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1. Montreal, June 2010
Shane stares at the poster on the wall, the gold lettering catching the light when he turns his head just so. He can look at the poster, or he can look at Rhonda sitting across from him, humming loudly while she types on her keyboard.
He looks at the poster.
There’s a mini version of it in a frame on her desk, and Shane knows it’s also part of her email signature, from all the correspondence they’ve had that led up to today.
For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction
Newton’s Third Law Of Motion, adopted as the motto of the Bureau of Enemies And Rivals.
Rhonda’s long red nails are click-clacking on the keyboard. Except it’s not click-clacking, it’s a click followed by three seconds of silence while she searches for the next letter, and then a clack. She’s hunched over like a prawn but types like a fisherman settled in on the edge of the dock, with a cooler of food for the day and nowhere else to be. Catch — click— and release — clack.
The clock on the wall ticks. Shane looks at the poster. Yuna clears her throat. It’s a power move, a sound that Shane knows well, and is far less jarring than anything else currently happening in the room. Rhonda looks up from her keyboard, shoulders forward and fingers still poised.
The grey and blue shades of her uniform blend in with the grey and blue tones on the wall behind her, the gold lettering on the poster the only point of interest.
“Is this going to take long?” Yuna asks.
Rhonda sighs as she selects a red pen from a small blue and grey jar on her desk, and clicks the retractable end three times.
“I lodged the forms online straight after the draft, so I’m not sure why there’s an issue,” Yuna continues. “He got the first draft, it’s clear that Rozanov is Shane’s enemy.”
“Rival, Mom. He’s not my enemy, he’s just — a rival.”
Shane’s not sure he has an enemy. Even rival seems far-fetched, and the Bureau doesn’t provide any distinction between the two anyway. They’re treated the same, lodged on the form as NAME OF ENEMY/RIVAL. No one has been able to tell him how you know who your rival is. You just know, they say. As if that means anything.
It’s not like soulmates, where your mark gives you an identifying clue of who the person is so there’s no doubt when you make it official. The two marks together form some kind of cohesive picture; two halves of a whole. They’re a lot smaller than they appear in movies, that’s what surprised Shane. The mark appears around the time you become acquainted with your soulmate, whatever that means.
He found his tiny hockey stick mark on his inner elbow the day after the draft picks. He hasn’t told his Mom yet that his soulmate is hockey itself, but it wouldn’t be a surprise to anyone. And how do you put that on a form? NAME OF SOULMATE: THE ENTIRE CONCEPT OF HOCKEY. And who would he get to sign the form on behalf of hockey, the MLH Commissioner? No, thank you. Shane will not be dealing with that issue any time soon.
But the thing is. The thing is. Every action must have an equal and opposite reaction. If you have a soulmate, you must have a rival. It’s some kind of karmic balance in the universe that no one can really explain. Soulmates and enemies have been written about since the dawn of time, and they’re still no closer to figuring out why some people get soul marks and some don’t. There’s a thought that it may be genetic, and Shane’s parents are registered as soulmates, so that’s certainly possible.
Yuna’s enemy is the father of a kid Shane played hockey with in elementary school. Shane can’t even remember his name now. Mark or something, maybe. He tripped Shane on the ice during practice one day. Shane was fine — Mark was nowhere near good enough to cause any kind of injury — but when Shane went down, Mark’s dad burst out laughing on the bench.
Yuna immediately marched into the administration office at the rink, where they kept a stack of rival registration forms on hand, and had Mark’s dad sign the form there and then. She drove straight to the BEAR office on the way home and lodged the form.
David’s rival is Yuna’s ex-boyfriend, the one she had immediately before she met David. His name is Anthony, and Shane has never met him, but knows that David keeps a laminated copy of the form in the top drawer of his home office.
So, because Shane has a soulmate mark, because both of his parents have soulmate marks and an officially recognised rival, it is an absolute certainty that Shane has both a soulmate and a rival. Which is why it doesn’t make sense that the Bureau hasn’t accepted his rival registration form.
The form has to be signed by both parties, which it is. Yuna took care of that on draft day.
Rhonda taps her nails on the desk three times — it’s always three times — and clicks and then clacks. The printer on the end of her desk, which Shane hadn’t seen until now, whirs into action. She takes the piece of paper from the tray and circles one line at the very bottom in red pen, then slides it over for Shane and Yuna to read.
FORM NOT ACCEPTED
“The form is not accepted,” Rhonda says, like she’s being helpful.
“We know the form is not accepted, that’s why we’re here,” Yuna says, her polite demeanour beginning to unravel.
“I’ve never seen this before,” Rhonda says. “The form is filled out correctly, and signed in all the right places, and it’s clear that Mr Rozanov is your enemy, and —”
“Rival,” Shane corrects.
“Sorry, rival, of course. And selfishly for Montreal I’m very glad that you’ll be playing for us, but you were robbed of being the first draft pick, Mr Hollander. I hope you don’t mind me saying so.”
“Thank you, but Shane is fine.” He’s still not used to the praise or the formality; hasn’t even taken to the ice in a Montreal jersey yet. “I’m very happy to be playing for Montreal, as well.”
“There’s something so romantic about a sports rivalry, don’t you think? Like Crosby and Ovechkin, but of course they weren’t in the same draft.” Rhonda leans in close across the table, lowers her voice in case anyone might hear, although the three of them are the only people in this closed room. “I’ve seen their rivalry form, on the system,” she says, with a hushed reverence like she’s speaking about royalty, or the Pope.
“You can look up anyone’s form?” Shane asks. It’s not a secret that Crosby and Ovechkin are rivals; they’ve both admitted it multiple times. But it still feels wrong somehow.
“Of course,” Rhonda says with a shrug. She clicks — pauses — and then clacks. Shane looks up at the poster. “Wait,” Rhonda says loudly, “did I say romantic? I meant, like, classic.” She laughs a little as she leans over the desk to turn the printer off. “Definitely not romantic, that’s hilarious.”
The clock on the wall ticks and Yuna chuckles.
“Can you imagine?” she says, incredulous. “What a scandal!”
“Heh, yeah,” Shane joins in. “It would be crazy.”
“Okay, so,” Rhonda says, back to business. “How many times have you met him? Was it just at the draft?”
“No, I first met him at the Prospect Cup.”
“Of course, and did you speak to him?”
“I introduced myself to him. He was kind of a dick, but it wasn't, like, mean or anything.”
“He was an asshole,” Yuna says.
Rhonda hums loudly and clicks the end of her red open three times. “And at the draft, did anything happen? Did he say anything to you?”
“Not really, but… I saw him later that night. At the hotel.”
Yuna turns her whole body towards Shane, the faux leather in the chair squeaking as she moves. “You did? You never told me that.”
Rhonda places her pen down and clasps her hands on the desk. “And? What happened?”
“Um.” The room suddenly feels a million degrees and the clock is ticking and the gold lettering is catching in the light and the two women are staring at Shane expectantly. “I couldn't sleep, so I went down to the gym. He came in a few minutes later and challenged me on the bike.”
“Ooh, okay, sleep synchronisation is really common between rivals so this is good. So what did he say, how did he challenge you?” Rhonda asks.
“He didn't say anything, he just got on the bike next to me and started racing me.”
“But he didn't say he was racing you?” Yuna asks. “You just assumed he was?”
“Well, maybe I started racing him, I don't know. And then after he kind of teased me about being drafted second.”
“Okay, there it is,” Yuna slaps her palm down on the table. “Asshole.”
Shane's not going to mention the part where he watched Rozanov’s lips around his drink bottle, nor the way Shane responded without hesitation when he insisted they share it. The way Rozanov passed the bottle, though. That felt antagonistic, like he was daring Shane to react. Every interaction between them has been like that: Rozanov finding new and creative ways to keep Shane on edge, pulled taut like a yo-yo on a string and always coming back for more.
“This all sounds like an obvious case to me,” Rhonda says. “But you’re absolutely certain he’s your rival? We all think so, but are you sure?”
“I don’t know,” Shane says, shrinking back into his seat. When Shane was in preschool, they had to do show-and-tell about their happiest day. All the other kids were excited to share their moment, rapidly recalling stories of new pets and trips to the ice cream store and riding on a train. For Shane, however, it was an exercise in anxiety. He'd had so many good days; how could he possibly know which was his single favourite? His teacher told him to close his eyes and pick whatever memory came first, but the only memory he could conjure was his teacher talking to him about his favourite day. They came to a compromise: Shane could talk about any good day, not the single best one. “How do I know?” he asks.
“You just do,” Rhonda says warmly. “When you think about Rozanov, how does it feel? Do you get that, like, fire in your belly? Some kind of inexplicable feeling?”
The gold lettering on the poster is catching in the light, and the blue grey of Rhonda’s uniform is blending into the wall, and Shane is feeling inexplicable things in every part of his body when he thinks about Rozanov.
“Yes, definitely,” Shane says. Okay, so now he knows.
“I knew it,” Rhonda says, thumping the desk triumphantly. “But I can’t tell you why the machine doesn’t know it. If you feel the thing, and both parties sign the form, the machine always accepts it.”
“When you say the machine,” Yuna says, “what do you mean exactly?”
“I don’t actually know how it works. It’s linked to the soulmate system, but like in reverse or something. The universe just works it out.”
“The universe? This machine is connected to the universe?” Yuna asks.
“Yeah, I'm not an engineer or anything, so I don't know the details, but the machine does some sort of vibe-based calculation.”
“But you said it always accepts the forms.”
“It does, usually. Most of the time, when we get an error, it's because of people pulling a prank to test the system. My only thought is that maybe you haven't spent enough time with him for the universe to know, you know?”
“Oh, you're seeing him in a few days, aren't you, Shane?” Yuna asks.
“Yeah, we're filming a commercial together.”
“That is great news,” Rhonda says. “You stay close to him, let him really get under your skin just so there's no doubt.”
Shane nods. “I’ll try.”
“In the meantime, I will escalate this up to my manager, but submit the form again after you've filmed the commercial, and we'll see what happens.”
2. Quebec City, June 2011
Shane frowns at the poster on the wall. It’s an aggressive choice for a government bureau — it’s hard to imagine Transport Canada with graphic photos of car accidents adorning their walls — but the Bureau of Enemies and Rivals must do things differently, at least in the Provincial office.
There’s a series of pictures in frames on the desk in front of them — Michael Jordan and Charles Barkley, Kim Cattrall and Sarah Jessica Parker, Garfield and Mondays — but it’s the poster on the wall that really stands out: Mike Tyson and Evander Holyfield, large enough to use as wallpaper. The red blood dripping down Holyfield’s ear is the brightest thing in the room, unsettling in its vibrancy next to the dreary faded yellow walls. The sweat on Holyfield’s back glistens in the light, and the whole room has an unnerving sense of hostility that is putting Shane on edge.
“We don’t have posters like that in my office,” David whispers, leaning over the side of his chair. “It’s been the same landscape photos for at least 20 years.”
There’s no need for David to whisper. They’ve been alone in this room for at least five minutes, after John went to fetch a form from the printer. He hasn’t been seen since. Maybe he got lost in the rabbit warren of cubicles they'd passed to reach this office, disappeared into the labyrinth of laminated desks and beige dividers. He’s not a tall man, and older than the concept of time, so perhaps he took a quick nap under a table somewhere.
David had offered to come. He had a work trip in Montreal and extended it by a few days so they could spend time together now that the season was over. Shane is due to spend a few weeks of the summer at his parents’ cottage, but he likes it when they come to stay in Montreal for a few days and see him in his own home. He’s a professional athlete and made more money in his first year than most people will make in a lifetime, but he’ll always be their child. Which is a great relief in some ways. When your life is full of people with so many expectations of you — yelling at you night after night to just put the fucking puck in the fucking goal, and be perfect and responsible at every other moment of the day — it’s comforting, to have people who want to make sure you’re well-fed and well-rested.
It’s been a nice few days, having his Dad stay in his guest room, and Shane being responsible for making dinner and deciding what they do and where they go.
But it’s also frustrating as hell when he lives on his own, in an apartment he bought with his own money, and his Mom still calls to remind him to lodge some government forms like he’s a child who can’t cope with basic tasks.
He finally got to show his Dad some YouTube videos, too. Found a montage of mismatched animal companions for them to watch after dinner, then clicked video after video until it was time for bed. He’s pretty sure his Dad didn’t notice the Ilya Rozanov Highlight Reel videos in Shane’s viewing history, but he’s never seemed that focused on hockey, anyway. Or at least, he tries to make sure they talk about something else every now and again. Which Shane appreciates. His Dad's tried to share his daily sudoku puzzles with Shane, or compare Wordle results, but Shane always loses interest by the third day.
That’s partly why Shane still hasn’t told his parents about his soul mark. They ask if he’s seeing anyone, and make a point to meet his teammates’ wives and girlfriends every time they come to a game. He’s not sure how to bring it up in conversation: By the way, I’m never going to have a partner because my soulmate is hockey itself — but did you see that face-off last night? The mark itself isn’t an issue; it’s small and monochrome and could easily pass as a tattoo if anyone asked.
But no one has, because of course Shane Hollander would get a tattoo of a boring hockey stick on his boring arm.
John knocks on the door once before he enters his own office, a piece of paper in hand as he walks behind the desk and sits in his chair. “I think I know what the problem is,” he says. “I had to discuss it with my supervisor first, sorry about that delay.”
Shane frowns at the poster. He could really do with a glass of water, but he declined the offer when he first arrived and isn’t sure how to ask for it now. John types, and his computer emits a sharp beep. John types again, another beep. He types slower this time, runs his figure along each key before deciding which to press, and the whole process takes five times longer than it should. Feels a bit like Shane attempting a sudoku puzzle.
John finds the last key he needs — he ran his finger over every letter three times before pressing it — and the computer responds with a sharp beep. Something flashes on John’s monitor once and then twice. Without saying a word, John stands up and walks out the door.
“Do you want leftovers for dinner tonight?” Shane asks.
“I can cook,” David offers. “If you want a break. Or we can pick something up on —” David holds one finger in mid-air, the universal sign for hang on a moment. He pulls his phone out of his back pocket, the ringtone increasing in volume with each second.
“Hi, darling,” he says, and Yuna’s responding voice comes through softly against his ear. “Wait a second, I’ll put it on speaker. We’re just sitting by ourselves right now.” David holds his phone in front of his face, and squints at the various menu options until Shane points out the speaker button.
“Hi, Mom,” Shane says.
“Hi, honey, I was just checking how it’s all going. Have you fixed the issue?”
“Not yet, I don’t know what’s happening. We’ve been here for ages but we’ve only seen the guy for like a minute because he keeps disappearing.”
“I told you, you should have followed this up straight away when Rhonda emailed to say she was escalating your case. This should have been fixed months ago.”
“I know, Mom. I’m busy, remember? I can’t just take a day off to come to Quebec to sit in an office for hours.”
“I know, I know,” Yuna says, her voice slightly softer.
“It’s okay,” David says. “We’re here now and we’ll get this sorted out.”
“Call me after, okay? Love you both.”
“Love you,” Shane and David sing-song in unison.
John knocks on his own office door again before entering, a thick manila folder in his other hand that lands on the desk with a thud. “I got locked out of my computer again and it's faster to go through these on paper than wait for the computer guy to come and reset my password.”
The folder contains printouts of every email between Shane and Rhonda, all of Rhonda’s case notes and correspondence, newspaper articles tracking Shane and Rozanov’s journeys through their rookie season. The one on top, the most recent, is Shane winning Rookie of the Year.
“So,” John says. “Mr. Rozanov is your enemy.”
“Rival,” Shane corrects.
John turns around and looks up at the poster behind him. Shane can stare at John’s back, and the dandruff resting on his shoulders, or he can stare at the poster. He stares at the poster.
“I know there’s a tendency to not say enemies anymore,” John says, turning around to face them. “That it’s uncouth, or uncivilised, to feel such strong animosity towards someone. That doesn’t make any sense, in my opinion. We accept that soulmates come with an intense, passionate love, unlike anything you’ve felt before. I don’t know why we would expect the opposite to be any different. Does that sound like a rival? Rivals is too mundane for what this is.”
John’s voice is rising and falling with each word, his arms flailing to match the intonation. It’s as if he’s leading a sermon from the pulpit, but Shane has always been a non-believer.
“Enemies are passionate, and their hatred for each other is what fuels them. It’s their entire reason for being. Do you think Tyson would have taken a bite out of his rival? Absolutely not. That is his enemy’s blood in his mouth.”
“You did just win Rookie of the Year, Shane,” David says. “Did you see Rozanov that night? He must have been resentful towards you.”
Shane did see him that night. He’d been disappointed not to run into him earlier in the ballroom, had hoped they could have a drink together and laugh about it before sneaking off to a hotel room. Shane had thought — foolishly, optimistically — that Ilya would fuck him that night. He’d brought lube and condoms in his suitcase. He'd trimmed and groomed himself and packed a spare pair of sex socks.
But instead, it had felt a bit like Rozanov had taken a bite out of him when Shane found him on the hotel rooftop. And Shane meant what he said; the award could have gone to either of them. They both had incredible rookie seasons, and in any other year, with a different field of players, there would have been no debate about the winner.
But this year? They’re both generational talents in their first professional seasons. The media and fans are obsessed with their rivalry.
And it went to Shane.
The ice is home to Shane. That’s where he feels most comfortable, and always has. But off the ice, when Rozanov has him on the bed, or up against hotel walls, or wearing tuxedos out in the open, that’s where he feels out of his depth. Treading for water, gasping for air, moaning like he’s never felt pleasure before. And he hasn’t, not like this. And although it does feel a bit like Rozanov has the upper hand there — he's obviously far more experienced than Shane is — he’s never been resentful, or mean towards Shane.
Not off the ice.
Off the ice, he’s caring and attentive and, okay, he can be a bit of an asshole. But affectionately. That’s part of the appeal. Ilya is someone who doesn’t feel the need to be unfailingly polite to every person he meets. Who isn’t afraid to push Shane to see how far he’ll go.
Or how quickly he’ll come back.
Rozanov has instigated it every time. He’s the one who fucking jerked off in the shower, and he’s the one who gave Shane his room number at the All-Star game, and he’s the one who pushed Shane up against the wall and kissed him so hard he almost forgot where he was. Who they are. Why they could never be. So why was Ilya the one who rejected Shane that night? It hurt, Shane's not going to lie about that. He may have won the award, but he didn’t get the prize he came for.
But before that, at the All-Star game. Ilya had wanted to come to Shane’s house. Hotel rooms are one thing. Hotel rooms next door to Scott Hunter are another. But Shane’s own bedroom? That’s intimate, and personal, and something for people who mean something to each other. Not for two hockey rookies with an overwhelming curiosity about sucking each other’s dicks whenever they happen to be in the same building.
It would have been so easy for Rozanov to be cruel to Shane. Before, during, or after. To get off and then walk out of the room. Leave Shane alone on the bed, with cum drying on his chest and a lump forming in his throat. To never speak of it again, never dream of it again. But Shane keeps thinking about Lily’s phone number stored in his contacts, about how Rozanov seems to always seek him out, about how quickly Shane jumped online and ordered a dildo after that first night in the hotel.
David knocks his foot into Shane’s leg underneath the table, stirring him to respond.
“I don’t know,” Shane says.
“Equal and opposite, Shane,” John says, tapping his knuckles on the table in time with the words. “Equal passion, opposite intention. Did Shakespeare write about rivals?”
“No,” Shane mumbles, shaking his head. He didn’t care much for literature but has a vague recollection of studying Hamlet and The Tempest in high school.
“No, he didn’t. He wrote about enemies. O God, that men should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away their brains! No one is putting a rival in their mouth, are they?”
Shane coughs quickly, swallows down the panic rising in his throat. Tries to clear away the blush that is no doubt forming on his cheeks when he thinks back on just how much he likes putting his enemy in his mouth. Wonders if he’ll ever get the chance to do it again.
John is pacing the floor now, following an invisible boundary marked by the outskirts of his desk. He can only take a few steps before he has to turn on his heel and go back the other way, his eyes focused on the floor as he moves.
“I think I know what the problem is,” John says.
Shane straightens against the back of his chair, stretches his forearms along the armrests and taps his fingers nervously on the curved wooden ends.
“On the form, where it says NAME OF ENEMY/RIVAL, you’ve crossed out the word enemy. But Mr. Rozanov is not just your rival, is he? He’s your enemy. That’s why the form hasn’t been processed.”
“It’s really that simple?” David asks.
“It’s really that simple.”
“I don’t know,” Shane says, unable to look at anything but Holyfield’s ear inside of Tyson’s mouth. “That seems really intense.”
“Shane, you are the two best players in the league. You went through the same draft, in the same rookie year, and are now playing on two original six teams.” John’s doing that proselytising thing again. “This is destiny.” He slams his closed his fist into his open palm as he paces. “It’s written in the stars.” He stops behind his desk and turns to face Shane and David, both palms pressing down on the table as he leans forward with a glint in his eye and a string of saliva falling out of his mouth. “You two are out for each other’s blood, and I cannot wait to see it happen.”
Shane takes a deep breath through his nose, tries to send it into every crevice of his body as he wills his rapidly increasing heart rate to slow down. He’s sure it’s going to pump straight out of his chest and land on the table with a thud, splatters of blood coating Tyson, Holyfield, Garfield, and Mondays.
“I want your photo on my wall one day,” John says, completely serious.
Shane nods, still too stunned to speak.
Blood drips down Holyfield’s ear. Perhaps a photo of Rozanov’s cum pooling on Shane’s chest, or the razor burn lining Rozanov’s thighs after Shane has spent a considerable amount of time with his mouth between them. Or the metaphorical punch to the throat on that hotel rooftop when Rozanov made it very clear that not everything is about him. Them. That maybe nothing is.
3. Toronto, June 2014
Shane blinks at the poster on the wall, the neon lettering offset against the black background. It doesn’t match anything else in the room. Not the beige walls, or the mahogany leather chairs, or the large windows with a view of the Toronto skyline, or the dying plant on the windowsill. The leaves are wilted and brown, the ceramic pot chipped in three places, and Shane hasn’t spoken to Rozanov in six months.
Know thy self, know thy enemy — Sun Tzu
Each word is in alternating fluorescent pink or yellow, bold in its vibrancy in such an otherwise sterile room. The black and yellow and pink are almost a highlighter version of the Raiders’ uniform, something impossible to avoid right now as Rozanov leads his team into the Cup playoffs against San Francisco.
Tim’s uniform is light brown, a similar shade to the desk, and the wooden blinds in the window, and the ticking clock on the wall behind Shane.
Hayden had offered to come with him; any excuse to get a night away from the kids now that the Metros are out of the playoffs. Shane wouldn’t mind the company. Speaking with government employees always seems to set him on edge for some reason.
But he wouldn’t have been able to speak about Rozanov as freely as he’d like to if Hayden were here. Not that he’s going to reveal their history, or lack thereof in recent times, but he worries sometimes that it shows when Shane talks about him. It’s much easier if Shane just doesn’t. Talk about him. Think about him. Dream about him.
“…worried about a breach of privacy you can rest assured, Mr. Hollander,” Tim says, as Shane’s focus drifts in and out of the conversation. He takes a sip from the glass of water in front of him, hoping that it might force him to start thinking about anything but Rozanov.
But that’s why he’s here. Still trying to make sense of this bureaucratic nightmare, with a renewed sense of urgency now that lists of confirmed soulmates and enemies have been appearing on the dark web.
The Internet has been trawling through them with fervour, and multiple subreddits have been created for people to share their findings. It’s been all over the news, and people were shocked but not surprised when Matt Damon and Ben Affleck were confirmed as soulmates. Ben admitted his back tattoo was actually an oversized anomaly of a soul mark and paired with a tiny one on Matt’s ankle.
So far, it seems to be limited to forms lodged in certain cities. Boston has been hit. Los Angeles, Paris, and Tokyo are the main ones. Shane didn’t even ask for this meeting; someone from the Canadian national BEAR office rang him a few weeks ago to schedule it, and this was his first chance to come, now that the Metros are done for the season. He’ll be spending the rest of the summer in Ottawa, staying with his parents while he oversees the final weeks of the construction of his own cottage.
He’s been trying not to think about Rozanov. Trying and failing. He'd managed to keep him at a distance for two years, then succumbed in a moment of want and weakness.
Now he’s right back where he started. Thinking about Ilya fucking Rozanov. Shane can’t believe he let Rozanov into his home, let him fuck Shane on his own bed with all his pillows, only to be ghosted ever since. Apart from that brief encounter at the Olympics, when Rozanov made it clear there was absolutely nothing between them, all of Shane’s attempts to reach him have gone unanswered.
It hurts. To be pursued for so long, and then rejected the moment he gave in. It doesn’t make any sense that Rozanov would spend the better part of two years chasing Shane, reaching out every time they played each other and at random points in between, then turn and run as soon as Shane gave him what he wanted.
What they both wanted. It was fucking incredible. Shane still thinks about it every time he’s alone, late at night, with his hand down the front of his pants. Ilya fucking him from behind, pounding him relentlessly until Shane had not a single thought left in his head.
But it wasn't just the sex; it was being taken care of. Shane put so much trust in Rozanov’s hands, and he'd handled it so delicately in their time together.
And then discarded it the second he walked out the back alley door of Shane’s Montreal apartment.
And if Shane touches his finger to his lips, he can still feel Rozanov’s lips pressed against them so gently, in the cold stairwell of his building. Shane understands that Russia is not a safe place for Rozanov, that he’s dealing with history and brutality on levels that Shane will never comprehend. But he'd meant it when he asked Rozanov if he was okay. He wasn’t trying to fuck him in the upper levels of the ice arena; he was genuinely concerned when he spotted him up there and went to say hello.
And that’s what frustrates Shane so much, is that —
“…and we’re contacting all high-profile couples to —”
“Couple? We're not a couple,” Shane interjects, uncrossing his legs and pressing his spine against the leather back of the chair. “We're not anything.”
“Oh yes,” Tim says, waving his hand in the air in a non-committal gesture. “That's just what we call a match. I mean, a pair, a couple, that's all. Two people, bound together by the universe.”
“Right,” Shane says, the word still rattling around in his head.
“We think that if someone were to discover that you and Mr Rozanov are not confirmed as rivals, there may be negative consequences for your reputation. Is that fair to say?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“Okay, so let me just go through your file here, and —”
“Wait, you said rivals?”
“Yes.”
“Last time I spoke to someone, they said we were enemies, not rivals. That’s why the form couldn’t be processed.”
Tim sighs, the kind of deep bone-weary sigh that’s years in the making.
“We’re starting to move away from thinking about enemies, these days. When people are declared enemies, they can sometimes think that entitles them to violence, or bloodshed. Or that their designation means that they're above the law.”
He opens the drawer underneath his desk and pulls out a small bottle, squeezes three pumps of lemon-scented hand sanitiser into his palm and rubs his hands together. “And that’s not something we, at the Bureau, can condone. We prefer the term rivals. It’s just a lot more… civilised, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, I get it. I never really thought of him as my enemy anyway.”
“That’s interesting,” Tim says, hands clean and typing rapidly. “Why do you say that?”
“Well. We just never —”
Because I can’t stop thinking about him or that night in my apartment and the nights in hotel rooms before that and even though I haven’t spoken to him in months, and the last time I did speak to him he was rude and dismissive, if he texted me now and told me he was in town I would be on my knees again before he’d even shut the door.
“—We don’t, like, hate each other or anything. I think we’re actually good for each other. I play my best against him, and there’s no one else I enjoy beating more than him.”
“It must kill you that he’s about to win the Cup?”
The lemon scent of the sanitiser is pervading every part of the office. Shane wrinkles his nose as a form of protection, but can’t stop it from making his eyes water. “Yeah, a little, I’m definitely jealous. That’s what every player wants, obviously. But I’m also happy for him. He deserves it, he’s been playing better than anyone else in the league.”
“Even you?”
“Well, his team is in the playoffs, and mine isn’t, so yeah, I guess… Better than me.”
“What about the Olympics? Did he deserve to win then?”
“No, but… Being back in Russia is complicated for Rozanov.”
“It sounds like you know him quite well.”
Tim keeps typing as he talks and the clock is still ticking next to Shane’s head and the plant leaves are still dead and nothing exists except lemon scent and Shane needs to lie down.
“I mean, I think that’s what it is. I don’t really know. I’m just guessing.”
Shane focuses on a small scratch on the side of the desk. He can feel Tim watching him, but Shane can either speak openly while he looks at the scratch, or he can look at Tim. Doing both feels impossible. “I saw him briefly in Sochi one day and he wasn’t very… friendly.”
“Is he usually friendly towards you?”
Shane blinks slowly, hoping the movement might bring the right words front of mind. Might force back the words he’s terrified of blurting out by mistake. Is sharing a water bottle friendly? Is a dick pic friendly? Is having anal sex for the first time and then being rebuffed and ignored friendly?
“Yeah, he is. He’s not as bad as he wants everyone to think he is. He’s my peer, and my equal, my only equal on the ice, and I think he respects that.”
“Equal and opposite,” Tim says with a wry grin. He presses a few more keys with a flourish, then moves the keyboard slightly out of his reach.
“Yeah,” Shane says with a half-smile, as he takes another sip of water.
“So you don’t think other players are at your level?”
“I’m not trying to be arrogant or anything, but no. There are a lot of very talented players, but Rozanov is the one who keeps me on my toes the most.”
“Not even, say, Scott Hunter?”
“What do you mean?”
“You got into a fight with him recently, that seems out of character for you. Do you want to share a little about that?”
Absolutely not, no. What could he say? That Hunter implied he knows about him and Rozanov, and Shane got so angry he was ready to throw down? That Hunter didn’t even need to say his name, and Shane already knew exactly who he was referring to.
Because there’s no one else. There never has been.
“Just having a bad day, I guess.”
“Fair enough, that happens to all of us. Alright, here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to get this form processed as fast as possible so that just in case the information does leak, everyone will know you two are rivals.”
“Okay, but, are you expecting more leaks? Because I’ve been trying to process this for years and it still hasn’t gone through and no one seems to know why.”
“We have increased our security, and are confident we have fixed the leaks. This is just a precaution. And sometimes, when it’s a high-profile couple — sorry, match — the universe doesn’t register it right away. It likes to just sit back and wait for a bit, and see how it all plays out.”
“But everyone else I’ve spoken to said they’d never seen this happen before.”
“It’s okay, we here at the national Bureau take a different approach. Our systems are a bit more advanced than the regional offices, with a much higher sensitivity, so leave this with me and I’ll get this processed straight away.”
4. New York, December 2016
Shane glances at the poster on the wall, only slightly familiar with the black silhouette of Alexander Hamilton with his finger raised in the air. His parents saw the show a few months ago and raved about it, but Shane isn’t one for musicals. A promotional poster for a musical seems an odd choice for the wall art of the North American head office of the Bureau of Enemies and Rivals.
Wait, it’s BIRD now. Bureau of International Rival Designation. He can vaguely recall seeing something about it in the news a few months ago, a swift change after public outcry when the zookeeper who shot Harambe claimed they were enemies and he didn’t regret it.
Rose has seen Hamilton too, and was invited to meet the cast backstage when she went with Miles. She’s always singing something about women in the sequel while she makes her coffee. She thinks it’s cute that Shane doesn’t know anything about pop culture or current trends — apart from the movies he watches on planes — but it makes Shane feel out of his depth most of the time.
But most things that aren’t hockey make Shane feel out of his depth most of the time.
Alice has said five words in total to Shane since he arrived. “Take a seat, Mr Hollander.” The long, narrow hallway that led him to her office was illuminated by fluorescent lights above, each one buzzing in a different key. The sage green colour on the walls was a welcome relief when he entered, immediately calming Shane’s frazzled nerves, but the soothing effect only lasted until she turned on her computer screen.
Alice’s monitor is brighter than the sun, and without the warm tones. The harsh white light is so bright, it casts shadows on the wall behind her. She could do finger puppets if she’s ever bored on a quiet day.
Her typing doesn’t have the click-clacking or the tap-tapping of someone who does it regularly. It has a strange, off-beat cadence, unsettling in its unpredictability. Shane can’t explain why he feels so anxious being here, but her erratic typing is not helping. He’s met with the Bureau multiple times now and is still no closer to making his rivalry with Rozanov official.
It just keeps escalating further and further up the system.
He’s not sure he cares anymore. Not sure he ever cared. The data leaks on the deep web have slowed down, and after the Katy Perry and Justin Trudeau soulmate reveal, most people have decided the leaks are all fake, anyway.
He did see one person on Twitter question why they couldn’t find a Rozanov and Hollander rivals form after the Boston office was targeted, but it took just one reply — you think Roz has ever filed paperwork? That shit’s in Canada — for it to be quickly forgotten.
Rozanov. Shane’s trying really, really hard not to think about him. And it works.
Sometimes it works.
At least some of the time, it sometimes works.
When Shane spends time with Rose, he’s not thinking about Rozanov. When he’s on the ice, playing anyone but Boston, he’s not thinking about Rozanov. When he’s at home, alone, okay, yes, he’s probably thinking about Rozanov. Definitely when he’s in the shower, or in bed, or staring at the wall late at night thinking about the childish way he panicked when he was at Rozanov’s house back in October.
During the day, too. There was something about seeing him in the daylight that unravelled Shane. Rozanov’s eyes had never been as blue as they were that day. His hair was golden in the natural light, his body chiselled by a god, and he looked relaxed and comfortable in his own home. It was domestic, almost. Soft. Tender. Not the way Shane rode Ilya into the bed, or jerked them off together on the couch. But the way Ilya made them lunch, and spooned Shane while they napped. Shane wore Ilya’s clothes, for fuck’s sake.
Fuck, what was that? Shane still can’t make sense of it. Rozanov had asked him to stay. Stay. He said it so many times, insisted that they extend this rare time they got to be alone together. And then what? He talked about how much he likes girls and fucks them in different cities all over the continent and that was even before the Svetlana of it all. Shane never felt more nervous in his life than when he had asked if Svetlana was Rozanov’s girlfriend.
Well, Ilya can have Svetlana or some other random girl in LA or wherever and Shane can have Rose and that's fine. Perfect for both of them.
But then, but then. The part that repeats on a loop in his head, some kind of sick paralysis he can’t escape from, is when Ilya had said Shane. God, it felt so fucking real, like they really might be something, and the Shane repeats in his head late at night, and first thing in the morning, and any time he has five seconds alone. Shane, Shane, Shane.
“…Shane?” Alice asks
Shane looks up, stunned.
“I’ve said your name multiple times, are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine, sorry. Just tired. Had a hard game last night.”
“I saw. It looks like Hunter might have his head in the game this season.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Shane says. Hunter’s too old to have his head in anything but a retirement home, but he’s too polite to point that out.
“Boston are playing great, too. Although Rozanov is in a bit of a slump at the moment. Have you seen him at all lately?”
“Last time was a few weeks ago, when Boston played in Montreal.” Technically, that’s true. That was the same night that Shane saw him in the club, stood motionless and watched him swallow that woman’s ear whole. The same night Shane went home and had perfectly adequate sex with his gorgeous movie star girlfriend. It wasn’t… bad. It just wasn’t good.
It’s different, that’s all. Of course, it’s different; it’s an entirely different set of tools. And he’s not sure how anything could compare to the sex he has with Ilya.
Had.
They’re not… at least, Shane doesn’t think they are. He thought Ilya might have reached out that night, before the game. Would Shane have invited him back to his apartment? He doesn’t know.
He likes to think he wouldn’t. He’s not a cheater, and he wouldn’t want to hurt Rose like that. But he’s never been able to say no to Ilya. Never wanted to. Still probably wouldn’t, if he got a text right now. This is the longest they’ve gone in years — since Sochi, maybe — without communicating in some way. And that ended with Shane begging Ilya to touch him in a Las Vegas bathroom, filth and germs be damned.
He can still recall the tears welling in his eyes, a physical release that was half frustration and half relief. He was just happy to be acknowledged by Ilya again. To be wanted by Ilya again.
Since that night in Vegas, whatever it is — was — between them has been something Shane could rely on. Flirty texts before a game, check-ins over the Summer just to flirt a little and ensure that nothing was forgotten. Shane hadn’t realised just how much time he spent glued to his phone, either texting or reading old messages, until Ilya stopped sending them. The first message on Shane’s phone when Montreal won their second cup was from Ilya.
And now it’s been two months without one.
“…And?” Alice asks.
And. He didn’t look at Shane once, during a face-off or on the ice. Didn’t tease him or make fun of him. Wasn't even aggressive with him. Just treated him like a normal player. Someone Ilya didn't give any thought to. It was fucking miserable.
“I saw him later that night, at a club.”
“Did you speak to him?”
Shane shakes his head slowly. “No, I was there with Rose. I only saw him from a distance.” A few feet is a distance. Technically.
Alice continues typing, the abnormal pace in sync with Shane’s irregular heartbeat. “I’m going to ask a personal question. Is that okay?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Since you have a rival, you know that means you must have a soulmate.”
“Yes,” Shane says softly. He still hasn’t told anyone his soulmate is the entire game of hockey, and he’s not sure he’s ready to say it now, either.
“Have you got your soul mark?”
“Oh. Um, yes, I have.”
Alice squeals and claps her hands in the air. Well, most of her hands. She's protecting two swollen fingers on her right hand that are bandaged together.
“Do you have your soulmate forms here? I can submit those for you as well, if you want.”
“I’m not following. Why would I be submitting my soulmate form?”
“With Rose?” Alice asks, her chin resting on her good hand, face giddy with glee.
“Oh.”
Oh. Fuck. Oh fuck. Is Rose his soulmate? She loves hockey; they spoke about it for hours the night they first met, so his hockey stick soul mark would make sense. Oh, but no — he got the mark years before he met Rose, so it’s not possible. Okay, good. Crisis over. Rose is not his soulmate.
It’s still just hockey.
“Actually, no. I’ve had the mark for a long time, so I don’t think it’s Rose.”
“That’s a shame,” Alice says sweetly. “You two are adorable together.”
“Thanks,” Shane smiles. It doesn’t feel like a shame. It feels a little like relief, actually.
There’s a small part of Shane that wonders what Ilya thinks. If he’s seen the press photos of them, seen the comments people leave underneath, declaring them the couple of the year. A very selfish part of Shane hopes he has.
But that’s not why he’s with Rose. He does like her a lot. She’s kind, and funny, and laughs at all Shane’s jokes. They are sweet together, and his Mom is desperate to meet her. God, she was so happy when Shane told her that. He thinks, or he hopes, that he could actually love her. One day.
Shane takes a deep breath. “Do you know why my rival form still hasn’t been processed?”
“Yours is a very interesting case, actually. I’ve been reading your case notes, watching footage of your games, reading what people online are saying about you. I have no doubt that you two are rivals, it’s as clear a case as I’ve ever seen. Except for maybe Hamilton and Burr, here,” Alice says, pointing to the poster. Her swollen fingers look red and painful when she holds them in the air, the metal clasp of the bandage glimmering in the light. “Or me and my neighbour.”
"Your neighbour?” Shane asks.
Alice leans back in her chair, looks up at the ceiling. “I’ve had my rival since childhood. First day of kindergarten, my mother lodged the forms. I don’t even remember why, I just knew I hated her. Two weeks ago, I moved into a new apartment building. I’m carrying boxes stacked high, can’t see anything in front of me, and this person comes up behind me and pushes me into the wall. Completely jammed my fingers against the brick, and like, pushed, with force. Do you know who it was?
“Your rival?”
“My fucking rival.”
“Wow, that’s rough.”
He knows things are… strained between them right now, but Ilya would never hurt Shane. He’ll make him beg in a filthy bathroom, make him nearly cry with relief to be wanted again, but he won’t hurt Shane.
But Shane thinks maybe he did hurt Ilya, back in Boston. When he panicked, Ilya’s cock still in his hand and a faint smile on Ilya’s lips. He looked so happy, in the split-second before Shane freaked out and had to leave.
But he couldn’t. Couldn’t allow himself to have this, because they can’t have this, and that hurts even more than pretending it’s nothing at all.
Shane looks up at Alexander Hamilton, one finger raised in the air. He knows Burr killed him in a duel after years of fighting. Knows that there’s only so much you can tolerate before you do something a little insane.
“Are you seeing Rozanov soon? It’s All-Stars in a few weeks, right?”
There’s a drip of sweat forming under Shane’s collar, threatening to drip down his back and join the others that have already fallen south. He really should take his sweater off, but he’s been sitting here too long now for that.
“Yeah, in Florida.”
“And you’re playing on the same team this year, I think I read?”
“Yeah, first time.”
“How do you feel about that?”
How does he feel about that? Anxious, nervous, excited, hopeful. Nothing’s going to happen between them. Shane’s got Rose and Ilya has whoever he wants, and that’s okay. But maybe playing together might make things a bit easier between them. Less hostile, less intense.
Or maybe it’ll make everything worse and Shane will sit in his room alone all night. Who the fuck knows.
“Excited, I guess. Should be fun.”
Alice mmhmms as she types.
“Alright, I’m going to re-submit this form, and then hopefully we can put an end to all this back and forth.”
5. Zoom call, May 2017
Shane looks up at the photo on the wall, a young wild Shane with spiky hair, sticking his tongue out at the camera. He doesn't remember ever being that carefree; he feels like he was born worried about what the world thinks of him. The gold frame doesn’t look out of place on the wall, next to his parents’ qualifications and wedding photos.
His Dad’s desk is big and sturdy, solid wood and zero fuss. Shane opens the top drawer and just as he expected, there’s David Hollander’s official rival form, laminated for safekeeping. He wonders how often his Dad thinks about Anthony. If he’s woven into the fabric of his being like Ilya is for Shane.
Wake up, think about Ilya. Eat breakfast, think about Ilya. Workout, think about Ilya. Go to work, hopefully see Ilya, and if not, wish he were seeing Ilya. Late at night, in bed, always thinking about Ilya. His parents don’t really talk about their rivals at all.
He stares at his own reflection in his laptop screen as he waits for the Zoom call to connect, and adjusts his arm in the sling. Shane was supposed to fly to Oslo for this meeting, at the world BIRD headquarters, but still isn't cleared to fly after his concussion. It's rare that they give dispensation for a virtual meeting, but Shane thinks they might be as fed up with the rival process as he is.
Shane hadn’t meant to hide it from his parents, that his rivalry with Ilya was never made official. He just… never brought it up. It’s not lying by omission if they never asked, right? If they, like the rest of the world, never doubted the rivalry.
His Mom was shocked when Shane mentioned the call, that his case had been escalated all the way up to the world headquarters, and offered to join him to get it all straightened out. He'd had to remind her, for the twentieth time that day, that he is a functioning adult. He owns multiple properties, has many sponsorship deals, more money in the bank than he could ever know what to do with, and he can deal with a bit of government bureaucracy. He’s fairly certain she just wants the call over with quickly, so Shane can watch the final play-off game with her.
A face appears on the screen, a large man with dark hair and rectangular glasses, corners so sharp they should come with a hazard warning.
“Mr Hollander,” Magnus says. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
Shane nods, does an awkward little wave to the camera with his free hand and then immediately regrets it. What do you do with your hands on a video call? Shane picks up a post-it note from the table and folds it in half and then half again, the tactile project giving him something else to focus on. “And you,” he says. “Thank you again for letting me do this over video.”
It must be late in Oslo, well past business hours, and Magnus is rugged up in a navy blue cardigan with a folded collar. It looks handmade, and well-loved, and Magnus takes a long sip of his mug before he continues.
“Before we start, I just want to explain a few things first. I know your file has been open for a long time and is still awaiting a resolution, but this is the final step. There’s nowhere to go from here, so if the universe doesn’t accept it this time, we won’t be submitting it again.”
“Okay, yeah, that makes sense,” Shane says. And it does, really. He wants to interrupt, put an end to this whole process, wants to say he’s actually quite certain that Ilya is not his rival because nobody else has ever seen Shane the way Ilya does. Never treated him with such care, never trusted him with such conviction. And nobody has ever made Shane feel the way he does. Feel like he’s someone to be adored, like his boring personality is the most wonderful thing about him.
But how could he possibly say any of that out loud? He’s only just let himself start to think it. He’s not ready to verbalise that to anyone else yet. Instead, he tries to harness that nervous energy thrumming through him and channel it out through his hands. Maybe he can learn origami in however long this call takes, come out of it with zero rivals and five post-it note paper cranes.
“I’m not very familiar with ice hockey,” Magnus says. “It’s not popular here in Norway, so I apologise for not being aware of you or Mr. Rozanov.”
Shane nods; he’d prefer it if most people didn’t know who he was, actually. It sounds nice.
“However I have worked with many high-profile clients, so I assure you I’m familiar with the unique conditions surrounding long-term sports rivalries. I have been watching YouTube videos of your history, and there are two specific incidents I want to talk to you about. Both of them are quite recent.”
Shane thinks he can probably guess which two.
“You were playing against Rozanov’s team recently, when you were injured. Is that right?”
“Yes, I crashed into Marleau.”
“From what I’ve read, it’s drilled into hockey players that they keep their eyes up. It seems odd that a player of your calibre would make such a simple mistake. Do you remember why you were looking behind you instead of in front?”
Because I’m madly in love with Ilya and didn’t want to look away from him for even a second. Because it finally feels like we might actually be something, or be at the start of something, or at least be starting to admit that we might want to be something. Because I told him I’d text him the front door code!
“Because he’d said something to me, I can’t remember what.”
Magnus places his mug down so he can type, and the steam wafts up from below his chin into the narrow view of the camera.
“Right. And after you were hit, he stayed next to you. I think the ref had to tell him to move away repeatedly, and from the clips I saw, he looked quite concerned.”
“Yeah, well, we’ve played against each other for a long time. I mean, no one wants to see another player get hurt, no matter who it is.”
“Of course, I understand that.”
Shane watches with horror as the tendrils of steam somehow take form in front of Magnus, white puffs turning solid and rising up to touch his cheek.
“No, Verðandi, you can’t sleep there,” Magnus sighs, and angles his camera down so Shane can see the cat splayed out across his desk. She’s flat on her back, all grey except for one white paw raised in the air, and Magnus’ woollen arm cradled around her head. His words and tone suggest he’s frustrated with the cat, but when he comes back into view, his face is soft and his eyes are gooey, like he’s somehow both good cop and bad cop.
“She’s adorable,” Shane says. He’s never had a pet, but suddenly wishes he had a cat in front of him. Easier to play with than post-it notes.
“Now, talk to me about the All-Star game you played together back in January. It was your first time playing on the same team, is that right?”
Shane hasn’t stopped thinking about that weekend. Ilya in his Hawaiian shirt, practically eye-fucking Shane as he sat at the bar. Ilya playing in the water with other players’ kids, and openly flirting with Shane in front of everyone else. Ilya on the sand, his hand twitching closer until he finally touched Shane’s. Ilya in a hotel room —
“Yes, that’s right. The league has always tried to pit us against each other and found different ways to put us on opposite teams. Like a North America versus Europe thing, even though it’s never been played that way before.”
“And why do you think they did that?”
“I guess it’s profitable for them, if people think we hate each other. It’s a violent sport at times, and the fans want to see us as rivals, so that’s what the league gives them.”
“How did it feel, to be playing together?”
Shane relaxes back into his seat, hides his mouth behind his open palm but knows he’s unable to cover up the warmth in his eyes when he thinks back to that weekend in Florida. “Like poetry. It doesn’t feel like that with anyone else. We could just sense where the other would be, every time, like our bodies were in sync.” Rose had asked Shane once if hockey stopped being fun as he got older. But it hadn't. Not when it’s like that. That was just two kids out on the ice, playing as if nothing else in the world mattered.
“That’s interesting. One of the core tenets of rivalries is that they push each other to greatness. You motivate each other to be better, but it’s usually because you’re in opposition and not on the same team. How does it feel when you play against him in a normal game?”
“He’s my favourite person to play against. I enjoy beating him more than I enjoy beating anyone else.”
Magnus smiles as he types. “Okay, excellent. And back to the All-Star game. I think he kissed your helmet? Is that common, in hockey?”
“Yeah, he was just — that’s Ilya, I guess. He passed to me and I scored a goal, and then… he loves to get a rise out of people, to make them react.”
Magnus re-positions his keyboard, leans his forearms over Verðandi so he can type without waking the kitty.
“Okay, that makes sense. And something else I found online was people referring to… Hollanov, I think it is? Hollander and Rozanov? Lots of comments on YouTube were calling you that.”
“I don’t… what is that?”
“It’s people who — I’m not very familiar with the term — people who ship you together? From what I can tell, it’s people who think, or wish, that you’re secretly in a relationship? I saw one commenter say, and I quote, they deke and then they freak. I don’t know what that means.”
“Oh, um…” Shane crumples the post-it note, cranes be damned. “I don’t, I mean, I’m not really familiar with that. I don’t spend a lot of time on the internet.”
Watching Rozanov highlight videos doesn’t count, surely.
Verðandi’s paw reaches up and swipes against Magnus’ chin, demanding attention. He lifts her up into view, cradles her in one arm and keeps typing with the other.
“She is the love the of my life, even when she interrupts my meetings. The second love of my life, I should say. I got her after my husband died, and —” Magnus lifts his cuff slightly and angles his wrist towards the camera. It’s a tiny but recognisable simple outline, a cat on its back with one paw in the air, curled around a ball of yarn. “She turned up in my garden the day after his funeral, and never left. The yarn is my soul mark, and the tattoo is my way of honouring the two great loves of my life. I’m just sad they never got to meet.”
Shane sits, motionless. He’s not sure what to do — should he comfort Magnus? Ask to see the cat again?
“That reminds me,” Magnus says, tapping his keyboard and looking intently at something on his screen. “Do you have a soul mark? I couldn’t find it in your file.”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Okay, that’s good news. Do you know if Mr Rozanov has one, at all?”
“Um.” Shane has seen every inch of Ilya’s body, knows it better than his own most of the time. He’s never seen one, and Ilya has never mentioned one. It’s been a long, long journey to get to where they are now in their relationship — which is still nowhere, actually — but surely, surely, Ilya would have mentioned if he had a soul mark. If Svetlana was his soulmate, or someone back in Russia, or his coach’s son, or —
Shane rubs his suddenly clammy palm on his thigh, clears his throat but chokes on the exhale, can’t understand where all the oxygen in the room has disappeared to. “It’s, um,” he says, and knocks over a container of pens as he reaches for his glass of water. Shane stands, somehow the only position that makes sense to him, and collects the pens back in the glass jar. “I’ll just be one second,” he says to Magnus.
He walks around to the other side of the desk, invisible from Magnus’ limited view, and breathes. It’s not easy, breathing. Feels a lot like drowning. Liking take a hit from Marleau and slamming onto the ice.
Shane doesn’t remember much from that injury. He can remember his excitement before the game, both at seeing Ilya again and inviting him over after. He had his plan to invite Ilya to the cottage, had spent days strategising the best approach — they’d fuck first, as Ilya is always a bit softer afterwards. That’s when his kisses turn syrupy. Maybe Shane would bring it up in the shower, or maybe back in bed, with damp hair and tangled limbs.
He hadn’t even noticed how their hookups had grown longer. Now, they didn't rush out of bed and into a waiting car; they always found reasons to linger and extend their time together. Shane would casually — so casually; he'd practised — ask what Ilya was doing over the summer. If he was returning to Russia, or if had a spare week or two to spend with Shane.
He didn’t get to do any of that. What he does remember are Ilya’s rough fingers caressing his cheek in a hospital room, and how the bright fluorescent lights made his hair look lighter than ever before. He remembers talking about the cottage, but not Ilya’s response.
The absence of acknowledgement since then has become an answer, though. They’ve been texting daily, calling every now and again while Shane has been recovering.
Ilya hasn’t mentioned his summer plans even once.
Shane's Mom said he’d been child-like when she visited him in hospital, happy and carefree, obviously given the good drugs. Shane looks up at the photo on the wall. Thinks about baby-faced Shane with the spiky hair and innocent grin. When life was simple, and hockey was fun, and summers were spent on the lake.
“Shane, are you still there?” Magnus calls out from his screen.
“Yeah, I’m just — I spilled some water, so I’m cleaning it up. I can still hear you.” He’s not ready to sit down and talk to Magnus again yet, but thinks he can probably listen.
“Okay, I’m not supposed to do this, but I have access to the soulmate system. I can see that Rozanov hasn’t submitted any soulmate forms, so we might be safe to assume that he doesn’t have a soul mark.”
Relief washes over Shane, buckling his knees and forcing out his breath. He’s instantly calmer, though his hand in the sling feels jittery and foreign, begging to be stretched out to release some energy. He stretches out the fingers on that hand instead, the only possible option.
“Okay, um, that’s good, I guess,” Shane says, rounding his Dad’s plain wooden desk and taking his seat in front of Magnus.
“Shane, I’m going to say something that I think is probably not a surprise to you.”
“Okay.”
“And before I say this, I want you to know that we have strengthened our cybersecurity to avoid any more unfortunate data breaches. We have layers upon layers of safety for our data, and then even more layers for special cases like yours.”
“Okay…”
“I will never share this with anyone else. And if you agree, I will lock your file, so no one else can access it. That includes all of your history, your previous meetings and forms, all completely hidden on our system.” Magnus looks down, probably at Verðandi, and smiles softly before he looks back up at Shane. “It is my professional opinion that Ilya Rozanov is not your rival.”
Shane blinks back the tears forming in his eyes, unable to form any words.
“If you do not agree, that is completely fine, and we can submit your form again to the universe. It’s your choice,” Magnus says.
“No, I…” Shane swallows, feels the tension leaving his body and replaces it with coherent thought. “You’re right. I’ve never hated him, even when I was supposed to, when everyone told me I was supposed to.” There’s a sudden knock on the door. “Yeah?”
Yuna opens the door and sticks her head through the small gap. “Shane, honey, the game is about to begin. Are you finished?”
Shane looks at Magnus, and then back at his Mom. “Yeah, Mom, all finished.”
“That’s great, now come on.”
“Thanks, Magnus,” Shane says, with a wry smile. “For fixing this.”
“You’re very welcome. All the best, Shane.”
Shane nods, does an awkward little wave to the camera with his free hand and then immediately regrets it, and then goes out to the living room to watch the game.
+1. Ottawa, August 2017
Shane stares at the poster on the wall, the gold lettering catching the light when he turns his head just so. It’s subtle, calming against a wall of soft pinks. The large windows have sweeping views of the Ottawa river, and with the natural light coming in and the warm lamp in the corner, there’s no need to turn on any harsh office lighting. It barely feels like an office, the usual imposing desk and computer equipment replaced with loveseats and an iPad.
Fate loves the fearless
The James Russell Lowel quote is the motto for the Bureau of Eternal and Everlasting Soulmates. It’s on email signatures, wall signage, motivational posters in bus stops.
He can hardly believe he’s here. The warm leg pressed against his own is the only thing keeping him grounded, with the strong hand on his knee rubbing a gentle thumb back and forth.
Rhonda’s long red nails are click-clacking on the iPad. “Mr. Hollander, I can not believe I am seeing you again.”
“I know. It’s pretty crazy for us, too.”
The Ottawa BEES office has a separate entrance for high-profile guests. Shane was assured of total privacy when he booked the appointment, both in person and in their online system. The elevator in the private car park takes you straight up to the secure level, with bookings set far enough apart that no guests will ever see another.
It’s smart, and it’s the only way Shane would agree to come.
He didn’t want to risk lodging the forms online, being pushed from layer to layer of government bureaucracy in case the universe didn’t agree.
It will, though.
Shane reaches down and takes Ilya’s hand in his, the only display of public affection he’s allowed himself apart from the few meals they’ve had with Shane’s parents over the last two weeks. Once they overcame their initial confusion and actually saw Shane and Ilya together, David and Yuna understood completely.
The way they care for each other, the way they take care of each other, and the push and pull of their competitive natures. The way there's only ever been one person in the entire world they’ve wanted to beat. Ilya has already been added to the family group chat, with plans for him to visit without Shane when he plays in Ottawa next season.
And Shane knows they’re not ready, knows it’s not possible any time in the near future. But eventually, once people are able to see them together, they’ll understand.
Ilya looks over at Shane, love written all over his face. Shane’s never been good at reading emotions or intuiting meaning without words, but even he can see it. Ilya’s eyes are soupy, his mouth in a permanent smile, and there’s no trace of the provocative hockey captain people love to hate.
“And Mr Rozanov,” Rhonda says, in a long pause between clicks and clacks, “I am so honoured to meet you.”
“I am very happy to be here,” Ilya says.
“So I guess we know why that rivals form never processed, huh?” Rhonda says with a chuckle.
Ilya sits up straight and leans over to whisper in Shane’s ear. “You said it would be hidden in the system?”
“Yeah, no,” Shane says, loud enough for Rhonda to hear. “Rhonda used to work in the Rivals Bureau. I met with her when I couldn’t submit it before our rookie season.”
“I’ve been promoted,” Rhonda says. “I’m better suited for the love side of things, anyway. I think I told you back then to get closer to Rozanov so the universe could figure it out, and obviously you took that to heart.” Rhonda’s shoulders start shaking, her laugh big and booming, unstoppable until it tapers out into a wheeze.
“Oh,” Ilya says dryly, turning to face Shane. “Is that why you seduce me in the showers? To submit some paperwork?”
“You seduced me!”
That sets Rhonda off again, her whole upper body shaking with laughter.
“You two are fun,” she says, wiping away tears once she’s able to breathe. She inhales slowly a few times before she can speak again. “Now, before we start. Everything we say in here is completely private. Nothing leaves these walls. So I want you both to be as honest and candid as you can. Okay?”
Ilya lifts Shane’s hand to his mouth, gently kisses the back of his fingers. “Okay,” he says.
“Let’s get the important stuff out of the way. Do you both have a soul mark? I’ll need to verify them.”
“We do,” Shane says, as he folds his linen sleeve to reveal the hockey stick on his inner arm.
Ilya takes off his shoe and lifts his foot to show Rhonda the mole-sized hockey puck on the sole of his right foot. It was sheer luck that Shane spotted it. Ilya was doing handstands in the lake one day without water shoes on — despite Shane’s protests about sharp rocks and who knows what else is under that water — while Shane watched on from the shore. He can’t blame Ilya for never seeing it before. It was pure chance that Shane saw it.
Fate, perhaps.
They’d already said I love you, by then. Before the soul marks, before they knew the universe had written their fates, they’d already said I love you. And Shane knew before that, in the hotel room at the All-Star game, when Ilya allowed himself to be vulnerable for the first time. In a Montreal nightclub, when Shane went home with his beautiful girlfriend instead of his supposed rival. On his couch at the cottage, when Ilya said he hadn’t been with anyone else.
He said it so casually, as if that was just a lazy coincidence and not a choice hand-designed by fate. But Shane knew.
He probably knew back when he saw someone smoking in a parking lot in Saskatchewan if he’s being totally honest.
“This is so romantic,” Rhonda sighs.
When they found Ilya’s mark, he had asked when Shane first spotted his own and was shocked to hear it was so long ago. You should have told me, he said. We might have figured this out a long time ago. He laughed when Shane admitted he thought his soulmate was hockey itself. Truthfully, Shane could never imagine himself with anyone but Ilya, and when that didn’t seem an option, there was no point in looking. “We are so stupid,” Ilya had said, and it’s true.
Stupidly, insanely, in love.
Rhonda clicks and clacks on the iPad, far more efficient than she was all those years ago. “Just a few more things here to fill in. Have you both said ‘I love you’ to the other?”
“We have,” Ilya says. “I said it first, do you need to write that down?”
Shane rolls his eyes dramatically, “I said it like two seconds after!”
“Ah, is not true,” Ilya says. “Not in your bed. I said it before then.”
“What?” Shane says.
“On the phone, when I was in Russia. I told you I loved you.”
“That night, when — ?”
Ilya nods. “Yes.”
Shane feels his heart beat in his throat, like it’s tripled in size and is threatening to overwhelm the rest of his body. He had no idea. Something changed for them that night. They'd been in the process of change for a while, ever since the tuna melts, and Rose, and the All-Star weekend.
But that night, that was when Shane knew he would never run away again. That if Ilya would let him, Shane would be his forever. But still, he's not sure he would have been brave enough to say it back that night, even though he felt it.
“Mr. Rozanov, I did not pick you for the romantic one in the relationship,” Rhonda says.
“Ilya, please.”
“Sorry, Ilya. I’m just… surprised, that’s all.”
“He’s full of surprises,” Shane says, lightly pushing his shoulder against Ilya’s.
Ilya rests his arm along the back of the loveseat and cradles the nape of Shane’s neck, his fingers firm and reassuring. He gives a light squeeze that says ‘I am here’ as much as it says ‘and I will love you forever’.
“Who else knows about your soulmate designation?”
“No one,” Shane says quickly. “No one yet. We’ll tell my parents once it’s approved, but we want to wait until then, given our… history.”
Rhonda pauses mid-clack, long red nail hovering in the air. “Do you think there’s a chance this won’t be approved?”
“No,” Ilya says. Zero hesitation. “We are soulmates.”
“Oh my god, I have goosebumps. I believe it. I am obsessed with you two.”
“Thanks,” Shane says sheepishly. It’s nice to get that response from people. His parents first, and now Rhonda. But he knows the rest of the world may not be so kind.
The hockey league and its fans definitely won’t be, at least. There are rules in place about players and soul mark designations, that they can’t be traded without their approval, but that took years of campaigning and finally a lawsuit a few years back for the rules to change.
The league is slow to move on anything that might be considered progressive or open-minded, and even though soulmates pre-date the concept of hockey — of sports, even — there is nothing in the rule book about two players who are soulmates. Shane has spent the last few days researching and hasn’t been able to find any other players who have come out as soulmates. Male ones, at least. Not in hockey, or in any other North American professional sports.
“I am obsessed with him, too,” Ilya says. He’s doing that thing again with his eyes, where they’re practically a liquid. Flecks of gold floating in a sea of vodka fresh from the freezer.
“Okay, the last question on the form. Have you committed to each other, forever?”
“Yes,” Shane says triumphantly. “That one was my idea.”
“Oh, barely. I’d already thought it, was just letting you speak first.” Ilya waves his hand in the air as Rhonda looks on delightedly.
“This one isn’t on the form, it’s just for me. Do you have a plan to announce this?”
Ilya looks at Shane, waits for him to speak first. “Not for a long time,” Shane says. “We’re going to take the focus off the rivalry and let people see us as friends first. And then I guess, eventually… when we retire, probably, we’ll announce it.”
“That’s smart, but gosh. It’s such a long time,” Rhonda says, leaning forward with her elbow on her knee, her head resting on her closed fist. “Just know I’ll be here the whole time, rooting for you.”
She sits up straighter, looks down at the screen. “You should know that this one is instant response, not like rivals. So we’ll know the answer straight away. Now, before we submit this, do you have any questions for me?”
“This is completely confidential, right?” Shane asks. Ilya runs his fingers through Shane’s hair, gently scratches his scalp.
“Of course,” Rhonda says. “We have the highest security in this office. You’re in good hands.”
“Okay.” Shane looks at Ilya, who nods his approval.
“Let’s do it,” Ilya says.
Rhonda clicks, pauses, and then clacks. Ilya takes Shane’s hand, grips it between both of his palms. Shane is surprised by how calm he feels, but Ilya’s tactile impulses still feel like an anchor, keeping them both from drifting away.
Rhonda flips around the iPad to show the screen, and Shane smiles up at the poster on the wall.
Fate loves the fearless, and he feels pretty fucking brave right now.