Chapter Text
December 2008
Ilya Rozanov was the hottest thing to come out of the Russian youth hockey world in a decade. He was stronger, faster, more disciplined. He could out skate and out score any opponent.
From the moment he laced up his skates, he became hockey and forgot everything else. It was only natural that he was the first named to the Russian team for the International Prospect Cup being held in Canada.
Most of his teammates traveled with at least one parent in tow. Mostly there were fathers who encouraged their sons to work harder, spend extra time in the gym, jockey for as much playing time as they could.
In other words, fathers that wanted their sons to be more like him. To a man, they’d each corner Ilya asking him to take an interest in their sons. They’d ask him if he thought their sons had what it took, or what they could do differently to be more aggressive or to stand out more. It gained him the admiration of some of his teammates and the ire of others.
Nothing would make these men prouder than if their sons were like Ilya. The irony of it, of course, was that Ilyas’ own father was his biggest critic. If Ilya made nine out of ten goals, he should have made eleven. If a puck was stolen from him or if a pass went wide, Ilya was lazy and undisciplined. Nothing made a smile fade from Ilya’s face faster than receiving his father’s unrelenting criticism after a game. Nothing was ever enough.
He was quieter off the ice, more gentle. The other players' mothers were much easier to be around. Even though they didn’t know the circumstances surrounding his mother’s death, they all doted on him a bit because he didn’t have her. They made sure he had what he needed, that his clothes and uniforms got cleaned, that he was eating and sleeping. A couple of them snuck his favorite snacks into his locker. And if he gently flirted or played up the doe eyes with a player’s mom once in a while to get a hug or a soft palm on his cheek, so be it.
Saskatchewan looked no different from Moscow. Not really. From the moment he stepped off the plane, it was the same gray landscape, the same gray buildings and gray faces. He was curious if travelling would bring the Color. Maybe he’d lock eyes with a competitor’s sister and it would hit him - the bright, vibrant Color he read about; the Color his mother once talked about wanting for him.
She wasn’t feeling well that day and had taken to bed. He climbed in next to her to read comic books while she read one of her long novels. She put the book down on her chest and sighed.
“Do you need something?” He asked. She had a faraway expression on her face.
“No, I just got to my favorite part.”
Ilya scrunched up his face. “The Color?” She chuckled and nodded.
“Someday, Ilyusha, your whole world will change. You’ll see a person, they’ll see you and,” she mimed an explosion with her fingers. “All the gray you see now will be gone. The Color will hit you and you’ll know you’ve found the one person alive who will love you forever.”
He puzzled, ever a precocious child, his eleven year old self just didn’t understand biology. “But Mama, why don’t we see the Color now? What if I’m so old like Papa when it happens?”
“Can you imagine how confusing it would be if we always saw Color?” She laughed. It did sound a little ridiculous to him. “How terrible would it be if we couldn’t immediately tell that we’d met our Colormate and married the wrong person? It’s too awful to think about Ilyusha. I wouldn’t want that for either of my boys.”
Ilya wrinkled his nose. He couldn’t think of Andrei having a Colormate. At 14, he was always so surly and mean and he smelled like stale milk. He couldn’t think of any girl who’d be excited about Andrei making her see Color.
“You’ll see, my love,” she ran her fingers through his mop of blond curls. “You never know where you’ll be when it happens but once you see Color, life will feel complete in a way it never would otherwise. You’ll feel warm all over, but it starts on the inside, in here,” she placed her hand on her chest. Ilya wrinkled up his nose.
“Is this about sex, Mama?”
She gaped for a moment, then laughed, delighted. “Sort of. I mean, our bodies work even if we don’t see Color but - just a minute - what do you know about sex, anyway? My innocent boy!”
“I know about the magazines Andrei hides under his mattress…” Ilya replied without thinking.
“Oh you do, huh? Did you look at them?” She raised an eyebrow. Ilya nodded and felt his cheeks get hot. “What did you think?”
He shrugged. “Was…weird.” He held his hands in front of his chest and moved them in and out, mimicking different sized breasts. “All different sizes. Weird hair.” She laughed again, but not the kind of laugh that made him feel like she was making fun of him. That kind of laugh only came from his father.
“Ok, I’ll just have a word with your brother about his magazines.” She paused. “I’ll tell him I found them when I was cleaning, he won’t know you told me.”
“Mama?”
“Mm?”
“How come you married Papa if he’s not the one who made you see the Color? I heard him say that to you once. I didn’t understand.”
Some of the light in her eyes dimmed. “People get married for different reasons.”
“But if our Colormate is the person who we’re supposed to be with forever and they’re so perfect for us, why didn’t you marry yours?”
She took a deep breath and sighed. “Because my Colormate, my Antosha, he died. He was in a terrible car wreck before we were married.”
“Oh…” Ilya put his hand on his mothers’ and squeezed. “I’m sorry, Mama. Do you miss him?”
She sniffled and swiped at her right eye. “Sometimes I do, yes. But if I had married him, I wouldn’t have you. I’d be the Mama of a totally different boy. Maybe one who isn’t so sweet, isn’t so handsome, isn’t so kind…”
Now Ilya’s cheeks were on fire. He pulled the collar of his t-shirt up the bridge of his nose to hide in it.
“You’re turning red,” she tickled his ribs.
Ilya felt a grumble in his stomach. He wanted to know what red looked like, but at the same time, he didn’t. Mama saw the full spectrum of Color but she’d lost her Colormate, it made him sad for her. He didn’t want to meet his Colormate and lose them. She pulled his shirt down so he wasn’t hiding anymore and bopped him on the nose with her finger.
“Mama?” He whispered and cast a wary look towards the door. “Mama, what if…what if it’s a boy?”
For the second time that day, he watched her eyes dim. She pursed her lips in contemplation and kissed his forehead. She cradled his cheek in her warm palm. He avoided her eyes.
“Sometimes, Andrei tells me my Colormate will be a boy. And I’ll be a disgrace.”
She set her jaw and looked away from him. She put both hands on his shoulders and squeezed.
“If it’s a boy, then it’s a boy. It will be more…complicated. You may have to leave Russia. You’ll have to go somewhere safer for you. But Ilyusha, there’s no shame in it. It would be who you are and I’ll love you just the same.”
“Leave Russia? But, I don’t want to leave you.” He leaned into her and hugged her tight.
“I’ll always be with you. Always.” She sniffled and rocked him in her arms. She let go of him a fraction of a second before he let go of her. She reached behind her neck and unclasped her necklace. He chewed on his lower lip as she secured it around his neck.
“My Antosha gave me this cross. I haven’t taken it off since the night he put it on me. I want you to wear it. His love for me will keep you safe now.”
“Rozanov? Where is your head? Did you hear anything I just said?” His coach barked at him. Ilya blinked twice, realized he’d completely missed it all, but he nodded.
“Yes, sir,” he said, coughing the cobwebs out of his voice. Coach Novikov didn’t seem entirely convinced but Ilya was the least of his problems on the team. He could get away with not listening while the others couldn’t. The bus pulled up at the arena a few moments later.
“I want everyone dressed in 30 minutes. We’re warming up first. We’re going to win. Canada has Hollander, we have Rozanov. Let’s show these Canadians why they should fear the Big Russian Bear.” The team cheered as if they didn’t know their Coach was specifically referring to Ilya.
As the team filed inside, Ilya hung back. Chernyhk, the youngest on the team and seemingly the most eager to become Ilya’s friend, offered to carry his bag inside. Ilya nodded and watched the shorter boy shoulder both heavy black bags. It would be good for him, he needed to strengthen his back.
Ilya leaned against the metal load-in doors and waited for the coast to be clear. He pulled a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his pocket. He flicked it a few times and it wouldn’t ignite. He turned away from the slight breeze and tried again. He cursed the air in his head and kept trying to get his lighter to cooperate.
“Ilya Rozanov?” He looked up, hearing his name. A boy about his height and build approached with a green hat on his head, a light gray hoodie with a black peacoat over it.
Ilya’s eyes widened.
The hat is green.
How the fuck did he know that hat was fucking green?!
“Shane Hollander, I wanted to…introduce myself,” he held out his hand, Ilya hesitated before he shook it. He looked away from the boy, down at the gravel beneath their feet as the atmosphere filled in and colors swirled in his eyes. He felt drunk, his equilibrium was thrown completely off. He forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand - lighting his fucking cigarette. To his relief, the flame popped out the top of his Bic and he was able to take a centering lung full of smoke.
“Oh, I’m not sure you’re supposed to smoke here?” Hollander said. Ilya took another drag and exhaled.
“Ok.”
He felt like his blood was changing to lava, he was warming from the inside out. Color flooded in around him; all the gray was chased away. He schooled his face, playing it as cool as he could. He couldn’t tell if Hollander felt the lava-blood too. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe it didn’t come as immediate and synchronized as his mother made him believe.
Hollander was facing him, but he wasn’t looking Ilya in the eyes. The only eye contact they had was that first moment after Hollander called his name.“You’re an awesome player to watch.”
“Yes.” He couldn’t think of anything else to say. A kaleidoscope of pixelated color swirled behind Hollander’s head.
Ilya’s pulse raced. He was actually getting hard. Why wasn’t Hollander reacting?! This couldn’t be normal. Hollander leaned back against the wall a few feet away. Ilya wondered if he should say something but then Hollander spoke again.
“Anyways, I should go, they’re um, waiting for me but um, good luck in the tournament,” he offered his hand in a second handshake. Ilya pinched the cigarette between his lips and accepted Hollander’s hand. He smirked at the other boy’s freckles. He couldn’t see them at first but as the Color filled in his features, they popped out. Ilya liked them. He liked them a lot. He held onto Hollander’s hand an extra second, just to have an excuse to look at them again.
Hollander turned when Ilya released his hand. Ilya needed to see the freckles one last time. He needed to check Hollander’s face for any signs of recognition.
“You will not be so nice when we beat you,” he teased gently.
“That’s not happening.” Hollander said with a cocky chuckle. Ilya shrugged. He forced himself to stay put when what he wanted to do was find out what Hollander’s mouth tasted like. Once Hollander was out of sight, Ilya felt for his mother’s cross.
“So that’s him, huh?” He whispered in Russian. “He’s beautiful, Mama.”
“Hollander, you ok?”
Shane looked up to find his teammate Chris Burns standing in front of him. “Hmm? Yeah. I’m…fine.”
“We got this, buddy. The Russkies aren’t winning. They’re ahead but we’ll catch up.”
“Yeah, Burnsy. We’ll catch up next period. Plenty of time to turn it around.” The mood in the locker room was thick with nerves but Shane felt numb.
Not exactly numb.
He felt hot.
It wasn’t the same kind of heat that one might expect from playing in a high-level hockey tournament. It was an internal heat, like his heart was pumping out liquid fire through his veins, his bones were sweating. No amount of water would quench it.
And then there was the other problem.
The floor of the locker room was a yellow and orange carpet. It was ugly as sin but that was besides the point.
He’d been staring at it for the last ten minutes as it got brighter and brighter. Glancing around, his teammates were all still in the same grayscale he always saw them in but the floor was vibrant. He took another gulp of water from his bottle but it might as well have been sand. He spread out his fingers and looked at the back of his hands, then flipped them over. They were still the same muted gray that they were that morning.
What the fuck is going on?
He thought about going to see the doctor that traveled with the team but he was afraid she’d think he was crazy. He hadn’t taken any hard hits, he wasn’t a fighter and his teammates protected him. He’d only gotten one concussion in his life and it definitely didn’t feel like this. Maybe it was just the pressure - he always put too much pressure on himself.
“Ok boys! Third period! Let’s get ‘em! Hollander you’re up!” Coach Leitner called out. He tucked his clipboard under one arm and clapped his hands loudly. Shane shook himself off and got to his feet.
“We got this boys! Let’s fucking go!” He shouted, half-heartedly. He usually came up with something much better, more motivational, more Captain-y when he spoke in the locker room but he’d forgotten everything he’d planned to say. He got to his feet, trying to get his bearings. He closed his eyes and did some deep breathing. When he opened them again, he saw that the lockers were painted a similarly garish shade of orange.
Fuck. It’s getting worse.
Back on the ice he found himself face to face with Rozanov. He figured it would happen at some point during the tournament, just not when he was having an existential Color crisis.
“You look a little distressed,” Rozanov said with a grin.
“I’m not,” Shane grumbled, barely audible. He kept his eyes turned down, ready to lock in and win the face off.
“Something wrong, Hollander?”
“Just you being in my fucking face right now,” Shane would’ve sounded tough if his voice didn’t crack the second he glanced up.
Blue. Bright blue eyes. And a pouty, inviting mouth. Rozanov licked his lower lip, the tip of his pink tongue shimmered with saliva. He flashed Shane a bright smile.
“Boo,” Rozanov winked at him the second the puck dropped and he took off with it.
“FUCK!”
He chased after Rozanov like his life depended on it. It was infinitely easier to see as his uniform was the only one in color - his name in yellow stood out against a white background with red trim. Burnsy tried stealing the puck from Rozanov but he deked around him and Burnsy faceplanted into the ice.
Rozanov passed to Chistyakov, getting his third assist of the game when it flew past the Canadian goalie.
“Watch out, Burns!” Rozanov laughed. “The ice - is slippery.” He skated to celebrate with his teammates.
“Fuck you, Rozanov!” Burns yelled back.
Shane felt like he was in a daze for the rest of the game. More and more blinding colors developed over time, he thought he could feel each rod and cone in his eyes develop like tulips blooming in the spring. The Russians steamrolled over Team Canada, it wasn’t even close.
After the final buzzer, he bent over at the waist and dropped his mitts to the ice. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and groaned.
“Buddy, are you crying?” Burns was by his side and put a hesitant hand on his back.
“No! My fucking eyes. Fuck - my head is killing me.”
“COACH! Something’s wrong with Hollander!” Burns skated off as fast as he could to get help.
“Fuck!” Shane cried out. He took his helmet off and tugged his jersey over his head. By the time the team doctor and medics reached him, he was face down on the ice, desperate to cool off. He heard his mother’s voice somewhere in the distance.
“Shane! That’s my son, move - MOVE!” They loaded him onto a stretcher and carted him off the ice. His mother grabbed his hand. “Jesus Christ, he’s burning up! SHANE!”
He was in and out for the rest of the day. The pain subsided completely by the following morning but he wasn’t medically cleared for the final. He wanted to attend, even if he rode the pine the entire game. It killed him not to be there, but at the last minute, he decided he couldn’t bear to look at Ilya Rozanov.
January 2009
His coach and teammates all reached out saying they didn’t blame him for the loss to Russia.
“If it makes you feel any better, Hollander, Rozanov didn’t play as well in the final. He seemed distracted,” Burns told him.
“A little, yeah.” Shane pulled at his eyelashes and tried not to remember how incredibly blue Rozanov’s eyes were.
He faced a battery of tests after the incident. He felt like a pincushion from all the bloodwork. His chest was covered in circular marks from all the EKG probes he’d had stuck to him. The EEGs were only slightly less invasive, luckily they didn’t have to shave his head and he wore a weird Cerebro-looking net thing. He didn’t complain once - he needed to prove he was healthy. It was not ideal for the top rookie prospect to have an undetermined medical condition just a few months before the draft.
Shane didn’t tell anyone about the Color. How could he? He wasn’t even sure who his Colormate was. He had his suspicions, but it was too confusing and frightening to even consider.
The day came for him to get his test results.
Shane sat in a conference room at an Ottawa hospital staring into space with his hands sandwiched between his knees, his mother on his right, his father on his left. They waited for the team of doctors to come in and give their final findings. The door opened and the three Hollanders jumped.
“Sorry, just me! Did I miss anything? Parking was a mess.” His agent, Farah, closed the door behind her. She gave Shane and his parents very quick hugs before taking a seat next to his father.
“Whatever it is, honey, it’s going to be ok.” His mother put her arm around his shoulders. He tipped his head towards hers and she squeezed him.
“I think it’s going to be nothing,” his father patted Shane’s knee. “I think your nerves got to you.”
“What if they tell me I can’t play hockey anymore? Or worse - what if this means teams don’t want me?” Shane sniffled. “It’s the only thing I know how to do. Who am I if I’m not a hockey player, Mom?”
“Stop, stopstopstop…” She pulled him into her arms. “You can do anything you put your brilliant mind to, Shane. I believe that. If - we’ll figure it out, ok?”
That still wasn’t an answer to his question. He’d never made a Plan B. It was professional hockey or…nothing.
Farah cleared her throat. “My grandfather always says ‘don’t borrow trouble,’ Shane. We don’t know what they’re going to say so there’s no point worrying right this minute."
Yeah but the second they tell me I have a brain tumor you’re going to drop me like a bad habit, Shane thought.
His three main doctors: a neurologist, endocrinologist, and an ophthalmologist came into the room. They sat at the table opposite the Hollanders, wearing inscrutible expressions.
“Oh no,” Shane let out a small gasp.”Mom…” he grabbed for her hand. The three doctors exchanged looks before the opthalmologist, Dr. Felice, flipped open a manila folder.
“Shane, we’ve performed every test we can think of. You’ve been a trooper,” she said.
Dr. Sielinski, the neurologist, spoke next. “And while this might not be what you want to hear,”
Fuck, here it comes… Shane braced himself for the crash landing. The end of life as he knew it.
“There’s absolutely nothing wrong with you,” Dr. Bratman, the endo said.
“Wait - what?” Shane felt both of his parents relax on either side of him.
“Every scan, every neurological test came back exactly perfect,” Dr. Sielinski said. “Your bloodwork, too - everything is exactly where it ought to be. Better than the average person, even, since you’re in such top physical shape.”
“So, why is that not what I’d want to hear? What am I missing?’ Shane looked at every adult in the room feeling much younger than his 17 years.
“It can be frustrating not to have an answer,” Dr. Bratman replied.
“So - sorry to butt in but, there’s nothing wrong?” Farah leaned forward in her seat.
“Nothing at all,” Dr. Felice nodded.
“Would you be willing to put that in writing? I’m sorry, Shane, Yuna, David - if I’m overstepping here but, before the incident at the tournament, we expected Shane to be a top five -”
Yuna scoffed.
“A top three draft pick. No team is going to draft him with a spotty medical history, they won’t take the risk. Time is of the essence to get the word out to everyone. Scouts have been calling me non-stop.”
The three doctors exchanged looks. Dr. Bratman slid the folder across the table towards Shane. “We’d be willing to put it on record. Without hesitation. I think it’s fair to say that Shane has a very long MHL career ahead of him.”
All three of the doctors nodded and for the first time in weeks, Shane felt like he could exhale. Farah excused herself, immediately jumping on her cellphone. He assumed she was making calls to all the scouts letting them know Shane wasn’t going to drop dead with a hockey stick in his hand.
He only hoped it wasn’t too late.
Drs. Sielinski and Bratman excused themselves citing other appointments. Dr. Felice took her time collecting some paperwork from the table.
Shane’s parents were in separate corners of the room, each on the phone letting his grandparents know he’d gotten good news. He stayed seated, looking at the multicolored swirled carpet.
It was a deep red with purple splotches and swirls of yellow.
“Shane?”
He looked up to find Dr. Felice sitting in a chair much closer to him than she had been before.
“Yeah?”
She looked upward at his parents, checking if they were listening.
“I saw something on your retinal scan.”
“Oh? Oh.”
She nodded. “It’s not going to have any effect on your playing and your overall health is perfect so I didn’t include this detail in the official report.”
“Thank you…?”
“I can only think of one or two reasons why you haven’t mentioned the… developmental maturation in your vision.”
“Um.” Shane looked away.
“The reaction you had, as scary as it was, is completely normal. It’s rare, but the Color can be jarring when you’re already under extreme pressure.”
“Ok.”
“So…I’d like you to get fitted for some glasses, that’ll take some stress off your eyes. And, um…” she looked up at his parents again. “I’m under no obligation to say anything to anyone, ok?”
“Thanks.”
“You’re a good kid, Shane. You’ve got a great family behind you.” She gestured to his parents.
“I know,” he wriggled in his seat.
“It was tough for my wife and I at the beginning, but once we came to terms with it, life has been absolutely beautiful. Not always easy, but together, it’s been beautiful. So…not to assume anything - you might want to go talk to him.”
“I -”
“Everything ok?” Shane’s mother put her hand on his shoulder.
“Oh, yes! I was just suggesting that Shane get a low-level prescription for some glasses. Nothing major. If he’s reading a lot, it’ll reduce the stress on his eyes.”
“Oh! Ok, we can do that, right, honey?”
“Yeah. Yeah, no problem.” He was fitted for a pair of basic black browline glasses and they were ready within the week. They did help with reading. They did not help with knowing he’d have to see Rozanov at the draft.