Chapter Text
- Gold Medals Don’t Tarnish
Ilya Grigoryevich Rozanov becomes a Canadian citizen on December 23 — two days before Christmas.
The Citizenship Office glows with soft, festive cheer. The plastic ceremony chairs are draped with tinsel and garlands; paper snowflakes hang from the fluorescent ceiling light. Outside, blankets of snow glisten in the winter sun.
Yuna squeezes Shane’s shoulder, watching Ilya step forward to collect his certificate.
“We’re stuck with him now,” David says. His eyes crinkle, folding into smile lines. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Yuna nods, fighting back tears. The years of fear — of waking up, struck by panic, terrified that Russia will tear Ilya away from them — are finally over.
Her son is home.
There’s a commotion at the front of the room. Some of the newly minted citizens want photos with Ilya. He’s a good sport about it, shaking hands and smiling. A few minutes later, he escapes the pack and joins the Hollanders.
“Should we go?” Yuna asks. She doesn’t want to rush him, but she’s trying to keep them on track for the surprise party waiting at home.
Ilya nods, but before he can speak, his phone rings. A name flashes across the screen.
Coach Roy.
Yuna sucks in a breath. Could it be?
Ilya swipes, taking the call. “Hello?”
The jolly, booming voice of Elliot Roy crackles out of Ilya’s phone. Yuna can’t make out the conversation — but she can see a grin spreading across Ilya’s face.
“Yes, sir,” Ilya says, nodding. “Is my honor.”
He nods again, still listening. “Thank you, Coach.”
Ilya hangs up the phone and turns to Shane. “They want me. The national team, for the Olympics.”
He chokes out the word Olympics, a tear glistening on his cheek. “They watched my ceremony — wanted to call as soon as it was done.”
Yuna grabs her son, pulling him into a hug. Shane piles on, then David, until they’re a laughing, cheering pile of family.
*
When Ilya is young, he dreams of playing for Russia. It’s a common dream, as unremarkable as butterless каши.
His friends’ dreams of glory fade with age.
His sharpen.
Ilya is made for hockey. He’s merciless on the ice — and off it. He smokes, drinks, and fucks his way through Moscow. He scores flashy, cutthroat goals. He’s criminally efficient. Strong. Fast.
Here, scouts say, is a real Russian man.
Whatever, Ilya thinks, slamming into his coach’s son.
He makes the team when he’s 16. He likes how it makes him feel.
Respected. Inevitable.
Hollow?
Ilya loves Russia. Loves quiet snowstorms and old, creaky buildings. Loves good водка, his father’s дача, and пельмени smothered in cream.
The thing is, Russia doesn’t love him back. Ilya drowns in the Russian locker room, awash slurs and scrutiny.
Years later, Ilya is unsure what to expect from Team Canada. But he wants to play. Wants to win gold with a stupid, red leaf on his jersey.
Ilya sighs, shaking out his shoulders, and steps onto the ice.
To his right, Shane slams a pass at Hayden Pike, who curses. “This is warm-ups, you sick fuck –”
“Swear jar,” JJ Boiziau chides, skating past.
Barrett stops short in front of Ilya, tossing a puck his way. “You look good in red.”
Ilya shrugs. “I look good in every color.”
Laughter echoes across the rink. JJ claps Shane on the back, chuckling about… something.
Ilya’s lip curls.
Barrett raises an eyebrow. “You got a problem with Boiziau?”
“No. Yes?” Ilya waves his hands, searching for the words. “He was not kind to Shane — the trip, you know? He apologized. Shane forgave him.”
“I thought he knew about you guys?”
Ilya shrugs, kicking a skate into the ice. “He did.”
Barrett taps his stick against the boards. “Try not to kill the guy, Roz. We need a winger.”
*
“We’re in Italy,” JJ half-says, half-whines, wrapping an arm around Shane’s shoulder. “Can we please go get drunk on some nice Italian wine?”
Shane throws a practice jersey into his stall. “We have a game on Friday.”
“It’s Tuesday,” Barrett counters. He collapses onto the bench, breathing heavy. “Come on, Hollander. Don’t make us sneak out.”
JJ scans the locker room. “Rozanov,” he calls, catching sight of the Centaurs’ captain. “You think we should go out, no?”
“I think,” Rozanov says, voice full of poison, “you should listen to your captain."
JJ winces. Still hates his guts, then. Good to know.
Shane looks between his husband and his friend. Then, unexpectedly, he throws up his hands. “Fine. We’re going out.”
They meet at a bar around nine; Shane and Rozanov arrive together. JJ tries not to think about the bruise on Shane’s collarbone.
None of them are usually wine drinkers, but when in Rome, right? Or – when in Italy, anyway.
Wine is pretty alcoholic. Much more alcoholic than beer – JJ’s preferred poison. All this to say, he gets drunk much faster than intended. His teammates make similar miscalculations.
By eleven, Team Canada is sloshed – including Shane Hollander, who grabs his husband’s hand and drags him to the end of the table, interrupting JJ’s conversation with Hayes in the process.
“Sorry Hazy,” Hollander says. “This is critical.”
He waves his hands, gesturing between Rozanov and JJ. “I’m going to leave. When I come back, you’ll have sorted this shit out.”
His brow furrows. “At least for the Olympics.”
True to his word, Hollander turns and heads for the bar.
Rozanov stares at JJ, unmoving.
“Come on,” JJ says. “You heard him. Let’s talk about this.”
“You are shit friend. Is nothing to talk about.” Rozanov examines his nails, disinterest rolling off him in waves. “When time comes, I will pass to you. Good enough?”
“Who the fuck are you to hold that shit against me? Hollzy let it go three years ago.”
Rozanov’s lip curls. “I am his husband.” He slams a hand on the table. “You think he let it go? Team he built calls him a cheater. Best friend agrees. And it is what? A blip in the past?”
“He said —“
Roz scoffs, leaning back in his chair. “He forgave you. He forgives everyone. Does not mean you deserve it.”
That night, JJ sits in his hotel room, staring at the wall.
“Shit,” he mutters, throwing himself onto the bed.
Ilya fucking Rozanov has a point.
*
Russia versus Canada. Classic rivalry, enhanced by Rozanov’s recent defection. It’s going to be a gold medal match for the ages.
JJ tapes and re-tapes his stick, bouncing his feet against the ground. Tensions are high in the locker room. Hollander does his best to hype up the team, then hands the reins to his husband.
Rozanov’s icy eyes sweep across the room, assessing the team. Forcing the panicked rookies to meet his gaze.
“When I was young,” Rozanov says, quietly, “I wanted to win a gold medal in Russian red.” He hums, looking down at his hands. “Bring it home to Moscow. Show it off in Kremlin.”
He looks up. “Today, I want to win gold with my husband – the husband Canada lets me to love. I want to bring it home, not because I must, but because I love Canada. And Canada loves me.”
He’s yelling now — surging. “So let’s. Fucking. Win.”
The team roars.
*
They’re up by one in the middle of the third. Nine minutes stand on the clock, slowly ticking away.
Russia is starting to play dirty. They can’t handle the coordinated chaos of Hollander and Rozanov on the power-play, or the relentless assault of Canada’s depth at center.
Rozanov is in rare form — weaving the puck through defenders with brutal efficiency, chirping in Russian. Spitting blood when he gets hit, relishing the chance to drop his gloves. He never throws the first punch – too smart to get thrown out when Canada needs him.
Shane, for his part, is everywhere. Materializing to block a shot, then slipping into the crease and tipping in a goal.
JJ may not know Russian. But he knows fear. And the Russians are terrified of Shane Hollander.
Maybe that’s what pushes them over the edge. Maybe it’s premeditated. In any case, with three minutes left, a Russian forward trips Shane. The offending player – Petrov – skates past Shane, who’s still on the ground. Mutters something, then spits.
Right on Shane’s laces.
Shane closes his eyes. He doesn’t look sad. Just… resigned.
Vaguely, JJ is aware of Ilya climbing the bench. He’s screaming in Russian, cursing wildly.
Shane won’t take the bait. Rozanov will, though. He’ll defend Shane, even if it means getting himself thrown out. Ejected from the rink entirely. And Shane will win a gold medal without his husband, slurs echoing in his head.
He forgives everyone. Does not mean you deserve it.
Ilya is right. JJ doesn’t deserve it.
But… maybe he can try.
Snapping into motion, JJ skates forward. Grabs Petrov by his collar and slams him into the boards. Throws his gloves off. Fast. Faster than the Russian can ditch his. Faster than anyone can stop him.
JJ slams his fist into Petrov’s face, relishing the sick, wet sound of bones crunching under skin. Again. Again. Again. Until the ref is there, pulling him off and sending him to the tunnel.
JJ spits, skating toward the bench. It’s worth the ejection – worth everything, to see Shane smile at him the way he used to. Before the trip. Before everything.
Rozanov offers him a handshake as he passes.
*
Ilya roars, pulling Shane into a hug. Barrett piles on, then Hayes. Soon, the whole roster is there, screaming and cheering. Confetti falls from the ceiling, blanketing them in red and white.
It looks like Ilya imagined all those years ago, skating on a street rink in Moscow. Red and white jerseys. Gold medals. Hockey sticks.
It feels so different.
- Skills Don’t Age
Sam Johnson strolls out of the Shark’s locker room, pulling on the last of his gear.
A reporter chases after him, media bag bouncing on his back. “Hey, Johnny! Got time for a few questions?”
The lanky brunette grins, coming to a stop. “For you, Pete? Always.”
Pete holds up a mic. “Big game today against the Bears. Even bigger game next week, hosting the Centaurs at home. How are you handling this stretch of high pressure match-ups?”
Johnson shrugs. “We’re not too worried about the Bears. I’ll put a few in the net and we’ll walk away with a win.”
The reporter leans in, picking up on his obvious omission. “And the Centaurs?"
Johnson smiles. “Not too worried about them, either.”
Pete blinks. “I mean – they’re a fairly commanding team.” He looks down, checking his notes. “Hollander and Rozanov lead the scoring race, with high numbers of assists —“
Johnson taps his stick on the ground, smirking. “I think the Golden Couple is overrated. Had some good seasons, sure. But they’re getting older, sloppy with their passes… there’ll be a new scoring leader by the end of the season.”
“Will it be you?”
Johnson winks. “We’ll see.”
*
@hollanovgods
does Johnson have a death wish or humiliation kink? you decide!
@ilyascigarette
Reply to @hollanovgods: fr what the fuck was that interview
@bisexualhockeyluvrs
the problem with sam johnson is that he has a Rozanov sized ego without Rozanov’s skill and whimsy
@liartoldyouthis
Reply to @bisexualhockeyluvrs: also ilya would’ve had the balls to say he’ll win the scoring race
@hollanovgods
Reply to @bisexualhockeyluvrs: fr johnson wants to be him so fucking bad
@roz81 ☑️
working on getting older and sloppier
[Video shows Shane and Ilya on their home ice-rink, running drills and slamming in precision shots.]
@shanehollanderhockeyplayer ☑️
Retweet @roz81: Sunday rituals.
@ilyascigarette
Reply to @roz81: johnson bbg you are so cooked
@ottawacents ☑️
we’re looking forward to our match with San Jose next week! see you soon, California.
@roz81 ☑️
Reply to @roz81: harris u messy bitch
*
Rozanov and Hollander have been fucking insufferable since the interview. Practice runs late all week.
Boodram heaves, trying to catch his breath after a brutal set of sprints. “You,” he chokes out, pointing at Rozanov, “are a psychopath.”
Roz laughs. Somehow, he’s only slightly winded.
“How are you not exhausted?” Barrett asks, leaning against the boards.
Hollander skates up, squeezing water out of a waiting bottle. “Roz and I run extra drills at home.”
“Every day?” Bood asks.
Rozanov rolls his eyes. “Shane is — how do you say, obsessed?”
*
Roz grabs Haas on the plane, dragging him into a spare row. “We have a date with the new Mission Impossible movie, rookie.”
Hollander rolls his eyes, taking a seat next to Barrett. It’s not entirely usual for the first husbands of hockey to sit apart, but it’s not uncommon enough to raise Barrett’s suspicions.
Four hours later, Barrett stares at Roz, drawing a thumb across his neck. To his right, Hollander leans over an iPad. “San Jose is weak on their left in the second. If we —“
Across the aisle, Rozanov winks.
*
San Jose’s arena is packed. There are, to Barrett’s amusement, at least as many Centaurs jerseys as there are Sharks.
The opening face-off is between Roz and Johnson — an ego boost Rozanov simply does not need.
Rozanov grins, staring down the younger man. “So, I am old, yes?”
Johnson hums. Then, because he is, apparently, an idiot with a death wish, he speaks.
“Actually, I said old and sloppy.”
Rozanov nods. “Cannot forget sloppy. Is crucial, I agree.”
The puck drops. With lighting speed, Roz tips it out of the circle and onto Troy’s waiting stick.
By the time the lines switch off, Rozanov has two shots under his belt. Hollander claps him on the back, heading onto the ice. Barrett shudders. He can’t imagine surviving their first line — led by Ilya Rozanov — only to be faced with Shane Hollander.
It takes Hollzy less than a minute to knock in the first goal of the game. He moves with deadly precision, breaking ankles and dancing his way to the crease.
Three periods in, the Sharks are losing 5-1. They’re suitably humiliated, casting dirty looks at Johnson on the bench.
When the buzzer sounds, the Centaurs surround their captains, cheering.
*
Later, at a random dive bar in San Jose, Boodram raises a glass.
“Here’s to winning – and to never, ever having to play against Roz and Hollzy.”
- Shooters Don’t Miss
Hayden flips a burger, grimacing when he sees burn marks.
He’d usually let it go. Slam it on a plate and call it a day.
Unfortunately, his best friend married Ilya fucking Rozanov – consummate critic of everything under the sun. Hayden tosses the patty to their dog and starts again.
Shane steps into the yard, staring at his phone. He seems reserved today – quiet.
“You all good, buddy?” Hayden asks, shaping a new burger.
“Have you seen this?” Shane responds. He passes Hayden his phone. It’s game footage. On screen, Rozanov and Adams fight for a puck. Rozanov falls – Adams ends up with a goal.
It’s not a bad fall. Not by hockey standards. Roz walks away with a couple bruised ribs and a chipped tooth.
Hayden hands the phone back. “Yeah, sure. This was last week, right?”
“Yeah, last week.” Shane watches the clip again, obsessed. “I think it was a dirty hit.”
“They’re both going for the puck, Shane. It’s hockey.”
“Just watch, okay?” Shane holds the phone up, pausing it midway through the sequence. “See that? That’s a skate edge. Adams tripped Roz on the turn.”
Hayden does not, in fact, see that. However, he is painfully aware that Shane Hollander sees hockey with different eyes than the rest of humanity. So, he’s not going to contradict him. He pleads the fifth and checks the grill.
“What’s it matter, anyway?” Hayden asks, standing. “Game’s over; you won.”
Shane sets down his phone. “Yeah, you’re right.”
He’s a terrible liar.
*
Troy likes playing the Devils. Their arena is close to New York -- beating them means a late night at The Kingfisher, running up Roz’s tab.
He expects an upbeat vibe in the locker room going into the game. And it is, for the most part. Rozanov bounces around, ribbing the guys and blasting Bad Bunny. Boodram and Hayes argue over a comic in the corner. The rookies swipe on Tinder, trying to find hook-ups for the night.
Everyone is in a good mood, except for Shane Hollander. Their Assistant Captain stares at his laces, tapping his foot on the ground.
“So,” Harris says, taking a seat next to Troy. “Any idea why Shane looks like Angry Arthur? Clenched fist and everything.”
Troy shakes his head. “None.”
*
The game gets off to a decent start. Rozanov leads a strong first five; he’s panting when he reaches the bench.
Hollander skates onto the ice, taking his husband’s place at center.
Barrett nudges Roz. “What’s his deal today?”
Rozanov grins. “You’ll see.”
Well, fuck. Absolutely nothing good starts with Rozanov grinning on the bench.
They make it through two unremarkable periods. And then Roz trips. One second, he’s battling Adams for the puck, racing up the right side of the arena. The next, he's on the ice.
It doesn’t seem like a dirty play.
Regardless, Hollander jumps the bench. He races over to Adams, slamming a punch into his jaw. The refs take a second to react — stunned, no doubt, by Hollander’s uncharacteristic violence.
By the time they manage to pull Hollzy off Adams, the Devils’ winger is missing a tooth.
The medical staff won’t let Rozanov stand, so he watches from the ice, letting them tape up his ankle. Barrett shakes his head, turning to the jumbotron. The Devil’s staff replay the confrontation in slow motion – hoping to prove it was a clean play.
Except… There.
Troy grabs Boodram, pointing at Adams’ inner edge. “He did trip Roz. Look, right… there.”
Boodram curses. “It looked clean. I would never have –”
“Same trip as last game,” Rozanov interrupts. The medical staff around him frown; he keeps trying to lace up his skate. “Shane is not a fan.”
The boys turn to stare at their Assistant Captain. Hollzy looks content in the penalty box, watching the game and shouting instructions. Like he expected to be there.
“That’s why you were grinning,” Barrett realizes. “You knew he’d do it again. You wanted Shane to defend you.”
“Is sexy, no? Makes me want to fuck him.”
“Aw, Roz, why’d you have to –”
“No sex comments during –”
“Need bleach for my –”
“You’re so gross –”
- Old Wounds Don’t Heal
Irina Ilyinichna Hollander is terrifying, thank you very much.
She inherited Ilya’s severe, Russian features and Svetlana’s – her biological mother – infamous beauty. Not to mention, Ilya’s on-ice attitude and Shane’s hockey IQ.
Heir to a hockey dynasty, indeed.
*
Growing up, Irina is surrounded by men.
She loves hockey – has loved it since her skates first touched the ice. Girl’s hockey infrastructure is lacking, so she plays with the boys.
She’s small – tall for a girl, but not for a boy. She has to be twice as fast, twice as skilled, to make up for it and earn a place.
Whatever. Anything to be out on the ice, playing at the highest level.
People seem to expect her to grow out of hockey. They assess her long, dark hair – always carefully curled. The dark mascara on her lashes. Her taped earrings during games, They think she can’t love the sport. Too girly. Too feminine.
They are wrong.
The national team starts scouting her when she’s 14. They show up to an open practice and watch her slam pucks into the net.
Her dad smiles, following her line of sight into the rafters. “Don’t get your hopes up,” he says. “They’re probably scouting for next year.”
She sighs, staring. It’s not fair. She could hold her own on the U-18 team. She deserves a spot, but they won’t give it to her. Not until she’s older. Tradition, or something stupid like that. She walks out of the arena, letting the door slam shut behind her.
An austere woman stands in the parking lot, smoking. She sees Irina looking – offers her a cigarette. Irina shakes her head.
“говорите по-русски?” Do you speak Russian?
“Да.” Irina’s brow knits. “Кто вы?”
The woman laughs, sticking out a hand. “Evgeniya Petrova.”
“Irina Hollander.”
Evengenia hands her a business card.
Евгения Петрова | Evengenia Petrova
Женская сборная России | Russian National Women’s Hockey Team
“We will take you now,” Evengenia offers. “No waiting your turn, no rotting on the U-18 Team.”
Irina looks up, schooling her features into a mask of indifference. “Я не буду играть за страну, которую мои отцы не могут посетить.” I won’t play for a country my fathers cannot visit.
Evengenia shrugs. “Tournaments are not held in Moscow. They can watch you play, when the time comes.” She hands Irina a binder. “We will offer Ilya amnesty. No propaganda charges, if you play for us.”
Her father could go home.
“I’ll think about it,” Irina says.
*
That night, Irina waits until Nikolai is asleep, then pulls out the binder.
She walks into her parent’s bedroom, climbing between them in bed – just like she used to when she was a little girl.
“Papa,” she starts. “I have to tell you something.”
Her father looks down at the binder. He recognizes the cyrillic lettering; his eyes widen with alarm. “Who gave you this?”
Her dad catches up, slowly making sense of the writing.
“There was a woman at practice today,” Irina admits. “The Russian coach. She offered me a spot on the national team. No waiting, no working through the ranks. Just the team, because I am good enough.”
She presses on, determined to get through it all before chaos breaks out. “She offered you amnesty, Papa. If I play, you can go home.”
Ilya closes his eyes. Mutters something. Shane reaches over to him, squeezing his shoulder. Irina thought they might be angry. They aren't. Just… sad.
“Irina,” Papa says, “I will never go home to Russia.”
“But I could do this,” she tries to insist. “I could make it safe –”
“I will never go back.”
She frowns, not understanding. “You miss it, don’t you?”
Papa nods. “Yes. I miss it very much. But to go back would be… like forgiving someone who is not sorry. Pretending it is fine. I will not do this. I will not send that message.”
She nods, sliding the binder off the bed. “Okay.”
Dad cuts in, pulling her close. “It’s an exciting opportunity, Ira. It’s so, so impressive that they want you. But it’s not right.”
Papa shakes his head. “Not right for me. But can be right for you, if you want it.”
Irina looks down, toying with her nails. “I don’t think so. You can’t – be gay there, right?”
“No,” Papa says, laughing at her naivety. “You cannot. You would have to be very careful. Not associate with us at games. Not say the wrong thing.”
Across the table, her dad seems to be having a heart attack, but manages to stay quiet. Irina shakes her head. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. I, um… I don’t think that would be safe for me, either.”
Her fathers blink. Shane moves first, taking her hands in his. “Honey, are you saying…”
“I’m gay,” Irina chokes out. “But I can hide it for a while if you want to go home, Papa. Really. Anything for you. Don’t say no because of me.”
Ilya leans in, pulling her into a hug. “I would say no for you a million times, Irinushka. Is my job. But I say no for me, too.”
“So it’s settled,” Shane surmises. “Irina plays for Canada. We become an even gayer, even more insufferable family. And, for once, someone in this family has the good sense to write off men.”
Ilya’s eyes shine. “Is truly the best news you can get, as a father. Knowing my precious daughter will never bother with stupid, ugly men.”
*
Three years later, Irina Hollander tries on her Olympic jersey for the first time. Her dad grins, running to get a camera.
She stares in the mirror, bursting with joy. But there’s a hint of sadness, too – one Papa seems to understand. He steps toward her, setting a hand on her shoulder.
“Is it strange to be sad?”
Ilya shakes his head. “No. I always am.”
“I’m proud to play for Canada. I’m grateful. But I wish I could play for Russia. Represent Grandma with more than just my name.”
Ilya straightens a stray curl in her hair. “You will always be Russian, солнышка. They cannot take it from you, just like they cannot take it from me.”
*
Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov stride into the Olympic arena. They’re famous even in their fifties, having cemented their status as legends during their time with the Centaurs. The crowd roars when the camera catches sight of them.
Ilya, for his part, seems to relish the attention, He waves, jostling the sleeves of his custom Armani suit. Shane smiles at the crowd.
Irina’s team wins easily – largely thanks to a dominant performance from the young center. She sinks three goals, starts two fights, and wins a crucial face-off in the third.
Shane and Ilya show up to every game. Nikolai, their youngest, is too young for the Olympics this time around, so they only have to keep track of one child. If his medal count is anything to go by, though, they’ll be splitting time between Hockey and Figure Skating in four years time.
After weeks of brutal play, Canada is finally set to play Russia in the Gold Medal Match. Nikolai bursts into Shane and Ilya’s room before the game, waving a plastic bag around.
“Whatever you think you’re wearing, forget it.” He pulls a shirt out of the bag. Shows off the front, then turns it around.
Ilya cackles. “Give to me.”
*
Irina finds her family in the stands. They wave, grinning. Her dad is wearing a vintage Canada jersey -- likely from his time on the team. Papa is wearing a jersey, too. It's not one she recognizes.
He spins around, gesturing to the back. With a start, Irina realizes it’s from his time on the Russian national team. His name and number are still on the back. The Russian crest has been replaced – covered with large, sewn-on maple leaves.
He turns back around. She squints. The cyrillic on the front has been modified. It reads:
русский, гей, и гордый
Russian, Gay, and Proud
She chokes up, imagining how this moment feels for her father. Watching his daughter play the team that abandoned him. The country that would've killed him for loving Shane.
She thinks about trying on her jersey – about what her father said. How they can’t take their identity, or their past. He will always be Rozanov, star center of the Russian national team. They don’t get to erase that.
Irina turns to face the opposing team. The puck drops.
She plays her fucking heart out.
The buzzer sounds, announcing Canada’s victory to the world. Irina drops her stick and skates towards her teammates. Ella James slams into her, pulling her into a hug.
“Still want to do this?” She shouts, pulling off her helmet.
“Fuck yes,” Irina screams back. She grabs Ella, pulling her in for a kiss.
*
@ilyascigarettes
leave it to a rozanov-hollander baby to come out in the wildest, most fanfic way ever
@hollanovlovesanya
i’m screaming i love this family sm
@irinahollandermarryme
irina hollander is gonna be more dominant at hockey than both her dads combined, but y’all ain’t ready for that conversation
@puckwives
remember when y’all were bitching about nikolai not playing hockey like it was the end of the world? like irina is RIGHT THERE to continue the legacy
@roz81 ☑️
olympic champion AND good w the ladies. like father like daughter indeed
@hollzy81 ☑️
Reply to @roz81: dad plz shut the fuck up
@shanehollanderhockeyplayer ☑️
Reply to @roz81: We’re incredibly proud of our daughter, Irina, for her courage and leadership on (and off) the ice. See how easy it is to write a nice statement?
@nikolaiskates ☑️
Reply to @roz81, @hollzy81, and @shanehollanderhockeyplayer: will you all plz stop tweeting at each other we’re literally at dinner
- Sequins Don’t Discriminate
Nikolai Ilyich Hollander is born at 2:37AM. He screams his way into the world – angry at the cold air.
As far as Ilya can tell, he’s been angry ever since.
Sometimes Nikolai is destructive. He breaks toys, argues with his sister, and gets into fights at school. More often, though, he’s fiercely passionate. Protective. Loyal.
Media, friends, family… They expect him to be a hockey player. He has what it takes – the athleticism, the rage.
Thing is, Nikolai doesn’t give a shit. Expectations – the fragile, dangerous ropes that govern Shane and Ilya – are meaningless to him.
Nikolai storms into the kitchen on a stormy July afternoon. He’s five years old, and much shorter than his sister. He inherited Shane’s lean, lithe frame.
Their son slams a drawing onto the table. “I want to do this.”
Ilya leans in, trying to decipher the artwork. “Is that hockey? Kolya, you play hockey –”
“No!” Nikolai yells. “The other ice one!”
Shane steps forward, peering at the incoherent scribbles. “Figure skating?” He tries.
Their son nods. “Is that the one where they spin? I want to spin. It’s so much prettier than hockey. Please, Dad?”
Shane meets Ilya’s eyes. Ilya nods.
“Okay,” Shane says. “Figure skating it is, kiddo. We’ll have to get you different skates.”
*
Nikolai is obsessive. He spends long hours on their frozen pond, mastering edge control. He stays outside after dusk – long after his sister seeks refuge inside. Shane stays out with him. Irina is so much like Ilya – brash and gifted. Nikolai is like Shane. He needs to perfect everything he touches.
Sometimes, Shane feels guilty. He watches his son practice bunny hops with the ferocity of an Olympian and wonders if it’s fault. If he somehow poisoned him – passed down whatever gene that makes him different.
In some ways, he’s glad Nikolai is a figure skater. The sport lends itself to obsession. There are no foreign variables – no rogue teammates. With enough practice, Nikolai will excel. He will be great, because he demands it of himself.
It makes him worry, though. After a bad game, Shane could vanish into a crowd of jerseys, surrounded by friends. Nikolai will always stand alone. Just him and the ice.
*
Ilya and Shane are, probably, overly involved parents. It’s easier with Irina. They understand the hockey system – trust the coaches, understand the path. They know fucking nothing about figure skating.
So they learn. Possibly, they learn too much.
Shane becomes a walking encyclopedia of technical complexity scores. Ilya learns how to rhinestone costumes and spends his retirement gluing gems to leotards.
They sit together in the stands at every competition – always overdressed, always causing a stir. Shane discovers new depths of terror and pride as Nikolai goes from jumping doubles, to triples, to fucking quads.
Shane exhales, letting go of Ilya’s hand. “That should not be physically possible. I can’t believe he landed that.”
“I can,” Ilya says, because apparently it really would kill him to be agreeable for once in his fucking life.
Shane nudges Irina. “Were you watching?”
Their terrifying teenage daughter rolls her eyes. “Yes, I was watching. He landed the quad. Very impressive, or whatever.”
Shane and Ilya leave her in the stands and head down to the ice, eager to congratulate Nikolai. They don’t bother knocking on his dressing room door. He finished less than two minutes ago, it’s not like he’ll be –
There is a naked woman in their son’s room.
It’s disturbing on several levels. First, and most notably, because their son is gay. Figure skating, rhinestones… Shane is not known for his gaydar, but he’s not an idiot, either.
Nikolai sighs, tossing his guest a shirt. She smiles at Shane and Ilya, looking pained. “Right, well. I’m going to go.”
Shane stares at his son. To his left, Ilya is bent over, dying of laughter. “I didn’t know you had it in you,” he says, struggling to breathe.
“Nikolai,” Shane says, “aren’t you gay?”
That really sets Ilya off. His husband is cackling – laughing so hard he’s holding up his hand in surrender. “You think he is gay?”
Shane nods, waving his hands. He’s lost. “You know, figure skating, the…” He trails off.
Nikolai rolls his eyes. “Okay, toxic masculinity police.”
“Oh come on,” Ilya says, shoving their son playfully. “You know he is very bad at this.”
“Fine,” Nikolai steps forward, giving Shane a hug. “Dad, I’m straight. I also like spinning in the air, like, really fucking fast. I hope you can see how that has nothing to do with my love of tits. In fact, considering this is a girl’s sport, it gives some really great access –”
“Enough,” Shane yells. “Please, for the love of Christ. Do not finish that sentence.”
*
@nikolaiskates ☑️
it has come to my attention that literally everyone thinks im gay. to be clear i <3 pussy i love bitches i should be running peta
@nikolaiskates ☑️
Reply to @nikolaiskates: ps. if you don’t go down on your girl you’re a loser
DM: @shanehollanderhockeyplayer to @roz81
Do we make him delete it?
DM: @roz81 to @shanehollanderhockeyplayer
he is not wrong. does make you a loser.
DM: @shanehollanderhockeyplayer to @roz81
Pretty bad look for sponsorships.
DM: @roz81 to @shanehollanderhockeyplayer
cannot be worse than me. and i had sponsors
DM: @shanehollanderhockeyplayer to @roz81
I guess.
+1 Stars Always Shine
Their granddaughter is born on Christmas morning. She’s a tiny miracle with big, brown eyes and a button nose.
Shane and Ilya creep into the hospital room, not wanting to intrude. Nikolai’s wife smiles softly, waving. They check in on her first. Ilya hands her a tupperware full of the blinis she likes. Shane passes her a blanket from the cottage – the one she favors when she’s there.
Nikolai smiles, watching them dote on his wife. He got married young -- shocking both Shane and Ilya. They’d expected Nikolai to be a playboy. Maybe he would’ve been – if it weren’t for Ana.
Hard to say. Nikolai was never one for expectations.
Ana strolled into Nikolai’s life during the Olympics – an Eteri girl, slated for Olympic gold. She landed four quads in her free skate; Nikolai was instantly obsessed. She made it work for it, like a good Slavic girl, but in the end, she agreed to marry him.
Shane and Ilya adore her.
Irina slips into the room, carrying a change of clothes and other essentials. She winks at her sister-in-law. “How’s the pain?”
Ana mutters something about knives and torture. Sounds about right.
Nikolai hands Shane his granddaughter. He looks down, staring at her soft, sleeping face. Ilya leans into his side, smiling.
Tomorrow, they have a video interview with ESPN. Tomorrow, they’ll be Rozanov and Hollander.
Olympic greats. Hall of Famers. Legends.
Today, they’re just Shane and Ilya. Grandparents. Fathers. After years of hiding, it's a joy to have a choice.