gay hockey special interest time

If Shane didn’t, he knew Dumont would make a big fucking deal out of it. 

Maybe, like the beer, he could just do a little…

Dumont shook the blunt when Shane hadn’t responded yet. 

“Thanks,” Shane nodded and took the blunt, trying to copy Dumont’s hold. He had never even smoked cigarettes before. Lung health was important in hockey. 

The blunt was already about half its original length. He put it up to his lips and sucked in. Smoke flooded his lungs and it took his impressive self control to only let out a suppressed cough. 

Dumont grinned and shoved him, “I know, right? This is the fucking good stuff.” 

“Yeah,” Shane agreed, grateful that Dumont had taken his reaction as his weed being strong instead of the intense burning in his chest. 

“It’s called Dragon’s Breath,” Dumont continued as Shane tried again. “I tell my guy, right, I say to him, ‘this is for fucking hockey players, man, we’re fucking beasts’. I’m not trying to get any that shit they sell to high school kids, right?”

“Right,” Shane passed the blunt back and Dumont took it, taking a slow drag. There, two puffs couldn’t do too much harm, right? 

There was a crash in the kitchen and Dumont groaned and got up, “what did those fucking idiots break this time.” 

He didn’t wait for Shane’s answer, which was good, because Shane was starting to feel really, really, really weird. 

Really weird. 

A little panicked, actually. 

And in fact, super fucking fun fact, the more he thought about feeling panicked, the more panicked he got. 

He felt like there was energy trapped under his skin. Which happened sometimes, but never without warning signs. Never without time for him to fix it before it boiled over. 

He got up, trying to keep his breathing even. 

Davis’s shitty wallpaper started to contract and expand like those little optical illusions he hated as a kid. The cacophony of voices shifted from a discernable hum to an insistent buzzing that set his brain on edge. The air felt sticky. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck, why did he fucking do this? What didn’t he listen to his mother? 

She would be so disappointed in him. She would be so disappointed because he didn’t listen and he did drugs and he ruined his career and he… he lied to her. 

He’s… 

He’s still lying to her. 

Everyday. 

He felt his eyes start to sting and he pressed his hands against them. He could not cry in the middle of Davis’s house party. But he was going to cry if he kept thinking about being a liar, liar, liar. 

So he left. Some asked, “you good, man?” 

He was able to respond, “I just need some air.” 

The cold Montreal air hit him like a wind tunnel. He paced to the side of the house and leaned against the bricks, their chill seeping into his sweater. The wall seemed to pulse with the beat of the music inside, the drum drum of it rattling in his skull. 

He was grateful the houses around here were far apart, so he didn’t have to worry about neighbors seeing him. 

He felt so weird. Bad weird. Like his body was too light and too heavy and he just wanted to be away. 

He wanted his mom. 

But he couldn’t call her because he knew he’d break down and try to apologize. Apologize for being a liar, for jeopardizing the career she and dad worked so hard to build for him. 

There was only one person he wasn’t a liar to and he…

Shane stilled. 

Ilya was like… Shane looked up over the landscape, the moon hanging low in the dusty sky. Ilya was like a lighthouse. His dad once told him that people think lighthouses are symbols of safety, but they aren’t. They’re warning signs, they signal, stay away, there are sharp rocks here that will tear your boat apart. But… they’re only warning signs for the boats. 

And Shane… Shane was more like the rocks. 

He groaned, banging the back of his head against the wall. Which hurt, but helped knock these unwelcome thoughts out of his mind. 

He just wanted it all to stop. 

He took out his phone, almost on autopilot. 

He… he had kinda felt like this before. Untethered and shaky and out of his body. When he had, he was anchored with strong hands over his shoulders and thighs, grounding him. He was kissed back into his body, little points of connection down his neck and his chest. Shakiness steadied into warmth. He fucking needed that. He’d die. 

Oh god, could you die from weed? 

He heard a sharp ring and looked down at his phone. 

Calling Lily… 

Shit. 

Shit shit shit, he did not mean to do that. 

But before he could hang up, the call actually connected. 

“Hello?” Came a rough and sleeping voice from the phone. 

Shane scrambled to get the phone up to his ear. What should he say? 

“Um,” Shane started. “Hi.”

There was silence for a moment, before a more awake voice said, “Hollander?” 

“Yes.” 

“Why the fuck are you calling me?” Rozanov said. 

“Were you asleep?” 

“At two in the morning? Yes,” Rozanov huffed. “What, are you in Boston?”

“I’m in Montreal.” 

“Okay…,” Rozanov trailed off. There was some rustling in the background. “Hollander, what do you want?” 

Shane realized he should feel embarrassed about waking Rozanov up, especially since he might be with a girl. It was a strange feeling, to think he should feel something but not actually feel it. 

“Hollander?” Rozanov prompted impatiently when he did not respond. 

“I…,” what did Shane want? “I don’t feel good.” 

It was pathetic, yes, but it was also the only truth Shane could hold onto at the moment. 

“You are sick?” 

“M’ at a party and I… well, I’m outside now and I…,” he tried to hold onto the words but his mouth wouldn’t work correctly. It was like he was speaking a foreign language. Is this how Ilya felt?

“You are drunk,” Rozanov said, some teasing in his voice now. 

“I’m not,” Shane scowled. He started tapping his hand against the brick wall behind him. “Only had one beer.”

There was a pause. 

“No other drinks?”

“Nu-uh.”

“You only drank one beer tonight? No shots?” 

“No shots.” Shane hated shots, they made him feel like he was going to throw up. 

“Shane,” Ilya said and paused again. Had Ilya ever said his first name? It sounded nice in his accent. “Are you alone right now?”

“Yeah?” Why did that matter?

“Did you…,” Ilya sounded a little upset now. Did Shane make him upset? “Did you open your beer yourself? Did someone else pour for you?” 

“I don’t know,” Shane whined. Ilya was supposed to be making him feel better, not questioning him. Ilya didn’t even like questions. 

“Shane, are you with your team? Or friends?”

“Team party.” 

“Okay, good, go find Hayden.”

“Roz…”

“Now, Hollander.”

That sent a zing down Shane’s spine. Fine. Shane felt a little steadier now, with a task. After all, he did call Ilya for help. It's not like he knew how to feel better or he would not have called. 

Also, Shane thought sadly, it's not like Rozanov was actually here. Where he could wrap Shane up in his strong arms and shield him away from the world, if only for a moment. 

His feet moved on the fuel of Rozanov’s command alone and he headed back inside. The body-warmed air of the house washed over him and the smell of smoke mixed with alcohol made him nauseous. But Ilya had given him an instruction and he wanted so badly to be good and follow it. Because - because then Ilya would make him feel better. 

He scanned over the room. Through the haze, he spotted his task. 

Hayden was just coming out of the bathroom, wiping his hands against his jeans and Shane shuffled over and grabbed his jacket. 

“Hayd,” Shane tried to keep his voice steady. “I found you.”

“Sure did, bud,” Hayden’s brow drew together. “You okay?” 

“Hold on,” Shane pressed the phone against his ear again. “I found Hayden.”

“Good job,” Rozanov praised, sounding relieved for some reason. The praise felt like dipping into a hot bath, warm and tingling down to his toes. “Give him the phone.”

“But…” 

But that wasn’t allowed. It was a secret, always. If it wasn’t then Shane couldn’t play hockey and Ilya couldn’t play hockey and Russia and… 

“Please, Shane,” Rozanov coaxed. “Be good and give Hayden the phone. Tell him Lily will talk to him. I promise it will be okay.” 

But…if Ilya said it was okay, then it must be. 

Right?

“Okay,” Shane said quietly and relented. He held out his phone to Hayden. “Lily wants to talk to you.”

“Lily?” Hayden’s face broke out in a grin. “Seriously?” 

Hayden swiped the phone and pressed it to his ear. “Lily?” 

A pause. “What?” Hayden exclaimed and then looked Shane over, shifting so he was standing in front of him. “Buddy, come on. No, I will… I’m taking him to my car… Okay, I will.” 

Hayden guided him through the party with a hand on his back. They made it through the maze of bodies and back outside into the cold air. Shane had arrived in an Uber but Hayden managed to get him into the passenger seat of his car. 

Shane started trying to get the seatbelt done but he couldn’t get the stupid thing to lock.

Hayden swung himself into the driver’s seat, pressed the speaker on Shane’s phone and held it over the center console. 

“I don’t feel good,” Shane groaned and gave up on the seatbelt. 

“Uh, here,” Hayden fished around the backseat until he produced a packet of peanut butter crackers. He tore the edge a little bit and shoved them in Shane’s hands. “Lily, you still there?”

“Yes,” came a voice from his phone and he had to do a double take. That was not Rozanov’s voice. This was a woman’s voice with a light Russian accent. “Where are you now?”

“In my car,” Hayden turned the key in the ignition. “And before you ask, I’m completely sober.”

Hayden glanced over at him and leaned over, grabbing Shane’s seatbelt and clicking it into place. Shane pouted. It looked so easy when Hayden did it. 

“Good to hear,” the stranger continued. Could Rozanov do that well of a woman’s voice? No way. “Now, do you want to explain to me why my boyfriend is acting like he has been drugged?” 

“I don’t know! I’m not his babysitter,” Hayden looked over at Shane again, who was now distracted by opening each cracker, eating the half with peanut butter and putting the other half back into the packet. “Shane, hey, how’re you feeling?”

“Bad,” Shane scowled at Hayden for reminding him. “I’m never doing that again. Never.”

“Never doing what?” Hayden asked as he pulled onto the road. The lull of the car was kind of soothing, actually. Shane leaned against the door, looking at the trees speeding by. Could trees move?

“Weed.” 

“Weed?” Came Fake Lily’s voice. Then, the rustling in the phone went completely silent, like she muted it. When it came back, she said, “who gave you weed?” 

“Dumont,” Shane said. “He said it was Dragon’s Breath.” 

“Fucking idiot,” Hayden mumbled. “Not you, Shane.” 

“I am,” Shane said, his crackers now gone. “I didn’t want to do it and then I got all upset and I - I called Lily even though I’m not supposed to and…” 

“Shane,” Fake Lily said. “It’s okay, alright? You can call me. I am - Отвали, идиот - I am happy you called me.”

“But you aren’t even real,” Shane said with a little hitch in his voice. He wanted his Lily. 

“Goodnight, Shane.” She said, “Hayden, you take care of my Shane or he will need to find a new left wing, da?” 

“Yes, ma’am,” Hayden smiled, despite the threat. “It was good to meet you, Lily! Maybe I’ll see you at a WAGs night soon?” 

The phone clicked off without a response. 

“Well,” Hayden said. “Worth a shot.” 

Shane doesn’t remember most of that night. Hayden ended up driving him back to his house and setting him up in a guest bedroom. Jackie brought him some water and a couple advil. He remembers thanking her and falling right into the bed asleep, not even getting under the covers. 

It was odd, but Shane was grateful that he didn’t wake up hungover. He actually felt fine. Embarrassed, maybe, but fine. 

Hayden and Jackie made breakfast and while Shane helped cut up some fruit for the twins. They were a little teasing, but overall nice about it. Jackie told him about the time she accidentally did Molly in high school. Hayden told him if he actually wanted to try weed, to ask him and not fucking Dumont who got it cut with god knows what. 

Jackie set a bowl of fruit salad and a couple pancakes in front of him. 

He couldn’t believe he had called Rozanov of all people. 

“Lily seemed nice,” Hayden offered at breakfast and Shane startled. He hated talking about ‘Lily’ because every conversation was a lie. “A little scary, but nice.”

“Yeah,” Shane looked away. Who was that last night? Was it just some random girl Rozanov was with? No way, he wouldn’t have revealed their secret to just anyone. Shane trusted him enough to be confident with that. “Sorry I freaked out.”

“Its all good, man,” Hayden waved him off. “Did you, uh, let Lily know you made it home, okay?”

“No,” Shane mumbled into his fruit. “We’re not, like, together or anything.” 

“She called you her boyfriend.”

Shane felt his face flush. “Its not like that.” 

“Well,” Jackie cut in. “Out of all the people you know, you called her when you were ‘freaking out’. That means something.”

It didn’t. 

He called Rozanov because he was the only person he could have called. 

Right?

“And hey,” Hayden said, offering another apple slice to Jade. “She obviously cares about a lot to answer the phone at fu-uh-freaking two am.”

“Maybe,” Shane agreed because he wanted out of this conversation. 

Jackie seemed to recognize this and pulled Hayden into a conversation about preschool or something. His phone dinged. 

Lily: You okay?

Shane typed ‘yeah, sorry to bother you.’ but deleted it. 

Jane: Yes.

Lily: Good. 

…

Lily: Lightweight. 

Jane: I’ll show you lightweight in next month’s game. 

Lily: Can’t wait >;) 

…

Jane: Thank you. 

There was no response and Shane pocketed his phone. 

It was years later, under the summer haze of their cottage sanctuary, when Shane learned exactly what happened that night. That Ilya had woken up, amused at a drunk call from him. That the amusement had shattered into fear at the thought of Shane being drugged. 

That Ilya had been with Sveta, and it was only her level head that prevented Ilya from getting into his car. 

That it had been her that had played the part of Lily. 

That Ilya didn’t relax until Shane’s text in the morning. 

They had wasted so much time. Shane grieved it.

It takes awhile for happenstance to strike again, and even then it's only glimpses for awhile. Then at ten, they move and Shane has his own bathroom with a big mirror. Sometimes when he's getting ready for school in the morning, brushing his teeth, the other boy is there instead, but he's dressed like he's going to bed. By now, Shane has heard about soulmates, he wonders if the other boy has too. So Shane mouths 'hi'. The other boy frowns and mouths back something else entirely. When Shane shakes his head, the boy wrinkles his nose. It takes a few tries before Shane painstakingly writes a message out backwards and show it to the mirror 'My name is Shane. I speak English. You?'

The other boy stares at the words, frowns and then runs off. Shane waits and even though he winds up almost missing the bus it's worth it because the other boy holds up a sign with weird lettering, but he's patient enough to hold it until Shane can take a picture with his Polaroid. It takes weeks of looking in the library (Shane doesn't ask his teachers much of anything usually and anyway, he doesn't ever know what to do with himself during library time, so it gives him a project). He determines the other boy is using Cyrillic. This explains less than he'd like. The school library doesn't have any books about Cyrillic. Defeated, he finally caves and tells his parents "I see a boy in the mirror, he uses this alphabet, can I get a book?" His mother hugs him very hard. Soulmates, he learns, are rare and precious. He also learns that maybe his parents were worried about him in ways that don't entirely make sense, but okay. Fine. Glad we squared that away. Can I have a dictionary now?

If it had been two years later, he might not have asked. He would have been too afraid of what it might mean to have a male soulmate. Lucky they moved. Lucky that they brush their teeth and the same time.

Shaky-handed characters and pantomime get them to 'Ilya' and 'Shane'. A lucky glimpse in a locker room bathroom gets them to 'hockey'. They start to use clocks to make sure they don't miss each other. When Ilya misses one of their schedule times, Shane can barely think about anything else all day. He knows they won't have a chance again until tomorrow, but when he goes to pee before dinner, he finds Ilya in the mirror, his eyes red-rimmed. For the first time, Ilya seems way too far away. Shane put his hand to the mirror and when Ilya put his hand up too and it's shaking, Shane wants desperately to be closer. That's how his mom finds him on top of the vanity which is not doing well with the weight of a preadolescent hockey player with his whole torso pressed to the glass. She doesn't make him get down. Maybe because he's crying too without any idea what they're both sobbing about. He won't for years.

It goes and goes. Shane interrupts Ilya getting ready to go out, finds him styling his hair. Shane mimics him with a smile and Ilya wrinkles his nose at him. Ilya watches Shane floss in bafflement, but takes up the habit too, seemingly so he can make fun of the faces Shane makes. When they happen to catch each other in hockey gear, they use their fingers to signal goals and assists. Shane keeps track in a little book that holds a lot of things. No one else can see Ilya, anymore than any one can see Shane on Ilya's side, but they learn to be careful in public restrooms, coming up with a clear subtle signal for 'not home' since they can't see the others location. They watch each other grow up. They learn how to write in each other's languages and backwards at that.

And finally, finally, comes the sentence that makes Shane's heart skip a beat. In Ilya's pretty handwriting (good even in his second language and backwards which makes Shane unbearably jealous and proud):

I will see you soon.

They meet at four sitting on their mother's beds across the world from each other. They meet at twelve, sharing a pain that doesn't need words to be clear. They meet at fourteen, Shane fresh out of the shower and Ilya shirtless, things wakening in Shane that he thought he would never understand. They meet at sixteen, hands pressed to the place on Shane's mirror that is always marred with fingerprints.

They meet at seventeen. Shane sees him across the parking lot and tries to stay cool, walking instead of running. He watches Ilya try to light his cigarette and gets there before flame touches it.

"You're not kissing me for the first time tasting like cigarette smoke, asshole."

"This is not romantic," Ilya protested. "This is not first time I hear your voice."

"I love you," Shane said irritably, "do not light that thing or I'll throw up."

Ilya's breath caught. "You do not know me. You do not love me yet."

"I do," Shane said stubbornly. Then he stuck out his hand, "I'm Shane Hollander."

With a smirk, Ilya took his hand. "Ilya Rozanov."

Shane didn't let his hand go. He held firm and Ilya didn't try to pull away.

"There, now we know each other. I love you. Kiss me."

"Shane. I have to go back. It is no good there if we..."

"I know. Mom read me a bunch of articles," Shane said with a shrug. "But there's no one else out here. Kiss here. Everything else later. Okay?"

"Okay," Ilya said.

They kissed in that terrible parking lot and Shane never wanted it to end. He pulled away with a soft sigh.

"Wow."

"Wow," Ilya repeated teasingly. "You will say this when we beat you too."

"Not happening," Shane laughed. He was still holding Ilya's hand, a circuit completed.

When Shane got back in the car, his mother asks, "How did it go?"

Shane has a number in his pocket and a promise for a mirror meeting tonight once Ilya's roommate goes to sleep that makes his ears burn.

"He's kind of an asshole," Shane said, delighted.

"Okay," his mother laughed. "I can't wait to meet him."

And it's not that it's easy. Ilya goes to Boston and Shane goes to Montreal. They will have years before they see each other more in person than through reflections. But when Ilya gets ready for game 7 of the Cup, he does it with Shane smoldering with lusty jealousy from twelve inches away. And when it's Shane's turn, Ilya wears his jersey alone in the privacy of his house so Shane can see it before he heads off to victory.

Even years later, when they're married and more often before a mirror together than trying to communicate through them, sometimes they do it anyway. If Shane is washing his hands, ready to go back out to a photoshoot, he'll look up to find Ilya flirting with him or holding up Anya to make her wave at him.

There is always a handprint on their mirrors.