Chapter Text
Drifting, verb
The act of two people unconsciously syncing movements, speech, and thoughts while physically together. People who drift are often called soulmates or fated pairs, depending on region of origin. See also, drift compatibility.
Soulmates weren't talked about, but they were seeped into everything. In the locker room, in the press, at the dinner table with his parents, always with one seat open as if he'd bring some girl home one day and say, ‘guess who I met’. He knows he's supposed to want that, but secretly he thought it would get in the way of his career. The guys talk about the WAGs like a weight dragging them away from the club and bars and boys night, always with this chagrined smile as if they wished there was something they could do.
But no matter where he was, the idea persisted. Where was his soulmate?
She must be out there, but he hasn't tried looking. One day, his parents keep assuring him, he'll lock in step with someone as easy as breathing, and he'll know. There she is. The one woman who's supposed to be so close to him they'll almost share a brain.
His parents drift almost every day. Mostly, it's little things like sipping their coffees in the morning, or watching hockey games with the exact same expressions of elation at a goal, or tense posture during overtime. Growing up with that kind of synchronous domesticity left him with an ache he ignored when he could. Of course he'd want a closeness like that with someone, he just didn't want to sacrifice hockey to get it.
Shane had never clicked with anyone like that. A lot of the time, he worked hard to get to know his teammates, and still there was a barrier he couldn't cross. Maybe it's because he's half Asian, and because he's gay— though they didn't know that part— and some other third thing that lags him a step behind all their jokes and comments.
With Rozanov, he never had to worry about that. There were no expectations. In his bed, he was just Shane, and they could connect in a way that touched a part of him no one had ever reached.
And then the tuna melts happened. They had a nice day together, except for that little bit in the middle where Rozanov talked about all his hookups and placed Shane squarely among them, not special. He covered up his hurt, and they continued to hookup, because that's all they'll ever be. At least they're good at it.
But when he and Rozanov came at the same time, saying each other's first names in the same breath, he felt something unclick in his panic, like his slip up booted him out of a flow state. It was disorienting, and all his agonized longing had nowhere to go when Rozanov had made it clear exactly how casual this arrangement was. Shane, again, like in Sochi and Vegas, needed to be corrected. Well, he could do that somewhere else.
Rose was so easy to talk to he almost deluded himself into thinking they were soulmates. Their conversations eased him. They could be drifting, right? If the sex wasn't good, if he was so in his head and miserable, then that was the price he had to pay. Sometimes, happily ever after hurt, but she knew better than him. Probably always would. Their breakup was embarrassing and enlightening at the same time. She was his friend, at the end of the day, even though he was a terrible boyfriend.
Now he's at the All Stars hotel. This year, the MLH split the teams up by Eastern vs Western Conference, instead of the usual North American vs Europe. He's captain of the Eastern team, and was going to be playing on the same line as Rozanov. This far into his career, he thought he was all done with firsts.
Rozanov was at the bar. They talked without saying anything. It was a bad habit Shane didn't have the courage to break.
He knew hockey, though. Compression layer, socks, pads, jersey, then skates. Tie them tight with three knots. If he focused on that, he wouldn't stare at Rozanov dressing ten feet away. It was surreal.
The ice made sense. His blades cut through clear glass and chipped snow. Warm ups calmed him enough that he didn't even freak out when Rozanov approached him.
“Strange," he said as he made lazy circles around where Shane was stretching out his thighs.
After a beat, he knew Rozanov was waiting for him to take the conversational bait. “What's strange?"
“We have never been on the same side of the blue line before."
He was bracing for a chirp, so this plain statement threw him off. "Yeah, I guess.”
"Do you think they know?”
"That we're on the same team?”
"That we're going to destroy them.” Rozanov stalled his restless circles to lock eyes with Shane, and the whole arena fell away. "You and me, we will be incredible.”
His breath caught in his throat.
When he settled at the face off dot, Rozanov at his wing, he felt a familiar peace wash over him. Only three things mattered between now and when the last horn would sound.
The ice, the puck, and Rozanov.
He won the face off, and knew without looking that Rozanov shook off Western’s defence, tearing down the rink just behind him. There was no thought to his pass, only the bone deep certainty that when he shot the puck away, Rozanov would be in the exact place to catch it.
He absorbed the check that came seconds later, already making his way to the right side of the goal, where he received Rozanov's pass back without a hitch in his stride, looping behind the net, and scooping the puck top shelf in a lazy flick. It's less than a minute into the first period. He thought this might be what it felt like to be high.
J.J. was the first to reach him, clapping hard on his shoulder and screaming in his ear. “That's my Capitaine!"
Shane shrugged him off with a laugh, and scanned the ice. Rozanov was already skating up to him, not slowing down until they crashed into each other, and he sloppily kissed the side of his helmet. Shane's hands automatically came up to steady him as they wobbled.
"Nice assist,” Shane said.
Rozanov pushed off and began skating backwards. Like a rope was pulling from his chest, Shane followed, his right foot sliding into the empty space of Rozanov's left.
“Nice goal."
The game continued. Each shift, he and Rozanov dominated easily. As easy as breathing, even. In between shifts, they sat side by side and watched the second line play. Their heads turned left as Western gained control of the puck. They drank their water together. Their heads turned right as Eastern stole it back.
“We could-"
“Yes."
“Will you-?"
“Easy."
By the time the second period ended, 4-1 with two goals each, they stopped talking. They didn't need to anymore.
Vaughan was looking at them strangely in the locker room between second and third. "You know, this isn't a real game. You don't have to take it so seriously.”
"Why?” they asked.
For some reason, that made the whole room pause.
Shane added, "We're having fun.” Then quickly turned back to Rozanov, who already had his mouth open and poised to say something no doubt annoying. "Shut up.”
Hunter was looking at them intensely. J.J. laughed nervously, and then said, “Wow."
Whatever that meant, they had no time to address it.
Third period started with another goal right out the gate, and then they continued to steal, pass, deke left around defense, pass back, lose the puck, turn around in tandem to corner Western’s forward into fumbling, steal it again, pass, pass, pass, score. 6-1, a hat trick each.
It was as if they were the only two on the ice. Rozanov raised his eyebrows, and Shane rolled his eyes. Message sent and received.
Are they even trying?
Don't be a dick.
Shane felt like a live wire finally grounded. If he just touched Rozanov, maybe all this joy bubbling up in his chest could be shared. His face hurt from smiling. He'd never smiled so much in his life.
The wind flew past them as they skated side by side. Play had paused, for some reason, but he wasn't looking at the refs or the coaches or their fellow players. Rozanov raised his arm at the same time as Shane, and they clasped hands. He pulled, and Rozanov came easily, like breathing. They were almost dancing as they spun around once, twice. Rozanov pulled, and Shane side stepped Vaughan instead of colliding with him.
It was easy. Like breathing. As Shane inhaled, he knew Rozanov was doing the same. One foot pivoted, the other turned to match, linked by their joined hand. Rozanov was so handsome, pink cheeked and playing an amazing game, with his eyes that never left Shane's.
They cut graceful arcs across the rink as one.
It was so easy, like… drifting.
There you are, his heart seemed to say, and Rozanov was having the exact same realization at the exact same time, because of course he was, they're soulmates.
“Oh," they said in unison.
The entire arena was watching them.
They slowed in front of Eastern’s bench. Rozanov's face was… quietly devastated. Shane didn't know what to do with it, or what it meant, and they had no time under the arena lights and expectant stares of tens of thousands of people.
Dropping a glove, Rozanov brought his hand up to Shane's cheek, swiping his thumb under his eye.
Whistles blew their little bubble apart. Hunter cautiously approached. Shane didn't know which one of them let go first, but they went to the bench with Hunter leading them, a gentle hand on both their shoulders.
He might be having a panic attack. Rozanov didn't look too good, either.
"You guys are okay,” Hunter said. “Just sit. Everything's alright."
The bench made room for them to sit side by side, just as they had done the whole time. Hunter approached the coach, and through the roaring in Shane's ears, he overheard him suggest keeping them out for the rest of the game. Shane would have been offended if he wasn't two seconds away from passing out.
No one said anything more.
He couldn't look at his teammates, or the crowd. He could hardly pay attention to the play on the ice. What did it look like from the outside? Fuck, there's no way they could pretend they hadn't been drifting for the last hour and a half.
He stole a glance at Rozanov, and Rozanov did the same. Were they still drifting? Shane couldn't tell. He felt the same as he always did in his presence. Electrified and alive, slightly turned on. Oh, God.
He looked away for his sanity.
The game ended, eventually. The handshake line was a strange mix of stares and a few shoulder claps. He thought that was some of the guys’ way of showing support, or something. He didn't have the brain space to dissect it, because he's too busy changing out as fast as possible before anyone can talk to him. The locker room is silent. None of them know how to handle the situation.
Fuck, they're the first soulmates in the MLH. Statistically, that couldn't be right, but what did it matter when they're the first ones out?
There were five messages in the family group chat. Shane threw his phone in his bag without reading them, and got the hell out of there.