Chapter Text
December 2008
Today, a present Luca Haas thinks, is the first day of his career.
Today, a future Luca Haas thinks as he looks back on it, is the first day of his entire life.
It is December of 2008, the week of the World Junior Prospect Cup. Luca Haas has become the youngest player ever, at 15, to qualify for the Swiss Team— and so, he finds himself in Saskatchewan, Canada, bundled up in a Switzerland National Hockey sweatshirt, sweatpants.
The first thing he notices is: Canada is cold. Below freezing, he rations to guess. Zurich is not nearly this bone chilling in the wintertime, though it is cold, nonetheless. Their driver has blasted the heat in the coach-bus they’re traveling in; Luca has a thin throw blanket, one that the airline gives with long-haul flights, thrown across his lap, his pocket notebook perched on his lap as he lazily sketches snapshots of the day, nothing too important.
The hotel is nice, and it harbors a lot of the teams competing. As they roll in with their duffel bags and suitcases, Luca spots an array of players, each adorning their national colors— blue, yellow for the Swedes; red, white for the Russians; blue, white for the Fins— bunched up in their groups, chattering away. One player from the Finnish team, a tall, lanky blond guy, catches his eye from across the room, waves. A couple other of his teammates follow after he does; Luca and his teammate wave back, smiling politely. The Russians look a little more serious. They are not chattering so much as they’re speaking in low tones, but regardless— the noise is a welcome thing, a medley of different languages and accents.
Luca has not felt this excited about hockey for a long time. He likes it.
Before he had left for his flight, Luca, his duffel bag slung across his shoulder and a carry-on suitcase next to his legs, said, “Bye, mama.”
His mother did not look up from where she was sipping her tea at the dining table. She did not move the newspaper an inch downwards to peer at him, to consider him. “If you do not make first,” she replied, dismissively as always, “do not bother coming home.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Luca replied, dutifully.
“It may be cold in Saskatchewan, but here at the International Prospect Cup fans are hoping for something hot on the ice. Canada—Russia final showcasing the two most talked about prospects in the world: Canada’s Shane Hollander, and Russia’s Ilya Rozanov. First, you’ve got Ottawa’s own Shane Hollander. From everything we’ve seen and heard, he may not be the most sociable, but this is the kid with the highest hockey IQ out there. Incredibly smart, incredibly dedicated to the game, and incredibly fast. And that shot! Then you’ve got Russia’s Ilya Rozanov. Strong on the puck, and a strong skater. And from everything we’ve heard, he really gets under other players’ skins. Good in his own room, not exactly liked in his opponent’s room. My kind of player. Boston’s kind of player too.”
And:
“During yesterday’s game against the United States, we had Switzerland’s very own young phenom Luca Haas— the youngest player ever picked for the Swiss Junior Team at 15 years old— fight his way towards bronze. He’s a calculated player, methodical. He plays like he’s dancing— he’s smooth, graceful, and agile. While his draft year is a couple years coming, we are excited to see where he might end up.”
And, so. Rozanov takes gold. Hollander takes silver. Haas takes bronze.
He’s not particularly smiley about it during the medal ceremony, but it’s Switzerland’s first time medaling in a decade, which marks a joyous occasion for the team.
His mother calls him afterward, no doubt unhappy about the result. Luca bites the inside of his mouth as he answers in clipped ‘yes ma’am’s, his voice only relaxing when his uncle takes the phone, congratulating him for third.
The fanfare is over. After packing for their flight early the next morning, Haas trickles out of his hotel room, stands outside one of the back walls of the hotel. The cold hits him quick; he lights a cigarette, letting the back of his head hit the wall.
He’s a quarter through the cigarette when there’s a rustle. Under the streetlamp, Luca makes out a mop of curly hair, a thick black jacket walking over.
“Ah,” Ilya Rozanov says, his accent thick. “I did not think someone was here.”
Luca shrugs, taking a drag. “You can join. Congratulations, by the way.”
“Mm,” Rozanov replies, flicking his lighter up to the cigarette propped between his teeth. The flame illuminates a gentle orange on his face— a mole at his cheek, the outline of his cupid’s bow— for a moment before the light is gone. “Thank you.”
They stand in silence, smoke flitting upwards. Once Luca’s smoked through his cigarette, he shoves his hands in his pockets, clearing his throat. “See you next year.”
Rozanov’s eyes roam across his face, back and forth between his eyes, before he nods once, satisfied. “Too bad you are not in my draft year,” he says. “You have good control of the puck. Strong plays.”
Luca smiles with his teeth. “Just you wait.”
June 2009
Rozanov, Overall Draft Pick 1, goes to Boston. Hollander, Overall Draft Pick 2, goes to Montreal.
Luca stays up to watch it live. It’s nearly 2am his time; he’s at a summer training camp, sitting up on his bed, wired earbuds in because his roommate is zonked out in the bunk under his.
Rozanov is grinning as he holds up a black and yellow Boston Raiders jersey. He holds up one finger and then glances at Hollander, who is straight-faced as he holds up his own blue, red, and white Montreal Metros jersey. Hollander props up two fingers a moment later, a smile, with teeth, breaking out. The photographers’ cameras, which Luca knows are pointed in a row in front of them, flash bright across their faces.
They look good together, Luca thinks. It’s exciting, their rivalry. Two up and coming stars, both in the same draft class, their stats nearly identical where they sit at the top.
December 2009
The next year at the International Prospect Cup, Hollander takes gold, Rozanov takes silver, and Haas, again, takes bronze.
They have a gala this year, some anniversary of the Cup they want to mark. Most of the teams attend, adorning formal wear and clinking champagne chutes. Luca lingers next to his mother, the bitter taste of third persisting on his tongue. She had come with him this year. It is somehow worse when she is in person with him— the lines of her face are perpetually displeased, her mouth flattened.
“Ah,” she says, in Swiss-German. “That is Shane Hollander. You should ask him what it means to be a good player, learn something from him.”
Luca, dutifully, replies, “Yes, ma’am.”
His mother catches the gaze of Yuna Hollander, starts walking towards the Hollander family. As she slides up into their proximity, she smiles and says, “You are the Hollanders, yes? You must be so proud of your son.”
“Yes,” Yuna says, warmly. “We are.”
“Mm.” His mother eyes Luca with some level of disdain, though it is schooled away for the audience. “I was telling my Luca that he should learn something from Shane.” She tips her head towards Shane. “You are a great player. Focused. Congratulations on your draft.”
Shane tips his head. “Thank you.” He glances at Luca, who does not glance back, his gaze straight set ahead instead.
Yuna offers Luca, and then his mother, a smile. “Your son is a great player as well. He has a lot of potential, I look forward to seeing where his career takes him.”
“Of course,” his mother replies. “He has been careless, but we will see where he ends up.”
Surprise crosses Yuna’s expression. “Somewhere great, I assume.”
“We will see.” His mother’s gaze lifts towards another group of gala-goers to their left. “Ah— I must get going, but it was very nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you,” Luca echoes politely, after his mother.
He and Shane meet eyes for a moment before he follows after her. Shane’s gaze is calculating, assessing— Luca feels a little exposed at the intensity of it. He’s straight-faced, so much so that Luca cannot get a read on him, but his gaze drifts from Shane’s eyes to the bridge of his nose, the freckles smattered there and across his cheeks.
Luca tips his head, and then wordlessly, takes his leave.
He excuses himself a little while later, drifting around the hallways of the place. There’s a glass door at one end at the far side overlooking a balcony; Luca steps outside on it, reaching into the pocket of his suit pants for his pack of cigarettes. He perches one between his teeth and then flicks his lighter up towards it, cupping it with his hand.
He takes a long drag of the cigarette, staring down at the area below. Behind him, someone clears their throat.
“Hi,” Shane Hollander says.
Luca turns around, lifting an eyebrow. “Hi.”
As Hollander steps forward, he extends a hand. Luca glances at it, and then extends his own, shaking it. With his other hand, he offers out the cigarette. “Want?”
“Oh,” Hollander says. He wrinkles his nose. “No thanks. I don’t smoke.”
Luca shrugs. “More for me.” Smoke billows out between his teeth as he breathes out. “Congratulations, by the way.”
Hollander smiles. “Thank you. Um— congratulations to you too.”
“Thank you.”
Hollander steps forward to mimic his place leaning against the balcony. Luca recognizes the look anywhere: an overall dislike for grandiose events, of preppy smiles and flashing teeth. So he says, hastening a guess that might extend an olive branch, “I hate these events.”
As expected, Hollander’s eyebrows tip into curiosity. “Really?”
“Yeah,” Luca says. He leaves out the part where he’d be having a blast if his mother weren’t accompanying him, but, whatever. Teasingly, he adds, “You North Americans are so uptight about your alcohol. I had to ask my teammate to grab me some champagne. Champagne!”
Hollander snorts, his expression loosening. “I just find them boring. And useless.”
Luca smiles at that, wagging his hand with the cigarette. Grey smoke trails the movement. “Yes, me too. Everyone is so fake. You play so well. Blah blah blah.”
“I’m not sure everyone gets that.”
“Mm. Only me and you, then?”
They stand out there for a while, a comfortable silence drifting between them, before Hollander clears his throat. “I should get going,” he says. “It was nice meeting you, Luca.”
“Likewise, Shane.”
June 2011
“And with the first overall pick in this year’s draft, the Ottawa Centaurs select Luca Haas. No surprise whatsoever; Luca Haas has been the number one prospect all season. I mean, two years ago, we were all sitting here watching the Metros draft Shane Hollander at second pick overall and the Raiders draft Ilya Rozanov at first pick overall. Boston believed Ilya could become the face of their team. Montreal believed the same about Hollander. Ottawa is now making that same wager on Luca Haas.”
“Coach,” his mother says, her voice riddled with feigned warmth, on Draft Night. She reaches out to shake hands with him. “Thank you for giving a chance to my Luca.”
“We are so happy to have him,” Coach Wiebe replies.
“Do not go easy on him,” his mother says. “He has had a terrible example in the past. His older brother gave up hockey when things got hard.” She smiles with her teeth. “My Luca has made it further than him.” She turns her attention to him as she puts a hand on his shoulder. “You will forget his example, hm?” Her nails dig into the skin. “Rest assured, Coach Wiebe— do what it takes to straighten him out. He will not embarrass you.”
Luca bites the inside of his mouth so hard he tastes blood.
Coach Wiebe looks back and forth between Luca and his mother a couple times. He straightens. “I doubt he will.”
Later, when he catches Luca alone, he sends him a warm smile, “See you in September, Luca. Please know that we are very excited to have you.”
OTTAWA CENTAURS’ HAAS COULD ALTER HOCKEY’S BIGGEST RIVALRY, written by Hudson Connors, July 21st 2010
Since their draft, Shane Hollander of the Montreal Metros and Ilya Rozanov of the Boston Raiders have been generational players, stemming both from their talent and rivalry on the ice.
Selected first overall this draft cycle, Luca Haas arrives with the talent, and junior stats, to force his way into a conversation that many assumed belonged to only two names. While Hollander and Rozanov have dominated headlines since draft day, Ottawa believes Haas may possess what it takes to challenge both. The MHL’s next rivalry may already be in the works!
[click this link to read more]
September 2011
The Centaurs are a warm bunch. Luca declines a billet family in preference of having his own place and his own independence, but he has a good feeling about the team.
Coach Wiebe is unlike any coach he’s experienced before. He’s warm. Strict, sure, but he’s genuine about it, pushing his athletes in a way that doesn’t destroy them first. He cares about them. He says ‘good job’ to Luca more in the first week of the pre-season than Luca’s ever heard in his entire life.
Gentle parenting, his new teammate Dykstra jokes during one of their first practices.
Under Coach Wiebe’s leadership, Luca is not just a player for the team, another body out on the ice. He’s human— Wiebe takes into account not only his raw skill, but the way he thinks. The way he operates. The way he plays, really plays.
Luca, at first a little unfamiliar with it, fucking loves it.
The reporter asks him about his goals for his rookie season, yada, yada.
She says: Rozanov— who had promised 50 goals— and Hollander both scored 67 goals each their rookie seasons. Do you have any targets for yours, and if so, are you looking to dethrone their records?
Haas replies: I’ll score 68. He winks at the camera. 69, maybe. It sounds better.
One of his first games is against Montreal. Hollander, at the face-off, is wordless, his gaze focused down on the puck.
“Hey,” Luca chirps. It’s not so much a chirp, really, if not for the sarcasm he laces into the words.
Hollander’s eyes are focused on the puck. “Hey.”
Luca wins the face-off, because this is his first season, and he damn well will.
December 2011
The Centaurs do not have games scheduled for the three days before and after Christmas, so Wiebe calls practice optional in favor of giving them a holiday break. Luca attends every single one, because he doesn’t really have anything else to do.
His mother calls him. “Merry Christmas,” she says, the night before, since she’s on Swiss time.
“Merry Christmas,” Luca replies.
The night before New Year’s Eve, Ottawa plays a home game against Boston. As he and Rozanov line up for the face-off, Rozanov smirks. “The baby is now a toddler.”
“Whatever you say, dinosaur,” Luca replies.
Luca wins the face-off; Boston wins the game.
The next day, Luca is at the checkout of a dingy corner store when Rozanov pulls up. It’s nearly midnight and he’s got three single serve snack packets of grapes and cubed cheese the cashier picks up to scan. He points at the back wall. “One pack of the Camel cigarettes, too, please.”
Rozanov eyes him as he disappears into the liquor aisle, making his way back up to the checkout with a bottle of vodka in tow a moment later.
“Still in Ottawa?”
“Yes.”
Luca stands to the side, waiting for him to check out. When he does, they exit together. Luca lingers for a moment, nodding towards the vodka. “New Year’s Eve Party?”
He’s met with a wry smile. “Nyet.”
“Party of one?”
At this, Rozanov’s expression thins before he shakes whatever feeling off, shrugging. “Yes.” His eyes roam across Luca’s face, and then body, his gaze assessing. He turns back to the cashier a moment later, handing over his card. “And you?”
“Yup,” Luca replies, popping the ‘p’.
There’s a moment of pause as Ilya eyes the grape-cheese box. “You bring your grapes and cheese, I will bring vodka. New Year’s Eve Party for two?”
Luca smiles. “Fuck yeah.”
“Okay,” Luca explains. “My teammate said you have to eat twelve of them before 12:01.”
“Is easy.”
“Oh, get a load of this guy,” Luca grumbles.
Rozanov laughs. “What? Is true. I am very talented with my mouth.”
Luca shoves him. “We’ll see about that.”
They’re sitting in Rozanov’s hotel room, sprawled on his singular queen sized bed, watching the New York Ball Drop live on his screen. Rozanov is laying on his side propped up on the pillows with one elbow, Luca sitting upright against the headboards.
Ilya’s phone flashes. His face flattens as he presses ‘decline’. It rings a moment later. Rozanov accepts it this time, climbing off the bed and walking over to the corner of the room. Luca doesn’t know Russian, but he catches what seems to be, “what, Andrei?’
The Russian that leaves Rozanov’s mouth is both clipped and rapid. He gestures with one hand, waving it around as he speaks. Or rather, presumably argues with whoever is on the other end. Luca catches the word ‘papa’ a couple times, too.
The phone call ends. Luca takes one look at Rozanov and keeps his mouth shut, nodding at the TV. “Two minute countdown.”
Rozanov’s face doesn’t soften, but he looks the least bit grateful that Luca doesn’t pry. He slides back onto the bed. “What is cheese for?”
“Oh. I don’t know. I couldn’t find grapes on their own, so I had to get them with the cheese.”
At this Rozanov barks a laugh. Luca grins at him as the countdown launches from 60 seconds, until he blinks, his expression flickering. “Oh, fuck!”
“What?” Rozanov asks, alarmed.
Luca launches off the bed, then remembers the grapes, grabs them, and launches off the bed again. He drags the desk squiggly chair away from the desk. Rozanov eyes him, his eyebrows raised. “We’re supposed to be under the table while we eat the grapes,” Luca yelps. “Come here!”
“Jesus Christ, Haasy,” Rozanov says, but he follows.
Two nearly 6’0, well-built hockey players cramming into a hotel desk is a feat, but they manage, crawling down into the thing. By the time they manage to cram themselves in there, their bodies tucked into each other because of the lack of space, the TV countdown starts booming. 10… 9… 8…
Their fingers are ready on the grapes. Luca’s giggling. Rozanov fixates him with a look, though his eyes are bright. “Stop laughing. You will choke.”
3… 2… 1…
The grapes are a little stale, mushy, too sweet in an overripe way. They might’ve been sitting in that corner store refrigerator for god knows how long— but they do, and you can barely taste them when you’re shoving another one down your throat in succession.
By the end of it, they’re both doubled over. Luca checks his watch. 12:01.
Rozanov reaches out and wrings him in by the shoulder. He smacks a wet kiss to Luca’s cheek, ruffling his hair. “Happy New Year, Haas.”
Luca smiles, swaying against him. “Happy New Year, Rozanov.”
When interviewers ask for a fun fact about Luca Haas, he’ll say something like: My favorite movie is The Sound of Music.
A real fun fact about Luca Haas is: When I was in primary school, every year, I was asked to write an essay of what I wanted to be when I grew up in the form of a letter to my future self. At the end of primary school, the collected letters were given back to me. They went as follows: Musician. Musician. Painter. Musician. Painter. Artist.
May 2012
The Centaurs make it to Division Finals, which is, for the most part, cause for celebration, considering the year before, they hadn’t made it into the playoffs. They pop a champagne bottle in the locker room, spraying it all over, grinning widely and whooping as they do. Luca is satisfied with his rookie year. It feels good, this team.
Bood bear-hugs he and Hayes at the same time, Dykstra piling in on it. Holmberg throws his arms around them until they’re all jumping up and down together. They chant: Centaurs, Centaurs, Centaurs!
Next year, Coach Wiebe says. Next Year, we try again.
A reporter, for an article feature, asks: “What would you say your biggest fear is?”
Luca says: “being stuck in an elevator and plummeting to my death.“ (He leaves out: and realizing as I fall that nothing in this world ever proved my cynicism wrong.)
June 2012
Luca Haas wins Rookie of the Year. His acceptance speech is four words: for my brother, Nathaniel.
His team is stoked. They’re all smiles and hugs, all ‘let’s go Haasy!’ Luca grins along with them, something loosening in his chest. Though, it doesn’t loosen enough that it stops him from slipping out for some fresh air and then ruining the so called fresh air with lighting a cigarette and inhaling it.
His phone buzzes.
Mama: Good.
Las Vegas is, for what it’s worth, a feat. From the balcony, Luca can see the strip, the blindingly colorful billboards. The faint noise of the honking of cars drifts up to whatever floor he’s on. Luca stands there and stares out.
Rozanov finds him a little while later. He walks up unobtrusively, eyeing him as he takes a drag from the half-smoked cigarette Luca offers out. “Celebrating all alone, Haasy?”
“Mm.” Luca accepts the cigarette back from him and shrugs. “I guess so.”
Rozanov, as if he knows, accepts the answer wordlessly. There’s another set of footsteps that falls just short of the entry way; when Rozanov turns around towards it, he pauses, his eyebrows arching up. Luca, too, turns around.
“Hello,” Hollander says, neutrally.
Equally as cordial, Rozanov replies, “Hello.”
And— ah, yes. Arch-nemeses. Rivals.
“Hey,” Luca murmurs.
Hollander clears his throat. “I came to say congratulations, Haas.”
“Thank you.”
Luca turns back towards the balcony. One of the traffic lights below switches from green to red. Cars stop, one by one, behind it.
Rozanov and Hollander are silent for a moment. Luca thinks they’re staring at each other, though he doesn’t really see much of it from where his own gaze is fixated down the Vegas strip.
“My parents must be looking for me,” Hollander says. “Congratulations again, Luca.”
Luca tips his head in thanks.
Rozanov lingers for a couple minutes too, before he, too, leaves, though not without a squeeze to Luca’s shoulder.
June 2012
His first summer as a MHL player is anti-climatic. Zurich is good— home, as always. He spends most of his time at the rink or gym. He avoids his mother for the most part, but it is hard to do when he is living at home instead of a summer training camp. She doesn’t believe in summer being a time to ‘recoup’. She probably thinks Luca is too lazy to need to ‘recoup’ in the first place.
So he trains. And trains. And trains.
He is coming back from the rink when his mother regards him, looking up from some paperwork she is sorting through on their dining table. “Did you work on your edges?”
“Yes,” Luca replies.
She looks back at her papers. “Your uncle is taking a trip to Moscow for business. He insists you join him.”
“Okay.”
“He leaves tomorrow.”
With a tip of his head, Luca leaves for his bedroom, presumably to pack.
Luca likes his uncle. He’s a boisterous man who laughs with his whole belly. He has a very international career; he brings back tokens from each place— local candy, cigarettes, liquor— for Luca, always slipping wads of cash into his pockets with a wink.
Rozanov
Luca: im coming to moscow for three days
Rozanov: Russia? Why?
Luca: my uncle works for swiss foreign relations
Luca: im staying at national hotel
Rozanov: Ok
Luca: im just gonna sightsee for most of my time. my uncle will be busy
Rozanov: I will show you around.
Rozanov: Text me when you land.
By extension of Rozanov, Luca meets Svetlana Vetrova and decides he quite likes her. She is fierce, no-nonsense. Luca spends most of his three days with them, allowing himself to be dragged along to whatever their interest for the day is. The second night, the three of them go to some underground bar Rozanov and Svetlana frequent. A man named Sasha joins, too. My coach’s son, Rozanov introduces, the slightest tightness when he says it.
Sasha’s gaze racks up and down Luca’s body, a certain heat to it. It’s discrete enough that it would look friendly to an outsider. He does the same to Rozanov throughout the night. Again— friendly, but. Luca’s not a fucking idiot.
Luca smirks.
Rozanov mostly ignores Sasha in favor of Svetlana and Luca. By the end of the night, they find themselves sitting on a row on a couch that overlooks the entire bar, passing a cigarette, and then another, back and forth between them. Luca’s pleasantly buzzed from the vodka he’s had, his eyes lidded as he gazes around the bar.
There’s a woman he makes eye contact with. She waves at him lazily, her eyebrows arching. Luca waves back lazily, though he makes no move to get up and do something about it.
On the couch, he’s sitting in the middle of Svetlana and Rozanov. Svetlana has an arm slung across his shoulders and over the back of the couch as she lazily weaves her fingers through the hair at the nape of Rozanov’s neck.
“You didn’t take a year after your draft?” Svetlana asks.
“I thought about it,” Luca replies. He plucks the cigarette she offers out, holding it up to his mouth and inhaling it. After he exhales the smoke, he shrugs. “Didn’t work out.”
“Youngest draftee ever for the Centaurs,” Ilya hums. “You are a baby.”
“You’re two years older than me.”
“Still baby.”
Luca smiles wryly. “Someone’s got to keep you and Hollander in check, no?”
At Hollander’s name, something in Rozanov’s eyes flickers. His mouth stretches into a lazy grin. “Whatever you say.”
Luca rolls his eyes, reaching over and stealing the cigarette from his fingers.
The rest of the summer is uneventful. Luca ends up leaving Zurich early in favor of Ottawa, feeling much too suffocated at his family home. His mother, for once, approves of his idea, going on mindlessly about how Luca is much too distracted in Zurich, spending time with his childhood friends, spending time trying to enjoy his summer.
Saying bye to Zurich early sucks, but he forces himself not to dwell on the loss. Summer in Ottawa is not half bad, though loneliness creeps up on him. He’s alone in his apartment; while a lot of his teammates stay in the area, they leave on trips, spend time with family, friends. Besides, Luca doesn’t mind being alone. It’s only sometimes that he feels lonely.
Hayes is dating a lovely lady named Lisa. He meets her one night when they decide to grab drinks together. Luca likes her right away— she’s a proud nerd like Hayes, the two of them smiling away as they chatter on about a video game or book.
Lisa is a Doctor, specifically a Cardiologist, and Luca thinks, belatedly, that he should consider asking her whether the ache in his heart is something serious or just a symptom of being angry all the time.
He runs into Hollander a couple times at the rink. While they both have different preferences— Luca preferring to train at the crack-ass of dawn and Hollander preferring to train after he’s gotten a morning run and breakfast in— there’s a couple days where they overlap on the ice.
One of these times, Luca has just come out of the shower, a pair of black sweatpants and a Centaurs t-shirt slung across his body. He bends over to wring his hair dry, which makes more than a couple minutes of vigorous shaking, because his curls are down to his nape now. He should really get around to getting a haircut, the length is growing on him (no pun intended).
Hollander is tying on his sneakers, also having freshly showered. “Hey, Haas,” he says, when Luca is upright again, slinging the towel over his shoulder.
“Yeah?”
“You should come over for dinner.” He pauses, and then hastens to add, “if you’d like, of course.”
Luca wonders if the loneliness shows on his face.
The thing about coming to the Hollanders’ place for dinner is that he never really ends up leaving. The Hollanders’ place is warm. Homey. When Yuna Hollander asks Shane about practice, she says, how was practice, kiddo? instead of you are fucking useless.
It’s a little jarring.
He thanks them and insists on leaving after dinner, but Yuna, with a knowing glint in her eyes, invites him to spend a couple days with them, waving a hand when he says he doesn’t want to impose.
David huffs a laugh. “Shane’s bored spending all his time with his parents. He could use the company.”
“Dad,” Hollander groans.
Yuna winks at Luca.
And so, (not very) begrudgingly, Luca stays.
The second night, Yuna, after dinner, nods towards the glass sliding door to their balcony. “The sky is clear,” she says. “Heard on the news it’s a good night to stargaze.”
This is how Hollander and Luca end up laying on a blanket outside on a patch of grass, staring up at the stars. They’re silent for the most part, side by side, basking in each other’s company. It’s kind of funny to him, because Luca’s technically still pretty much a stranger to him, and Shane to him. Although, maybe spending so much time, out of the blue, at someone’s residence is a fast train towards getting to know them.
“How was your time in Zurich?” Shane asks, after a while.
“It was okay, I guess.”
“Did you do anything fun?”
“Hockey,” Luca says. “I made a trip to Moscow with my uncle, too. That was pretty fun.”
There’s a long pause from Hollander. “Moscow?”
“Yeah. I spent most of it with Rozanov, actually.”
Shane’s silent for a moment. Luca sits up, turning to look over at him. The moonlight makes a gentle halo on his face, from the bridge of his nose to the dip of his lips. The cranks in his brain visibly turn for a moment. “And how is he?”
“He’s good,” Luca replies. “Spending most of his time keeping up his fitness in the off-season.” He nudges Hollander, and teasingly adds, “To keep up with his arch-rival, and all.”
At that, Hollander laughs, shaking off whatever thought had entered his body before. “Mm. You two are friends?”
“Yeah,” Luca says. “It’s kind of funny, no? I’m friends with both sides of a rivalry, and the media thinks I’m going to beat both of you out.” Haughtily, he adds, “Maybe it’s me that you two should be worried about.”
Hollander snorts. “No chance.”
Ilya
Luca: guess where im staying for a couple days
Ilya: Where?
Luca: with the hollanders
Luca: [selfie attached of Luca sticking out his tongue and Shane in the background reading a book on the couch]
Luca: i was just telling him about how im gonna beat both of you next season
Ilya: No chance.
Ilya: You two know each other?
Luca: thats what he said too
Luca: yeah we’re friends
The third night, Yuna and David are out to meet some friends for dinner, and so Luca and Shane sit on the couch together and mindlessly watch an old game play between the Admirals and the Maple Leafs.
“What’s Switzerland like?”
“It’s beautiful,” Luca replies. “The mountains are just… they are unreal. Zurich is very urban, more than Ottawa and even Montreal, I think. I don’t know how to describe it besides saying that it’s home.”
“Why did you leave early?”
Luca shrugs. “Ottawa is better, I guess, to focus on off-season training.”
“Did you want to?”
“Want to?”
“Leave early.”
Luca huffs a laugh. “You ask a lot of questions.” Shane opens his mouth, maybe to backtrack, but Luca cuts him off. “It’s okay. I like it. Yes— I was sad to leave early. But I feel better here. Maybe because I’m alone.”
A draw of silence passes between them. On the TV, Hunter makes a goal. “Your mom,” Shane says, more quietly. “She’s not very nice to you.”
“No,” Luca agrees. “But it is both of our faults, I guess.”
“You’re a kid.”
“I’m nineteen.”
“Yeah, but you’re a kid. A rookie. I’m, what, twenty-one? I couldn’t—” he shakes his head “—I couldn’t imagine this career without having the support of my parents. And that too, I’m two hours away from them. You deserve support, Luca. It doesn’t matter if you’re at fault or not.”
“Oh,” Luca says, faintly. He tilts his face the other way, his vision blurring.
“Fuck,” Shane says. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Luca shakes his head with a wet huff. Salt trails down his cheek. “No, it’s okay. I— I never think about it. But thank you for saying that.”
Shane is silent for a moment as he considers this. “Can I— um. Hug you?”
He nods, and then Shane’s wrapping his arms around him. Luca goes willingly, tilting his body to be able to wring his own arms around Shane’s back. “Thank you,” he says, wetly.
“Of course.”
They stay like that for a long, long moment. When they part, Luca drags his palm over his eyes, wiping away at the wetness. Shane keeps an arm slung around his shoulder.
“Now you have to share something,” Luca jokes.
“I have a hard time making friends, sometimes,” Shane says. It’s point-blank. “Especially when growing up.”
“Oh,” Luca replies. “I didn’t mean that literally. Like— I wasn’t trying to force you to share.”
Shane laughs at that, the noise a little wry. “I guess that’s why I have trouble with it. There are a lot of times I don’t understand people’s humor, or jokes, or sometimes even chirps.”
“Shane?”
“Yeah?”
It’s cheesy, but he offers, “We should be friends. Like. Real friends.”
Hollander smiles. “We should.”
He and Shane end up falling asleep on the couch that night, Luca’s head curved into the crook of Shane’s shoulder, Shane’s arm slung still across Luca’s own.
Luca stirs when the front door opens, and then closes. He swears he hears the shutter of a camera a moment later, but he’s drifted off again before he processes the sound.
September 2012
The season begins. Luca inhales, exhales, and the puts his fucking head down and skates.
Shane
Luca: are u gonna tell me about boston lily
Shane: There is no Boston Lily
Luca: pike says otherwise
Luca: im ur best friend now remember
Luca: spill
Shane: How do you know my best friend isn’t Hayden
Luca: dont fuck with me
Ilya
Ilya: Did you seriously send me a photo album of Shane Hollander?
Shane
Shane: Can you tell me why I received a photo album of Ilya Rozanov in the mail?
Shane: With a ‘From Luca’?
Luca added Shane and Ilya to a New Group Chat
Shane, Ilya
Luca: enjoy your presents. i thought it might be useful for you to be distracted by the threat of your enemy while your unassuming friend swoops in and beats you both
Shane: I have no idea how to respond to this.
Ilya: I do.
Ilya: Haasy, it’ll be in your dreams that happens. Keep trying.
Luca: hold up.
Luca: you two have each other’s numbers saved??
Luca: it didn’t give me trouble when trying to make the group chat
(That, in hindsight, should be his first clue, but— he has their numbers saved too, so.)
Ilya: Da. What is the saying?
Ilya: Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.
(That, in hindsight, should be his second clue, but— he is a little oblivious, so.)
Shane: 🤦🏻
Luca: ???? okay i guess
Luca: keep ur friends closer in this case though bc im coming for u both
Ilya: coming for us?? 😈
Shane: Rozanov, stop. Luca, ignore him.
Ilya: Fiesty, Hollander.
Luca: you call me a baby but youre a fucking child
Ilya: Whatever you say
Luca: watch out this season
Shane: Whatever you say
Luca: whatever hollanov
Ilya: ?
Shane: ?
Luca: hollander + rozanov = hollanov
Luca: or do you prefer shilya
Ilya: ??
Shane: ??
Luca: u guys are making me feel stupid
Luca: havent u seen the articles
Luca: its gonna be haas vs hollanov in the hockey world now
Shane: I am choosing not to respond to this.
Ilya: Иногда ты сбиваешь меня с толку.