all the time after our little race.”
Throat parched, Shane gulps before his own admission. “Same.”
“I kept that water bottle too, you know.” Ilya shifts forward, forearms crossing upon the table’s edge and voice dropping into a sensual timbre. “Will find it for you when we get home.”
The heat in those eyes ignites, searing every skin cell Shane had left exposed. That look, combined with the knowledge that the conduit of their first indirect kiss had been treasured all these years, sends his thoughts spiraling down both romantic and debauched paths. This whole thing was Shane’s idea, this whole date Shane’s plan - yet just like how he often loses control to this maddening man in bed, he’s about to lose control of their circumstances here and now.
He’s saved right then by the beyond-casual delivery of their drinks. And as Ilya sits back to thank their server, Shane uses the opportunity to calm all fluster, before redirecting with the only excuse he has.
“You’re speaking from the wrong year, Rozanov.”
Already mid-sip, Ilya pauses the tilt of his glass. But rather than dismissing their rule, he shutters both eyelids before lowering his drink, as if immersing into the character he’s meant to play. Little by little, his features harden, then sharpen - until an actual resemblance to his younger self emerges.
When his eyes reopen, they become unreadable at first, bearing a faint coldness Shane hasn’t seen in ages.
“The draft…was first time I felt nervous.”
In slight awe of the transformation, Shane follows suit. “Did you think Boston might’ve chosen me instead?”
“No no, I was very confident about going first.” Ilya denies without pause. “I was nervous…about seeing you again.”
“Oh.” Shane takes an uneasy swig of his beer, digesting revelation alongside liquid. He recognizes, however, that the courage the latter provides may not be anywhere enough to defend against this fated nemesis, much less all his ancient secrets.
Said nemesis scoffs from across the table, and delivers another clapper. “Hollander, your freckles are even prettier when you blush.”
The bottle almost falls from Shane’s grip.
“...would you really have said that to me right after we got drafted?” Defeated, he finds himself being the one to ruin this ever-delicate performance.
Ilya doesn’t answer, apparently committed to his character for the time being. His gaze takes on a piercing nature, as if needing to prod and prompt Shane’s own mind. It works at a moment’s notice, for lucid memories of the spontaneous “you look pretty” and “it was my idea” surface, dismissing any doubt of younger Ilya Rozanov’s audacity.
Fuck, he really would’ve said that, too.
“Ahem.” Forfeiting further attempts to weaken his blush, Shane tries to clear both throat and head. “Is…is this your first visit to Los Angeles, Rozanov?”
“Yes, and I’m glad L.A. could not draft me.” The roleplayed conversation flows on properly. “Threat of serial killers is one thing, but what’s worse: I hate the weather here.”
“Same. I need real winters.”
“Ha, that’s why I like you, Hollander.” Ilya raises his glass in salute. “Glad we’ll play each other a lot. Can only get better…if I’m against the best.”
The compliment energizes, returning Shane to those days of his early prime. “You think I’m the best?”
“No, second best.”
An uninhibited burst of laughter escapes them both, ending as quickly as it sounds.
Shane lifts his beer in mutuality. “We’ll be good fodder for the media, that’s for sure.”
“What does that mean? ‘Fodder?’” Ilya appears legitimately confused by the term.
“Like a hot topic. Something journalists can write about besides…game results and player stats.”
“Ah, you don’t seem like you would enjoy being ‘hot topic.’ So much attention.”
“I think it comes with the sport, so basically unavoidable.” Shane shrugs off the notion as casually as he had done all rookie season - or all his career, really. “They’ll put a certain lens on the two of us, amp up all the rivalry narratives they want us to have.”
Lifting an elbow, Ilya cups his chin with one palm.
“But they might stay blind to other things we do together.”
Fighting slight disorientation, Shane regards back coolly.
“What else…would you want to do together during our rookie season?”
Another unmistakable glint illuminates Ilya’s pupils, its glow as intense as all the carnal fantasies - or realities - that must’ve appeared in his mind’s window. But something swiftly tames it, resets everything wanton with a more tempered desire. Shane knows because he feels it too: a quiet assurance that this time, things can be different; this time, there is neither rush nor risk; this time, it’s patience that will reap them the grandest rewards.
Atop the table, a hand daringly extends into the middle, and Shane echoes the gesture at a matching pace.
“More of this, I think. Movie, meeting, talking.” Contrary to expectation, Ilya recites fairly monotonous plans, circling two fingertips hypnotically against Shane’s palm. “Too bad we’ll be living in different cities.”
“I’ve only been to Boston once.” Happily receiving every bit of tenderness, Shane shares his truth from that era. “Maybe when Montreal plays there next, you can show me around.”
“Sounds boring.” Ilya mutters his usual lexicon, but Shane can sense numerous gears turning in his head. “We shall see.”
“You know, moving across the world is not easy, but I think you’re gonna do great there, Rozanov.”
“Mm. I know I will.”
“I might not let you win Rookie of the Year over me, but I can see you being captain someday. Maybe even lead your team to a Cup.”
A genuine grin spreads across Ilya’s face.
“My goal is to get one before you do.” He haughtily speaks to what would eventually come to pass. “But who knows, Hollander? You might win more Cups than me in the end.”
Grinning back, Shane takes full advantage of the concession. “One day, people might say I should’ve been drafted first this year.”
“Oh no no, trust me, no one will ever say that.”
Laughter sounds then, soft and shared as their hands fully conjoin. For Shane, the sensation differs from their hold during the journey over. Between crisscrossed fingers now runs something as electric as their rookie banter, as majestic as their soon-to-be illustrious careers. Indeed, 2009 had opened bench doors for them to chase their greatest dreams, but beyond victories and awards, this chasing against each other - no - their inevitable chase of each other would still end up the most riveting race.
What if - our story began with a movie, not a match?
After an eternity, Ilya breaks their hold to reach upward, converting compliments into more daring action. As a hesitant knuckle caresses Shane’s cheek, he leans cautiously into the touch, not yielding beyond what his swelling heart can handle. And though the perpetrator soon speaks certain words aloud, there exists perfect understanding as to what his voice never communicates.
I loved these freckles before I ever met you.
“Imagine if Hollywood paparazzi catches us like this right after draft.” On the surface, Ilya jokes instead. “Could be big scandal before we sign contracts. Big fodder.”
“We’re probably not famous enough to be recognized by them yet.”
“Oh?” Ilya slides towards him until they exist side-by-side. “Then I better take advantage of ‘not famous enough’ right now.”
With little warning, Shane receives what must be their ten thousandth, perhaps twenty thousandth kiss. But rather than an act of routine, this meeting is one that intentionally harkens back to their very start. The hints of cigarette smoke are amiss, but each careful devour carries the same ingredient that had lured Shane into his lifelong addiction. Fingers press against chin and neck, adjusting particular angles that allow their lips to fit, re-fit, and fit again. Each taste, intoxicating. Each pause, patient. But above all, there is the same irony of something so soft, so unhurried racing for teenage Shane Hollander’s heart, and still somehow claiming a resounding victory.
Unknown minutes pass before the winner slows his pace - and concludes everything with a character-breaking whisper.
“I’m not getting further than this tonight, am I?”
What should be a celebratory speech contains pure dejection, and Shane smiles regretfully before shaking his head to confirm. He watches as a pout returns to Ilya’s well-pampered lips, and finds some relief that not all control was lost.
Nonetheless, he poses a question perhaps too rhetorical.
“You would’ve kissed me on our first date?”
“You would’ve wanted it.” Ilya counters, hooded eyes zeroed in on all he had just captured.
Shane doesn’t attempt denial. “That felt almost…exactly the same.”
“As what?”
“As the first time you ever kissed me, in 1410.”
“Because, Shane,” Ilya closes in again, punctuating with a final stroke by lip rather than ink. “That’s how I kiss someone I’ll miss.”
The confession prompts a deep inhale from Shane’s lungs, and his heart pounds with feverish demand. On reflex, he chases both oxygen and contact via an ardent lean, only to find that Ilya has already removed himself from his side.
Before long, his cunning date already stands outside the booth, posture astute and expression pleased.
“Good night, Hollander.” Ilya leaves him with a teasing salute, and Shane detects a more familiar yearning from behind that smugness. “Thanks for the movie…and see you in Boston.”
With that, he departs by a confident stride unchanged from 18 to 30. Briefly, Shane wonders how he could possibly muster the ability to walk away, but finds an answer in how his own fingertips unknowingly lift to his lips.
To be kissed, is to be missed.
But that same kiss is also how Ilya Rozanov ensures that he will be missed.
Distraction. Attraction. From the very start, he had ensured that Shane would teeter between those two precipices, constantly wondering about their next encounter. The tensions of a draft, the fervor of a bike race, the exchange of a water bottle - as if those weren’t already enough, these new discoveries of Ilya’s long ago desires now agitate Shane further, leaving him wondering much more, wanting it all after only one faux outing. History repeats, while he can no longer retreat.
Los Angeles: the City of Angels - and one handsome, formerly-teenage Devil.
So this is what dating Ilya Rozanov is like.
Shane sinks deep into his seat, and sighs even deeper.