Chapter Text
Koh Samui, July 2031
There are few things in life that Shane trusts completely, but Thailand is one of them. He likes a place that just behaves. And Thailand, Shane has come to learn, is a place that behaves.
Not in a philosophical sense. Not in a finding yourself way, which he has always found deeply suspicious. But in a practical, measurable, repeatable way that matters far more. You land, and things work. Someone is there. Someone always knows what you need before you articulate it. Bags appear. Cars are cool. Water is cold. Plans hold.
It is, in Shane’s experience, the closest thing to certainty that exists outside of a well-run power play.
Thailand is organized better than most countries and significantly better than several MLH teams he could name without trying.
The plane from Bangkok lands, rolls for exactly as long as it should, and stops with an easy finality Shane appreciates. No circling, no waiting, no passive-aggressive announcements from the cockpit about “air traffic conditions.”
Just: done.
Two seasons out of the league hasn’t changed his appreciation for things that end exactly when they’re supposed to. There’s less to react to now, fewer variables that can actually hurt him, and the rest is just pattern recognition in a different format. Studio lights instead of arena lights. A headset instead of a helmet. He says what he sees, the way he always has, only now there’s a camera pointed at him when he does it. ESPN had called it a seamless transition, which is accurate in the same way it’s accurate that Shane has always been very good at stepping into spaces that require control and then quietly taking it. He enjoys it. The structure, the analysis, the part where he can see something unfold two passes ahead and say it out loud before it happens. The new coaching duo in Boston, less so. Though that may have less to do with his analysis and more to do with the fact that he tends to describe their plays before they’ve fully happened.
He’s already on his feet before the seatbelt sign fully switches off, pulling his bag down in one clean motion, like the plane stopping was simply a formality he allowed.
He’s in linen. Of course he is. Light, off-white, sleeves rolled with unnecessary precision. Sunglasses already in place like he expects the sun to report to him directly.
Behind him, Luca doesn’t move.
Not immediately.
He’s still in his seat, one ankle crossed over his knee, entirely unbothered, scrolling through his phone like they’re not about to deplane.
Black t-shirt. Faded. Expensive in a way that doesn’t advertise itself. Shorts that suggest at least one questionable decision. Hair a little too perfect for someone who claims not to care.
He waits.
Then, deliberately, he gets up last.
“You know,” Luca says, reaching for his bag without looking, “they do eventually release the rest of us. You don’t have to establish dominance over the exit.”
“Some of us like to be efficient,” Shane says, already half-turned into the aisle.
“Some of you,” Luca corrects, pulling his bag down cleanly, “like to win at disembarking.”
Shane steps into the aisle. “Well, you lost.”
“I chose not to compete,” Luca says lightly, falling in beside him.
There’s no hesitation in the rhythm between them. No checking, no adjusting. It’s been years of this. Flights, locker rooms, long stretches of nothing to do but talk—and somewhere along the way, the conversation stopped having edges. It outlasted retirements, contracts, him and Ilya being over, everything else that usually shifts. Luca had been spending Christmas with the Hollanders for years now. Not as a guest. Just… there. Like it had always been that way.
They move forward with the line. Slow. Predictable.
Luca glances sideways. “You didn’t sleep the entire journey.”
“No.”
“You didn’t watch anything either.”
“No.”
“You just sat there.”
“Yes.”
Luca studies him for a second. “That’s unsettling.”
“I was thinking.”
“About what?”
Shane shrugs. “Logistics.”
“Of course you were.”
A beat.
“I watched half a movie,” Luca offers. “Terrible. Everyone made bad decisions. No structure.”
“You didn’t finish it.”
“I couldn’t respect it.”
“That’s fair.”
Luca tilts his head slightly. “Also, for the record, if this is how you treat a short flight to your own holidays, I'm beginning to understand your approach to ... timeframes.”
Shane doesn’t miss a step. “That’s not related.”
“It’s deeply related.”
Shane exhales, but there’s no irritation in it. “He was fine.”
“Mm,” Luca says. “Unsignificant.”
“It’s insignificant.”
“No, this is better.” Luca says lightly. “Did you even tell him about this trip?”
“No.”
Luca smiles, slow and delighted. “Incredible.”
“It didn’t come up.”
“You booked flights. Villas. Transfers. For the pair of you.”
“Yes.”
“And just … what …. assumed he’d discover it organically?”
“It resolved itself.”
Luca glances at him, quick and sharp. “How long did this one last?”
Shane doesn’t even need the context. “Three months.”
“Mm.” Luca considers that. “Seasonal.”
“Generous.”
“Did you like him?”
Shane thinks about it for exactly as long as it takes to step forward in line. “He was fine.”
Luca makes a small, satisfied sound. “Unsignificant, then. Just like the others.”
“Yes.”
“That’s, what, number...”
“Don’t.” Shane shrugs. “I’m sure he’ll recover.”
“He doesn’t even know he needs to,” Luca points out. “You didn’t break up with him. You just… stopped occurring.”
Shane considers that. “That sounds more dramatic than it felt.”
“Everything sounds more dramatic when you say it out loud,” Luca says. “Which is why you don’t.”
“That’s not why.”
“It’s exactly why.”
They move down the stairs into the heat, the air settling around them immediately, warm and steady. The shuttle at the bottom looks like it belongs in a resort, not an airport, open and waiting.
Luca drops into the seat beside him, stretching out his legs slightly, completely at ease.
Luca turns his head, studying him with open amusement. “Honestly, I’m flattered you brought me instead.”
“I didn’t bring you.”
“You replaced him with me,” Luca says.
“It was available space.”
“Mm,” Luca hums. “Feels like a promotion.”
He glances over, smile slow, deliberate. “I just want to know if I’m here for the scenery, or if I’m expected to earn my keep.”
Shane snorts. “You wouldn’t get through the warm-up.”
“I’m very coachable.”
“I’m not offering lessons!”
“It would be like fucking my brother,” Shane adds, under his breath.
Luca lights up. “Right, but like, your favorite brother.”
“No.”
“Your best option in a limited field?”
“Absolutely not.”
Luca considers him, then leans in slightly, lowering his voice just enough to make it worse. “I’m just saying, if you’re already bringing me to a private island…”
Shane turns his head, flat. “I would rather swim back to the mainland.”
“That feels extreme. You hate open water.”
"I would make an exception."
Luca grins, clearly delighted now. “Wow. Okay. Strong stance.”
“Very strong.”
“Not even a little curious?”
Shane stares at him. “No.”
“Good,” Luca adds, thoughtful now, “you’d be incredibly difficult to manage.”
“I would be impossible.”
“Exactly. Where’s the appeal?”
They sit with that for a second. Perfectly aligned, completely certain.
Then Luca brightens again. “Still think I’d outperform all your unsignificant others.”
“You’re very attached to using that not-a-word.”
“You’re very bothered by it.”
Shane exhales. “You’re not in that category.”
“In the insignificant category?”
“Exactly.” It’s immediate. “You’re permanent.”
Luca blinks once, caught off guard for exactly half a second. “That’s worse,” he decides.
Shane frowns. “How is that worse?”
“You don’t even try to get rid of me.”
“I wouldn’t succeed. You’re like a fruit fly. Just with a longer lifespan. A zombie fruit fly.”
“Correct,” Luca says easily.
The shuttle starts moving, cutting through palm trees and flowers that look curated rather than grown.
Luca leans back, watching everything pass, then tilts his head slightly.
“You’re in a good mood,” he says.
“Yes.”
“Is it the weather, or that no one here expects anything from you?”
“Yes.”
Luca grins.
“Love that for you,” he says.
Shane doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. It’s accurate.
Baggage claim is open to the air, shaded but not enclosed. Their bags are already circling.
Luca watches his come around once, then reaches out and pulls it off cleanly.
“I’m almost disappointed,” Luca says. “I had a whole speech prepared about delayed luggage.”
“You can still give it.”
“Feels dishonest now.”
A beat, then: “We checked these in two days ago in Ottawa,” Luca adds.
“Yes.”
“And they followed us across North America, Europe, and most of Asia without incident.”
“Yes.”
Luca exhales. “That feels unnatural.”
“It’s a working process.”
“It’s divine intervention,” Luca says.
“It’s tracking.”
Luca looks at him. “You’re ruining this for me.”
Outside, the Santhiya Resort & Spa sign is exactly where it should be. The driver checks Shane’s name, takes their luggage, including the carry-ons, without hesitation.
Luca watches them go. Looking with doubt between the disappearing pieces of luggage and Shane’s relaxed demeanor.
“You trust this completely,” he says.
“You don’t?”
“I do now,” Luca says. “You’ve committed too hard for it to fail at this point.”
The minibus is, objectively, ridiculous. Soft lighting in the ceiling, shifting colors that serve no clear purpose other than existing.
Luca looks up at it, then back at Shane.”Wow.”
Shane offers a serene smile.
The minibus hums along the narrow road, cutting through palm trees and low buildings that look less like infrastructure and more like something placed there deliberately to reassure people that everything is under control. The air moves differently here. Heavier, slower, but not unpleasant. Just… consistent.
Predictable.
They’re dropped at the pier without delay. No waiting, no confusion. Someone is already there before the bus fully stops, opening the door, greeting them by name like this was always going to happen exactly like this.
It was.
Luggage disappears again before Luca can even look at it properly.
He watches it go this time, then glances at Shane. “You’re very comfortable with how little you’re involved in any of this.”
“That’s the point.”
“I usually like to know where my belongings are.”
“They’re going where we’re going.”
Inside, the lounge is cool in a way that feels intentional rather than aggressive. Towels appear, cold, rolled up, and are handed over without explanation. Water follows, condensation already forming on the bottles.
Luca presses the towel to the back of his neck and exhales, slow. “Okay,” he says. “That’s excellent.”
Shane takes a sip of water, already half-focused on the next step. Check-in happens at the table. Names confirmed. Details handled. No standing at counters, no unnecessary conversation.
Exactly as planned.
Luca watches it all with quiet interest, not surprised anymore, just… entertained.
There’s a small spread laid out along one side of the room—tea, coffee, brownies, cookies, fruit arranged with the same quiet precision as everything else.
He drifts over without hesitation.
“This is excessive,” he says, picking up a brownie and inspecting it like it might reveal something about the place.
“It’s standard.”
“For what,” Luca asks, “a minor international arrival or a personal reward system for surviving long-haul travel?”
“Both,” Shane says.
Luca takes a bite. Considers it. Nods once, approving.
“Okay,” he says. “That’s excellent.”
He reaches for a second without even pretending to debate it.
“You’re not even curious,” he adds, glancing back at Shane, who hasn’t moved from his seat.
“I know what it tastes like.”
“You don’t.”
“I know what it is.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
Luca smiles slightly, settling back into his seat with a plate that suggests he intends to evaluate everything available.
Outside, the light shifts. Sun angling just enough to change the color of the water. There’s a boat waiting, low and fast, tied loosely to the dock. Staff move around it with the same calm efficiency as everything else.
No one is rushing.
Nothing feels delayed.
Shane leans back slightly in his chair, just enough to register that there is, for the moment, nothing required of him.
No input.
No correction.
No anticipation.
Just… execution.
This is why he decided to come here.
Luca stretches his legs out under the table, watching the room, the limited staff, the way this arrival process is managed.
“You’re right,” he says after a moment. “This is very you.”
Shane glances at him. “It works.”
“It does,” Luca agrees. A beat. Then, lightly, “Let’s see how long that lasts.”
Shane doesn’t respond to that.
He doesn’t need to.
Everything is still exactly as it should be.
Outside, the minibus pulls up.
It’s the same one that dropped them off earlier.
Shane notices it without turning his head fully.
The door opens.
There’s a voice before there’s a face. Familiar, mid-sentence, already carrying.
Shane stills, just slightly.
Not enough that anyone would call it that.
Just … less movement.
Luca notices the shift immediately. Of course he does.
He doesn’t look at Shane yet.
Instead, he watches the entrance.
The first figure steps out. Already talking. Already laughing.
Cliff Marlow. Marley. Currently a coach for the Boston Raiders.
Of course.
Luca lets out a quiet breath through his nose. “Well,” he says, almost under it, “that’s … unexpected.”
Svetlana follows, composed as always, taking in the space in a single sweep that somehow manages to feel both efficient and thorough.
Shane straightens just a fraction.
Still fine.
Still controlled.
Still …
Then the driver reaches back into the shuttle.
There’s a brief pause, long enough to suggest something isn’t going according to plan.
When the suitcase appears, it’s already wrong.
It catches immediately on the edge of the step, dragged forward with a dull, uneven scrape that doesn’t belong in a place where everything else has been functioning perfectly.
Shane’s attention locks onto it before he fully registers why.
One wheel is missing.
Not loose. Not misaligned.
Gone.
Behind him, Luca makes a quiet sound. “Oh.”
Shane doesn’t turn right away.
He knows that level of problem.
When he does look, Ilya is already halfway out of the shuttle, one hand braced against the door, the other gripping the handle of a suitcase that is now structurally incapable of being pulled in any direction.
In his other hand, he’s holding the missing wheel.
Not just the wheel. A piece of the suitcase still attached to it, torn cleanly off.
For a moment, he just stands there, assessing it like this might still be a situation that can be solved with the right approach.
It can’t.
The driver steps in without hesitation, lifting the suitcase with practiced ease.
Ilya immediately moves to help.
Of course he does.
There’s a brief, awkward choreography where Ilya tries to take part in a process that does not require his involvement at all, and the driver, smaller by at least a head, simply… continues, adjusting his grip and ignoring him completely.
It’s final.
Ilya hesitates for a fraction of a second, then lets go.
He keeps the wheel.
There’s no reason to keep the wheel.
He keeps it anyway.
Marley is already looking over, halfway through a sentence that doesn’t quite finish when he takes in the full situation. Svetlana follows his gaze, her expression shifting in a way that suggests she is choosing not to comment, for now.
Luca leans back slightly in his chair, watching with open interest.
“Well,” he says under his breath, “that’s unfortunate.”
Shane tracks the movement without shifting in his seat. The suitcase. The driver. The wheel in Ilya’s hand.
Ilya Rozanov.
Technically, still Rozanov-Hollander.
“That’s one way of putting it,” he says.
Luca glances at him, quick, sharp. “You mean the luggage?”
Shane doesn’t look away.
“No,” he sighs.