Chapter Text
It wasn’t a surprise to his family.
Not when Ilya was skating on the ice when he was barely two years old with his mother, gliding like a perfect copy of his mother.
Not when his father handed him his first stick and puck, and his figure skater-like movements had turned brutal in less than a month with the best Russian coaches.
Not when he got into full gear for the first time at the age of three, not only holding himself with the strength of his ankles, but his entire small body, locking it into place like he had seen his mother do a thousand times.
Not when Ilya turned out to be a little prodigy, bringing home gold awards back to back –although always bruised, always bleeding, carrying scars with a pride unmatched with anything else.
The more talented he turned out to be, his father distanced him from his mother, pulling him into practices, onto the ice for hockey, away from his mother.
Before he knew it, she started to skate less and less when she did not have an excuse to teach him anymore. From a young age, Ilya watched his mother’s energy starting to be drained after every fight, every day spent in the wake of his father and away from Ilya.
He remembered when he had sobbed, and cried at the age of 8 after he had refused to go to his final game, because his mother had been secretly crying the entire day, and he wished to be there for her. He wanted to be in his mother’s arms because that seemed to be the only time she was happy.
Instead, he was pulled away from her by the strong hand of his father, and met with a slap that had would supposedly send a small child halfway across the room, but to a kid who had been playing hockey since 3, Ilya had planted his feet firmly into the ground like he was on ice, locking his body into place to barely shake as the stinging pain on his cheek threatened his tears. But they did not come. Instead, with an anger unmatched for an 8 year old, Ilya had pushed his father, starting to hit his stomach where he could reach, in a desperate attempt to protect his mother.
“Хорошо.” His father snickered and growled. “У тебя хорошие инстинкты. Из тебя получится хороший доминант.”
Good. You have good instincts. You will be a good dominant.
Not even knowing what his father was talking about, Ilya had already rushed to his mother who had been kneeling on the ground for hours at that point. He hugged her neck tightly, and kissed her running tears.
“Mama…” He whispered. “Всё хорошо. Я вернусь после игры. Не грусти, я буду с тобой.”
It’s okay. I will be back after the game. Don’t be sad, I will be with you.
Even at that age, his father had recognized the fire, the rage in his son’s eyes, and unofficially, that was the day his real training had begun.
How to carry himself perfectly.
How to be a dominant.
How to crush everyone else on the ice.
How to be ruthless and a winner.
Age after age, Ilya proved himself to be the perfect facade for his father. The overachiever, the one who was promised great things.
The one who had to watch as his father forced her mother to kneel in front of him as he worked for hours and hours, not allowing her to move, or step away.
The one who had to console his mother as she grew sadder and sadder with each year.
The one who witnessed, but did not understand the mental and physical torture his mother went through as she lost herself more and more.
The one who found her in the bathtub, not moving with an empty bottle of pills on the floor, just under her unmoving hand when she had disappeared for long hours after promising her son they would skate together again.
The one who had thrown a punch to his father for the first time at 12, and received the ultimate retaliation.
He had spent two days in the hospital after that.
“Ilya Grigoryevich Rozanov.” His father called for him when he had gotten his mark and tattoo early at the age of 13.
His tattoo was a simple, “You’re not supposed to smoke over there” in the Latin alphabet, in English which his father made the snarky comment of, ‘Whichever girl that is, they will be lucky to have you.”
Two years earlier. To his father, it meant two years of extra behavioral training, emotional manipulation –enough time to groom his son to be the perfect dominant before he allowed his son to start on blockers.
To Ilya, it was the day he was dreading the most in the world. He hoped he would be a neutral, a disappointment to his father.
But no, only an hour after he got his tattoo, when he was fucking burning with his entire body twisting in pain, he had been tested for his level.
“Десятый уровень. Даже выше, чем у меня.” He remembered his father proudly saying to his older brother, who were a mere 5 and 6. “Илья, тебе суждено занять высокие посты, добиться великих вещей.”
Level 10. Even higher than me. Ilya, you are destined for great positions, great things.
But instead, Ilya had breathed through the heat, the pain and directly stared at his father with a fury unmatched for a 13 year old –when he spoke, he held no emotion in his voice, or face.
“Я хочу кататься и играть в хоккей. Я пойду тренироваться, отец.”
I want to skate and play hockey. I am going to practice, father.
With that, without waiting for their approval, Ilya had excused himself to the ice where it would be the place he spent every waking day, practicing, skating and playing.
“Мама, я не буду таким, как он. Я сделаю так, чтобы ты мной гордилась. Я стану величайшим хоккеистом и уйду от него — навсегда. Обещаю, со мной всё будет хорошо. Ты просто отдохни.”
Mama, I will not be like him. I will make you proud. I will be the greatest hockey player, and get away from him, forever. I promise, I will be okay. You just rest.
That day, through the tears, Ilya had skated for hours and hours despite the pain he had on his ankles and legs, working on being faster, rougher, and more precise.
—----
For Shane, they knew he was destined for the ice, for hockey when he was barely one and a half years old when his father had taken them to a game and as his parents were talking with the Captain of Ottawa Centaurs after a win, his mother turned to see his son had somehow climbed off his carrier and wobbled his way to the ice to sit on it with a puck in his hand, sliding it around happily.
Yuna had approached him with a soft smile and knelt just outside of the gate.
“Hi, Shane. What do you have there? Do you know what you’re holding?”
Her son, who was still babbling over everything, had hoisted the puck into the air and gasped. “Puck!”
After that day, with every game they went to see, Shane would cry and sob until they would place him on the ice and he would suddenly shut up like he never created unstructured chaos and almost got them kicked out.
It happened three times before Yuna decided to get him a pair of double skates, and arranged his father’s free time so they could get him on the ice, onto the one place her son craved to be.
Before they knew, their son was skating, gliding on the ice before he could figure out how to walk without wobbling.
They could see the focus, and the happiness in the face of their barely two year old son and Yuna still remembered the day where they got Shane into full gear, who already had more balance and strength than others his age, some even older than him.
“David…” Yuna had whispered, sighing.
“I know, honey.” He kissed her cheek. “I see the talent.”
There was almost pain in his voice, and Yuna wrapped her arms around him, holding him closer. She knew her husband used to be a hockey player for McGil, good enough to go professional in the NHL in the following years, if it was not for his mark.
Submissives held no space in NHL, they could not physically or mentally hold on between neutral and dominants –even on blockers, there was no player known as submissive who played in NHL.
That was the one thing Yuna knew her husband feared, for their son to improve, be one of the best players until he got his mark, and that he might be forced to stop the one thing he loved to do.
Shane rose through the ranks at only the age of 5. He was spending hours at home watching every hockey game his parents could find for him, and spent hours analyzing them to his mother in perfect diction, skipping through the baby babbling phase directly.
Before they knew it, at the age of 6, their son had an internal wish to control and coordinate his own life. It started with specific clothes he would wear before, and after practice, and to kindergarten. He was also accepted to U9 level, a year earlier than usual.
It continued with the teachers’ reports on his habits, rituals and strict eating habits contrary to the other kids. Everything that he was doing, Shane did it with precision way past his age, and explained it in detail with the articulation that did not make sense for his age.
When they had arrived home one day from the doctor’s office, Shane was confused about the events of the day until he sat down with his mother.
“Mom…” He started softly. “Is there something wrong with me?”
Yuna had shook her head with a smile, and pulled him into a tight embrace.
“Nothing, nothing is wrong with you, honey. Would you like to help me prepare dinner?”
He nodded and lit up. “Okay, but I have early practice tomorrow, I will have to sleep early!”
Yuna had laughed and shook her head. “Sounds amazing, honey. I’ll take you tomorrow, don’t you worry.”
As their son got older, Yuna and David witnessed Shane develop a meticulous athlete’s diet, exercise routine and the perfect schedule for him to continue winning trophy after trophy in hockey while his high school continued as it should.
He was never bullied, he was already a local celebrity when he kept rising through the competition levels for elite players since he was 6, and finally, when he was performing highest at Junior A only six months after he got in at 16.
For a year already he had been the most talked prospect out there, along with a name from Russia.
Two weeks into the age of 17, three months before the International Prospect Cup in Saskatchewan, Shane had woken up with his entire body burning, every muscle in his body cramping in pain until his mother had sensed it, and rushed to him.
“Mom… Mom…” He immediately had plastered himself into Yuna, trembling in her arms.
“Honey… Where is it?” Yuna’s voice trembled, because it was her worst nightmare, coming through with the way her son had been nesting against her.
“My– My left rib is burning. Mom, it’s burning.” Shane groaned, burying his face in her neck, inhaling sharply which seemed to calm him down slightly.
Yuna lifted his shirt with a shaking hand and stared at his mark, and the tattoo that accompanied it.
A simple ‘What?’ in black stood on top of the mark of a submissive.
For the first time since Shane grew aware of his surroundings, he heard his mother curse. “Fuck.”
“Mom?” He looked up, covered in sweat. “Mom, what’s–”
Then, he looked down at his rib.
“No, no. No. No.” He crawled to his knees on the bed, his entire body spasming. “No!” He yelled. “Mom, get me to a doctor. Today. I’m going on blockers. I have ice in three hours, then I have to go to school, and I have high impact training at 6. I cannot.”
Yuna had cupped her son’s cheek, completely calm and stoic in his panic and anxiety.
“Mom, I have hockey!” He yelled in panic, and in pain as he groaned in pain, his muscles rebelling.
“I am going to call in sick, you are not going anywhere for the next week. We’re calling the doctor here, and– Shane, do you want to continue playing hockey?”
Shane suddenly looked fucking mad, and panicked even more as if that was possible.
“Is that a question?! I don’t care how things are supposed to be! I am not stopping. I don’t care, what the fuck I am, mom. I am not stopping. I’m going on blockers. Today. Missing the week is going to cost me, but will it be enough?”
Yuna nodded quickly. “They will kick in by next Monday, but Shane– It will be difficult. Your mark will disappear soon, so they cannot out you if you wish to claim you’re neutral, but honey, are you ready to spend your entire career in hiding and on blockers?”
Shane did not miss a single beat responding.
“Yes. Yes. Get the doctor, I get tested, I get through this horrible pain, and I go back to practice. I cannot lose hockey, mom.” He begged desperately.
Yuna was silent for a minute. Two. Three. Then finally, she sighed and nodded, grabbing her phone.
In the afternoon, after Shane’s body seemed to cool down and settle, he stared at the doctor’s face after the assessment was completed.
“...Level 10.” He repeated, just to make sure his brain wasn’t fucking him over. “A level 10, submissive.”
He glanced at the terrified look of his parents and glared at the doctor who was nodding, slowly –too slow.
It meant he would have to possibly spend the rest of his life, and hockey career swimming in neutrals and dominants who if they ever found out, would try to order him around, and take advantage.
Or try to get him to break.
And he would lose everything he had ever worked for.
“I’ll take the blockers now.” He demanded, pissed at his body and how much everyone else was making a big deal out of it.
He would hide, and he would be the greatest player in the International Prospect Cup, and get drafted into the NHL as he dreamed his entire life.
What mark he carried did not matter.
Her mother sent quiet words down to his coaches and team that he was a neutral.
The next week on Monday he was back down to the middle of the rankings after missing four days of practice so, for six days straight he was on the ice at 5 to 7am before the practice started at 8, and the following Monday, he was the first in the ranking once again.
Three months later, he played in the International Prospect Cup, representing Canada against the Russians and the annoying asshole, dickhead Ilya Rozanow who pissed Shane off like no one else had managed to before, because he was too fucking good at the game.
And an asshole, but he didn’t think he needed to add it into every other sentence.
He did it anyway.
Six months after it in June 2009, at the NHL Draft Day, Shane stood right next to Ilya, still trying to get over how pissed he was over getting picked second.
After a whole life of being the first.
Rozanov had been the first to be picked by the Boston Bears.
He was the second best, the second to be picked by the Montreal Voyageurs.
He could see the entire narrative NHL had in mind, the two best youngest players, two MVPs of their teams, being the rivals by the two rival teams.
He could not wait to show Rozanov just how much better he was than him.
He upped his dosage, his exercises, and diet.
Shane Hollander was prepared to do absolutely anything to be the best.
————
February 2011, was the first year of the rivalry, the tension growing so much so that Shane had given Ilya his hotel room number, the night of his first.
At first he had thought, the electric shocks happened all the fucking time.
Like when Rozanov had called him a good boy, when he had taken his time upon realizing it was going to be Hollander’s first.
But what he did not realize was that, that one stupid night where the two best players in the NHL allowed themselves to be stupid, inconsiderate, and aroused for one single night would hook something deep in them —hook them together.
There would be a deeper need in them, though Shane had not trusted Rozanov enough to admit what he was, from the day he had gotten on blockers, he had even convinced himself –he was a neutral, and blockers were there just in case, to ensure he gave his best each game.
A lot of players were doing it, though deep down, Shane knew, they periodically got off of them to make sure their systems were cleansed.
But not him.
What he didn’t know, neither did Ilya.
The two best players in the NHL were also the most at risk if they ever wanted to get off at the risk of having the worst, perhaps longest heat anyone would have.
But they didn’t care.
Their careers mattered.
Not what if they were.
“Shane?” He heard his mother say impatiently as he stared at Rozanov skating on the ice for a commercial, with more grace than he usually showed. He did not look professional, he looked like he was one with the ice, from head to toe. He looked like he belonged there. “Are you listening to me?”
Sighing, and half annoyed at his mother for pulling him away from him analyzing Rozanov technique, he glanced at her. “I am. I heard.”
“Okay, what did I just say?” His mother stared into his eyes, annoyed herself.
“Sneakers.” Shane huffed, glazing back at the ice.
“Shane.” His mother’s hand was suddenly on his arm, drawing his attention back to her. “You have to be seen in your Reeboks, you are the youngest athlete they ever signed a deal on–”
“I know, I get it, mom. I’m always on the ice!”
“In case you’re not.”
Shane rubbed his face, nodding as he diverted his attention for the third time to Rozanov. Maybe if he watched closely enough, he could find a weakness.
“Remember what else this means. You’re a role model, Shane.” His mother was saying. “For a lot of people who do not find themselves where you are. Hockey is a sport for dominants–”
“Okay, enough.” He cut her, staring daggers at her, pissed, and annoyed. “You do not have to keep telling me I shouldn’t be here, or that I shouldn’t belong. I am the number two rookie in the fucking world right now, I’m playing for the best team in Canada, and a new season has started. Guess what?” He stared at her eyes, exhausted from the number of times they have had that conversation.
He was good enough for the game, and nothing else mattered.
“I’m not out there, promoting myself as a neutral. I am not going to become like an icon for people to look up to. I’m keeping it quiet. I’m focusing on my game. I am very happy for the brand deals, I am lucky to get them at such a young age, and thank you for that. You have to realize, you cannot sell the narrative you want to. I will get more brands, but that will only be because I am just that good!”
Surprised and impressed, his mother raised her hands in the hair like she was surrendering.
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry.”
“Good. Now let me focus on my game.” He looked back at the ice to see Rozanov done with the shoot –he had missed his window.