Chapter Text
Today was Dimitri Novikov’s first day as an Ottawa Centaur, freshly drafted into the NHL at the age of 20. He’d been looking forward to this for years, working hard specifically so that he would have a chance at making it overseas and not the KHL, finally getting himself some space away from the prying eyes that were his family. He was nervous, of course, because this was a huge opportunity for him that he couldn’t dare mess up.
And then he was in the coach’s office with Coach Wiebe and… Captain Ilya Rozanov. Finally getting to meet Rozanov in person sent a wave of conflicted emotions through Dimitri’s mind. On the one hand, he was one of the best players to ever come out of Russia, someone who Dimitri had looked up to for years once he’d made his NHL debut. But on the other, he was also keenly aware of the way he had seemed to shun his home country entirely once his father died; it was hard to bring him up back home without someone complaining about how he’d abandoned Russia for the US, then Canada.
But truthfully, what worried Dimitri even more was his reputation as an aggressive, antagonistic even, playboy. He was a menace on the ice, curt during interviews, and was rumored to have a roster of women to sleep with in every city with an NHL team. He hadn’t been photographed with anyone in public lately, but everyone just figured that he’d gotten sneakier over the years as he’s gotten older. Actually, he’d rarely even been seen in public with his own teammates lately, which Dimitri thought did not bode well. Even as players who shared the same home country and native language, he wasn’t sure that he’d be able to get along with Rozanov for all his assholery. But he couldn’t think about that right now, because he had to focus on understanding Coach.
“…so we would like to formally welcome you to the Centaurs,” Coach said, extending a hand across his desk. Thankfully, that was something Dimitri could understand even without translating.
As Dimitri released Coach’s hand, he nearly jumped back as Rozanov, who was standing next to the desk, also extended his hand forward.
“Welcome, Dimitri Novikov,” he said in Russian as Dimitri returned the handshake. “We are very excited to have you here,” now in English.
“Thank you. I am very excited to be here,” Dimitri replied, hoping he didn’t sound too stilted. He’d intensified his English studies as soon as the NHL draft became a realistic prospect, but actually having to speak it on the fly like this was harder than he’d anticipated.
“Ahem, not that I want to discourage anyone from speaking their native language,” Coach began, “but I do want to make it clear that you two are the only ones on the team who share a language that the others don’t speak. It’s actually an outlier that neither of you speak French. So if I find out that the two of you are speaking about the other players behind their backs—“
“Yes, yes. I will make sure that Novikov does not say bad things about teammates,” Ilya interrupted with a lazy grin.
Dimitri’s eyes widened. He’d just interrupted Coach Wiebe in the middle of a sentence, rather rudely as well. Even for being the Captain, and even as Ilya Rozanov, Dimitri hadn’t expected such brazenness from him. His body tensed up as he waited for Coach to reprimand Rozanov, remembering back to the times that he’d been yelled at or isolated from the rest of the team for daring to even look away during a longwinded diatribe.
“That’s the least you could do, as Captain,” Coach said dryly. “Frankly, I’m more worried about what kinds of ideas you might put in this poor rook’s head than what he’ll say.”
Dimitri’s eyes were still wide with shock, but now for another reason. Ilya’s transgression had slid right off of Coach, and not only that, but he’d actually replied with a snarky comment right back. What kind of player-coach relationship was this?
“Aw. You know I am team player, yes?” Ilya said with a playful familiarity that almost made Dimitri feel sick. “I only say bad things about opponents.”
“Sure. I don’t think it’d be a good look if we have two Russian players antagonizing opponents until a fistfight breaks out, so you better behave. The press will figure out who he learned it from.”
Rozanov shot Coach Wiebe a puppy dog stare, to which he responded with a look of calculated indifference, or maybe exasperation. What. Was Coach like this with everyone, or had he just given up on reining Rozanov in by this point? To his defense, Rozanov was quite charming, much more so than Dimitri had expected even after watching hours of footage of him on the ice and in interviews. He really didn’t know what to expect from his new Captain anymore.
“Anyway, a few of the guys should have made it to the locker room by now,” Coach Wiebe said. He seemed to be done with Ilya’s antics, but a tinge of a smile had crept into his face. “Definitely Hollander, Haas, and Barrett. So go be a good Captain and introduce our new rookie.”
Hollander. That name sent shivers down Dimitri’s spine. If he’d felt star struck, although a bit conflicted, at meeting Rozanov, he might actually burst into flames upon meeting Hollander. He couldn’t believe his luck that Ottawa had used their one remaining draft pick on him after relinquishing the rest as part of the trade deal for Hollander. It still wasn’t entirely clear why he’d left Montreal, although anyone could tell that there had been tensions between him and the rest of the team even before their playoff run was unceremoniously cut short last season, and it was even less clear why he’d picked Ottawa of all places when they already had a star center in Rozanov. Sure, depending on who you asked, Hollander might have been the better player, but having two top centers on one team didn’t seem like an ideal situation.
“Are you nervous?” Ilya asked in Russian as they walked down the hall towards the dressing room.
“Yes, a little bit. I’m still not as comfortable with English as I want to be,” Dimitri replied honestly. Well, the nerves were for other reasons as well, but this was very much true.
“Don’t worry. Your English is much better than mine was when I was your age. And, the team is very welcoming. They’ll like you as long as you’re welcoming back.”
Dimitri looked up to see Rozanov giving him a warm smile. He wasn’t sure what to say; he hadn’t expected him to be so comforting, or for him to try to assuage his new teammate’s worries right away. He was acting almost… fatherly? Maybe he was just glad to have someone else on the team who spoke Russian.
It turned out that Coach Wiebe knew his players quite well; when Dimitri and Ilya got to the dressing room, Shane Hollander, Troy Barrett, and Luca Haas were indeed the only players that had arrived.
“Okay, you three,” Ilya announced loudly to the dressing room. “Our new friend Dimitri Novikov is here. Let us do some introductions before it gets too noisy.”
Rozanov clapped Dimitri on the shoulder playfully, if a bit forcefully, in a display of companionship and affection that he also hadn’t expected. It didn’t seem like Rozanov had a single hesitant bone in his body. They all introduced themselves and shook hands with him, and for the first time, Dimitri was struck by just how damn attractive everyone he’s met so far had been. Of course, he knew more or less what everyone looked like since he’d looked up the roster prior to coming to Ottawa, but seeing them in person was a whole new thing.
Barrett was unsettlingly handsome in a way that cameras just didn’t seem to do justice. His eyes were piercing, and he had this… uneasy smile that somehow made it all the more charming when he did give a genuine one. Haas was young, only a year older than Dimitri, and accordingly had this youthful glow and passion about him that made him even more endearing. It also helped that he looked like he could be starring in a teen romance airing on any major TV network. Even Coach Wiebe was surprisingly attractive. He was young for a coach, but still older than any of his players, and seemed to already be aging gracefully. His crow’s feet and laugh lines only made him look more charming, indicative of a man who enjoyed life and laughed easily.
Now Hollander. Dimitri wasn’t sure if he was just really star struck or if Hollander was just the most attractive man he’d ever laid eyes on. He seemed to have this quiet humility about him despite being, well, Shane Fucking Hollander, making him surprisingly approachable. His dark hair, freckles, and even skin texture almost made him look more like a model than a hockey player. But his body… sure, Dimitri had seen a few photoshoots from some of his (many) endorsement deals, but he for some reason hadn’t expected Hollander to be so solidly built.
As he looked at Rozanov for direction after shaking his three teammates’ hands, Dimitri seemed to take him in for the first time, as well. He’d been so nervous in the office that he somehow hadn’t noticed that Rozanov was crazily handsome, too. Of course, Dimitri knew that, but being in his physical presence, with his imposing physique and towering height that even made him feel a little short, was a different experience altogether.
“Great, good job Novikov,” Rozanov said, probably trying to sound encouraging but sounding a bit patronizing instead. “Now you just do that maybe five or six more times and you will have met everyone.”
“You’ll love everyone!” Haas said excitedly. “They were so welcoming during my rookie season. I don’t think I could have asked for a better team to start my career with.” Wow, Haas’s English was really good.
“Start with?” Rozanov and Barrett asked at the same time. They exchanged a brief glance before shooting cheeky expressions at Haas.
“Um, I mean – not like that – I’m not planning on—“ Haas stammered. He was already turning red.
Rozanov gave a hearty laugh while Barrett seemed to barely stifle one of his own, although he was still grinning. Hollander just shook his head good naturedly.
“Do not worry, Haasy,” Rozanov cooed. “We will win the Cup this year so you have no choice but to stay.”
Rozanov and Barrett continued to wholesomely chirp at Haas, who seemed to somehow be getting even redder by the second. Dimitri idly wondered if he was going to pass out.
“Welcome to the team again,” Hollander said, patting Dimitri on the back. “Don’t worry too much; I’m still getting used to their antics, too.”
As the rest of the team arrived to the arena (thankfully not all at once), Dimitri came to learn that the Centaurs were full of big personalities. In some other circumstances, that might have been a bad thing, but somehow everyone just got along and clicked so easily, seeming to effortlessly bring Dimitri into conversations as he stumbled his way through the English language.
Zane Boodram, Wyatt Hayes, Nick Chouinard… there were so many names that he would have to remember, many of which didn’t quite come easily to his Russian tongue. He wondered how long it took Rozanov to get used to these kinds of names, or if he even cared. But so far, everyone he’d met had been warm and welcoming. Boodram had even tried to get Dimitri in on a few inside jokes already. The man was imposing with a big personality to match, perhaps even more so than Rozanov, but he clearly had a sweet heart.
To his surprise, Rozanov was almost never too far away; he’d hovered around Dimitri and facilitated introductions with everyone. It was only once everyone had been introduced and the social media manager, Harris, had pulled Rozanov away after introducing himself to Dimitri as well, that Rozanov was not orbiting around him like a watchful parent. Unfortunately, that was the moment when Dimitri realized that he had forgotten to bring tape.
“Shit, did I really forget to bring tape on the first day?” he said, under his breath.
Dimitri scanned the room, trying to figure out if he should ask one of his new teammates to borrow tape. They would probably say yes, but suddenly he was too nervous to strike up a conversation with anyone, especially in English. He wished that Rozanov was here so he could at least admit his first little misstep in his native language.
As he scanned the room, Dimitri realized that Hollander was looking at him with a mildly concerned look on his face. When their eyes met, his face briefly changed into a surprised expression before they both looked away. Shit. Did Hollander think he was zoning out or something? When Dimitri looked back, he saw him typing something on his phone. Ugh. He could just do something else or make himself look busy for now.
Dimitri had just finished putting on his pads when Rozanov came over to him, holding a roll of hockey tape.
“Here. It looks like you forgot tape, right?” Rozanov offered.
“Yes, thanks for bringing me some,” Dimitri replied as he accepted the tape. It wasn’t his usual brand, but it would have to suffice for his first day on the ice with the Centaurs. Then it hit him that Rozanov hadn’t even been in the room for most of the time he’d been getting ready.
“Wait, how did you know that I forgot my tape? Weren’t you busy with Harris?”
He gave a sly smile. “There are many reasons I am Captain, yes?” He said, switching to English. “One is I am very perceptive.”
“Per…ceptive?”
“Ah, perceptive is проницательный. Is good English word, you should remember it.”
Rozanov clapped Dimitri on the shoulder once again and went back to his stall to get ready, now well behind the rest of the team due to whatever Harris needed from him. Already after the first day, Dimitri was getting the feeling that this might be the best team he’d ever been on.
“What do you think of the rookie?” Ilya asked, idly running his hand through Shane’s hair as they cuddled on the couch at Ilya’s.
“He seems really sweet,” Shane answered honestly. “Way different than another Russian that I knew as a rookie.”
“Oh, really? Could not be me, I have always been sweet to everyone.”
“Do I have to remind you of the way you yelled at me on the roofto—“
“I did no such thing. That was too long ago, your memory is not accurate,” Ilya said, leaning in to kiss Shane as if apologizing for his attitude from a decade ago.
“How did you know that Novikov needed tape earlier?” Ilya asked as he came back up. “He did not say anything himself, yes? Or you would not have texted me about it.”
“I heard him say it in Russian to himself,” Shane replied with a grin, switching to Russian.
Ilya’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. “You did? And you understood him?”
“Yes! I was so happy that I understood what he said. Of course, I had to tell you because nobody knows I can speak Russian.”
“Yes, it would be suspicious.”
“Подо…зрения?”
“Suspicious,” Ilya clarified. “But you’re learning so fast. Your accent is getting better every day. Soon you’ll be as good at Russian as you are at French.”
“Well, I have a very good teacher. And he always has the best rewards for me when I do a good job.”
Ilya’s eyes flashed dangerously at Shane. The thought of the two of them being able to converse fluently not just in English but in Russian always made him so horny. Maybe he’d even have to get Shane to teach him how to speak French, although the accent would be a challenge. But for now, it was his duty as the teacher to reward his student for a job well done.
[…]
It was late at night, and Ilya was having trouble sleeping, again. Even with Shane safely nestled between his arms and both them sated from the wonderful, tender, careful sex that they were able to regularly enjoy now that they both lived in Ottawa, he felt strangely unmoored and flighty.
It wasn’t a new feeling unfortunately. He felt fake. Like Ilya Rozanov had been replaced by an impostor that acted out all of his charm without any of the substance that was beneath it. He had been a good Captain today, but the entire time he’d felt like he was overcompensating for how badly he’d been since the last few months of last season. Bood was a fantastic Alternate Captain, but more and more Ilya had wondered why Bood wasn’t the Captain instead as Ilya played some shallow facsimile of one. Ilya knew that deep down, somewhere within him, his charming qualities still existed. But he felt like they were trapped deep down underground beneath layers of bedrock and he was scraping away at the dirt above with his bare hands.
There was no blame to be had here, not really. But the pressure of having Shane on his team, of having to hide their relationship in an entirely new way, plus the watchful and expectant eyes of a new rookie from Russia of all places…at times Ilya had felt like he was going to break. What was supposed to make things easier was just making it impossible to ignore the mounting frustration and dread he felt at having to pretend that he cared for Shane as a friend, at most. And today was just the first day.