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They held the test throughout the combine, but Shane’s appointment was for the last day. The tests was held in little rooms, portioned off with flimsy fake walls. There was a line of other kids and parents waiting in plastic chairs. Shane recognized a lot of them by sight. He’d played with them, against them, gone to training camps and skills camps, read everything he could about everyone predicted to go in the top three rounds.
He nodded and smiled at some of them, but he was too nervous to attempt small talk and it was awkward with the line of chairs. He sat down and his mom sat down beside him, smiling at another parent and striking up a conversation with him. Where were they from and, oh do you know so-and-so who also lives there? Hahaha, hockey is such a small world, isn’t it?
A woman in a lab coat came out with a clipboard and called a name and a kid— Tom Buckland— stood up and followed her into one of the flimsy rooms. A minute later a man came out and called Alex Holland. Shane’s mom had started talking to another parent.
Shane’s had just pulled out his phone to see if he could get any signal when he spotted Rozanov. He came in alone, stooped a little, wearing a baseball cap and an orange windbreaker. He looked at Shane for a long moment, then slunk down into the chair beside him.
“Hollander,” he said
“Rozanov,” Shane answered. He often thought about the time he’d spoken to Rozanov, sometimes, Rozanov’s curls escaping the confines of his toque, his red lips pursed around his cigarette, the breath of his laugh when he slammed Shane into the boards a few days later. They were confusing thoughts; they made something twist in Shane’s gut.
Rozanov’s slump meant his knee bumped against Shane’s. Shane muttered ‘sorry’, and moved his knee over a little.
Rozanov grinned at him and widened the spread of his legs, bumping into Shane again.
“Sorry,” Shane said, and moved his knee. Rozanov laughed.
“You’re such an asshole,” Shane said.
“Shane!” Shane’s mother scolded him, then dived back into her conversation.
Rozanov laughed again.
“Shut up,” Shane muttered.
The woman with the clipboard appeared again. The prospects must have been exiting through the back, Shane thought.
“Luca Capman?” she called and Capman got up and followed her in.
“You ready for this test?” Rozanov asked.
Shane rolled his eyes. “It’s not that kind of test. They just hook up a bunch of wires to you and ask you a lot of questions.”
“Yes,” Rozanov said. “What if you cannot answer the questions? You will fail.”
“They’re not even that type of question. Only, like, what’s your favorite color or whatever.”
“How do you know what your favorite color is?” Rozanov asked.
Shane stared at him. “Uh, because it’s your favorite?”
“What if you’re wrong?” Rozanov asked, eyes wide.
“Fuck off,” Shane said.
“Shane!” his mother scolded again.
“Stop trying to fu— mess with me,” Shane told Rozanov.
The man came to the entrance to the waiting room.
“Shane Hollander?” he asked.
Shane stood up.
“See you at the draft!” Rozanov called as Shane followed behind the man.
.
There was a dull beige machine on a foldable table set next to two folding chairs. It had a bunch of knobs on one side and a bunch of wires coming off the back. They led to some kind of mesh thing hanging on a stand.
“This should be simple,” the man told him, handing Shane what Shane first thought was a bag but turned out to be a disposable shower cap. “Put that on, yes that’s right. Don’t worry about looking stupid, I see people wearing these things all the time. Good, your hair is nice and flat. This is so much more difficult for people with curly hair. Now, this is the neurocap, it goes on right on top.” He pulled on a pair of latex gloves and, very gently lifting the cap, placed it on Shane’s head, pressing parts of it down. It must have been made of wire, or something, because the points pressed unpleasantly into Shane’s head here and there.
“Excellent, now the calibration; tell me what each of the images are on this card. It starts off with blue square, pink flower…”
“Blue square, pink flower, orange circle, purple man…” Shane said as the man fiddled with the machine.
“Good, good,” the man said, when he was done. “Now, I’m going to ask you some questions and you’re going to answer them as honestly as you can, okay? I am not going to judge you or tell anyone anything you tell me here. I can’t, actually, under medical privacy laws. Understand?”
“Yeah,” Shane said, suddenly nervous.
“Don’t worry, they’re not even invasive questions, we just need the absolute truth. What did you eat for breakfast this morning?”
The rest of the questions were like that; ‘what was the last movie you saw?’, ‘how did you celebrate your last birthday?’, ‘think about a butterfly; what color is it?’.
A relief from the kinds of questions he was usually asked, things like ‘why do you want to join the NHL’, and ‘how could your team improve for the finals’, and ‘what’s your strategy for improving your team’s defense’ and Shane was just getting into the grove of it when the machine beeped and the man said ‘we have enough.’
Shane nodded and the man took off the neurocap and held out a trashcan for Shane to drop the shower cap into and then he followed him between the flimsy fake walls until he got to another waiting room where his mother was talking to another group of (or possibly the same group of) parents.
“And here’s Shane!” she said, standing and grabbing her bag. “How’d it go, honey?”
“Fine,” Shane said.
.
There was a day off between the end of the combine and the draft, an inconvenience for the kids and families who’d traveled so far, but they needed it, supposedly, to process the data from the compatibility tests.
Shane’s mom suggested they get out and see the sights— what sights there were to see in Duluth, anyway— and Shane went along with it because the alternative was being stuck in a hotel room for an entire day with his mom, who he loved dearly, but.
So they went and pretended to be interested in art and then went somewhere else and pretended to be interested in the history of oil extraction and then they went to a cafe and Shane tried to find something to fit his diet plan and then they went to pick his dad up at the airport and the whole time Shane wondered: did I match with anyone? And he probably hadn’t— most people weren’t— but it niggled in the back of his mind all the same.
.
The draft system was pretty straightforward; the worst team got the first pick, the second worst got the second pick, and so on, and so on, until every team had picked and then they went again, with the exception that teams often traded their draft picks.
But the matching made it complicated. If two people had a compatibility rating of 70% or higher they could, theoretically, form a bond. If a prospect was a 80% or higher match with an existing player, it was taken into account in the draft; the player’s team got first choice on the prospect. If a prospect was a 80% higher match with multiple players, the team of the player with the highest compatibility rating got first choice. The pick would replace the team’s draft pick for the round the prospect had been projected to be drafted at had compatibility ratings not been taken into account.
But the player in question might be near retirement, or injured, more or less permanently consigned to a farm team, or maybe the team had been planning on trading them. Or the player could turn down the bonding; anyone turn it down, technically, but Shane was pretty sure it was one of those technically not mandatory things that were, in fact, mandatory. A prospect who turned down a bonding would be seen as tanking his career.
And then, of course, were prospects who got high compatibility ratings with each other; suddenly they became a package deal. Any team could draft them together on their turn and they would count as the draft pick for that turn and the next. You could turn theoretically turn that matching down too, more easily if a prospect projected to be drafted in the first round was matched with someone projected to be drafted in, say the fourth, but if you were both high-value prospects it was pretty much required.
Shane had memorized all these rules years before, of course. He’d been dreaming of the draft since he was a little kid, since he knew he wanted to get into the NHL, but as he’d gotten older the reality of it had grown more clear. He read books about hockey bonds, blog posts about bonded pairs. Sometimes he stayed up late on Reddit reading horror stories about bonds that had gone wrong.
He’d come to the conclusion, pretty early on, that he didn’t want to bond at all. The idea of not being alone in his own head horrified him. Bondmates usually couldn’t see your thoughts, not unless the bond was unusually strong, but they could sense emotions, get a vague sense of what you were thinking about, maybe.
It was terrifying, the thought of someone seeing inside Shane. He’d remembered how appalled he’d been as a young child, discovering people could tell his emotions just by looking at his face, hearing his voice, how he had practiced blank expressions, even tones, ever since.
And if he bonded, they could just have free access to all that?
They’d know all of Shane’s weaknesses, all the things he tried to hide. The way he tried not to look at other boys in the locker room, how the porn his juniors team sometimes watched on roadies turned him on less than the sight of his teammates masturbating to it. They’d know he thought be might be, was pretty sure he was, gay.
They’d know Shane never felt like he belonged, the way his juniors team had hazed him, back when he was a rookie, the embarrassing things they’d made him do. They’d know he never got their jokes, how he lied and hid so he wouldn’t have to go out with them and keep pretending. How he’d made up a girlfriend just so they would think he was normal.
If Shane got matched, if he bonded he’d be tying himself permanently to someone who might find out all those horrible things about him. Someone who’d never be able to untie themselves from him.
He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t risk that.
And yet, somehow, that the price of playing hockey.
.
Shane couldn’t sleep the night before the draft. He tossed and turned until he finally gave up and threw on his exercise gear and headed downstairs.
The fitness room at the hotel smelled like mildew. Shane picked the nearest treadmill and quickly found his rhythm, the pounding in his feet taking some of the urgency from his thoughts. It would be okay; the probably he’d have a match at all wasn’t very high, after all. It was the highest it would ever be, during the draft, since you were being compared to every non-retired player in the database, but still less than 10%. And after that, it dropped considerably.
And Shane was… unusual. He knew that, even though his parents didn’t like to acknowledge it. It was pretty obvious his mind worked differently from the other kids. So, that should make it even less likely, right?
The fitness room door opened and Ilya Rozanov came in, his hair disheveled like he’d been tossing and turning as much as Shane had. He was wearing a tank top and short shorts, his biceps and thigh muscles bulging in a way that made Shane heat and have to look away. Wordlessly, he stepped onto the other treadmill and started running, his pace increasing until he was going faster than Shane. Shane thought about going faster too, competing, showing Rozanov he could keep up, but he had nothing to prove. He was still the favorite for top place in the draft, even if Rozanov’s team had crushed his last winter.
They ran in silence for a while, then Rozanov said “water?”
Shane looked at him. “Sorry?”
“Canadians, always apologizing,” Rozanov complained.
“It’s a way of saying ‘I didn’t hear you, would you please repeat yourself?’” Shane informed him, his words coming out a little breathless with the exertion. “Not an apology. Not that there’s anything wrong with being polite.”
“Sure,” Rozanov said. “I said ‘do you want water?’”
“No,” Shane said. “I’m good.”
“You should stay hydrated,” Rozanov told him.
“I can take care of myself, thank you,” Shane replied, more snippy than he meant.
Rozanov’s eyes flickered up and down Shane’s body. “Can you?” he asked, with what Shane thought was a leer.
Shane grabbed the water bottle in a flash of annoyance, but the moment their fingers touched a shock went through him, and then he was staring at Rozanov.
He dropped the bottle and it rolled away under the machines, but Shane and Rozanov didn’t break eye contact, Shane batting at the emergency stop button so he wouldn’t fall off the treadmill.
Rozanov must have done the same thing; the sounds of their footsteps slowing until the only noise in the shabby room was the buzzing of the lights overhead.
“It was…” Shane’s voice came out croaked. “Static electricity.”
Rozanov raised an eyebrow, but didn’t contradict him.
“Uh, excuse me.”
He fled from the room.
.
At seven the morning of the draft the draft committee sent out notices to all prospects who’d been matched with a meeting time and place. Shane saw it fall into his inbox without any surprise.
His mother looked at him, concerned, but didn’t say anything; his father was buried in the newspaper— the New York Times, since the Ottawa paper wasn’t distributed to Duluth.
At nine fifteen, Shane walked into a room with his parents and sat down at a meeting table with Ilya Rozanov, a man he assumed was Ilya’s father, and a member of the NHL draft committee.
His mother almost gasped when she saw Rozanov sitting there, but neither Shane nor Rozanov reacted.
The draft committee member smiled at them as they settled.
“Congratulations,” he said. He had a nasally voice, an American accent. From the east coast, maybe, Shane thought. “We’re still determining the order of teams, but you two will definitely be drafted first, no question. You’ve got an incredibly high compatibility rating; 96.2%. It’s the highest on record at the draft.”
“Oh,” Shane’s mom said. “That’s great. Their bond will be strong.”
Shane glanced at Rozanov, who was staring at his hands on the table and Rozanov glanced back up at him, meeting his eyes for a split second before he looked away.
The draft committee member launched into a tired spiel about their rights under the Geneva convention, the Human Rights Charter, and international law to reject any bond offer, before sliding over the intent-to-bond paperwork.
Rozanov’s was translated into Russian, Shane saw. He scanned the document, even though he know he didn’t have any choice in the matter.
Rozanov looked up at Shane, looking just as cornered as Shane felt.
Shane’s father put a hand on his arm.
“You don’t have to sign it,” he said. Everyone in the room looked at him.
“You’ll still be drafted,” his father said. “You’re the best among the prospects— this doesn’t change that. Teams will draft you and be grateful for it.”
And I’ll gain a reputation for being difficult and selfish, Shane thought.
“Or you just go play college hockey and get a normal career and have a good life,” his father continued. “If you don’t want to bond, you don’t have to.”
Shane looked at Ilya Rozanov, who was biting his lower lip, clearly listening to Shane’s father even though his eyes were back on his paper. Beside him, his own father barked out something in Russian.
Shane wished he could talked to him for just a moment. He should have— he shouldn’t have run away, last night. They could have spoken then, the moment Shane had felt that jolt and realized this was inevitable.
But this was inevitable and so was Shane’s name, carefully inked on the paper in the cursive signature he was still testing out.
Rozanov looked over at him for a moment, then signed himself. He smiled crookedly at Shane, but Shane’s gut felt like it was full of lead.
“Excellent,” the NHL draft committee member said. “We will file this away. When you’re drafted you can speak with your team about timing; most teams prefer you bond at least a month before training camp so the bond is settled, but according to the contracts you’ll be signing, you cannot be required to bond until the official start of [training] camp.”
Shane nodded and Rozanov looked down at the paper again.
The NHL official nodded, satisfied and stood. “That’s all for now,” he said, with a small smile. “I have another appointment starting soon.”
They all stood and filed out of the room and then Shane’s mom turned to Rozanov’s father and smiled, holding out her hand. “Yuna Hollander. Nice to meet you, Mr. Rozanov.”
Mr. Rozanov looked at her hand for a moment, then shook it. “The pleasure is mine,” he replied.
“Well,” Shane’s mom said. She looked at the Rozanovs a little nervously, a crack in her normally perfect composure. “I guess we’re going to be family?”
The Rozanovs looked a little confused at this.
“Why don’t we get coffee?” Shane’s mother pressed on. “Get to know each other.”
“Ah,” Mr. Rozanov said. “I have a meeting. Excuse me.” He nodded to them and disappeared.
“Isn’t it the middle of the night in Russia?” Shane’s dad commented, bemused.
Rozanov didn’t say anything.
“Would you like to get coffee with us, Ilya?” Shane’s mom asked. “We’d love to get to know you.”
Rozanov still seemed confused by this, but he nodded and followed them out of the convention hall, down the block to a small cafe, sharply decorated in glass and steel. Shane and his dad both got teas, Shane’s mom and Rozanov both got coffee. They found a small table, too small for the four of them, really, with two hockey players and one ex-hockey player.
They were all quiet for a minute. Shane looked out at the street, which was empty. It was mid-morning; most people would be at work, he realized. This was only a monumental day for a very people, really.
Rozanov sipped his tea and tried to disguise his grimace.
“You can put milk and sugar in it,” Shane’s dad told him, taking his tea bag out of his cup and putting it in a water cup he’d snagged from the milk station. “We won’t judge.”
Rozanov considered, then went to doctor his coffee. Shane took his own tea bag out and added it to the cup with his dad’s.
“He’s very stoic,” Shane’s mom commented. “Is that a Russian thing?”
Shane’s dad shrugged. “People are people,” he said, cryptically.
“So, Ilya,” Shane’s mom said, when Rozanov came back. “Oh, I don’t know if we introduced ourselves— everything’s been a bit rushed, hasn’t it? I’m Yuna Hollander, Shane’s mom, and this is my husband David. You’ve met Shane though, right?”
“Yes,” Rozanov said, shortly.
“It’s all a bit of a shock, eh?” Shane’s mom said, with a commiserating smile. “I’ve been thinking of you and Shane as competitors; they’ve really been pitting you against each other, haven’t they? But now you’re going to be on the same team.”
“Yes,” Rozanov said again, and this time he looked at Shane, face still impassive. Soon Shane would know what Rozanov was feeling and Shane shivered at the thought. He didn’t want to know other people’s emotions; just dealing with his was enough. Too much.
“I don’t know what the culture is in Russia,” Shane’s mom continued on, determinedly. “But here in Canada—”
“I think…” Rozanov interrupted, confused. “You are Japanese? Yes?”
Shane’s mom was halted in her tracks, mouth open. “Uh, yes, I was born in Japan. For sure. But I was raised in Canada. We consider ourselves Canadian.”
“Oh,” Rozanov said, nodding. “Okay.”
Shane’s mom took a sip of her coffee, derailed.
“In Canada, bondmates are considered family,” Shane’s dad picked it up. “Is it different in Russia?”
Rozanov considered this. “In Russia bonding is not, ah… is not usual? Bonding for hockey is not— Russians do not do this.”
“But the Russian six, they were all bonded,” Shane’s dad said. “Weren’t they?”
“It was different, before,” Rozanov said. “Soviet team it was all bonded. For best players, yes? Now in Russia no person do this, bond without… romantic?”
“Platonic,” Shane supplied. “You don’t have platonic bonds.
“Yes,” Rozanov agreed. “Platonic bonds. This— these?— are very rare. Only for romance, maybe?”
“Does it…” Shane tried to think. He was so tired. “Is it because they think all bond are romantic? Like a platonic bond between men would be gay?”
Rozanov considered this. “Maybe some people. I think is more— bond is serious. Bonding for marriage, you know? Not job. Even hockey.”
Shane privately thought that hockey was more serious than marriage, but he was aware a lot of people didn’t.
“In Russia gay is no problem, you know? No problem if quiet, only sleep with men sometimes. But marriage? No. Only marriage for woman. I think it is the same here?”
Shane shrugged. “Different people think different things. But in hockey you can’t be gay, so yeah. I mean, you can’t be sleeping with men any time though,” he added, quickly, trying not to glance at his mom. She was sitting back, letting the conversation happen, a small frown on her face.
“So bonding with me, won’t it be a problem? If you only have romantic bonds in Russia? Won’t people think…?”
“Ah,” Rozanov said. “No, I don’t think so. People only mad I am doing American thing, maybe become American? But not think I am gay. They know Americans do this.”
“We’re Canadian,” Shane said, a little too sharply.
Rozanov shrugged. “Whole continent is America, yes?”
“When you bond with Shane you’ll have Canadian citizenship, automatically,” Shane’s mom said. “So if there were problems, for any reason.”
“Russia is my home,” Rozanov said, almost nervously.
“For sure,” Shane’s mom added, hurriedly. “I just meant.”
“Is no problem,” Rozanov said. “Except in summer, maybe with bond it is hard to go to Russia?”
“I’ll go with you,” Shane said, quickly. “If that’s what you need?”
Rozanov stared at him. “You do this?”
“For sure,” Shane told him. “If you’re my bondmate. Like my mom said— we’re family. If you need to go to Russia, we can go to Russia.”
Rozanov considered him for a long moment, then nodded.
“Okay,” he said.
Shane’s dad checked his watch. “It’s just about lunch time,” he said. “Let’s get some lunch. The draft’s going to start in about two hours.”
Shane’s gut twisted. “I’m, uh, gonna go back to the hotel. I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night, so I think I’ll take a nap.”
“Okay, honey,” his mom said. “I’ll pick something up for you, okay?” She smiled at Rozanov, “would you like to come?”
Rozanov shook his head. “I go to hotel too,” he decided, standing and picking up his up. “Come on, Hollander.”
“For sure. I’ll see you at the hotel,” he told his parents, and then followed Rozanov through the door.
They were silent most of the way back to the hotel, until Rozanov said. “You did not tell them.”
“About the spark?” Shane asked. “No. You didn’t tell your dad either.”
Rozanov scoffed but didn’t say anything.
“Are you really okay with it?”
Rozanov looked at Shane. “I signed paper. You signed paper too. Okay does not matter.”
Shane sighed. “Yeah.”
“Your parents are serious,” Rozanov said. “They think I am family now?”
“For sure,” Shane told him. “Bondmate are— well it’s like marriage, even if it’s platonic. When we bond you’ll be their bondson and they’ll be your bondparents.”
Rozanov considered this. “If you get married, she will be my bondwife?” he asked, smirking.
“Ah,” Shane said. “I don’t think that’s the official term.”
They got into the elevator, Shane hitting the button for the fourteenth floor, Rozanov for the twelfth. The doors closed, the elevator began moving, and Shane felt a shock on his hand. He looked down to see Rozanov’s finger moving to poke him in the hand again.
“Ow! Why?” Shane demanded, pulling back.
“It does not hurt,” Rozanov said, curiously. “It feels it maybe it hurts but it does not.” He reached out and touched Shane again, keeping his fingers pressed against the back of his hand and Shane was surprised to realize it was right. It was like static without any pain. Rozanov’s fingers on Shane’s hand made him think of the buzz of a dentist’s drill but there wasn’t any pain there.
What would it be like, he wondered, if Rozanov touched him more? If he laid his whole, enormous hand, on Shane’s bare skin? If brushed it down Shane’s side…
Shane felt himself heating and pulled away.
Rozanov tilted his head.
“I don’t like it,” Shane lied, and Rozanov raised his eyebrows.
“I think you are liar,” he said.
“You can’t know,” Shane told him. “You can’t see into my head.”
“Not yet,” Rozanov said. “We have very strong bond, yes? Maybe can read thoughts even.”
Shane blanched and looked away.
Rozanov stepped closer and his voice turned serious. “I will be good bondmate,” he said. Shane looked up at him and was struck by his expression, all the usual hard lines of it were gone. He looked open and young, suddenly. “I will take good care.”
“For sure,” Shane said. It came out as a whisper. “Me too. I mean, I will too, okay?” He took Rozanov’s hand, ignoring the buzz of it. “We’re going to be a team. You and me.”
“Yes,” Rozanov said. “You and me.” The elevator dinged and came to a stop. Rozanov pulled away. “See you at draft.”
.
Shane didn’t sleep; he put the tv on some travel channel and let his mind drift until his parents knocked on the door, his dad handing him a wrap and sitting next to him while he ate it while his mom fussed over his suit.
“Oh,” his dad said, looking down at his phone. “The draft order came out.”
Shane almost dropped his wrap. “Already?”
Shane’s dad nodded, frowning.
“So?” Shane’s mom prompted when he didn’t say anything.
“Boston,” Shane’s dad said.
Shane’s mom sat down hard on the bed. “I’m going to have to become a Boston fan“, she said.
Shane’s dad laughed at her.
“You don’t have to,” Shane said, smiling.
“I’m going to need a whole new wardrobe.”
“Luckily you look good in black,” Shane’s dad said, encouragingly.
“Boston’s a nice city,” Shane’s mom said, pensively. “Oh! We can go to the Cape! You know I went there with my friends for spring break one year. Kind of a terrible choice because it wasn’t really warm enough, but at least it wasn’t crowded. You could even get a house on the beach if you didn’t mind a little commute. The winters are pretty mild there too.”
“And it’s not very far away,” Shane’s dad said. “You know what? I think I have a black tie with gold stripes in my bag. Let me go get it.”
“You do not!” Shane’s mom said, gasping.
Shane’s dad smiled. “I knew Boston was a possibility so I thought it would be better to be prepared.” He left the room.
“Are you really okay with it?” Shane asked, feeling a little nervous. “I know you don’t like the Bears.”
Shane’s mother scoffed. “You think some old rivalry is more important than my son? You think I’m not going to wear your jersey every chance I get? Shane, you’re being drafted first.”
“It’s not official,” Shane reminded her.
Shane’s mother scoffed. “You seriously think there isn’t a team that wouldn’t take you and Rozanov together, the two most likely prospects at the draft as a bonded pair, at the drop of a hat? I bet the other managers are wishing they’d tanked their standings on purpose. You two are going to be legends.”
Shane couldn’t help smiling at her. “Now finish your lunch and change,” she said. “We’ve got to be in the convention center in forty-five minutes.”
“It’s like a ten minute walk,” Shane reminded her, just as his dad came back into the room with his tie.
He was dressed a few minutes later, heading out with his parents since they had nothing better to do, which turned out to be good because everyone who’d been at the combine seemed to have the same idea, the sidewalks full of nervous young men in suits and their parents. Reporters were stationed outside of the main doors to the convention center and they started calling to Shane as soon as they saw him.
“Go on,” Shane’s mom encouraged him, so he stepped forward with a smile.
“We’re here with Shane Hollander, who was previously anticipated to be one of the top five overall draftees,” the reporter told the camera, “but since the news was just released that Shane is compatible with another of the draftees, Ilya Rozanov, they are now both projected to be first overall.
“Shane, how are you feeling right now?”
Shane gave the camera his best smile. “Nervous, overwhelmed,” he said. “This is the biggest day my life, so far, so I’m, for sure, excited.”
“You must have been surprised to find out you were compatible with Rozanov,” she said.
“For sure, not a lot of people are matched, less than ten percent and I didn’t expect to be among them. And, uh, Rozanov, well, we’re pretty different people, so that was a surprise too.”
“How do you feel about it? Bonding with him?”
Shane tried not to let any apprehension show on his face. “He’s an incredible player, we’re going to play amazing hockey, I can’t wait.”
“According to the draft order Boston is going first and they’re almost certainly going to draft you and Rozanov. How do you feel about becoming a Bear?”
“Well, they haven’t drafted me yet,” Shane said, and the reporter laughed. “But my parents and I were just talking about what a great city Boston is, and I would be proud to play for them, if they did draft me. I’m excited for the chance to help rebuild a team as historic as the Bears.”
“And you’re wearing a tie in the Bears colors?” the reporter asked.
“Ah, yup,” Shane said, smoothing down his tie. “My dad brought a few ties for the most likely teams.”
“Very thoughtful,” the reporter said. “Well, I’m guessing you’re eager to get inside.”
“For sure, thanks.”
“Good luck, Shane,” the reporter told him, and her assistant ushered him away.
“Good job,” Shane’s mom said. “Just like we practiced.”
“Come on, kiddo,” Shane’s dad said. “You have a jersey to put on.”
.
It was all a little anticlimactic after that. They were ushered to a special section for the most likely prospects and Shane’s mom immediately found Rozanov and his dad.
“We should go sit with them,” she said, heading down the aisle.
“For sure,” Shane’s dad said, laughing a little that she was already far ahead of them, already speaking to Mr. Rozanov, who was looking up at her with an irritated expression, before he moved a few seats over.
“Sit next to Ilya,” Shane’s mom directed him. “It will be good for optics.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Shane said, only a little sarcastically, but enough that his mom rolled her eyes and told him not to sass her.
“What is ‘optics’?” Rozanov asked, quietly. He was wearing a black suit, closely tailored to his body, with a white shirt and a skinny black tie. Shane tore his eyes away from him, looked across the room. They were in a section reserved for prospects and their families; the rest of the room was full of reporters, team management— he recognized a few of the scouts, and other people milling about.
“It’s, like, how things look to the media,” Shane explained, trying not to look at the cameras that were trained on them. “Like if we sit next to each other than the media will thing ‘oh, they’re already friends, their families are already sitting together, it will be a good bond’, eh?”
Rozanov nodded. He put his arm around Shane’s shoulders and smiled at the cameras. Shane’s body buzzed where Rozanov was touching him, even through the layers of both of their suits.
“Optics?” Rozanov repeated. “Like Latin? Eyes?”
“I guess?” Shane said. “You know Latin?”
“Only lots of, how do you say? Words come from Latin in Russian and English.”
“Oh,” Shane said. “Like… they have the same root word?”
Rozanov shrugged. “It is your language.”
“That doesn’t mean I know all the words. Did you know English has more words than, like, any other language?”
Rozanov snorted. “I know this,” he said. “I had to study it, remember?”
“So, Ilya,” Shane’s mom said. “We’ll have to wait to speak to the team about when you want to bond, but what are your plans for the summer? We should go looking for places for you and Shane in Boston sooner rather than later.”
“Place for me and Ilya?” Shane repeated.
“Yeah, honey. They recommend people with strong bonds like the one you and Ilya will probably have spend as much time together as possible in the beginning, to ensure the bond settles this properly. Your father and I were doing research on it this morning.”
“Ilya is returning to Russia tomorrow,” Rozanov’s father said, suddenly. “He is contracted for another year with Dynamo.”
Rozanov glanced at his father, then looked away, taking his arm off of Shane’s shoulders.
“But the intent-to-bond paperwork agrees the draftee will bond before the pre-season,” Shane’s mom said, “whether or not they play for the Bears this year or the team wants them to develop for another year.”
“Hollander can play for Dynamo,” Mr. Rozanov said, unconcerned.
“We discuss later?” Rozanov suggested. “Must speak with team about plans.”
His father snapped something at him in Russian and Rozanov sunk back a little, hunching his shoulders.
Shane pressed his shoulder into Rozanov’s, that buzzing starting up again in his skin and Rozanov leaned back.
“Ilya’s right; no sense in making plans without all of the information,” Shane’s mom agreed. “If they don’t start with the Bears they can go to Dynamo or the OHL, or even play for a college for a year. Getting a little more education can’t hurt, after all.” She smiled tightly at Shane and Rozanov and then turned tell Shane’s dad something about one of their acquaintance.
Shane leaned a little harder against Rozanov and Rozanov leaned back.
.
The draft finally began. There were a few long, tedious speeches, then the seven players who’d shown a high compatibility rating with existing players were called up by their respective teams to polite applause.
“And now,” the announcer said, a little dramatically, “Boston Bears’ general manager Caleb Doyle, will announce their first round pick.”
The manager, a heavyset white man with salt and pepper hair, leaned into the microphone.
“The Boston Bears selects contracted-to-bond pair Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov!”
The crowd went wild. Shane felt a rushing noise in his head, then he was standing and hugging Rozanov, then his mom and dad, then he and Rozanov were headed to the stage, people on either wide of the aisle clapping and cheering for them.
At some point they’d joined hands. Shane looked back at Rozanov and grinned, then jumped up the stairs onto the stage, letting go of Rozanov so he could shake Doyle’s hand.
The assistant general manager handed Shane a Bears jersey and he pulled it on over his suit, then Rozanov pulled him on, then they were grinning at each other and hugging again, while the cameras flashed and the crowd cheered, then they were being lead behind the staging area, out of the arena to a small office where Shane’s parents and Shane’s agent, Farah, and Mr. Rozanov and Rozanov’s agent were waiting.
Shane and Ilya shook about a dozen hands each, then the Bears management team was sitting down with them with their rookie contracts, talking about arranging the bonding, and whether they thought Shane and Ilya should spend another year developing before they joined the team.
“Ilya is contracted for another year with Dynamo,” Mr. Rozanov cut in and everyone stopped talking and looked at him.
“Well,” Rozanov’s agent said. “With the bonding that should be easy to get out of.”
“If they do not play for Boston for year, why bond now?” Mr. Rozanov demanded.
“They signed an intent-to-bond,” Doyle reminded him. “It does not make an exception for players who do not start right away. The advantage of them bonding now— or before the stated date in the intent-to-bond contract is that when they do join the team they will have a full year of playing together. Surely you can see the advantage this lends? Players experienced with their bond versus players new to it.”
Mr. Rozanov grunted.
“Where are you landing on them beginning straight out?” Shane’s mom asked.
The general manager and deputy general manager looked at each other. “We’d like to have them come to training camp to form a better idea of where they are,” the general manager said, finally.
Rozanov’s agent nodded. “Then they should bond sooner rather than later, so I can start getting Ilya off the hook with Dynamo.”
Mr. Rozanov scowled, but didn’t say anything.
“When do you want them to bond?” Shane’s mom asked.
“The sooner the better,” Doyle said. “As we said, we’d like you to develop your bond as much as possible. But, of course, you are not obliged to bond until the date set in the intent-to-bond contract.”
“Ilya is returning to Russia tomorrow,” Rozanov’s father said, firmly.
“Of course,” Rozanov’s agent said. “We can interface with the Hollanders to discuss when it would work for all parties.”
The meeting ended not long after, and Shane’s mom turned to him and said “you look exhausted, honey, why don’t you try to get some sleep?”
Rozanov exchanged a few sharp words with his father in Russian, then offered to walk Shane back to the hotel. Somehow he found himself following Rozanov to his room, entering it behind him and standing awkwardly in the narrow space in front of the door.
“I guess I won’t see you until you get back,” Shane said as Rozanov shrugged off his suit jacket and threw it on the bed. Rozanov looked at him, then stepped forward and pinned Shane against the wall, giving him a considering look before pressing their lips together, licking at the seam of Shane’s lips until he gasped and Rozanov worked his tongue into his mouth.
It felt like drinking water after a long, hard workout, a relief for a thirst he hadn’t known he had. His hands found Rozanov’s waist, his hips and then he pushed him away.
Shane looked at Rozanov, panting, and Rozanov stared back at him.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Shane demanded.
Rozanov raised his eyebrows like it should have been obvious.
“If we have sex the bond will form!” Shane exclaimed. “And everyone will know!”
“No,” Rozanov said. He turned and paced to the bed, then paced back. “Our compatibility is very high. A bond can form without sex. Only a touch maybe, or a hug.”
Shane stared. “We hugged at the draft, where everyone could see.”
Rozanov nodded. “We say we hugged goodbye, no one will ask question.”
He leaned against the wall across from Shane like he didn’t care.
“You want to bond now,” Shane said. “Why? You’ll be stuck here.” Rozanov was looking away. “You don’t want to go to Russia,” Shane realized.
“If I go I don’t know my father let me come back,” Rozanov admitted.
“We have a contract,” Shane said.
Rozanov scoffed. “My father is powerful man. He makes me stay. He does not want me to bond with man.”
Shane sucked in a breath. “It’s still not cool to do this!” he exclaimed.
“What?” Rozanov demanded.
“You wanted to fuck me just to form the bond?”
“Why not?” Rozanov asked. “You want it— I see you looking at me.”
“Because it’s wrong to use people!” Shane exclaimed.
“Sex is use people?” Rozanov asked.
“No, it’s using me because you know I’m…” he hesitated. Even acknowledging it felt like losing something. As if he hadn’t already given everything away with the kiss. “You know I’m into you and you wanted to use that to get me to bond with you when you could have just asked!”
He turned away from Rozanov and went to the window. It looked out on a half-empty parking lot.
“We will bond and you will know me,” Rozanov said. “You will know everything in me. I can not lie to you.”
“Yes,” Shane agreed. “So you could tell the truth now.”
Rozanov moved away from the wall, sank down onto the bed, slouched like he was defeated. “I am scared to go to Russia,” he said, finally. “I think… your mother said if we bond I am citizen. She said your family is also my family. So…”
“So you think if we bond then my family will help you,” Shane completed. “And they will, of course. But you should have just asked me to bond with you instead of trying to jump me.”
“Jump?” Rozanov repeated, confused, then shook his had. “Yes, fine, I am sorry. I am not… it is not fake. I think you are also… you are very pretty, you know.”
“I’m not pretty,” Shane said, automatically.
“I also want to have sex with you!” Rozanov exclaimed, sounding annoyed now. “It is not because of bond! I would want to do anyway!”
Shane stared at him for a moment, then crossed over to slump next to him. “Do you think,” he began. “After this, we bond. Would we have sex again, or is it just one time?”
“I think…” Rozanov turned to face him. “You will still be pretty and I will still be hot, yes? And we will live together?”
“So it will be convenient?” Shane asked, feeling unaccountably hurt.
“Yes, it will be convenient. We will live together and work together and know each other’s thoughts and feelings? Nothing serious.”
Shane laughed despite himself. “Nothing serious. For sure.”
He was still angry. Rozanov’s plan had been to, what? Seduce him so they’d bond? He hadn’t even though to ask Shane first? Shane should get up and walk away and let his dad take him back to Russia and lock him away. Then Shane wouldn’t have to bond with him; Shane didn’t want to bond.
But Shane had told Rozanov they’d be a team, just the two of them, and Rozanov seemed so scared and vulnerable. But Shane had started thinking about what they could do, the two of them on the ice, bonded. He’d had wingers he’d connected to before, who seemed to be able to read his mind. How much more incredible would this be, someone who’d always know where is was, what his intentions were?
“No one can know,” Shane said.
Rozanov looked at him.
“That the bond is romantic, not platonic. That we do… this. If we do it more than once.”
Rozanov scoffed. “You think I tell? You think I also want people to know? Whole country of Russia hate me if they know.”
Right. Shane sighed. “Okay,” he said. “But you can’t do this again. You want something from me, you have to ask.”
Rozanov gave him a skeptical look. He was so close now. “I want something from you, I do not have to ask. You will know.”
Right, of course. Shane took a deep breath. “Okay,” he said, and he leaned into Rozanov’s space, pressing their foreheads together.
“You will be most important person in my life,” Rozanov murmured to him. “I do not know what will happen. But that will always be true, yes?”
“For sure,” Shane said, and something inside of him settled. He put a hand on the side of Rozanov’s face and kissed him.
.
The bond hit when Shane was halfway through giving Rozanov— Ilya— a blowjob, which was unfortunate, because it turned out Shane really liked blowjobs. Of course you do, perfect cocksucking lips.
Rozanov had gone down on him first, big fat cock, filled my mouth so well, told him “I’ll show you how it’s done” and turned Shane inside out of course I’m the best, and Shane had come embarrassingly fast not embarrassing; you looked so pretty, so red and gasping. He’d laid there, dazed and I sucked your brains out through your dick brain fucked and then Ilya had climbed on top of him, started kissing him again with lips that tasted like Shane’s cum, delicious, and then Shane had found his courage, pushing him over and then going down on him, kissing his way down Ilya’s beautiful body, you like it?, and to his cock, jutting out big and red and leaking a drop of pre-cum onto his belly, you like it?.
Shane’s mouth had watered, you love it, and he did, he licked a strip up it, he fit it into his mouth, he gasped when Ilya tangled his fingers in Shane’s hair, when his hips flexed like he was trying not to thrust into Shane’s mouth so hot so soft so good and then it had happened, the shock, the buzz he’d been feeling from Ilya had multiplied until Shane had felt like he was on fire but not burning and Ilya’s cock was in Shane’s mouth and Shane’s cock was engulfed and he pulled off so he wouldn’t explode at the sensation but he— they— were exploding anyway, they were doubling, Shane sledding down the hill in his mother’s arms— his mother picking him up and dancing them around the room— his father showing him how to chop vegetables — his father looking critically at him across the dining room table— winning his first trophy— winning his first medal— surrounded by kids singsonging in fake Chinese at him— cornered by older boys who taunted him for his blonde curly hair— getting checked into the boards by jealous kids twice his size— finding his mother dead— at his grandparents’ funeral— winning— winning— skating out onto the ice— where he belongs— where he belongs— where he belongs.
Shane’s head was on Ilya’s stomach heavy, comforting, the room was dark. Shane’s hand in Ilya’s hair— no, that was Ilya’s hand. He slid his hand along Ilya’s side tickles, arouses, felt it like he was touching his own skin.
“Fuck,” Shane said and rolled off Ilya, his head bouncing on the bed. Could fuck you, would like to, you’d look so pretty bouncing on my cock. Shane wriggled up the bed so he could look Ilya in the eye. Big brown eyes, so pretty.
His view of Ilya was replaced with the sight of himself, brown eyes and golden skin and blushing, freckled cheeks.
“Stop it,” Shane said.
“Thinking?” Ilya asked amused. He brushed Shane’s hair of his forehead beautiful black and glossy and smooth.
He was touching Ilya— he was being touched.
“My hair’s brown,” Shane told him. Sure. “How do people live like this?” He asked. He closed his eyes but it only blocked out one sight. Now he could see himself more clearly, his eyelashes touching the skin of his cheek, his round cheeks, his full lips. Pretty, Ilya thought again, radiating warmth and appreciation.
“Maybe it will get easier,” Ilya said learn how to deal with it, concentrate, ignore. He threaded his fingers through Shane’s hair. Cute. “Don’t be embarrassed— you are very cute.” Warmth, happiness.
“You’re also cute,” Shane said. Delight. He opened his eyes so he could see Ilya again. His hair had gotten disheveled and escaped the gel Ilya had put in it, falling in springing curls around Ilya’s face. Ilya’s cheeks were red.
“I am not cute, I am handsome,” Ilya said, grinning even as he pretended to be outraged. He was beautiful, and Shane could tell Ilya could hear him think that, was thrilled with it.
“Oh, cute is good enough for me but not for you?” Shane teased back.
Ilya opened his mouth, but was cut off by the sound of suddenly someone pounded on the door. “Ilya?” Shane’s mom called. “Shane?”
They looked at each other. Pretend we’re not here, Shane thought, desperately, and Ilya nodded, yes she doesn’t know we’re here and doesn’t have key can’t answer the door like this and suddenly Shane had a picture in his head of Ilya answering the door buck-naked, cum sticky and dried on his stomach and his mother’s horrified face.
Shut up, shut up, Shane thought, stuffing his fist into his mouth.
“I guess he’s not here?” Shane heard his dad say, faintly.
Ilya was shaking with suppressed laughter now, the corner of one of the pillows stuffed in his mouth, and Shane grabbed him and pulled him in, like they could hold each other tightly enough Shane’s parents wouldn’t be able to hear them.
Finally, their voices retreated. We should get up. No, so warm and soft and sexy. Shane felt a surge of arousal but didn’t know whose it was.
“We’re both supposed to fly out tomorrow,” Shane reminded him. “We’ve got to get things moving.” Want to have sex again but you’re right.
“For sure,” Ilya said, then his eyes widened. “I am Canadian now?” he asked. Confusion, astonishment, maybe my English will be better now.
Shane laughed. “I’m already rubbing off on you.”
“I wish you would rub off on me,” Ilya muttered, picturing them rubbing against each other, gasping and sweaty and coming on each other’s bodies.
“Come on,” Shane said, standing up and then immediately stumbled because he was still seeing with two sets of eyes and feeling with two bodies but only moving with one. He caught himself and closed his eyes, as if that would help. He was standing; he was lying on the bed.
Ilya closed his eyes and Shane opened his, stepped carefully into the bathroom. A moment later, Ilya followed, just as carefully. This will take some getting used to.
Shane turned on the shower, felt the water until it was warm enough, while Ilya thought about how much fun shower sex was. This shower isn’t even big enough. No imagination. If we can’t walk straight when crossing the room… imagine the mortification of getting a major injury in the shower.
Ilya leaned against the sink while Shane scrubbed himself down briskly, then stepped into the shower while Shane dried himself off, the scrape of the towel merging somehow with the spray of the water; he dried his arm, but his arm still felt wet. This is trippy.
A memory smoking pot/ snorting cocaine/ doing LSD What the fuck? Don’t you care about your body at all? A sudden, painful, spike of not-caring, of wanting injury made Shane almost fall over. He pushed the shower curtain aside. “Ilya,” almost crushed with the fear he felt at that.
Ilya hated that he’d seen it. He looked at Shane and for a moment the double vision wasn’t a problem. You didn’t see— you don’t know. Shane wanted to wrap him up in blankets and to hug him tight. He remembered, suddenly, finding Ilya’s mother dead, her hand dangling off one side of the couch she’d been lying on, the pill bottle that had fallen from her grip. The crushing panic and fear and grief and guilt.
No, no, no, no, Ilya thought, but Shane stepped forward into the spray of the shower, pressed himself up against Ilya anyway, did his best to crush Ilya against the tiles.
No, no, no, and Shane had captured Ilya’s hands in his own, was holding them tight, was thinking nothing but his need for Ilya to be okay.
Ilya pressed his face into Shane’s hair, quieted. If he cried, Shane couldn’t tell, in the spray of the water. I didn’t cry/ I might have cried. Finally their feelings began to fade. So the shower isn’t too small for this? Ilya thought and imagined shower sex again, Shane on his knees with shower spray running down his face like tears. Shane laughed and stepped back.
His towel had falling to the floor of the shower and was sodden. He grabbed a new one from the towel rack and dried off again. It was easier, he realized, when he was acting on instinct, but of course the moment you realized you had to act on instinct was the moment you forgot how, like a doctor telling you you could ‘breathe normally’.
Shane pulled on his suit while Rozanov dressed in too-tight jeans not too tight— comfortable and a colorful t-shirt with writing in Cyrillic. Golden Goose, what’s that? a few lines of music, a memory of a dark room, lights flashing, a pounding base oh a band then I can/you can read Cyrillic now?!
Shane was going to get a headache. Or maybe it was Ilya’s. “Come on,” he said, failing to tie his shoes until Ilya closed his eyes and stilled himself, and counted to ten deliberately slowly so Shane could block him out.
Ilya was better at it, but then he’d probably never struggled to tie his shoes as a child.
“You had a hard time learning how to tie your shoes?” Ilya asked, which of course set off a cascade of Shane’s inadequacies as a child, all of the things he didn’t learn when he was supposed to, you’re so smart why can’t you just— until he was derailed by an incredibly graphic imagine of Ilya fucking Shane’s ass with his tongue.
“What?” he demanded, turning bright red.
Ilya shrugged and grinned. “Worked, didn’t it?”
“Fuck you,” Shane said, and was flooded with warmth in return. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and squinted at the screen. 15 missed texts from his parents. “Come on.”
Walking was still hard; they resorted to Shane closing his eyes and holding onto Ilya and still collided with several walls.
Shane’s dad opened the door when he knocked and stepped aside to usher them into the room.
“Shane! Ilya!” Shane’s mom exclaimed. “Where were you?”
“We, uh—” accidentally bonded, then passed out. He looked at Ilya, who raised his eyebrows.
“We accidentally bonded,” Ilya said, turning to Shane’s parents. “It was overwhelming.”
“You, how?” Shane’s dad asked, looking between the two of them.
“It was just a hug!” Shane lied. Overdoing it. Shut up. “I didn’t know you could bond through a hug, but I wasn’t going to see Ilya again until he got back from Russia, so we hugged and the next thing I knew…”
“Wow,” Shane’s dad said.
“I read about that,” Shane’s mom told them. “It’s rare, but with people with a really high compatibility, it can happen, apparently.”
Maybe they all lied about having sex too. Ilya smirked at Shane, who shot him an annoyed look.
“Wow,” Shane’s dad said again. He sat down on the bed. “I guess this means you can’t go to Russia.”
“Or Shane could go to Russia with you,” Shane’s mom suggested.
“There are more bond specialists in Canada,” Ilya said, quickly.
“I’m sure there’s at least one in Moscow,” Shane’s mom pressed.
“He doesn’t want to go back to Russia,” Shane cut in, more sharply than he meant to, but he could feel Ilya’s fear at being forced to go back to Russia growing at Shane’s mom’s words.
Shane’s mom opened her mouth and then looked at Shane’s dad. “Okay,” she said.
“Okay,” Shane’s dad repeated. “We’ll get you a ticket back to Ottawa and we’ll find a bond specialist there.” He looked at Shane’s mom. “Did the team agree to pay for the bond specialist?”
Shane’s mom began to nod, then hesitated. “I don’t know if it was just for the bonding itself or for bond management counseling. Do you think you need something like that?”
Shane sank down onto the bed, pulling Ilya down beside him. “We keep seeing double,” he said.
“Yes,” Ilya agreed.
“Sounds like it,” his dad said.
“Ilya, have you spoken to your dad?” Shane’s mom asked.
Ilya shook his head.
“He’s eighteen,” Shane said. “He can do what he wants.”
“Honey…” his mom began, then sighed. “Ilya, you need to connect with him before your flight. You only came out here for a few days, right? All of your stuff is in Moscow? Will you need to go back there before the season starts?”
Ilya hesitated, then looked at Shane. I don’t want to bring you there. A memory of Ilya’s father yelling at him from the night before crossed his mind and then was banished. A memory of a large, empty, lonely house, of Ilya’s brother calling and demanding more money while people laughed in the background.
“My friend can pack up my things and send them,” he said, finally. Shane saw Ilya’s friend, beautiful Sveta, saw her teasing Ilya, consoling him, fucking him. A flare of jealousy rose up in him. Only friend, Ilya thought, smirking at him. Going out with Sveta and pulling together, smirking at each other as they ground against different people on the dance floor. Ilya imagined he was grinding against Shane. Shane felt himself growing red. He imagined kicking Ilya. Shut up.
“Are you talking to each other?” Shane’s dad asked.
“Kind of,” Shane said, glancing at Ilya. “It’s not just words. Thoughts, images, memories, feelings…”
“Sounds overwhelming,” his dad said.
“We can hardly walk,” Ilya told them. “Everything is doubled; our sight, our hearing, the feeling of where our bodies are.”
“Your accent is almost gone,” Shane’s mom pointed out, “your English… do you think you somehow got Shane’s understanding of how to speak it.”
“I read Cyrillic now,” Shane said. “I can read Ilya’s shirt.”
“This is far beyond a normal bond,” Shane’s mom mused. “Are you going to be able to attend the gala tonight?”
Ilya nodded. “If we stay in one place,” he said.
“We’ll talk to the team first,” Shane’s mom decided. “There’s no reason to conceal this information, but they should be informed. And Farah— actually, let’s call Farah right now. And your agent too, Ilya.”
“I’m going to fire him,” Ilya said. He was an old friend of Ilya’s father— Ilya had never trusted him. Shane’s gut twisted in a mirror of Ilya’s own distress and Shane imagined hugging him the way he had in the shower.
“You should do that right away,” he suggested.
Shane’s mom frowned. “Is he managing your accounts?”
Ilya looked back at her, wide-eyed. He didn’t know. How do I not know? His father managed his money and Ilya didn’t see very much of it.
“Okay,” Shane’s mom said. “The contract won’t have gone through yet, so your signing bonus won’t have been issued. We’ll contact the team management and ask them to put a hold on it until you get your finances in order. David can help you with that, right David? He works with the treasury department.”
“Which is incredibly different from personal financing, but I do know some things. I’d be glad to help.”
“And you need a new agent, right away,” Shane’s mom added.
“Maybe I can sign with Shane’s— Farah?” Ilya suggested.
“Is that a conflict of interest?” Shane’s dad asked.
“We share a… a brain,” Shane said, ignoring Ilya’s amusement at this. “Or part of one, anyway. I think we can share an agent.”
“That would simplify things,” Shane’s mom said. “Who manages all of your sponsorships?”
“My agent,” Ilya said.
“Okay,” Shane’s mom told him. “I can discuss that with Farah. I do Shane’s and I’d be happy to take on yours too. I have a lot of contacts with companies and I think we can really sell this to sponsors. You two are already the hottest news to come out of hockey in years, and with how strong your bond is, I’m sure it will only increase. We’re going to want to set up some interviews. Sports Illustrated, definitely. Maybe even something like Rolling Stone. Is that a stretch?”
What the fuck? Ilya thought.
Yeah, sorry. But Ilya was excited, happy to be included, amazed that Yuna was volunteering to manage his sponsorships. Shane gasped at the sudden depth of the sense loneliness he suddenly felt from Ilya the maybe someone’s on my side.
We are. Shane leaned into Ilya’s side. Always.
He looked up to see his parents staring at them. “This will take a lot to get used to,” Shane’s dad said, a little bemused.
“I’m going to call Farah, get her up here. I’ll order some takeout while I’m at it. Chinese? Shane, is that okay with you?”
“My diet,” Shane protested, then had the odd feeling of Ilya sifting through his mind. You can eat Chinese today, Ilya decided. I can’t, Shane thought. Ilya pressed certainty at him. It will be okay. Get a tofu dish and a salad and brown rice, then you can eat a little bit of chow mein.
“We will have five spice tofu, steamed vegetables, brown rice, vegetable chow main and kung pao chicken,” Ilya said.
Shane’s parents exchanged looks, then Shane’s dad pulled a takeout menu from somewhere while Shane’s mom got on the phone with Farah.
I don’t like that, Shane told Ilya.
Yes you do. Shane did, Shane didn’t, Shane was going to explode with how confusing this all was.
Ilya threaded his hand in Shane’s, then took out his phone.
You can do it, Shane thought, as Ilya navigated to his contacts.
Ilya steeled himself, then pressed call.
“What do you want?” Ilya’s father demanded, when he picked up.
“I bonded with Hollander,” Ilya admitted. “By accident. We only hugged, but it was enough.”
His father swore. “You will both come to Russia, then,” he decided.
“No,” Ilya said. “It is better for us in Canada. There are more bond specialists. It is a common thing here.”
“You do not say ’no’ to me,” Ilya’s father grit out.
Shane squeezed Ilya’s hand.
“I am not coming back to Russia this summer,” Ilya said, resolutely. “And I getting a new agent.”
“What’s wrong with Zevrazin?” Ilya’s father demanded.
“I do not trust him,” Ilya said. “And he is more focused on Russia. I will get an agent who is more familiar with American hockey.”
“You have it all decided then,” Ilya’s father said.
“Yes,” Ilya agreed.
“And what will you live on?”
“I have my signing bonus,” Ilya said, “and the Hollanders have offered to let me stay with them.”
“The Hollanders,” Ilya’s father said. “Your new family.”
Ilya closed his eyes. His grip on Shane was so tight it hurt, but Shane didn’t shake him loose.
“You have it all figured out then.”
“Maybe Shane and I can come to Russia next summer,” Ilya suggested.
“Don’t bother,” Ilya’s father said and hung up.
Ilya took a deep breath, then another.
Shane gave in and wrapped his arms around him. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.
Shane’s parents spoke in low voices on the other side of the room, until Shane’s mom said “Farah’s coming in a minute,” and Ilya nodded and went to the bathroom to wash his face. The shock of cold water actually made Shane gasp.
“Are you okay?” his mom asked.
Shane shook his head. “I felt the water Ilya splashed on his face.”
“Oh,” his mother said. “That must be weird.”
“Yeah,” Shane said.
Farah came in the room, then, all business, and after that they spoke to the Bears management team over skype. They were delighted, of course, that Ilya and Shane had bonded early. “We’ll have our PR team get out in front of it,” the assistant manager had said.
Then Shane’s dad had sat Ilya down with his laptop and everything Ilya could remember about his finances and was shocked when Ilya had almost nothing, even after having played professional hockey for a year.
“I gave it to my family,” Ilya told them.
Shane’s parents looked at each other, clearly trying not to judge.
“Okay,” Shane’s mom said. “Do you want to keep doing that? Perhaps you could set aside a portion to invest? Hockey careers often end early and abruptly and we wouldn’t want you with nothing.”
“Yes,” Ilya agreed. “I would like to invest,” which made both Shane’s parents very excited. Shane turned on the tv and practiced ignoring Ilya’s thoughts while he watched the draft coverage and his parents overwhelmed Ilya with information about his finances.
.
Shane’s house was small. It had never seemed small before, but now he was seeing it through Ilya’s eyes. Ilya had grown up in what Shane thought could reasonably be call a mansion, although this had made Ilya laugh and imagine palaces. (The existence of palaces didn’t negate the existence of mansions, in Shane’s opinion). Ilya had had servants. Shane had a chore chart. (Shane did the laundry, his mom did most of the cleaning, and his father did all of the cooking.)
They’d come home, tired from traveling and from the exhaustion of trying to navigate the world experiencing all of each other’s thoughts and senses and Shane’s parents had hesitated in the living room.
“Do you want your own room,” Shane’s mom had asked, “or do you want to share Shane’s?” and Shane had frozen because he only had one bed.
Shane’s dad had rolled his eyes. “You think we’re blind?” he asked, teasingly.
“We can talk about it later, if you want,” his mom had added, “but I figured we might as well have the conversation instead of starting with the two of you sneaking around.”
They hadn’t even done anything! Maybe if you weren’t constantly touching me. You’re constantly touching me!
“Any time…?” Shane’s mom said, bordering on impatient.
Shane didn’t want to sleep away from Ilya but he didn’t want Ilya to think… Shut up, Ilya thought and nudged him with his elbow.
“Ow,” Shane complained, out loud. “Yes, fine, we’ll share a room. Good thing you got me that queen bed last year. It just… it feels better when we’re touching.”
Why are you lying to them? Ilya wondered. It’s not a lie. It’s not the whole truth.
“Okay,” Shane’s mom said, like she didn’t really care, which Shane knew wasn’t the case, knew that she was just pretending not to care because she didn’t want him to worry about it, which didn’t really help, but he appreciated it. I’m not even sure what you’re worrying about. Unhelpful.
“You need to practice pretending not to be talking to each other constantly,” Shane’s dad suggested, lightly. “I’m going to shower the plane off,” and he headed upstairs.
“Come on,” Shane told Ilya, and he followed Shane up the narrow stairs, pausing to look at the framed pictures of Shane and his family, to wonder about how different Shane’s life was. Not bad different, Ilya thought quickly, and there was a thread of envy there, a faint memory of being a lonely child, but Ilya was getting better at keeping his thoughts to himself.
Shane’s room was completely dominated by the queen bed his mom had insisted he switch to when he reached his full height and his mom had realized how his feet had hung off the end of the full he’d had before that.
He hadn’t told her about the twin in his billet that had grown so small (he’d changed, of course, not the bed) that he’d always been nervous about falling off the edge, shuffling around every time he wanted to turn, and how his legs had hung off the end halfway up his calves.
The full had seemed roomy after that, the queen decadent.
Ilya was amused by this. Ilya had had a king bed— or something like a king bed— in his apartment in Moscow. He’d needed all that room sometimes and Shane wished he knew how to block him out because he didn’t want to think about Ilya having sex. With someone else, Ilya qualified.
Ugh, Shane couldn’t help thinking, dropping his bag at the foot of the bed. Ilya parked his large suitcase in front of Shane’s desk. That was all he had, Shane thought. He didn’t even have any gear with him. The thought of being separated from his hockey gear made Shane panic a little, but Ilya was amused. Have to get new gear anyway.
Shane hated new gear. Hated the stiffness of new pads and new skates, hated getting rid of old gear, how it felt like giving up old friends, old teammates, equipment that had helped him win now regulated to the garbage (or donation bin if he’d grown fast enough it was still reusable). He’d been miserable throughout all of his growth spurts.
Ilya pulsed with affection and amusement at this. He tried to cross the room to grab Shane and kiss him for it but he tripped over the end of the bed and had to tip himself on it to keep from falling on the floor.
Shane laughed at him, then dropped onto the bed himself, turning so he could face Ilya.
You’re still upset your parents know, Ilya said, brushing a thumb along Shane’s cheekbone. He loved the freckles on Shane’s cheeks, how Shane blushed beneath them. Shane reddened at Ilya’s thought, saw his flush deepening in Ilya’s eyes. But they love you, it seemed fine.
Of course Shane’s parents were fine. They weren’t homophobic. Shane’s cousin was gay and they’d been very supportive, they had gay friends, Shane remembered them celebrating when Ottawa legalized gay marriage.
Ilya tried not to think about how his family would react if he came out to them, about how certain he was they’d all reject him completely, because this was about Shane. He prodded Shane, mentally, somehow. This is about you. What’s the problem?
Shane’s cousin and Shane’s parent’s gay friends were not Shane. It was fine for them. But not you? Why? Because Shane had to be perfect. Gay is not perfect? Hockey players aren’t gay. There have to be gay hockey players. Statistically one in ten people are queer— why would hockey players be exempt from that? Hockey players could be gay, but Shane couldn’t, Shane was the golden boy/ the next great one/ ‘remember, a lot of kids will be looking up to you, kids who don’t see themselves here’ Shane was already different enough, Shane had to be perfect to justify What? Their faith in him, all their hard work, the money they’d spent. Bad enough that he was so weird.
Never said the right thing/ always one step behind/ didn’t get the jokes/ you’re so smart why can’t you just
Ilya turned and pulled him in to his arms, tightly. Shane hadn’t realized he was crying. Maybe Ilya was crying. It was so hard to tell. A faded bit of memory, a woman singing a song and rocking him/ afraid he’d forgotten the sound of her voice/ ‘you’re so brave’.
“It will be okay,” Ilya told him. “They’re already okay with it.”
If they can tell, maybe everyone else will be able to tell too. They’re your parents— they know you like no one else. Except for you. No one will ever know you/ love you/ understand you the way I do. Ilya was proud/ jealous/ smug of this, of being able to be inside Shane where no one else would ever be. I can be inside you that way too, he added, at Shane’s unintentional train of thought. He reached down and groped Shane’s ass and Shane laughed.
But he couldn’t help thinking of it, that someone knew him as completely as it was possible for someone to know him; knew his thoughts and his memories and his fears and loved him. Completely, unconditionally, from the moment he felt Shane’s breath as if it was his own. As Shane loved Ilya, suddenly, instantly, totally.
Neither of them would ever have to be alone again.