Levelheaded



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    Shane Hollander works at a coffee shop, plays hockey, keeps his head down, and doesn’t ask questions he doesn’t need the answers to.

    So when a new regular starts showing up—quiet, watchful, Russian-accented, and conducting invitation-only meetings in the back—Shane notices. When that same man takes an unsettling interest in Shane’s closing shifts, his routines, and his safety, Shane does what feels sensible: he adjusts his behavior and keeps his mouth shut.

    Ilya Rozanov orders an Americano. He reads, but only in Russian. He worries when people work late alone.

    They are operating with very different definitions of danger.

    If he didn’t ask questions, he couldn’t be lied to.

    The rules were simple.

    1. Do not ask questions you don’t need the answer to.
    2. Do not share personal information freely.
    3. Do not be alone with Ilya Rozanov.
    4. Do not give him a reason to think you’re afraid.

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    30 Jun 2026

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    Hayden gets up to move and pats Shane's shoulder on his way out. “Remember the party we're having at our place on Friday, okay?”

    Shane calls out an “okay” just as the front door slams shut behind him.

    He sets his bag down in his room before going to grab a can of coke—Hayden buys them and then ends up drinking Shane's stuff anyway—and walks into the room now occupied by a stranger.

    “Hey,” he calls out to the half hidden figure inside the closet as he sets down the coke on the new desk next to the door. “I don't know if you like coke but I brought you one. I'm Shane by the way.”

    The face that peeks out from behind the closet door makes Shane's eyes widen.

    Holy shit.

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    27 Jun 2026

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    Shane has spent six years being professionally brilliant and personally confused about why Ilya Rozanov is the first thing he thinks about at conferences.

    Ilya has spent six years being professionally ruthless and privately certain that Shane Hollander is the only person in the field who actually understands what he's doing.

    Neither of them has done anything about it--not really. They have grants to protect, tenure cases to build, and an academic rivalry that the entire field has opinions about. They are colleagues. Adversaries. And co-authors, as of this year, which is already proving to be a problem.

    Then there's Senegal. The manuscripts. The hotel room. The note Ilya left before Shane woke up, which was harder to interpret than any lost archives.

    Revise and Resubmit. Because the first draft of everything is always wrong.

    or

    Slow burn. Rivals to lovers. Forced proximity. One note that says the wrong thing. A very long fallout. Academia is brutal and so is wanting someone you can't stop arguing with.

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    21 Jun 2026

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    “Ilya, what are we gonna do?” Shane says.

    Ilya finishes whatever he has been doing on his phone, and tosses it gently to the bed beside him. He crosses the room to Shane, stands in front of him, squeezes into his shoulders with his big hands, rubbing them like he means to warm them up.

    “Looks like we will have a little vacation,” he says, with a big obnoxious grin.

     


     

    Boston and Montreal are sent to Paris to play against each other in an exhibition series in January 2017. Ilya and Shane decide to stay in Paris for one more night. Just one more night, so they can talk. Maybe finally understand each other.

    They aren't expecting a volcano to erupt in Iceland and close all the airspace in Europe, leaving them stranded there. Together.

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    11 Jun 2026

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    “Where are you going?”

    “To the arena, Hollander. We are playing a game in three hours.”

    “That’s tomorrow, Rozanov,” Hollander says, smirking like Ilya might be fucking with him and he wants to make sure he’s in on the joke. He looks behind and around him. “Um, can I come inside?”

    “Hollander, we have game today. You were here yesterday.”

    Hollander is striding toward his kitchen, looking over his shoulder at Ilya like he’s getting tired of the joke. “Very funny. I was in Montreal yesterday, Rozanov.”

    “Hollander.” Ilya goes to stand in front of him. Hollander’s eyes flicker up and down his body the way that Ilya usually craves, but is rather unwelcome right now. “Today is Thursday. Game is today. Yesterday, you came to my house. We ate tuna melts, watched Buffalo game. Then, you left.”

    “Rozanov, it’s Wednesday morning. And I’ve never been to your house before.”

    “Hollander…”

    “Look at your phone if you don’t believe me.”

    Ilya snorts like a bull and pulls his phone out of his pocket, swipes down on the screen to look at the date.

    Wednesday, November 9th.


    Or: Ilya Rozanov in Groundhog Day!

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    09 Jun 2026