Chapter Text
Shane
The Ottawa Centaurs stadium was nothing like he knew it.
For one, it was full, so full they were barely able to get to their seats. They were late, just barely slipping in by the start of the pregame show. The fluorescent lights shut off, giving way to a smattering of colorful spotlights which danced across the room as they awaited the players to take the ice. The music was blaring, though it was nothing in compared to the scream of the crowd. The rink was wrapped in a living, breathing thing.
Shane Hollander was used to a crowd like this. He knew them. He used to be them, though it had been a while since he’d been in the stands like this. Actually, Shane had never been to an Ottawa game like this. As a kid there had always been a buzz and the requisite hometown pride, but this was something entirely different. This was a new animal.
The last time Shane played in Ottawa, the Montreal fans nearly outnumbered the local crowd. It was a quick game, an easy win. In honesty, Shane didn’t like playing here. It made his team worse. The rookies seemed to think that if a game was in the bag, they could get sloppy. He could see it on their faces when he insisted they review game tape one more time before heading back to the hotel. Shane could understand, to a point. I mean, it was Ottawa. But it was the principle of the thing, more than anything.
Suffice to say, it wasn’t like this. There was no mist of anticipation, of true excitement. This was a crowd who loved their team.
But the last time Shane played in Ottawa was in the Spring of 2015. And according to every newspaper and passerby they coaxed into talking to them today, it was Fall of 2023. Actually.
Time travel was not on the list of things Shane expected to have happen at the MHL Awards this year. The speeches, sure. A round of shots or two, yeah. He’d practiced the list of sportsmanlike answers his agent had prepared for him to give any reporters. He’d even thought of a few playful chirps for the guys at the afterparty. He didn’t do that every year, prepare or make fun, but Montreal had taken the fucking cup. Montreal, cup winners for the first time in decades. And Shane had led them there. He was going to give himself permission to gloat a bit tonight, if he wanted.
“Stop bumping into me.” Rozanov said, whispering harshly in his ear.
Shane glared. Right. The other thing he’d hoped would happen at the MHL Awards. Well, not hoped, hoped would imply that he thought about this, about him, outside of the confines of their brief texts and rendezvous in dark hotel rooms. Which he didn’t. Obviously. So hoped was the wrong word. He’d just prepared, the way one would. He’d thought about it the perfectly normal amount of time.
That did happen though. The two of them. More than once. After the speeches and the shots, Ilya Rozanov had made him feel the way he always did; like he had the only key that unspooled the tension wound so tight in him that a PT once told Shane his shoulder blades felt like they were wired together.
Shane could make out the outline of Rozanov’s face under the spotlights. He was smirking, his deep brows pinched in a way that Shane could never quite discern was more amusement or annoyance.
“I’m not bumping into you.”
“Yes you are.” Ilya said. He reached up and flicked Shane’s sunglasses.“You can’t see with these on.”
“I’m keeping a low profile. I don’t know if you know this, but people know what I look like.” Shane said, smugly.
“I’m just as famous as you. More, probably” Ilya shrugged.
“Well I told you to buy sunglasses too.” Shane huffed.
“I have a hat.” Ilya said, pointing to the beanie they’d purchased at a gas station just a few hours prior.
“You’re impossible.” Shane rolled his eyes.
The night of the MHL Awards gone great. Better than great. The guys had been so busy celebrating at the afterparty that nobody blinked twice when he announced he was retiring for the evening. And when Ilya did the same twenty minutes later, muttering something about meeting up with friends, the rowdy group carried on. It wasn’t until after, when Ilya was picking his suit jacket off of the floor and swinging it, so fucking casually, over one shoulder, that things started to get… weird.
Well not weird just… different.
The only thing Shane could point to as a abnormal, as a true break from their routine, was that he walked Rozanov to the door. They didn’t do that in hotels. He would walk him to the door at his apartment, but that was just courteous. What a gentleman would do, or whatever. Not at a hotel room, though. That was risky. That wasn’t worth it.
But Ilya had forgotten his wallet. It had fallen on the floor. And so Shane went to give it to him, just as Ilya was opening the door. And that would have been stupid even without whatever happened next. Because that was risky. Too risky. Anyone could see them.
But instead of opening the hotel room door and spilling into the mauve carpeted hallway, the two of them were tossed, head-first, into a park in Ottawa - suits and all.
That was about six hours ago.
In the last six hours they had, in no particular order, done the following: they tried and failed to find the hotel door. They spent around an hour thinking this was a very convoluted prank. They blamed each other for whatever was happening. They believed, briefly, that they’d died. Ilya convinced himself that Shane was a hallucination. Shane kicked Ilya in the shin to prove he wasn’t a hallucination. They realized that they had both forgotten their phones. Shane recognized a street sign and realized they were in Ottawa. They had news broken to them by a very concerned park ranger that it was not 2015 but in fact 2023. They had the news corroborated by several, increasingly confused park-goers. They realized, over another hour, that this was maybe not a prank. They convinced the park ranger not to call the police or a mental health services. They discussed, briefly, finding the park ranger again and asking about the mental health services. They determined that time travel or whatever the fuck was happening was probably not in their purview. They realized that Shane did bring Ilya’s wallet. They found out that all of Ilya’s cards didn’t work. They remembered that Ilya carried a shocking amount of cash. They remembered they were in Canada, and not the United States, so his USD was kind of useless. They lost a frustrating amount of Ilya’s cash at the nearby money exchange store that a different park ranger pointed them in the direction of. Ilya bought a pack of cigarettes while Shane was in the gas station bathroom. They fought about the cigarettes. They accepted, to some extent, that they had been thrust into the future. They realized that had to make a plan.
For most of the day, Shane had been really stuck on the idea of calling his parents. They had been sent to Ottawa, of all places, so they might as well take advantage of the support. It’s not like his parents would t know what to do, but at least they could help figure it out. The only problem with that plan was really his only problem in like, life. Ilya Rozanov. Explaining why, of all people, he was the one who got sucked into the future with him felt harder to explain. That, and really, what could they do? It was fucking time travel. Or an alternate universe. Or something.
He’d been mulling over asking the gas station clerk if he could borrow his phone, when his thought-spiral was interrupted by another customer. Ilya, the prick, was outside smoking his second cigarette.
No way. Are you Shane Hollander?
I… um, yeah. Yeah, I am.
Hey, I’m coming to your game tonight!
What?
Ottawa v. Montreal. You guys are gonna fucking destroy them!
Ottawa v. Montreal. Shane Hollander, 2023’s Shane Hollander was in Ottawa tonight. It was almost comical that he hadn’t thought of it sooner. If this really was time travel, or even if it was some sort of weird alternate dimension, the person that would help him, help them out of it, was him. Shane already knew all about Rozanov and whatever the fuck they were doing, because he’d done it too. It was perfect.
Apparently, a lot had changed in the past few years. Namely, it was near-impossible to get seats to the game. It didn’t help that they had to walk to the rink, so they were pretty late. Thankfully, they managed to snag the very, very last seats in the last row at the box office, their caps pulled down and Shane’s sunglasses all but glued to his face. With their heads hanging low, neither of them had a chance to take a look around the stadium, at any pictures or promo. If Shane had less on his mind, he’d be more curious. All of it seemed to have had major improvements.
And okay, they didn’t have to go to the game. They could’ve just parked themselves outside of the rink and waited for 2023’s Shane Hollander to head out through the visiting player’s door. It had been Ilya to suggest that they go. Just to watch, just to see. Shane didn’t need much convincing. They were hockey players. And they were both pretty fucking curious how Shane played in a few years time. So they spent the rest of their cash on the tickets and new, itchy hats and parked themselves in the nosebleed section of a packed stadium.
So far, Shane didn’t regret going. Because something happened to Ottawa between 2015 and 2023. Something that took a rink that was half-empty and a team that was half-awake to make it so that Shane had to actively resist covering his ears due to the sound- and this was just the pregame show.
It only got more interesting when they began to announce Montreal. The crowd, already screaming at the top of their lungs, turned into an entirely different beast. It was like the frigid rink air turned even colder.
“Wow.” Rozanov laughed, fully, over the boo-ing. “People really hate you here.”
“They don’t hate me.” Shane said, quickly. “I’m from here.”
“Well they’re screaming, so obviously you and Montreal did something bad.” Ilya said, gesturing to the crowd.
Shane wasn’t really sure what to think. Even in Boston, he’d never seen this kind of vitriol for his team. This wasn’t a rivalry or a love of the game, this was something else. This was angry. Whatever thoughts he’d had about his hometown basically calling for his execution were quickly dashed as the first Montreal player took the ice. Shane took a deep breath.
Rozanov realized it, just a half a second before Shane did. Shane could feel it, their shoulders had been pressed together since the bumping incident. Shane was in denial, or whatever was past denial. It was only confirmed that his eyes weren’t deceiving him, that this wasn’t a trick of the light or a phantom image, by the way Ilya’s body tensed beside his.
“That’s Comeau.” Rozanov said.
Gilbert Comeau was there skating across the ice, taking in the boos like they were singing his praises. And he was wearing the C. Gilbert Comeau was the captain of the Montreal Metros. Shane’s Montreal Metros.
Shane’s mouth went dry. He took off his glasses, as though the slight tint would change anything, would rewrite what was stitched across Gilbert Comeau’s chest.
“What the fuck?” Rozanov balked.
“Maybe this is isn’t our timeline.” Shane uttered.
“What?” Rozanov laughed.
“Like maybe it’s an alternate reality.” Shane explained. Already, his chest felt tight. He could hear his heart in his ears, pounding with the thrum of the crowd. “Like from... movies, or whatever.”
Ilya only looked at him, that look spreading across his face that Shane could never quite place. Now, though, he didn’t have time for this or whatever was behind his smile. Gilbert fucking Comeau was wearing his C, and Shane Hollander was nowhere to be found. He wasn’t even on the starting fucking line.
Shane had to sit down. He pressed both hands together, rubbing one thumb over the other, methodically. Ilya was still standing, as was everyone else. The show was still going, and Ottawa being announced. The crowd’s rage turned on a dime into a swell of pure, unadulterated admiration. Shane didn’t have time for that either. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t-
“Oh my god.” Ilya muttered. His eyes were fixed on the rink. Gone was the complicated smile, replaced by something rigid. He brought a hand to his mouth.
Well, Shane was officially over this game. Whatever he was learning could wait.
“We should- we should go.” Shane rose.
“Wait-"
“We should just find a way to my parents house.” Shane said. He found himself tugging at Ilya’s arm, but he wasn’t moving. “This isn’t-”
“Shane, shut the fuck up.” Ilya said.
“Hey-”
Rozanov grabbed Shane’s face and forced his eyes back on the rink.
“Holy shit.”
It was all Shane could say. There, taking laps for an adoring crowd, was Ilya Rozanov.
Shane Hollander would never admit this, not even under oath, but the first thing he noticed when he saw 32 year-old Ilya Rozanov, was that he looked really, really hot. He was entirely, spectacularly gorgeous.
The second thing, the one far more pertinent, was that he was wearing black and red.
“You get traded to Ottawa.” Shane uttered. Rozanov’s hand wasn’t on his chin anymore, it had migrated to his shoulder and stayed there, tensed.
“No-”
Shane darted between the Rozanov circling the rink and the Rozanov beside him.
“What the fuck did you do?” Shane asked.
“This is an alternate reality.” Roznanov said, firmly.
“Oh, is it now?” Shane smirked.
Rozanov ran both hands over his face, as though he could wipe away what he was seeing. Shane, suddenly, felt a bit more relaxed. This world was obviously something different, titled on its axis and far beyond them.
His relaxation lasted approximately twenty seconds.
The rest of the Ottawa lineup spilled out before either of them could process it. Shane recognized most of them, they were all okay players.
This time, Shane noticed him first. He hadn’t known just how attuned he would be to his own motions, his own skating patterns, until he saw it like this. It was a funny thing, a feeling he wouldn’t be able to describe if he tried. It was like a funhouse mirror. A fucked up, life-altering funhouse mirror. Shane Hollander, back in Ottawa.
I'm coming to your game tonight. Ottawa v. Montreal. You guys are gonna fucking destroy them.
Rozanov took a deep breath beside him, muttering something in Russian he couldn’t understand. Shane only tried to stand straighter, peer over the crowd and get a closer look at the players below. He didn’t have to look for long, because quickly Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov were plastered across every Jumbotron in the stadium, the crowd growing impossibly louder as they waved.
“So…” Shane coughed.
“I’m not the only person in Ottawa.” Rozanov muttered, stymied.
They weren’t touching, weren’t hugging or doing anything, but they were smiling. They were side by side. Same colors, same team. It felt almost more intimate. It dawned on him then, with complete certainty, that this was their timeline. This was not an alternate reality or warp or phantom. Shane couldn’t explain how he knew, but he did. Maybe it was seeing himself, seeing how he held his stick and how he moved his skates. Maybe he’d known all along and was tired of fighting it. But probably, honestly, it was them. 2023’s Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov. The two of them. Whatever they were to each other, whatever they’d become, he recognized parts of it, little pieces. He knew them. He was them. This was their future. Whatever the fuck that meant.
Suddenly Shane was painfully aware of the person he was beside. Rozanov’s hand had long dropped from his shoulder, but he could still feel the tingling from where every one of his fingers had been. At first the heat had felt nice, twisted his stomach the way he often ignored, but now it warped into something else.
“So- we-” Rozanov stammered.
Shane glanced, as nonchalantly as possible, at him. He was looking straight ahead, his eyes fixed on the two men on the jumbotron, talking and skating side by side as they went through the pregame show motions. Something else caught his eye then, too. It wasn’t, admittedly, the strangest part of this whole thing, but it was pressing.
“Wait, why the fuck are you captain?”