alliappa



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    It’s the most famous cold case in hockey history. Up-and-coming Russian phenom Ilya Rozanov mysteriously vanishes the summer before his rookie season. Despite extensive police work, no trace of the young superstar is ever found.

    Shane Hollander remembers Ilya Rozanov. Better than most. And now, several years retired and with two highly successful hockey biographies under his belt, he’s taking a crack at the mystery that’s haunted his own career with strings of what-ifs and memories revisited so often they’ve softened like old cotton.

    Perhaps now, with the long eye of perspective between him and those memories, he can unravel the short lifetime of the man poised to become his biggest rival and best kept secret. Travelling to Russia he searches for stories and the answers they hold.

    If only this damn dog that’s apparently a local cryptid would stop raiding his trash cans.

     
    It has wandered this place for years. It knows every stream, every hill, every tree. Every pale, flat face in the place of straight lines. It does not know this face.

    But it remembers dark eyes and star-dots across the cheeks.
    It cannot remember its own name.

    But it remembers him.

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    22 Oct 2026

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    A one-night stand leads to an exchange of numbers that becomes six years of a life-changing friendship.

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    22 Oct 2026

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    “I did something stupid,” Shane confesses, inhaling rapidly. He's still crying, still frozen in the doorway, besides his hitching chest and watering eyes. Hayden's never seen him like this, overtaken with emotion, bitter exhaustion in his voice. He makes a soft choked noise, and Hayden immediately wants to kill something, whatever it is that's making him feel so awful. “I—Hayds—you're gonna hate me—”

    “No,” Hayden says before he can even finish the thought, almost hurt by the accusation. “No way. You're—I wouldn't. I won't.”

    Shane sniffs, offering him a sad smile, his eyes watery and solemn. It's an unfamiliar look, burnt through with sorrow and twisting doubt, sharp worry in the furrow of his brow. “You are,” he says, soft and certain. “I do, and I'm the one who's doing it.”

    OR: Shane returns to the hotel room, post-tuna melt. Hayden spirals.

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    22 Oct 2026

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    The look on Shane’s face, even blurry and partially obscured by smoke, confirms everything Ilya had been thinking. He can hear an awful, keening sound, and realises with a shock that it’s coming from him. And fuck, it only serves to make Shane’s face crumple even more.

    I have never been in a plane crash. A singular plane malfunction, in anyone’s lifetime, even someone who flies as much as him, is an anomaly. Two? Two fucking crashes? Those odds aren’t even worth calculating. Almost impossible. 

    He can hear Sveta’s voice in his head, Russian, sweet and warm like the honey tea her mother used to make for him: You don’t need to tempt fate, Ilyusha, she already has such horrid plans for you. 

    Or: The Centaurs’ plane crashes. Again. Shane has to decide what’s worse— Almost dying, or actually surviving.

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    22 Oct 2026

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    "Why," The officer repeats, leaning forward, "Were you at his apartment? You have to admit, it's pretty strange to—"

    "We're together." Shane interrupts, tone flat. It doesn't make his stomach churn to say it out loud. It doesn't make him want to shrink into the uncomfortable plastic chair he's sitting in. "We had a three-day stretch with no games, so I was staying with him."

    The officer bristles. He has a nametag, but Shane has no interest in reading it. He seems, overall, unconvinced. Shane supposes if he was a cop who was clearly awful at his job and stuck on the night shift, he'd probably be just as miserable.

    "Okay," He sighs, "Let's start again. Tell us what happened, from the beginning."

    [ or: or…hollanov get outed because of a home invasion, and the shooting isn’t even the worst part of ilya’s year! ]

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    22 Oct 2026