Chapter Text
June 2013 – Las Vegas, NV
In retrospect, Shane firmly believed that the events which unfolded during his fourth year of University were unequivocally the fault of Coach Theriault. If he hadn’t recommended Shane enroll in the Sports Leadership course being offered by that year’s Athlete-in-Residence, Shane might have never entered into a heated and illicit relationship with his professor. Similarly, said professor might have never been exposed for exchanging sexually explicit messages with a student, leading to the inevitable loss of his job. Without Theriault’s sage wisdom, Shane would have probably stayed in the closet indefinitely, instead of becoming the first openly gay player in the MLH, thereby inspiring future generations of queer hockey players to pursue their dreams with pride.
Most importantly though, if he hadn’t listened to Theriault, if he hadn’t taken that fated Sports Leadership course, if he hadn’t approached that beautiful stranger outside of John Molson Building – who happened to be none other than Ilya Rozanov, the KHL player who mysteriously vanished from the world of hockey at the height of his prime – and told him he couldn’t smoke there, Shane Hollander might have never fallen in love.
They should probably send Theriault a gift basket. Maybe an edible arrangement. They could have the fruits organized by colour so they formed the pride flag. Shane was certain it would be greatly appreciated.
The glow radiating from the Hart Memorial Trophy on the pedestal next to Shane was blinding, the stage lights reflecting off it like winter sun on fresh snow. He stared at the words engraved on the trophy – Presented by Major League Hockey to the player adjudged to be the most valuable to his team. Sure, maybe the league granted him the award in a gesture of public posturing, to save face from the shitshow that his entry to the MLH had been. But, to the blatant annoyance of Roger Crowell and his surrounding leadership, over the past year, Shane had also proven himself to be indisputably the best player in the league.
Shane cleared his throat, the sound crackling through the showroom speakers. He scanned the crowd, seeking the gaze that had once made his pulse race with curiosity and fear, a frightened rabbit in the black of night, yet which now could easily comfort him, consume him, ruin him completely.
They found each other. Brown and blue. Earth and sky. Grounded and untethered. Shane smiled.
“When I was drafted at eighteen, instead of signing an immediate Entry Level Contract, I chose to complete my degree at Concordia and play hockey at the University level, which surprised a lot of people. Especially my mother,” he said into the microphone.
“In general, my decision got chalked up to wanting an education to fall back on, to play it safe. But that wasn’t the case.” Shane drew in a breath before he continued. “Unless you’ve been living under a rock for the past twelve months, I’m sure that everyone in this room is aware that I’m gay. Apparently, being the first out player in the MLH is kind of a big deal.” Laughter petered around the room like raindrops on a tin roof.
“Well, that’s why I didn’t sign right away. I’ve known I was gay for as long as I can remember,” he admitted. It was something he hadn’t said to the public before. The room was holding its breath. “And when I was drafted, I wasn’t sure if I was ready to commit to a career path which seemed to come with this unspoken agreement to stay in the closet until I retired.” He chuckled at himself. “Obviously, that didn’t happen.”
Those blue eyes and the untethered sky they encapsulated shone brighter at him, wet with pride. Shane forged on.
Two Years Earlier – August 2011 – Montreal, QC
“Are you gonna be in the NHL one day?” Chloe asked, blinking up at Shane with wide hazel eyes. She was the smallest kid in the 7-10 division of that year's Stingers Hockey Summer Camp, her size exaggerated by pads that nearly swallowed her whole.
“Yeah, are you?” Owen piped in from the small crowd of kids surrounding him. They had just wrapped up camp for the day, and were huddled together at center ice.
“That’s the plan,” Shane said, lightly shoving at Owen’s head with a gloved hand that looked comically oversized against his glossy black helmet. “This time next year I should be playing with the Metros.”
Shane loved volunteering with his University’s summer camps. It gave him a purpose during the months he was off school, something to structure his days around. It also helped him remember what was important about the game, the reasons why he fell in love with it in the first place, and the unabashed and childlike joy that it could bring. He was feeling a bit sentimental, knowing this was the last group of kids he would mentor. Once he graduated at the end of this school year, the Metro’s retained their rights to him, and considering the way he’d developed, playing for The Stingers over the past three years, it was essentially a given that they would be signing him on.
Lily, Chloe’s older sister, furrowed her brow. “But… are you gonna remember us when you’re famous?”
Shane shook his head, putting on an exaggerated fake frown. “No, sorry. The second you leave the rink all your names disappear from my brain.”
The kids broke out into a tidal wave of laughter and gasps. Shane chuckled to himself, and was about to reassure Lily that he wasn’t serious, of course he would remember all of them, when Coach Theriault called him over from the players bench.
“Alright, future Stingers, class dismissed!” He clapped his hands together, shooing them off to their parents like lost baby ducks, before skating across the rink himself.
“What’s up, Coach?” He asked, leaning against the boards.
Coach Theriault passed Shane his water bottle over the divider, and Shane shot a stream of the icy water into his mouth as he listened to the older man.
“So, I know the semester’s starting soon, but the University’s added a new Athlete-in-Residence for this coming year. He’s offering a Sports Leadership seminar, small enrolment, the kinda shit meant for overachievers like you, ya know?”
Shane nodded at Coach absentmindedly, not quite certain if that was meant to be a compliment or a dig.
“Well, I’ve been asked to put forward a player who might be interested in the course, I was thinking you should do it.”
“Uhh.” Shane considered his timetable for the next year. He was taking four 300 level courses related to his business degree, but he did have one elective that he supposed he could switch out. “Isn’t it a bit late to be making changes to our schedules?”
“So you’re interested, then?” Coach said, bushy grey eyebrows hiking up towards his receding hairline.
Shane was fairly certain he hadn’t said he was interested, but he shrugged and said something that was apparently affirmative enough, as Coach reached a hand over the boards, clapping Shane on the shoulder.
“Great! That’s great, Hollander. Don’t worry about your schedule, I’ll work it out with Svetlana in the Registrar’s office. I think it’s a good idea. You’re captain this year, you know? You’re an absolute beast on the ice, but leadership’s a whole different ballgame, I would know.”
“Right,” Shane said, ready for the conversation to be over. Theriault’s style of leadership was primarily delivered through sexist and homophobic cracks made at the expense of the rookies, so he wasn’t sure he trusted his so-called advice.
“And you’re doing me a bit of a favour,” Coach added, wincing. “I was supposed to give ‘em a name six weeks ago.”
Shane snorted, shaking his head. “Well, happy I could help.”
“Knew I could rely on ya, Hollander.”
Suddenly, a yelp cried out from somewhere behind Shane. He looked over his shoulder and was unsurprised to see one of his kids starfishing on the ice, having wandered back on in their sneakers. He was wearing pylons on both of his hands for some inexplicable reason as his parents called out to him from behind the glass.
“I should… uh, deal with that,” he said, nodding at the kid.
“Thanks again!” Coach called after him as Shane skated to collect the wayward child.
One Month Later – September 2011
The rest of August flew by in a flurry of summer camp, moving into a new apartment with Hayden and JJ in NDG, a residential neighbourhood outside of the downtown hub, because Shane wanted to be closer to the practice arena now that he was captain, and dodging calls from his mother about how important his performance in this last season of University hockey was for his career, that the Metros had eyes on him now more than ever, and how he couldn’t afford to slack off. He knew that she never fully agreed with his decision to postpone signing with the Metros when he was eighteen, but that didn’t mean he was slacking off. Back during his first year at Concordia he missed the comfort and familiarity that living with his parents provided. Now, however, he was eternally grateful that they lived in Ottawa, a healthy distance apart.
The chaos leading up to the new semester meant that he entirely forgot about his conversation with Coach Theriault, until he printed out a copy of his schedule and noticed that his Intro to Film Studies elective had been replaced by Sports Leadership. He didn’t mind the change, he’d only been taking Film Studies because Rose, who was studying Theatre, had recommended the course to him, saying that the prof was fantastic. Honestly, he didn’t watch movies all that often unless she was dragging him out to one, so Sports Leadership was probably a better fit.
Plus, Shane liked seminar classes. He appreciated how, with a decent prof, they could be tailored to the students enrolled in them, how they were able to actually engage with the material instead of sitting in a crowded lecture hall with 300 other students, trying not to fall asleep while attempting to take notes. He liked the personable nature of them as well, he didn’t feel as weird asking questions or engaging in the discussion with only a handful of students in the room. He was sure the topic for this class would be interesting as well.
Shane was confident that the Metro’s were going to offer him a contract next summer. Three years ago, he had been uncertain about playing in a league where he couldn’t be out, but if he’d learned anything over his time at University it was that maybe he wasn’t cut out for the dating world of the 21st Century anyway. He’d hooked up with a couple of guys on nights out with Hayden and JJ, who both knew that he was gay, but he always felt a bit awkward after, uncertain what to do with himself, like he was trying to play in a new pair of skates that hadn’t been baked yet.
Rose offered to set him up with a couple of guys from her Theatre program over the years as well, mostly exes of her own that turned out to be gay, but none of them were really his type. And, he would feel weird kissing someone she’d already been with.
So, without even having someone worth being out for, Shane figured it made the most sense to take the contract. And honestly, he wasn’t sure what he would even do if it wasn’t playing hockey. While his degree opened up some doors for him, and he was keeping up his GPA, it wasn’t like he felt the same passion for business that he did for the sport.
Still, he figured Sports Leadership would be interesting. He just didn’t realize that it wasn’t necessarily the curriculum that he was going to be enthralled with.
He was mildly perturbed however, to note that the class was a three hour seminar on Wednesdays, from 10:00-1:00, and he had purposefully built his schedule in a way that gave him Wednesdays off, providing him a fully day to stay on top of his classes or get in extra training. But that was fine. He could deal.
What Shane could not deal with, was the fact that on the first Wednesday of the new semester the shuttle bus that bounced back and forth from the school arena in NDG to downtown, where most of his classes were held, was running late. Shane made a careful habit of getting to class at least thirty minutes early, especially at the start of term. Unlike McGill, Montreal’s more popular University, Concordia was a clusterfuck of buildings that Shane had not yet mastered, despite having attended the school for three years already. In his first year he’d taken a Philosophy of Business course that was quite literally held in a dungeon-like basement beneath a Dollarama. So, time was of the utmost importance, and the universe was failing him.
Therefore, by the time he arrived on campus, and was making his way toward the John Molson Building, where the Sports Leadership seminar was held, he was a pissed off, disgruntled shell of a man. So, when upon turning the corner of Guy and De Maisonneuve he was confronted with a figure smoking directly in front of a no smoking sign affixed to the side of the building, he was ready, as Rose would say, to cut a bitch. Preferably with a skate. To the throat.
He halted in his tracks and shot metaphorical daggers at the man, who sensing Shane’s presence, looked up from his phone. He seemed older than Shane by maybe five or so years, likely a grad student, but his features were striking, leaving Shane momentarily speechless. Between the disheveled and overgrown dirty blonde curls and the series of dark moles dotting his sharp jawline and cheekbones, he was undeniably attractive.
None of that made him any less of an inconsiderate asshole however.
“You’re not supposed to smoke here,” Shane said, with remarkable restraint given the absolute lack of decorum embodied by the street urchin in front of him. Who the hell did this guy think he was?
The man raised an eyebrow, and something about his eyes, piercing and cold, rang familiar with Shane. He didn’t think he’d ever had a class with him, but Shane was sure he’d seen him somewhere before. While Shane was busy trying to figure out how he might know him, he took a drag from his cigarette long enough to cut two weeks off his life, and then proceeded to blow the smoke directly into Shane’s face, because apparently, it was socially acceptable to actively give people second hand smoke these days.
“Okay,” he finally said, voice trailing after the cloud of smoke, a hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Are you– you’re just– I–”
“What, cat has your tongue?” He sucked back another drag. “You are Shane Hollander, yes?”
Shane stared at him, open mouthed. He had a thick, Russian accent, which surprised him, but the fact that he knew Shane’s name meant he was likely a Stingers fan, or at least friends with people who were. He was still smirking, and Shane couldn’t figure out if he was trying to be funny or just fucking with him.
“Yeah, well… I have class, so,” Shane said, hating himself immensely. Why was he still talking? And what right did this guy’s stupid mouth have to look that good wrapped around a cigarette? It should be fucking illegal.
“Yes, sure. Can’t be late of course.”
Sparing one last glance back, Shane shrugged off the moment and made his way inside and to the elevators, checking the schedule on his phone for the room number.
After turning down the wrong hallway twice, Shane eventually found the room. He technically arrived fifteen minutes before class was set to start, although in his mind that equated to twenty minutes late. There were a few other people in the room already, seated around the oblong board room table, and as more students filtered into the room Shane nodded at a few familiar faces; mostly players from Concordia’s other varsity sports teams, along with Luca Haas, a rookie that joined the team this year, who smiled sheepishly at Shane before sitting next to him.
Then, at 10:07 (Shane knew the precise time because after 10:00 hit and the prof hadn’t shown up he kept obsessively checking the time on his phone) their collective piece was disturbed by the entrance of the catatonic smoking Russian from outside. The, albeit incredibly attractive, asshole then decided to sit directly across from him, flashing another grin his way. Shane employed all his self restraint to stop himself from getting out of his seat and cracking a window in a desperate act of passive aggression.
Instead, he returned the man’s stare, refusing to back down. One of his blonde eyebrows ticked up.
“What do you want?” Shane whisper-hissed. Haas' eyes darted nervously between the two of them. Shane felt heat creep up the back of his neck, realizing that people were staring.
The serious expression on the stranger’s face suddenly cracked, dissolving into a grin. “Hi everybody,” he said, voice mimicking the lilt of a primary school teacher as he looked around the room. “In case you are very sheltered, sad people,” he added. “I am Ilya Rozanov.”
Shane blinked. Rozanov held out his arms in front of him like the was the second coming of Jesus fucking Christ. Why the hell was he even introducing himself? He eyed the other students, but their expressions remained blank and attentive, as though he was perfectly normal and deserving of their attention. Also where the hell was their prof?
And then, the realization crashed around Shane like a landslide. He said Ilya Rozanov. Ilya fucking Rozanov, the Russian KHL player who declined an offer to extend his contract for the coming season and subsequently vanished from the world of hockey. But what the ever loving hell was he doing in Montreal, let alone Shane’s Sports Leadership seminar?
Rozanov, very considerately, chose that moment to answer the unspoken question. “You are all very lucky,” he said, returning his gaze to meet Shane’s. “I am new Athlete-in-Residence, and will be teaching Sports Leadership class this year.” His tongue darted out, ghosting over his lower lip.
Shane thought he might pass out. Holy shit. Ilya Rozanov was his prof. He was also, apparently, a complete asshole. An unfairly attractive asshole. An unfairly attractive asshole that Shane had fantasized about straddling and kissing the hell out of his stupid face no less than four times since he entered the room.
Fuck. He was going to kill Coach Theriault for making him take this course.