Chapter Text
Hollander wants to make it known, as he carefully follows a path of stone pavers leading to a wooded area behind the house, that he never saw himself becoming a Dog Dad. He grew up on the other side of town without a pet. The idea of bringing one home didn't cross his mind as a child.
"Maybe my dad had one when he was a kid," he muses, "but my mom never did. And getting one was never on my family's radar."
In the Hollanders' defense, they had little, if any, energy to devote to caring for a furry companion. Hollander was tied up with hockey from the time he was old enough to join a youth team, and his parents held public service jobs. What precious free moments they had they spent strengthening their bonds with each other.
An animal didn't fit into their lives.
One shouldn't fit into the even more hectic lifestyles of hockey superstars, much less two who are married to each other, either.
But no one would accuse Hollander or Rozanov of being practical these days.
Hollander clarifies he isn't embarrassed to call himself a capital-P Pet Parent now, but leads me to the back of this 1.5-acre property on the west end of Ottawa, he can't disguise the slight trepidation in his tone as he describes a project he spearheaded a couple of months ago.
The noted real estate enthusiast remembered over the summer that he'd heard of homes with dedicated spaces for dogs. "Not just a secured yard," he says. "But, like, a play area."
Like a dog run?
"Basically," he responds.
No, not basically.
As Hollander shares the names of and reasons for materials he had sourced, structures he ordered and people he consulted, it becomes increasingly obvious the phrase "dog run" woefully undersells his undertaking.
The bespoke feature taking up residence in their backyard is, rather, a state-of-the-art dog park outfitted with artificial turf, a splash pad, an agility course and a sand pit. Among the many amenities is a dog house erected under shade at the back corner of the fenced-in area large enough for multiple large dogs (for reference: Anya, the dog Rozanov rescued last winter, is a medium-sized mixed breed and has no siblings).
Hollander also had electricity run out here and an expansive outdoor living space installed for anyone wanting to keep an eye on frolicking pups.
"A lot of the team has dogs," Hollander says. "If anyone wants to come over with them, it's easier to hang out here. We don't have to worry about any of them wandering off where we can't see them or getting into something dangerous."
"It's a lot easier to clean up their shit here! Did you tell her that?"
Hollander practically jumps out of his skin at the interruption, then glares over his shoulder.
Rozanov's uncanny timing has struck yet again.
"Ah, you did not," Rozanov chuckles as he pulls open the gate to the playground. Ignoring Hollander's reticence, he points to the center of the lawn, where the ground slopes downward. "See drainage? Easy to clean."
Hollander sighs. "That isn't why I did this."
"Oh, I know," Rozanov says, stooping to pick up an oversized tennis ball he immediately throws into a nearby bin stocked with ropes, frisbees and anything else suitable for a game of fetch. "You love Anya more than me. She gets whole dog park, I get — what, exactly, did I get?"
Hollander's lips thin as he shoots Rozanov a look that requires no special talent to interpret: "We're not discussing this again."
The significance of Hollander's gesture is left unspoken. But when the interview eventually meanders back toward a topic Rozanov has spent the day sidestepping, its meaning starts to crystallize.
For much of his life, Rozanov felt adrift. He'd never felt internally conflicted about his bisexuality — "I was young when I figured it out," he says — but that simple facet of his identity nonetheless created a monumental complication.
Openly discussing his private life carried multiple risks. He could have been driven out of his profession in North America. He also could have been arrested, or worse, if he returned to his native land after the fact.
Rampant homophobia in his native land and a strained family dynamic since childhood had already combined to inhibit Rozanov from feeling like he belonged anywhere.
Russia's extreme right-wing leanings exacerbated that inner void when Rozanov played for his country's national team during the Sochi Olympics in 2014. The Duma had months earlier instituted a federal ban before the Games on what it called "propaganda of non-traditional sexual relations," a move that effectively validated the notable increase in hate crimes against queer people that preceded the ruling.
"I knew these things happened when I grew up," he says, "but risk was much higher by that time."
Rozanov wished he could be fully loyal to himself, but he wanted even more to rectify how alienated he had become from his family and the place he still called home.
The savviest thing he could do was conceal the truth.
The closer he and Hollander became off the ice, though, the less Rozanov wanted to hide.
Rozanov and Hollander were planning to come out publicly before a video of the couple in a passionate embrace surfaced this spring.
They took the cruel fast-tracking of their timeline in stride, presenting a united front against bigots around and outside of hockey.
But their level-headed reaction to the leak did nothing to stem the maelstrom of backlash in Rozanov's native land. Condemnations and denunciations of Rozanov by Russian agencies, media outlets and fellow public figures inundated the internet.
The few family members he remained in contact with after the 2017 death of his father, a decorated war veteran and high-ranking police official, swiftly cut ties.
Despite some of his worst fears coming true, Rozanov says, "I'm not surprised, honestly."
If nothing else, the ire directed at him is liberating.
He stopped calling Russia home the moment he pledged allegiance to himself. And now that he's built a fulfilling life, he feels vindicated in having released the final vestiges of Russia he'd clung to for fear of never finding his place anywhere else.
Does he feel even a modicum of nostalgia for what used to be?
Rozanov considers the question. We've been outside on a smoke break without Hollander for the last 30 minutes, but he hasn't paused to deliberate over an answer until now.
A crooked smile twists his lips after he takes one more pull from his vape.
"I miss what life was like when my mother was alive," Rozanov says. "But I have everything I could want here. This is where I belong."