Chapter Text
“Okay Shane,” the line producer said, “I’m going to have you sitting on the left. When Rozanov comes in he’ll sit on the other side of you. You’ll get your cue cards in a minute.”
Shane smiled weakly at the small blonde woman, taking his seat in front of the box lighting and the camera in the small studio. He felt his skin dampen almost immediately with the heat from the lighting. He drummed his fingers on his thighs in angst.
It had been two months since he’d last seen Rozanov off the ice. Since they’d eaten tuna melts, and used each other’s first names. Two months since he’d gotten scared and run off and left Ilya’s apartment with a lump in his throat and his stomach flipping.
And now, Rozanov was late.
It had been the league’s idea for this video series - like when Vanity Fair does the Actors on Actors series before awards season. They thought it would be good optics for some ‘fluff’ piece showing the men behind the rivalry. A few months ago, Shane would have laughed at the idea, but after the physicality with which Ilya last played against him the month before, he wasn’t sure if cordiality would be something they could muster.
Shane tried to avoid eye contact with the camera. He was used to cameras, of course, after so many years playing Major League Hockey. But this was the first time he’d been under such a microscopic lens with Ilya. His stomach tightened as he thought of how fans on Twitter might react to a look that lingered too long, to an unconscious touch. What if he blushed?
He tried to steady himself, but seconds turned into minutes as the entire set waited on Ilya. Production staff muttered under their breath in hurried, angry tones and Shane unconsciously edged further and further forward in his chair, his mind spinning.
“Traffic is crazy today, no?”
Shane stood at the sound of the deep, honeyed Russian voice that rolled through the doors into the studio. Ilya Rozanov breezed onto the set, his face tense and cold when his eyes met Shane’s. Both faltered a little, unsure how to act in front of the crew. Ilya’s eyes flitted between Shane’s mouth and cheeks, as though he were checking for details that might have changed since they last met.
“Rozanov,” Shane said as though he were stating a fact, outstretching his hand. “Good to see you.”
Ilya paused before shaking his hand, “Hollander.”
Shane looked away as he dropped his hand, afraid to look too long. Afraid to read Ilya’s face and understand how he feels about him now. He regretted it. He hated himself for walking out of Ilya’s apartment against his pleads of “Hollander, Hollander.” The sound of his own name had reverberated around his head for days - until JJ had called him to that after-hours party downtown and he’d met Rose.
“Here are your cue cards,” the line producer said, barely looking at either of them, “Just stick to the questions and we’ll be outta here in no time.”
“How long do you think it will take?” Shane asked.
“Somewhere better to be, Hollander?” Ilya asked, his eyes boring holes into Shane’s face.
“N-no,” he said in slight panic, “Just wanted to-“
“It’ll be about an hour all going well,” the producer said, “Just stick to what’s on the cards.”
Ilya sat in the low leather chair, leaning back with his legs spread wide as though he’d never been more comfortable and relaxed in his entire life. Asshole, Shane thought, as he sat himself upright, trying to remember to breathe.
“Alright guys, we’re gonna make a start. Mr Rozanov, first question is yours. Rolling in three, two…”
“Mr Hollander,” Ilya said, smirking, “When did you first realise that hockey could become a career for you?”
“Hockey has been my life since I was old enough to pick up a stick.” His expression was serious, as though he’d rehearsed it. “I suppose I was twelve when I started to take it really seriously. Then in the Juniors I realised that the hard work was paying off.”
“But still you did not beat me,” Ilya muttered, shooting a look at Shane. Ilya knew that Shane was too professional to bring up the 2009 world juniors.
Shane looked edgily toward the camera and then back down at his cue cards.
“How do you stay motivated during long seasons?”
Ilya looked upward, his eyes bluer under the light, feigning thinking.
“By being best centre in league.” Ilya said deadpan, his jaw tightened, eyes steely.
Shane looked again toward the crew, unsure whether to ask a follow up question.
“Our face-off stats would disagree with that,”
“Hollander, Hollander,” Ilya tutted, shaking his head, “Mr Numbers all the time. You are sixteen in front, yes?”
Shane nodded, his face giving away how impressed he was that he knew the stats.
“You know this does not mean anything. We face off, yes, but I score more goals. I have more assists. I have more fans. I am more beautiful,”
“Charming,” Shane says, faking his annoyance. “But I’m sure everybody in Montreal would disagree.”
“Your parents do not count, Hollander.”
Shane rolled his eyes. “Alright, next question.”
They battled back and forth for another half an hour, answering questions about skills, their game, their rivalry. Shane fought back a smile when Ilya admitted that they pushed each other to be better players, when he referred to them playing against each other as a dance. They became freer, more playful. Ilya tossed his cards over his shoulder as he finished reading them. The whole thing felt light and the dread that had plagued him wore off.
“Has hockey ever complicated your personal life?” Shane asked, his smile fading from his face.
Ilya looked Shane directly in his eye, sighing deeply.
“Is hard question, I’m sure you agree, no?”
“Mhm, I agree.”
“I mean, with your new girlfriend, Rose Landry, you have different schedules, yes?” Ilya said.
Shane bit down hard on the flesh inside his lip, “It causes issues with seeing my friend, Rose, yes.”
“Not your girlfriend? Press all say she’s girlfriend.” Ilya said, leaning forward into the question.
“Well the press say that we hate each other, Ilya.”
He said my name Ilya thought.
“So you do not hate me?” Ilya grinned, turning to face the camera now, “World exclusive, Shane Hollander does not hate Ilya Rozanov. Is shame, because feeling is not mutual.”
Shane heard a stifled laugh from the cameraman.
“You do a great job of covering it up, Rozanov. But I know you love me too.”
Oh fuck. Oh, FUCK.
Shane looked at Ilya, his head tilted and his smile wild, spread across his face. Panic flooded Shane’s body as he tried to fend the same sensation from his face.
“I’m pretty sure it’s your turn to ask me a question now.” Shane said, hurriedly.
Ilya flicked through the cards quickly, as though he were looking for a great one to end on.
“These are all, meh, they are no good.” Ilya said, before throwing them all onto the floor in front of him. They hit with a slap. Ilya sat on the edge of his seat, leaning toward Shane now. He felt his heart beating against his ribs. Shane gritted his teeth, his eyes wide as he wondered what Ilya Rozanov was about to ask him.
“You are well known for being good boy, yes?”
Shane nodded in agreement, his mind racing with all the questions that might come next. He wouldn’t ask anything stupid would he? He wouldn’t put them both out on the line.
“Would you do it differently?” Ilya asked, his voice controlled and serious.
“Do what differently?”
“The last ten years.” Shane knew what Ilya was asking.
“I don’t know. I mean, there have been mistakes. Glaring mistakes. Times when I haven’t been honest with myself, times where I’ve expected too much of others. But I- I think that these decisions I’ve made are something that I have to live with and I try every day to be better, and to avoid doing the wrong thing. But I’m only human, as much as I hate that.”
The silence filled the room, thick and heavy, despite only Ilya understanding what had just been said.
“Okay. Thank you Hollander.” Ilya said, slapping his hands on his thighs. “I think we are done now, yes?”
Ilya stood without looking at Shane and headed for the door. Shane tilted his head back, forcing air to spill from his nose. What the fuck was that?
“That was really great, Shane.” The line producer said, “I feel like you guys have real chemistry. Must come from all those years of competition huh?”
“Yeah, somethin’ like that.”
Shane stood up and walked the same trail towards the door Ilya had before, but kept walking, straight out of the building. The freezing Montreal air filled his lungs as he paced the width of the building, finding himself in the alley beside it. He slid down the wall, placed his head between his knees and stared at the ground. He wanted to scream in frustration. “What the fuck was that?” He said out loud, “What the actual fuck was that?”
“I do not think it was so bad.” A voice from the end of the alley let out. He was smoking, wearing a thick black coat and baseball cap sat on top of his curls.
Hollander tilted his head to confirm that the voice belonged to Ilya. He shook his head and continued staring at the ground.
“Hollander,” Ilya said softly, “You are being dramatic.”
“She said we had great chemistry,” Shane replied flatly.
“Well we are rivals, of course we have this.” Ilya said, as he slid down the wall to sit next to Shane.
Shane leaned into him, the heat from Ilya’s body grounding him but he didn’t speak. He wouldn’t speak.
“Let me ask you question, but answer honestly this time.” Ilya said. “In last ten years, what would you do differently?”
Shane inhaled sharply, rubbing his hand across his jaw and neck.
“I wouldn’t have left.” He said softly.
“Interesting.” Ilya said, “If you ask me, I would say I would never have went to Shane Hollander’s hotel room in Toronto in 2009.”
Shane’s heart sank.
“Fuck me, Rozanov,” he said, embarrassed and angry that Ilya would have forsaken everything they’ve had for the last almost-decade. Hot tears pooled in his eyes.
“I would have taken him on date, instead.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I would never have let him think that I did not feel things for him. Big things.” Ilya said, taking another draw of his cigarette. “I would not have made him feel small or uncomfortable because I was hurt and did not know how to show these feelings. I would have been honest with him.”
“Not here, Ilya.”
“We go to apartment, then.” Ilya said, stroking Shane’s jaw.
“1919.” Shane said.
“What is this? 1919?” Ilya asked, confused.
“Front door code. My apartment. Where I live.”
Ilya grinned, and walked out into the street to hail a cab.