Chapter Text
December 2008
“You’re making me nervous.” Yuna Harada chastised her son. He was bouncing his leg and chewing on the zipper of his jacket like a child. “Would you just sit down?” This time, it was a command. Yuna’s Japanese was low, cautious, drastically aware of the coaches and scouts that were swarming the bleachers. Her son needed to be on his best behavior, there was no telling who was watching.
But Shane Hollander could not sit. He was tired from morning practice and his nerves were fried. He was used to being watched—he was *the* Shane Hollander for crying out loud, coaches brought their teams to his games just to see him play—but today had felt different. His teammates had been riding him. In the friendly way that teammates did, yes, but sometimes in the locker room or during skate & shoot he could feel their glares. Like they were mentally tallying how many shots he was getting, upset that they weren’t equal. If they wanted more reps so bad, they should elbow their way in like everyone else. Shane rubbed his eyes with both fists. He was getting caught up in the wrong things. It didn’t matter what people said behind his back. He’d delivered every time and this tournament would be no different. As long as they won, as long as Shane did what he did best—score goals—no one would have any doubts that he was here because he deserved it.
“Stop that,” his mom whispered again. “Your hands are all dirty.”
“I showered,” he retorted, but dropped his hands to his lap nevertheless.
Yuna suddenly sat up straighter. “Look,” she pointed down at the rink where the players team had circled up, “there he is.”
Ilya Rozanov. The only variable in Shane’s journey to the top.
It was his first time seeing him play in person. He’d seen highlights, even watched a few games, hadn’t everyone in the hockey world? But up close, he was a different beast. Even from above the penalty box he looked formidable. Every turn, every stop, every skate, every shot Shane watched Rozanov take, he compared to his own. Did he favor his right too? No, Shane was a balanced skater. He was good at hiding his tells. At least that’s what he’d been told. Did he hit as hard? Certainly not. That was his least favorite part of the sport. But Rozanov seemed to enjoy crashing into his teammates. It looked like he was having fun.
A player slid into the wall and Shane instinctively touched his shoulder. He flushed with guilt and paranoia. What if a coach saw? He pretended to scratch an itch under his jacket. Was his shoulder pain noticeable on ice? What would a coach say if they knew he was already hurting? He’d already decided he’d take one bag of ice when he left. Enough to show he was committed to recovery, but not his usually four bags that exposed how much pain he was really in.
“He’s strong,” Yuna admitted. Of course, in Japanese so no one could understand.
Shane considered this and carefully chose a response of his own. “He’s sloppy.”
This pleased Yuna. “He leans to his left, favors the weight on his right.” Shane nodded in agreement. “And make sure to tell Bryan about number 77. He looks injured. He should capitalize on that.”
“Ma,” Shane gaped.
“What?” Yuna shrugged. “This is serious.”
The rest of Shane’s team had been given the okay to shower and head back to their hotel rooms to get some rest. Shane had rushed back out to see what they were up against. And yes, that included Ilya Rozanov. The Canadian coaches were down below, watching from a closer view and filling out the scout report as they talked through matchups.
Yuna dug through her bag for some chapstick and offered it to Shane. He accepted without contest, knowing even if he tried to refuse his mother’s jasmine-infused balm, she’d find a way to guilt him into reapplying a layer. He’d left his own tube in his bag. “You’re having dinner with the team, right? I don’t have to worry about you?”
Shane handed back the chapstick and rubbed his lips together. “Right, dinner with the team.”
“What time?”
“7. But I’ll just leave when the coaches do.”
Yuna glanced over at the whispering coaches. “You should make sure they know you’re here.”
“They’ll know when they turn around to leave.”
“But they need to know you’ve been here the whole time.”
“I was sitting here before they sat down, Ma. I’m sure they know.”
Yuna pursed her lips, doubtful. “Okay. Do you want me to stay?”
“No, you should go. Get dinner with dad.”
“Maybe I should stay. Say hi to Coach Peters.”
“Ma, no. It’s fine.”
“I could say hi to him now.”
“He’s busy!”
Yuna huffed. “Okay. Eat good tonight. Something warm. Easy to digest before tomorrow. You have your hotel key?” Shane patted his wallet in his pants instead of answering. “I want to be here early in the morning to watch warmups, but we’ll see what your dad says.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Remember, stay balanced. Eyes up and open. And don’t be afraid to take charge.”
“Ma!” It was getting embarrassing now. They’d been having a version of this same pep talk for ten years.
“Okay, okay, I’m going.”
With that, Yuna was gone and Shane was left to watch Rozanov—Russia—alone.
~~~~~~~~~~
Shane’s coaches stayed seated until the Russian teamed disappeared entirely into the locker room.
“Hollander,” Coach Peters called out when he turned around, unsurprised Shane was still in the stands, “walk with us back to the hotel?”
“Yeah, of course, Coach.”
“Where’s your bag?”
“Corey took it back on the bus for me.”
“Ah,” Coach Peters smiled, “good friend.”
The group of four made their way toward the exit, which took longer than Shane could’ve imagined as they stopped to chat with nearly every scout and fellow coach on the way.
He was introduced to a handful of men in caps with clipboards, and he remembered their names but not their titles or teams. He started to fidget and was grateful for the deep pockets in his parka.
The group finally made it outside, only for Coach Rodestein to immediately remember something or someone or some business back in the gym. The other coaches stood inside the second door, safe from the blustering December wind, but something just outside the building caught Shane’s eye.
He informed his coaches he would be right back and pulled a beanie over his still damp hair.
Ilya Rozanov was leaning against the cement building with a cigarette between his lips.
Before Shane could stop himself, he pointed at the no smoking sign and said, “I don’t think you’re supposed to do that here.”
Rozanov looked up with confusion and indifference. “What?”
Shane immediately flushed. Rozanov probably didn’t care. He probably smoked in no smoking areas all the time. Did they even have no smoking areas in Russia? To his chagrin, Shane heard himself respond, “The smoking area is over there.” He pointed to the other side of the parking lot.
Ilya took a long drag and exhaled in Shane’s direction. “Okay.”
Start over, Shane instructed himself. “I wanted to meet you,” he said and extended his hand. “I’m Shane Hollander.” Ilya did not return the motion. Shane returned his cold hand to his pocket. “You’re uh—you’re an awesome player to watch.”
“Yes,” Ilya said slowly and took another drag.
This was going good. Really swell. Shane couldn’t wait to spend the next twenty years playing against this guy. He talked some more, only to realize later he had been blabbing about his parents and how much their support meant to him and how grateful he was for this opportunity to represent his country. All the things that the press and the fans eat up. But this wasn’t either, this was Ilya Rozanov.
After what Shane could only hope was a few minutes of humiliation, he extended his hand again. “Good luck in the tournament.” He was going to be sportsmanlike. Sure, it was obvious that him and Rozanov were not going to be friends, but that didn’t mean they had to be enemies.
This time, to Shane’s surprise, Ilya accepted the handshake. “You will not be so friendly when we beat you.”
Shane grinned. “That’s not happening.”
~~~~~~~~~~
The buzzer was deafening. They had lost. Shane had lost. He hinged at the waist and fell forward onto his knees. He felt a teammates hand on his back, undoubtedly Corey, and he resisted the urge to shrug it off. Corey was just trying to make him feel better. But nothing could dull the sting of this loss. He wondered how many coaches had been watching? How many sets of eyes had turned away in mock shame as Canada squandered the lead? How many coaches were now thinking twice about this supposed young phenom who couldn’t even win this game?
His skates carried him to the line like second nature. He would look the Russian boys in the eyes—they had played good, he should’ve played better. He heard himself saying ‘good game’ but he didn’t register what was happening, was still wrapping his head around the implications of this loss, when a hand held onto his for a beat too long.
“See you at the draft.”
He was looking into the icy blue eyes of Ilya Rozanov. His smile was so big it wrapped around the whole lower half of his face. Shane suddenly felt off balance on his skates.