The hum of fluorescent lights overheard, the shuffle of feet, the carrying of deep voices, too many in one space. These were all sounds Shane Hollander had grown overly accustomed to. In fact, he could probably play a loop of locker room sounds to help him fall asleep. They blanketed his ears in a safe, grounding familiarity. But the illusion was broken the moment he allowed his eyes to focus.
The colors were all wrong. Black and gold darkened the space around him, enclosing him there, forced to take it all in. The faces that offered him studying glances and tight lipped smiles all morphed together in his vision. They were supposed to be unfriendly faces. It made him feel like he was existing behind enemy lines.
His eyes flicked up to a locker, his locker, and the jersey hanging inside. He ran a finger idly over the stitching, HOLLANDER embroided boldly into the black fabric. It made it feel real. Suddenly, his Under Armour was feeling too constricting, like the high neck was squeezing at the base of his throat.
Shane knew that this move was going to be far from easy. His life was so centered around rigid control and predictable routine that even a small change could leave him feeling overwhelmed. But this was the life uprooting type of change that knocked his world completely off axis.
He realized that in this moment, he was not feeling dissimilar to how he felt when his agent and Montreal team reps sat him down to tell him about the trade. Claustrophobic. Dizzy. Like oxygen wasn't properly filling his lungs.
And now here he was, in the Boston locker room, feeling so absurdly out of place that he thought about just sinking onto the floor and disappearing all together.
He knew he would need to get over it, sooner rather than later. He couldn't let his first impression to the team be him freaking out before he could even step into his skates. He took a breath, trying his best to steel himself, when he heard the locker room door swing open. And suddenly, the room felt like it took a tectonic shift.
The feeling was bizarre enough to pull Shane out of his mind, his head whipping around over his shoulder without really knowing what exactly he was looking for.
His eyes immediately settled on the Boston captain's side profile as he stalked into the room. Shane felt like he was watching a storm roll in, a presence so commanding and unyielding that it changed the pressure in the air around him, heads turning to follow him as he took his place in front of his own locker.
Shane was not at all immune to it, his eyes slowly tracking the figure across the room. Ilya Rozanov.
The tension in the man's jaw only did more to make his already sculpted face look like it was plucked straight from a Greek god. Shane was sure he could pick that face out of a sea of thousands. He was, unfortunately, and undeniably, remarkable. Intense eyes stared forward, his full lips set into a natural pout.
Only when Rozanov started to speak did Shane realize he had been staring.
"Coach is still in meeting. We will start practice. Gear up and be on the ice in 10."
His Russian accent curved around his words, which came out short and clipped. Rozanov did a quick scan of the room, as if taking mental inventory. Then his eyes stopped on Shane.
Shane couldn't help but notice how dark Rozanov's eyes seemed. In truth, they were a brilliant color, a sparkling blue and green that always seemed to be taking on a blazing glow. Shane would know. He had stared into those eyes at close proximity. Those eyes had blazed straight through to his soul more than once. His mind, in a brief shock, flooded with an image of the Russian man hovering inches above Shane's face, both of them panting heavily.
His body crashed back into reality as he now stared back across the room, into dilated pupils over stormy eyes, taking stock of him like a predator would. Shane quickly turned to his locker, grasping at his jersey (perhaps a bit too harshly), as he attempted to flee from the moment.
"We have newest member of the team with us today, as you all have seen."
Shane glanced up again, watching as the captain gestured vaguely toward Shane without looking at him. "Shane Hollander." The name came out of his mouth like it was laced with poison.
Shane became very aware of many eyes turning to him now. He felt a few claps on the back and tried to force a tight smile. But his eyes wandered back up to Ilya Rozanov, who was looking at him with so much quiet contempt, that Shane started to understand the phrase 'if looks could kill.'
"Thanks guys. It's uh…it's great to be here. Excited to get out there with you." Shane was speaking, but he felt like he was hearing his own voice from across the room. The situation didn't feel like it could get any more uncomfortable.
Not only was he pulling on the jersey of his long rivaled team, in a different city, in a different country, away from everything he knew…but now he was forced to look into the face of his new team captain. The same face he had looked into 10 months ago when Shane said they could no longer see each other.
He had been haunted since by a vision of blue eyes, crowded by tears, filled with fear and confusion.
Now he felt maybe he was being haunted by something much darker.
Feeling the cool rush of stepping out onto the ice helped to pull Shane somewhat back into the present. No matter how impossible this day was turning out to feel, this was hockey. And hockey Shane could handle.
Just as he was ready to skate out, strong hands grasped Shane's shoulders.
"Welcome to Boston, Hollzy!" Cliff Marlow's booming voice seemed to echo over the ice. The man was huge. Shane was used to trying to avoid him, so having him crowding his space with a big smile plastered to his face was disorienting.
"Yeah, thanks, man." Shane nodded.
"I'm sure it'll take some getting used to, but we're excited to have you."
"It's definitely been weird so far." Shane gave an awkward laugh, leaning against the boards. He had to crane his neck up to look at Marlow.
"Well you should let us take you out soon. You're gonna love it, man, Boston is great. The fans are gonna worship you."
"I don't know, you really think they'll warm up to me that-"
"Hollander!"
The sound cut sharply through the arena. The familiar intonation of his name in that Russian accent made his mouth snap shut. He looked up to see Ilya Rozanov tapping his stick against the ice impatiently. Shane mumbled a curt apology to Marlow before skating out to take his place.
"You are ready?" Ilya's voice was thorny with annoyance. Shane only gave a tight nod in response.
Ilya tensed his jaw before skating off backward toward another group of players, leaving Shane and his group to start their drills. Shane swallowed hard as he couldn't help but watch Ilya's retreat. He had strong legs and a long stride, balanced out by his broad shoulders. Even with how strong he skated, his movements were surprisingly graceful.
They had been playing against each other for years. His movements on the ice should have been familiar to Shane. But they still somehow caught him off guard.
He decided he needed to snap back to focus before he was accused of holding up practice for a second time.
"Hayd, I don't know how I'm gonna do this, it's too weird." Shane was dragging a hand over his face, sinking himself into the brand new couch in his brand new apartment. As much as Shane loved to have control over things, he was always happy to relinquish it to an experienced designer. He lifted a hand to feel the coolness of the exposed brick wall against his skin.
"Shane, you gotta stop freaking out. You need to give it some time. Settle in." Hayden was saying over the sound of high pitched squeals and a too loud TV in the background.
"You don't understand. He was looking at me like he wanted to murder me. Like actually murder me." Shane closed his eyes, thinking back to the dark, animalistic eyes that glared at him from across the room.
"I mean, you are about to steal his spotlight. I'd probably be pissed too. Plus, he's an asshole."
"Yeah. I know, Hayden. But this was…it felt different than that."
Hayden was quiet for a beat, considering. "You really think he's still not…over it by now?"
Hayden had been the first person Shane told. The only person. He had returned to their hotel room that night in Boston, unable to stop the tears that he was desperate to will away. Hayden had listened, patient and kind. It had made them so much closer. Hayden was his lifeline, the only person who knew his heaviest secrets.
He was weighing Hayden's words now. In truth, Shane had the same exact question. Was this cold anger from Ilya just resentment over having to share his space, where he was supposed to be the superstar? Or was it something deeper?
Shane tried very hard to not think about that night at all. Ever. But when he did, it came in flashes.
Shane's first name coming out of Ilya's mouth like a confession. Shane returning the sentiment before his brain could even catch up. Jumping out of Ilya's lap. Moving across the room, trying to put all the space in the world between them. Panicked apologies as Shane frantically tried to compose what he needed to say.
"I can't do this."
Ilya trying to play cool as he pleaded with him. Then Ilya practically chasing him out of the house, grasping at his arm, begging him to stop.
Shane wrenching free from his grip. "No. You're not listening to what I'm saying!"
But the words were coming out harsh and wrong. "I can't- we can't do this anymore. We cannot do this anymore."
And those blue eyes staring back at him, so full of emotions that Shane was not prepared to see. He ran away and didn't look back.
He realized now that he had waited a bit too long to answer Hayden's question. "I mean…maybe. I don't know. I really don't know."
He swallowed back the terrified surge in his chest as an unbidden thought overwhelmed him.
What if I'm not over it?