Chapter Text
Chapter One - July 2025
Montreal
Shane was just coming out of the shower when the schedule dropped for the upcoming season. If he was lying to himself, he would say he didn’t care. If he was truthful, he’d say he’d been anxiously checking his phone for the past four days waiting for the notification to appear in his inbox.
With all the stress of the past six months - coming so close to holding the Cup again, only to fall flat in the end, his relationship with Rose having an ultimately humiliating outcome, and… him, - Shane was ready to dive back onto the ice. To sweat and play and score until his body was aching and all he could feel was the glide of his skates across the rink and the slam of his stick into the puck. He was going to work until his body could no longer handle it.
His phone buzzed on his dresser again before he had the chance to pick it up, and he wasn’t surprised to find a text from his mom that said “Big schedule this year, bud! Gonna be a hard one but I know how tough you are on the ice, and this is your year! I can feel it!” If he was being honest - this was a year of complete honesty, he was promising himself - his mom as his manager was overbearing at times. He loved her to death, and his parents had given him a life few people were lucky enough to live. He was grateful for all they’d done since he was little, but… but. He just supposed it allowed for little to no privacy. As an only child, his mom knew everything about his personal life and gave him all her attention. It just became a lot when his social and physical life was known to her, too.
He sent a quick reply. “Checking now.”
Shane’s fingers trembled as he opened the email. It was the usual; eighty-two regular season games, and a separate message indicating team practices, playoffs and flight schedules. It all looked normal, and Shane found himself scanning all eighty-two games for the ones he looked forward to the most; the matches with Boston. He viewed the dates over and over again until they were engraved in his brain, until he could close his eyes and list them off one by one without having to look at a calendar.
He hated the way his stomach turned with excitement. Hated how, despite the intense season he’d been hoping to have, his first thought was of him. Of Rozanov. Of that smug prick who played for Montreal’s biggest rival. If anything, they were the only games Shane should be dreading. But… but what, he didn’t know. All he knew was that he’d memorized those dates, and no matter how hard he could try he would not forget them.
He perused the schedule again, scrolling down till the end of the year to see which coast he’d be on for the New Year. His stomach sunk when he read:
Dec 23: Boston v. Los Angeles - Los Angeles, California.
Dec 23: Montreal v. Ottawa - Montreal, Quebec.
Yuna texted him again. “And we get to spend Christmas together at home! The family is going to be so happy. This Christmas will be one for the ages after you beat Ottawa, bud!”
Shane didn’t fail to notice the agony that started building within him at the thought of them being on separate coasts for the holidays. He didn’t know why. They’d never spent a Christmas together, never wanted to. But for some reason, the thought of being so far from him made Shane’s heart ache.
Not only that, but at the thought of his family. Him and Rozanov couldn’t even work something out. Shane would play Ottawa, and then have to spend Christmas with his entire family. He had to. They hadn’t had a Christmas together in years, and yet…
Yet all Shane found himself wishing was that maybe it would be nice if Rozanov could be there, too.
Shane’s phone buzzed again. It wasn’t his mom this time.
“Quite the schedule, yes? Busy.” He could almost hear the thick Russian accent beneath the screen.
“Yeah,” Shane replied. “Gonna be a good season.”
Shane scoffed when Rozanov replied, “You will not be saying that anymore after we beat you.”
Shane smiled at the memory, reminiscing about all those years ago when they were both angsty rookies and had nothing better to do but hate each other and cast angry glances in between practices. Back when the hate was genuine and he hadn’t caught glimpses of the ray of sunshine Rozanov was beneath that tough, Russian exterior.
“Fuck you.”
“Soon. ;)”
Despite himself, Shane smiled. “First Boston-Montreal game is next month. We’ll see then if you get lucky.”
“I will. You miss me too much.”
Shane tried not to think about just how much he missed him. It made him sick.
“Not at all. I’m looking forward to December because it’s the month I have to see you the least.”
Rozanov took a minute to respond. Shane wondered if he could sense the lie through the screen, if he could taste the agony that was also coating Shane’s tongue. He wanted to take the message back, to finally confess and say something stupid like ‘I don’t know if you celebrate Christmas but the fact that we won’t be together for it makes me want to die.’
But that’s pathetic, Shane would never do that. Because it’s not how he really feels. He’s just had a shitty year and is clinging on to the least shitty thing in his life. He doesn’t actually want to spend a Christmas with Rozanov, he just… he doesn’t actually know what he wants. But he knows it can’t be him.
A moment later, the response comes in the form of a phone call. Shane gulps before answering it.
“Maybe I look forward to December the most. Less competition for worst Christmas of my life.”
Shane’s laugh dies in his throat. He hears the joke, and immediately understands.
Rozanov says it lightly, like he always does, with a grin in his voice and his humour sharpened just enough to avoid saying anything real. Less competition for worst Christmas of my life.
It’s not cruel, or wrong, it’s just… too easy.
Shane looks down at his hands, because if he focuses too much on his phone he’ll risk saying something he regrets. He presses his thumb against the edge of his counter, grounding himself. Shane tries to convince himself not to read too deeply into it, tells himself that this is how Rozanov survives things; by turning them into jokes.
But something inside him stirs.
Because the joke doesn’t leave room for wanting. It frames their distance like a relief, a convenience. Like Christmas without each other is just another inconvenience they’re both lucky to avoid.
Shane realizes fully that he’s been bracing for this conversation entirely differently. He’s been stupidly hoping for at least a little acknowledgment. Some give in Rozanov’s voice. Some sign that it matters just as much to him as it does to Shane.
He gets humour instead.
So Shane doesn’t laugh. He keeps his voice neutral, safe. “Yeah,” he says. “I guess so.”
He hates how weak his voice sounds.
The silence stretches for a while longer, and Shane doesn’t work to fill it. He could push, could try to tease back. He could say any one of the million things he was hoping for, any one of the million things his heart is aching to say. But he doesn’t.
So Shane recalibrates. He shifts his expectations lower, filing the wanting away where it can’t hurt him as much. Later, after they’ve hung up and he’s alone, Shane stares at his phone longer than he means to. He opens the calendar, sees the nerve-wracking square around the twenty-fifth of December. The depressingly empty square. The days stretch.
Summer grows to Fall, Fall promises for a brisk Winter. If Rozanov wants this to remain casual, then Shane will have to be careful.
But Shane remembers that night, when the call went quiet and Rozanov drifted. Shane thought of that joke and told himself that he should have known better, because Rozanov told him exactly how much this was allowed to matter.