Chapter Text
Mr Rozanov was chewing on the tassels of his hoody and jiggling his leg when Shane entered the waiting room. He should have felt empathically towards the man, who was clearly in a bad state of anxiety, instead he found himself staring at the meat of his thigh as it was intermittently splayed out against the small plastic seating. The jeans, which would be loose on anyone else, looked like they’d been taped on. The denim was captivating in a way denim wasn’t meant to be.
“Mr Rozanov?” He asked, once he wasn’t looking in the general direction of the man’s crotch.
The man leapt up, eyes drawn up from where he was wringing his hands in his lap, “she is alright?”
“Of course,” Shane tries to keep his voice steady and low, like he was comforting a spooked horse, “she’s just through here.” The man practically leapt up to follow him, Shane could see where his shadow covered his own on the floor. God.
“Moyo ditya!” Mr Rozanov exclaimed when he was led into the room and the door was shut behind him. “I missed you so much, so, so much.” The tension melted from his body and Shane was struck with a fear the man was about to cry.
Anya was clearly too excited to move with any form of coordination. Her legs were tip tapping on the floor as she spun in circles around Mr Rozanov, crashing into his hips when he crouched to fuss over her. At one point Shane became genuinely concerned she might knock the man out when the leaping began, but he assumed that the he probably had worse from his hockey career. It looked like a game they’d played before, he caught Anya in his large hands just before she collided with him and then placed her on the other side of him, like a strange dance.
“She’s recovered well after surgery,” he paused as Anya somehow managed to jump into Mr Rozanov’s arms when he had stood up, “as you can see.”
“Thank you, thank you.” Mr Rozanov muttered as he smoothed his face over the fur on her neck.
“I’m going to send you away today with some metacam: it’s for pain relief and helps with any inflammation. I want you to give her one dose twice a day for a week, even if you think she’s better I need you to keep on giving her the medicine. They’re very good at hiding things from us, aren’t you Anya?” He pets her head before realising he’s now very close to Mr Rozanov since she’s still strewn in the man’s arms.
“I am also going to put the cone of shame on her,” he holds up the cone with the collar already attached. He’d made the mistake too many times of putting the cone together during the consult. It was painful, demoralising and usually ended with Rose offering him carrot sticks while he sat in the corner of the cattery cradling a small critter.
Anya looked at it with trepidation.
“She might not enjoy it, but it’s important to keep her party hat on. We don’t want any stitches ripped out or the area getting infected.”
Mr Rozanov huffed out a laugh, “party hat. Not like parties that I go to.”
Shane didn’t even want to imagine the parties that Mr Rozanov got invited too. Even the thought of them made his skin crawl. They’d be loud, obviously. They’d be full of hockey players with wide shoulders and harsh grins wrapped around girls and drinking amounts of alcohol that should result in a stomach pump.
The parties sounded like Shane’s little snapshot of hell, but the idea of Mr Rozanov at a party, even these parties, opened the heavy doors in his mind to varying images of the man in states of undress. This was extremely unprofessional, he was struck with the insane fear that the man was in fact a mind reader. Or a god. Possibly both.
He managed a weak laugh. Mr Rozanov just smiled back, his teeth were so white.
Oh god, were his teeth real?
“Do you mind just putting her on the table for a minute so I can get this on?”
Mr Rozanov places Anya diligently on the black rubber. Shane gives himself a moment to celebrate her joint health. Then he approaches the spaniel, who had cocked her head and pricked up her liver coloured ears, sensing danger. Her eyes glared at him, in the affronted manner only dogs could truly manage.
“Okay, Anya.” He speaks to her slowly, “I’m just gonna give you this new party hat.”
Mr Rozanov grabs her back end without Shane even needing to ask, holding her shoulders in place as she tries to squirm away from the clear plastic cone which descends towards her face.
“Anya, Anya,” the Russian croons, “what a good girl, Moyo ditya, moya malyshka. So good for Shane, so good for me.”
Anya is still long enough for Shane to snap the collar into place and leave her a disgruntled dog with a decidedly un-stylish party hat. She doesn’t appreciate the fashion decision, two paws reach up to stroke down the plastic and she shakes her head ruthlessly.
“Please don’t take the cone off, if you do you have to be monitoring her to make sure she doesn’t lick the stitches.” He runs a finger through the collar to make sure the spacing is correct, “you’ll have to come back in two weeks for the final check, we can also do the kennel cough vaccine then if that’s okay with you? Her immune system should be tip top by then.” He wasn’t too sure what was possessing him at this point, the spirit of Texas or just the spirit of hyperactive Labrador. His mouth was moving without any guidance and it seemed to want to destroy any hope he could have fostered of this being a good interaction.
“Yes, of course, Dr Hol - Shane.”
“Her ears are still doing okay as well?” He moves over to the laptop to check the amount of medications he’d given the man. “You have enough ear drops left?”
“Ah, yes,” Mr Rozanov hummed, “no, no issues. No scratching now. We still have good supply.”
“Right, if you have no other concerns I’ll just write up the meds for you and then you should be good to go.” Yes Shane, he congratulates himself, turning back to his monitor, you’ve successfully done it. No hockey fans coming to castrate you, no Russian drones flying for your apartment and your parents still love you.
“Uh,” Mr Rozanov began, Anya looked up expectantly towards her owner from where she was now next to the door, tail wagging and glancing between him and the door. Mr Rozanov looked at her fondly and continued, “Dr…Shane.”
Oh god, was this the complaint he’d been dreading? He gripped the mouse harder, cocking his head in a strangely dog-like manner to indicate yes, he was listening, without having to actually look at the man.
“I am… nervous about owning a dog for the first time.” Oh? “I have always wanted one and my friends said that they had rescue they needed a good home for. I was apparently a good home even if I…”
Mr Rozanov bent down to pet Anya, who was now realising she wasn’t getting out anytime soon and was sitting on one of his trainers, looking mildly disgruntled.
“I don’t know how good of a home I am. I’m not always home, I have cameras yet, but they’re not me. I know about dogs, but I’m always worried something is wrong. I have no experience. I’m always anxious about her, she is my baby, you see?”
Shane nodded because yes, he saw. Everyday he had clients with dogs and cats they’d known longer than their romantic partners, dogs that were owned by their now dead mothers who still seemed to carry their scent, cats that were constant memories of a child who’d left home for bigger adventures.
“I understand.” Is all he said, “you have no need to be anxious, Mr Rozanov. You’re doing a great job, trust me. Anya is in perfect condition and seems like a happy, well adjusted dog.” She had a little bit of separation anxiety, but looking at the mans pained expression this was not something to mention and not something Shane was going to be able to change. They’d become attached, and he’s sure Mr Rozanov had already realised this.
“Ilya, please.”
“Okay, erm, Ilya,” Shane offered what he hoped was a comforting smile towards Mr Rozanov, “you’re doing great, trust me.” He went over to crouch near Anya again, needing the grounding touch and the ability to distract his focus from the man, “Anya agrees.”
“No, yes…” He sighed, almost angrily, “I am sorry, I am wasting your time and being stupid. You are a busy man.” Shane looked up, he was so close he swore he could nearly see under the mans loose hoody.
“It’s fine,” Shane replied gently, “I’m here to help animals, often the best way to help the animals is by helping the owners first.”
Mr Rozanov offered him a small smile, running his hands through the curls of his hair. Shane found himself a little enchanted with the way they bounced over his fingers. Anya was looking up at her owner with such a soft expression, trusting in the way dogs were.
“I want her to meet more dogs as well,” Mr Rozanov explained, “she is only child and I want her to have more friends.”
“Oh!” This was something Shane could help with, “I know just the place, there’s dog training sessions that happen every week in the park. They’re really cheap and anyone can join in, it’s great for training and socialising…both the dogs and the owners.” He hoped he wasn’t implying that Mr Rozanov seemed lonely.
Mr Rozanov (Ilya?) brightened and looked excitedly at the vet, “what is it called?”
“Ahh,” Shane pulled his personal phone out of his back pocket, “I can give you the owners number if you want. I have it somewhere on here…oh!” He waited for Mr Rozanov to pull out his phone.
“The number is…”
“Hollander, err, Shane…uhm. I am not good with numbers, you know, English is my second language and I would like to know number is definitely right before I message.”
Shane looked up at the man in confusion, wondering where the hell this was going. Was he planning to send correspondences via pigeon?
“I am only saying, because I am asking if I could get your number instead so I can message you now to make sure it is definitely you, then you could send me owners number?” Shane took a minute to understand the words, his accent had thickened and the man hadn’t paused once. It was like releasing air from a balloon and listening to it go all squeaky.
The sheen of the artificial light gives Mr Rozanov a faint pink hum across his nose and cheeks.
“Oh yes!” Oh wow, Shane. Real smooth, ice cold, straight from the freezer. “Of course! My number is….”
Later, as he’s packing up his things from the break room he’ll suddenly realise what he’s done. Rose will find him later cradling the kitten brought in for an eye infection and eating celery in the corner of the cattery.
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His parents take him out to dinner, some place he couldn’t afford on his wage but his dad’s job at the treasury board covers with ease. Even his mom is doing better than him, working in management at a hockey sports brand. She gives him performance trainers sometimes, meant for running and weightlifting and everything else hockey bros do.
They have good arch support, which does help when he’s one his feet all day, but the colours are so obnoxious sometimes he prays a cat will vomit on them.
“So Shane,” his mom smiles at him from the opposite end of the table as he takes a bite of salmon, “how’s work?”
“Oh,” Shane pauses, mouth full. He’s always a bit unsure of what to mention. His coworkers are usually safe bets, in moderation, but the majority of their conversations either make no sense or are pure gossip that his parents probably wouldn’t appreciate. They wouldn’t enjoy the alternative either, too much of his job is gory or disgusting and not good dinner discussions. Not good for discussion at any time, really, his dad has a fairly sensitive disposition.
“Oh, you know. Same as always, lot’s of nail clipping.”
His parents laugh. Shane hasn’t clipped a dog’s nails for a long time. Eleanor finds it so satisfying she demands to do it in all her nurse consults instead. John gets the anal glands (not by request) and Kiara gets the post-op checks. This is all theoretical of course, in reality the client arrives and whoever’s there does whatever happens.
“What about you guys?” He asks, spearing a green bean onto his fork and looking at it wearily. It’s coated in enough salt it’d probably send a small dog into tremors.
“Well,” his dad starts, before looking over to his mom and holding her hand where it rests on the table between them, “its all you, why don’t you tell him?”
“Shane,” his mom begins with pure excitement dancing in her eyes, “I’ve got a new job!”
“Oh!” Is that an appropriate reaction? She looks pretty happy about it so he assumes this isn’t because she got fired from the last one, but that means she was searching and he didn’t even think she was searching. She’s seemed pretty happy at the hockey store job. She was able to manage the brands image entirely, ordering around and befriending a team of anxious interns and social media managers. It combined everything she loved doing and hockey, something she adored everything about.
“Shane, it’s with the Ottawa Centaurs!” She actually raises her hands in celebration, “I’m going to be the new brand manager, so I’ll be helping the social media manager, the merch team, the…” she laughs like the crystal glass full of wine that’s set before her, “we’ll have free tickets to every game!”
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It’s honestly really nice to see his parents so elated by joy. His mother can’t stop rambling about the centaurs, about hockey, about the importance of ‘brand image’ and how to hire the best lawyers. His dad makes a few attempts to stop her, but then sits back and lets the passion just cascade over him with a wry look in Shane’s direction.
Shane is happy to demolish his salmon and let his mom distract him from the salmon’s unnaturally pink tone.
“I’ll be working really closely with Harris Drover, you know, Troy Barrett’s boyfriend?” His mom is staring right into him now, making him look up from his salmon.
“Oh, yes,” Shane thinks he knows who Troy is, he’d seen him play on the TV, “that’s really cool.”
“They were so brave, only the second couple after Hunter and his…well, husband now.” Another overly long pause, she tries to catch his eye over the meal, “Don’t you think they were brave, Shane?”
“Erm… yes?”
His mom seemed satisfied with his answer and just beamed at his dad, who nodded.
Okay. Well.
“I’m going to make sure that the Centaur’s image really says that we support everyone, pride nights are going to be the main event. It’s really important that everyone can enjoy hockey.” She’s still trying to stare at him, food abandoned on her plate as she instead interrogates him with her gaze. He keeps himself locked onto the small section of cooked carrots which he’s sorting through.
But he nods at that, because although he’d never enjoyed hockey, even though his coaches said he was ‘highly talented’ and ‘a great prospect’, he could see the merit to her words. Sexual activity was irrelevant to skill.
“Did you ever feel… uncomfortable in hockey, when you were younger?” His dad asks. He’s also looking at his son, hands clasped in front of him as he leans closer towards the younger man.
“What?” He doesn’t even understand why they’re bringing this up, his last hockey game was around ten years ago now and he still hasn’t told them that he’s gay.
“Because you’re Asian. Did anyone ever make you feel like you weren’t welcome?” Yuna Hollander prompted. Her voice is still, oddly similar to how he quietens panicking dogs and the comparison makes him squirm. It’s her professional voice, lined with ice like a puck.
They’re still making excuses for his lack of hockey interest. They saw his, apparently substantial, skill and had him all set for an NHL career at the age of thirteen. He was going to be a centre, a captain perhaps if he could just whip up some social skills and the ability to speak with some amount of authority. He was, from what the stats say, very good. There were often scouts watching him from the sidelines, noting his name down onto phones and clipboard.
When he knew hockey wasn’t for him, was never going to be for him, he tried to rip it off like a bandaid. Quick, painless. He told his parents, both of them at once, that he simply didn’t enjoy it. That he wanted to quit. They had asked him a ton of questions, his mom had gone to bed and come back with a page more queries actually hand-written on a piece of paper. His dad had questioned his coach. He’d left the team at the end of the season and was frankly overjoyed at not having to feign anymore interest in the sport or spend any more hours somehow simultaneously freezing cold and sweating buckets on the ice.
The next step was becoming a doctor. He enjoyed biology, chemistry, and it was in his ability. If he was a doctor he was still somehow connected to hockey. They needed doctors at games, doctors could translate the players injuries to his parents when they happened on TV, doctors were involved in sports medicine. There was a certain level of pride he knew his parents would’ve enjoyed in saying that their son was a doctor. For a while that was his aim, until at sixteen he’d realised that the only sections of biology he actually enjoyed were when he got to look at the sheep’s skull or look at the differences between carnivores and herbivores. He’d started dog-sitting for an acquaintance and he’d realised he’d missed out on having a pet.
He switched trajectory yet again, this time only slightly to the left to become a veterinarian.
“No,” he answers, truthfully, “I mean, maybe they did say something but I never heard it or understood it if they did.” It was an honest answer, Shane naturally seemed to forget pretty much everything his teammates had said but his mom’s jaw still ticked with worry.
“Okay, sweetie…”
“I read something really interesting in the New Yorker about brand engagement…” his dad begins, moving the conversation away.