Chapter Text
“… yet another disappointing performance from the Boston Raiders last night. Not a great way to start the season, I’ll tell ya that. Not at all. And it’s so hard not to talk about how Captain Ilya Rozanov played,” Lou, the podcast host of Shut the Puck Up, continued on, hammering down on what all Boston fans were feeling this morning.
Shane roughly toweled off his damp hair, neatly tossing it into the hamper before padding over to the coffee machine. He slotted in an espresso cup and jabbed the start button, feeling himself come to life with the Keurig.
“… Trailblazer Rozanov, the one that scored 85 points last season, took the Raiders to playoffs for the first time in years, and nearly won them the cup. Where’s that Rozanov this season? What exactly happened over the summer? He’s missing shots, skating differently, making the wrong calls. We’re a few games in but he hasn’t shown up, and Boston fans must be wondering when he…”
“Fuck off,” Shane mumbled, turning off the audio. “He’s compensating on that left leg” His stride was shorter than usual - guarded, tight. Anyone could see that, he thought to himself. It was a bad game. It happened. Give the guy a break.
Shane was, like many other Boston natives, a die-hard Raiders fan. He watched every game and knew all the players, all the coaches. Hockey had always been a big part of the Hollander family and it always would be. It started with his Dad, who was a defenseman back in the day, now an AHL coach. And his Mom, who was a respected PR and branding agent, representing various big names in the NHL. Hockey was always a part of his life.
And Shane loved it. Loved the passion, the game, the camaraderie. He loved the players, watching them ricochet across the ice, strategizing and pushing their bodies to the absolute limit in order to score, to win. He loved the thrum of the crowd, how everyone in the stadium or at home seemingly held the same breaths, released the same cries.
There was something special and addicting – in watching your team play hard, win or lose.
Ilya Rozanov was exactly that. He played hard – fervently, like he was on fire and chasing a storm. Shane followed the Russian from his very first year, maybe even a little before that. #1 draft, rookie of the year, ‘the one to watch’. And he’d proven that much and more, now with a few years under his belt. No cup yet, but likely one of the best players in the league. His trade to the Raiders was exactly what the team needed. As Lou said, last season was unprecedented. They were torrential in the playoffs, the cup snubbed right at the end because their goalie was injured.
But Rozanov’s presence left Boston fans like Shane hungry for a repeat year.
“Will bring Boston cup next year, no doubt about it,” Rozanov had said, matter-of-factly in a closing interview. Shane could still picture that vid now. How determined the Russian man looked. Camera lights curtailing across his cheeks. Beads of sweat collected atop his strong brow bone, glistening but still, as if gently sewn in. His lips were crooked – just so slightly upturned, despite defeat. How he spoke, that accent of his somehow made everything sound sultry, like he was teasing you. His lips wrapped around the words no doubt about it – it felt like writing a promise you could feel.
Shane thought about that interview a lot. For what reasons, he didn’t know.
Lou was certainly right about something though. Rozanov didn’t have the ‘aura’ he did just a few months ago, leaving Shane to wonder what could’ve transpired in Russia this past summer. He mulled over those thoughts absently while sipping on his coffee.
A buzz from his phone, a reminder – 11:00 AM BRUNCH WITH MOM @ THE BUSY BIRD.
It was already 08:00 and he was supposed to meet mom in a few hours. Yuna apparently had important ‘things to discuss’. It was either the recent news (gossip) in the League, or another attempt to hook him up with another nice girl. He really hoped it was the former.
Either way, he definitely needed to hit the gym beforehand, to clear his mind.
“So how’s work honey?”
Shane looked up at his mom over the edge of his menu at The Busy Bird. They’d been here a hundred times but he still re-read the options, in the rare chance he ever felt like stepping outside of his comfort zone.
“Work is good. The seasons just started but I’m already pretty busy,” he answered.
Yuna gave him a soft smile. Growing up, she and his dad always handed him the liberty to pursue whatever career his heart desired. Both of them assumed it would inevitably lead to a life on the ice – his love for the sport, hockey IQ, and athletic promise at a young age made it an obvious choice. It was a surprise to his parents and coaches alike when he decided instead of being one of the players, he wanted to work on the players.
“Mhm. Apparently your father can’t hear the end of it from that one kid. Mark?”
Shane smiled, picking up his gingerale to take a shallow sip before responding. “Mack, Mom.” Mack was a very aggressive left winger on the Boston Grands, the AHL team his dad coached. Shane now treated him regularly, after his first session ‘totally changed everything bro’. Mack had been on an upward bounding trajectory since – Shane couldn’t take all the credit for that, despite all of the high praises the player sung for him.
“Right, Mack. Apparently he’s almost as good as you were, Shane.” She said it with a light, sweet tone.
He made a noncommittal noise in response as their waiter came by to take their order. He was grateful for it, reciting his same order before handing her his menu. Nothing new today.
“Anyways, that’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about,” Yuna said, now with a full-on smile, the ‘Momager’ smile, as his dad liked to call it.
“You wanted to talk about Mack?”
Yuna rolled her eyes once playfully, still smiling. “No, silly. I wanted to talk about your work.” She took a sip of her mimosa before continuing. “So you know how I’ve been working with Cliff Marleau?”
He nodded. Of course he knew. Cliff Marleau was a talented forward on the Raiders. Tall, rugged, handsome, and a beast. He meshed very well with Rozanov, officially on the ice, and unofficially in their rumored debauchery off the rink. His mom called him a ‘PR moneymaker’. Shane loved to watch him play and was astonished when Yuna started representing him.
“It’s a shame about the game last night by the way. But anyways, I met with him about a cologne brand deal and he mentioned that his shoulder was acting up –,”
“Mom –,” he started, already suspecting where this was going.
Yuna put up a hand, raising her brows. “Which I’m sure you caught onto, watching him play. Anyways, I thought I would refer him to the best sports therapist in the city.”
“Mom!” He said again, just a little louder than speaking volume, feeling like a petulant child embarrassed by his doting mother.
“What! I figured you could get him right, God knows the team needs all the help they can get with how the season’s going so far.”
He wanted that menu back so he could sink into the paper, he could feel the uncomfortable frustration bubbling up in him. “Professional athletes on the NHL have designated physical therapy teams. I’ve never even worked on someone like Marleau. He probably gets the treatments he needs already. I'm not sure I could do him any better.”
Yuna finally gave an exasperated sigh, her face softening. “There’s no reason to be nervous. Cliff Marleau is a human just like every other athlete that you work with, NHL or not. And even if you don’t believe it, you are talented. Might I remind you that I haven’t needed to help you with any marketing because your skills speak for themselves!” She reached across the table and placed a hand on his fist that he hadn’t known was clenched. “Honey, if you're worried you're going to mess up somehow, you won't. Plus, isn’t this what you’ve always wanted?”
He let out a slow, calming sigh and nodded. After a few beats, he nodded again. “No, you’re right. I’m sorry,” he said, clearing his throat a bit. “It’s a great opportunity.” A pause. “I guess I’m just a little nervous.”
Yuna leaned back and smiled. “And that’s okay. Get through it and you won’t be nervous anymore. You’ve always wanted to be in the big leagues.” He felt a familiar numbness crawl its way up his diaphragm. He gave her a pressed smile, recalling an old, scattered dream in his mind, like opening a forgotten box in the attic and finding an old crayon drawing of yourself as an astronaut.
Shane Hollander being drafted into the NHL. That was his astronaut ‘dream’. For a long, long time. But at some point in time, when he was working towards that dream, something inside of him changed.
And it happened without him even knowing.
Back when he’d spend countless hours watching and studying the pros, watching video after video, going to every game he could. Somewhere in between those hours, he stopped watching the puck dance across the ice, stopped watching technique and stick work. He started watching the players instead. He cared less about where the puck needed to be, how it was being pushed, what needed to be done to win – and more about how a player looked before and after every play. How he moved at peak condition. How he moved when injured, strained, tired – how that determined if a puck swooshed into a goal or not. He was fascinated by the physicality. He would be devastated from injury.
He didn’t realize any of this until one of his very last games, years ago. Carols, his best teammate at the time, was panicked before their big match. He was worried about his back and how he wasn’t moving fast enough and how this game was important and how he needed to prove himself tonight. No one else could tell, but as a captain – and friend – Shane knew immediately.
And it really happened as natural as a flower opening its petals. He offered to help Carols loosen up – just mimicking something he’d once see his mom do for his dad. Knuckles against muscle, ‘you’re going to do great.’
Just like that.
“Shane? You’re going to do great honey. At the end of the day, he’s just a guy that plays hockey.”
He blinked a few times, taking another shallow sip of his gingerale before nodding awkwardly. Just a guy that plays hockey, sure. A guy that he – and millions of others – watched religiously, alongside all the other players on that team, his favorite team.
“And if you’re lucky, maybe he’ll refer some of his teammates to you. That would be great, huh? My son, helping the Boston Raiders bring home the cup this year.”
He couldn’t help but chuckle in response.
Now that was nonsense.
By the time Thursday rolled around, Shane was mostly mentally prepared. He had the space ready as if any other day – oils warmed, lighting dimmed, temperature adjusted. His hands were also well prepared, today with an hour of sculpting clay in his studio.
He felt confident in what he was good at, but was still curious as to why Cliff Marleau agreed to the session at all. He knew that the Raiders' physical therapy team was likely the best money could buy. In the end, he chalked it up to the hockey player simply appeasing his PR agent. Yuna Hollander could be very persuasive.
Regardless, Shane did everything he needed to prepare, methodically following his ‘rituals’. This included spending some time watching footage of recent games, seeing how a player’s body moved. Studying which part of the body a person emphasized, favored, put pressure on. He watched reactions, collisions – the brutal yet elegant dance that was playing the sport.
To Shane, it was all a language. How the athletic body moved. Except that every one person had their own private dialect that no one else really understood better than themselves. It was something he took joy in learning – because in better understanding something was to know how to care for it properly.
By the time Marleau had arrived – on time, surprisingly – the idea of working on someone from your favorite team had been compartmentalized into a manageable, non-nerve-wrecking box. He was much taller in person, but every bit the same in his looks and demeanor. It was jarring, seeing him up close, instead of on TV or from the stands. “Hey-hey! What’s up man. Marleau,” he greeted, with an outstretched hand and a charming smile. “So you’re Yuna’s son.”
Shane greeted him – at least he tried to – like he would any other client: with curt professionalism. No fanboy stares and definitely no acknowledgement of the various Raiders paraphernalia he had all over his little loft. He took the hockey player’s hand and gave it a firm shake before releasing it.
“Shane Hollander. It’s nice to meet you. Are you … okay to get started? I have everything ready. I usually start with a quick intake – just a few questions, and then the therapy session. I promise to get you in-and-out in an hour. I know you have a game later today.”
Marleau gave him a shrug of his shoulders and nodded. “I mean yeah man, just tell me where you want me.”
That let him know that Marleau didn’t have many expectations from their session, or from him. He smiled politely and gestured towards the therapy room. Marleau followed him along into the room and sat on one of the comfy plush roller chairs that were purposefully roomy to fit big athletes.
The intake was straightforward. He asked a survey of cursory questions. Trouble areas, prior injuries, what was bothering him recently, what his physical therapist thought, et cetera. Most of the answers were pretty non-specific, besides that his right arm had been giving him some issues and that PT was working on it.
After that, he stepped out of the room so that the hockey player could undress. A few minutes after that, Shane gave two knocks on the door.
“Come in,” came the muffled voice.
He entered the room, closing the door behind him. Marleau was laying prone on the massage table, a towel wrapped around his waist as instructed. Shane turned on the hot water at the sink and began methodically washing his hands. The soft sound of music was brisk in the background. He’d lit a teakwood candle and placed it in the en suite, so that the scent barely whispered into the massage room.
“So for this session I’ll focus on massage therapy. There’s a pre-game routine and a post-game routine. Pre-game is lighter, better for blood flow and mobility. Post-game is more deep-tissue and better for recovery. Ill start with some broad massaging and then some focus areas.” He recited, drying off his hands with one of the cloths from the towel warmer, approaching the massage table. “Subsequent sessions are usually for working more on your problematic areas. But, I know this could potentially be a one-time thing, so I’ll um … pull out all the stops,” he said.
Marleau raised his heavy arm to give him a thumbs up. “Alright man, just do your thing.”
Shane nodded, to himself, mostly, before squirting some oil into his palms and fingers. He audibly inhaled, something he did to signal that he was going to start the physical contact. After that, was – was studying. Studying the phonetics of the body. Systematically, slowly, purposefully. Broad movements and soft presses that became deeper kneading before returning back.
He adjusted the pressure to both the sounds Marleau made, and the way that his muscles responded. Lighter in response to pain, harder in response to relief. The hockey player lazily turned over to the other side when instructed, eyes closed, face relaxed. Shane got to work on the entirety of the front side, being thorough as needed. Throughout the session, he got plenty of, for lack of better word, relieved groans.
By the time he was done, Marleau had all but fallen asleep. Working on a professional athlete, an insanely muscled one at that, was challenging in the best way. He was definitely able to apply much more pressure. The practice of hands against skin was entrancing, and he was happy that his mom was right about everything being alright in the end.
“Marleau?” He said, softly, with a few nudges to the man’s shoulder. “Hey, we’re all done.”
The hockey player inhaled sharply through his nose, waking up. “Hmm? Oh, fuck.” The man got up slowly, grunting. He rolled his shoulders back and stretched slowly. He stood and bent, testing his joints.
“Since we did a pre-game workup you shouldn’t feel any soreness but –”
“Damn, bro, I feel fucking amazing! Holy shit, you have some magic hands.” Marleau nearly barreled into him, dragging him into a brief, crushing hug - oiled muscles and all. Shane grunted and awkwardly tapped his palm into the man’s back a few times.
“Um – you’re welcome?”
He was released, Marleau had to grab the towel around his waist lest it fall off his hips. “What the hell did you do to my shoulder? The tightness feels great.” The man went to grab his phone from the client basket, pressing a few buttons and then bringing the phone up to his ear. “You know what? Never mind, don’t tell me, I’m fucking scoring tonight!”
Shane gave him a smile before nodding. “Okay, well feel free to get dressed. The en suite has some toiletries you can use.” The man gave him a toothy smile and a thumbs up before talking to whoever it was on the phone. With that, Shane ducked out of the room and made his way to the front.
And just like that he’d worked up Cliff Marleau – a pro player on the Boston Raiders. Even if it was a one-time thing, it was still crazy. “That could’ve gone worse,” he mumbled to himself as he got to his desk. Shane woke up his laptop and was about to check his emails when movement from the corner of his eyes caught his attention. There was someone standing out front, someone … smoking? None of his clients ever smoked and in fact he didn’t have any more bookings for the day.
“Hm.” He made his way out there, flinching a little from the afternoon sun. The smell of cigarette smoke was stark against his nose. “Hey uh, you can’t smoke out – ” Whatever mental preparation, mental script he had prepared for today had melted away, like snowflakes on a running engine. Because standing against the railing was none other than – “Ilya Rozanov,” he said, absently before internally snapping awake. He straightened up a bit, clearing his throat. “I mean, hello. You must be … waiting on Marleau?”
The Russian glanced at him with unimpressed eyes, puffing the cigarette hanging from his lips once before grabbing it with his fingers. The man gave him a slow, assessing look before exhaling a lazy tendril of smoke.
“I’m Shane. Shane Hollander,” he offered, stepping forward and reaching out his hand. “I’m uh – I’m a big fan. Of the Raiders,” he tacked on, instead of of you – God, he was messing up. Ilya Rozanov was standing in front of him and he was messing up.
Rozanov smirked, almost imperceptively. For a second, Shane thought the man would leave him hanging, heat crept up his neck at the thought of it. But that smirk curved wider, like a leaf, bent heavy with rain.
The handshake was brief, a normal handshake like any other. Except that it was The Ilya Rozanov, someone who didn’t know Shane existed despite having taken his breath and leaving him speechless many times over. But for some reason Shane didn’t feel like a fangirl, he felt – nervous, as if the man could see right through him, could see how he had mentally and physically paced this morning, could see how his thoughts were pistoning in his head.
“Did you break Marly?” he asked at last, leaning back and taking another drag of his cigarette.
Shane considered telling him – again – that he couldn’t smoke here, but decided against it. He found himself smiling, instead. “No. Actually, he uh, said he was going to score tonight because of me.”
That earned him a snort. “Da, we will see about that.”
Shane opened his mouth to respond – then stopped. They locked eyes again and he felt like he was naked and on a massage table. After a pause, instead of picking the many other curated thoughts in his mind, he asked: “how’s your hip? The right one, I mean.”
Rozanov narrowed his eyes, the smirk from his face flattening. “What do you mean?”
Shane let out a soft, noncommittal sound, tucking his thumbs into his pockets. “I only meant that – I watch your games. And the last two games, your strides have been short, you’re not fully driving through that right-side push-off.” He took his hand out of his pocket and pressed a thumb into his own right hip, at the hip flexor. Rozanov’s eyes tracked down to the movement. “Tightness here can reduce mobility. I just thought that might be the reason.”
The man looked back at him, staring. But it wasn’t a normal stare. In the back of his head, he ignorantly wondered if Rozanov was understanding what he was saying, language wise.
“Makes chasing the puck hard. The game against the Admirals, the second period? When you tried to cut inside but couldn’t fast enough? Like that.”
Then, unexpectedly, “hmm. And here I thought you were just a pretty face.”
Shane’s eyes widened, lips parted. He nearly jumped out of his skin when the front door opened, followed by a glowing Cliff Marleau.
“Rozy! I see you’ve met Holy Hands Hollander!” The man was grinning ear to ear, walking over and slapping a heavy arm around Shane’s shoulders. He smelled like one of the designer colognes Shane stocked the en suite with, Versace Eros, maybe.
With a brief raise of the brows – perhaps at the nickname – Rozanov nodded. A few, slow times. "Yes."
“Man, this guy works me better than any of those randos we hire, I’m fucking telling ya’. You might need to give him a try.”
Shane could feel his heart skip a beat at the thought of it. Like when you enter the rink but your blade hits the ice wrong. Don’t fall.
Marleau clapped his shoulder another time before releasing him, nodding towards the parking lot. “I feel like a damn virgin. You know what that means … time to win this fucking game and find a few ladies to help me lose my V card!” With that, the tall man made for the lot, letting out a little woot.
Rozanov let out an amused huff, still eyeing Shane. He winked, smiled, and then followed along. Shane couldn’t keep his eyes off of him. Just like at a game. “Get an ash tray for me next time, Hollander,” he said as he passed by, their shoulders brushing just for a moment.
Shane let himself stand there dumbly for a few more moments, listening to the two Raiders get in their car and leave, before heading inside again. He wasn’t sure what bothered him more, that Ilya Rozanov had called him pretty or that they were expected to see each other again.
He wasn’t sure why any of it bothered him at all.