Chapter Text
December 2008 - Saskatchewan
Ilya grits his teeth as he pushes his way out of a nearby side door into the cold. It’s been cold as fuck today, but the anger heating his blood acts as a buffer against the frigid wind. His mind is racing over the past few hours. He had thought that with all the work that he had put in over the years, he was the obvious pick for team captain. He was one of the best—if not the best—on the team. And yet. Alternate Captain. Alternate. For all of his work, that’s all he’s gotten. Meanwhile, the captaincy went to Shane fucking Hollander.
He slouches against the nearby brick wall, rubbing at his sore chest, and pulls out his lighter and a cigarette while he replays that particular decision in his head. Shane Hollander. You would think he’s the fucking prince of hockey with the way that people speak of the boy. Ilya thinks he’s decent, although has a weak backhand. It feels unfair.
“You’re supposed to smoke over there,” a voice breaks through his thoughts. Well, speak of the fucking Devil. “I’m surprised you smoke,” Hollander says.
Of course he is. Of course perfect True Born Canadian Prince Shane Hollander does not smoke. He probably doesn't drink either.
“Okay,” Ilya says, trying not to roll his eyes. Or spit.
“I wanted to congratulate you on the A,” the other boy says before stepping closer to offer his hand.
“Yes,” is all he says in return. He does not say congratulations back. He does put his cigarette between his lips and shakes his hand because he’s not an animal.
“You’re an awesome player to watch,” Hollander says, looking happy and...eager.
“I know,” he says. “Coach does not agree.”
Hollander scrunches his face. “What makes you say that?”
Ilya does roll his eyes this time and motions at the boy in front of him who will be his captain.
He cannot tell if the flush on Hollander's cheeks is from the cold or from Ilya's comment. Either way, it does nothing to hide the freckles that cover his cheekbones. They are striking, and Ilya kind of hates that his mind has decided to fixate on them. It makes it just a little bit harder to hate the other boy. But just a little.
“Right, yeah… But you got Alternate Captain!” Hollander reminds, as if that is supposed to be helpful. To Ilya, it only feels like salt in the wound.
“Yes,” is all Ilya responds with. Because what else is he supposed to say?
Hollander, realizing that the topic has fallen dead in the water, clears his throat and tries a different tactic. “Are… Are your parents here with you?”
“No,” Ilya responds. The answer causes a slight pang in his chest that has nothing to do with his binder and everything to do with the guilt and grief. And in the moment, he wants to call Galina and tell her the “time heals wounds” adage is bullshit, because it still fucking hurts.
“Oh, that... That must be hard right? With Christmas?”
He sniffs once and shrugs. “It is fine.”
The truth is that he had only shared one Christmas with his mama, a real one like the ones he'd seen in the movies. She had gotten a visa and had spent the whole winter with him. They had gone to look at all of the lights in the streets and walked around the shops to look at the displays. It was magic. It had been the last time he ever saw her.
He takes another drag from his cigarette as he rides out the latest wave of grief. There is one thing Ilya refuses to do and that is to cry in front of Shane Hollander. Hollander has not taken the hint that Ilya came out here to be alone and stuffs his hands in his pockets. He leans up against the wall, next to Ilya. For lack of anything better to do, Ilya looks down at him, just watching him for a moment.
“You know, next year this tournament is going to be in Ottawa. My hometown,” Hollander continues. Ilya wonders how long he's going to try to keep up the conversation. In a moment of insanity, he wonders if Hollander had come out to comfort him. But he dismisses that. Either way, he seems determined to talk to Ilya, so...perhaps he could make an effort. They are on the same team after all. For now.
Ilya nods. “Is where I live too,” he admits.
Hollander leans forward, eyes wide. “Seriously?”
He hates that habit of North Americans. The double checking. Incredulous people. Who would lie about Ottawa?
“Yes.”
“That is so cool, I thought you lived here, since... I mean I just heard there was a large Russian population in Saskatchewan but that's...probably a super rude assumption.”
Ilya lets out a small hum. He is not offended by the assumption. Had never put much thought into what other people thought about him outside of his ability to perform. That is what matters. So, to Hollander's comment, he simply shrugs and changes the topic.
“Your parents are here,” he comments.
A smile crosses Hollander's face and now Ilya's brain cannot decide whether to look at the damn freckles or the pull of those pink lips.
“For this? Yeah. They're here. They always try to come see me play wherever I go.”
“That is nice for you,” Ilya comments, feeling a slight stab of envy. Why does it feel like Hollander has everything that Ilya has wanted? It pisses him off.
Maybe Shane Hollander is not very smart. He can't be good at everything right? Maybe Ilya is smarter than him. He got into college, Shane probably didn't even apply. Ilya couldn't risk not having a back up. If he was clever he would have gotten the hint that Ilya doesn't want to talk to anyone, much less the boy who took his C. And he smiles, soft and kind and right at him. Silly western non-stop smiling.
“Hey, if you don't have anything going on, why don't you join me and my parents for dinner?”
Immediately a part of Ilya bristles at the invitation. It's angry and prickly and wants to hiss at Hollander that he does not need pity. That he can fuck off with his smiles, stolen C, and those damn fucking freckles. That they don't need to interact off the ice. Instead, he takes another drag off his smoke and considers the invitation. Tries to take the kindness at face value, like Galina would tell him. From the corner of his eye, he takes in Hollander's expression, and Ilya finds himself huffing and dropping the butt of his cigarette into the snow.
“It would be okay for your parents?” he finds himself asking. It's not a yes.
“I'm sure they would be fine with it. After all, we're on the same team, right? And getting a letter is worth celebrating. And besides, it's Christmas,” Hollander practically rambles, his look even more hopeful.
He's genuine. Of course he is. He does not need to be bitter or petty or mean, because he won. This time.
“Okay,” he finally says, wrapping his arms around himself because it's fucking cold and the ache in his chest is becoming obnoxious, “if they say yes.”
“Great.” Shane nods and moves away from the wall. He fully faces Ilya again, which gives him a better view of the smile and the freckles and hopeful dark eyes. “I'll go inside and ask them. They've been waiting for me. I'll be right back,” he promises.
“...Okay,” Ilya responds. He watches, anxiety pounding in his chest, as Shane slips inside.
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His dad is the first to spot him and raises his hand to greet him. “So how was he?”
He tucks his hands into his pockets and gnaws at his lip. “Fine. Yeah, um. He's from Ottawa!”
That makes his mom perk up. “Really?”
“Yeah. Oh, I... I asked him to come to dinner with us. His parents aren't here and I mean he should get to celebrate the A right? I don't think he's really gotten to know anyone on the team.”
“You know, Shane? That is a lovely idea,” his mom compliments, giving a slight nod. “It would be a good opportunity to get to know your fellow captain and really build a solid team dynamic.”
“And he could be a good friend,” his father adds, trying to balance out his mom's fixation on hockey, “He's more than welcome to join. Have someone else to celebrate with other than just us.” He offers a smile.
“Why don't you go back and grab him, we'll meet you both at the car,” his mom says, reaching out to squeeze Shane's arm.
He smiles, his nerves about the request dimming. He does as his mom instructed and steps out, finding Rozanov working on a second cigarette. It's bad for him but the guy obviously knows that. He decides not to mention it again. Today. He's leaning against the wall, still, his eyes focused on nothing in particular. He looks...angry. Maybe.
“Hey, are you ready? We can meet my parents in the car out front.”
Rozanov almost seems to jolt. He looks over at Shane, the light catching his hazel eyes in a way that makes the green stand out. It looks like he processes what Shane says and gives a slight nod. He disposes of his second cigarette and pushes off from the wall. One hand stays in his pocket, but he uses the other to gesture to Shane to go ahead. Shane nods and starts leading him toward the front of the center. During games and practices, Rozanov chirps. A lot. But now he’s quiet, and Shane wonders if that is because of the potential anger. Or maybe Rozanov is different on the ice than off. He isn’t certain.
“So, what kind of food do you like?” Shane asks. He earns another shrug from Rozanov.
“Am not picky,” he responds. Which…is an answer. Though it doesn’t exactly answer the question he asked.
He wracked his brain for what to say or ask next. Small talk tends to be torture on the best of days, but usually the other person is really good at it and Shane can just follow their lead. All he knows about Ilya is that he’s good at hockey, he’s Russian-born, and he's here on his own.
Thankfully, Shane is saved by the fact it is not a far walk to the car. As they approach, he sees his parents smile.
“Mom, Dad, this is Ilya Rozanov,” he introduces. Though, maybe that’s a little unnecessary. They already know who he is.
“Hello,” Rozanov says, holding up a hand. Shane wonders if Rozanov feels as awkward as Shane does.
“Hello,” his mom responds kindly with a smile. “It’s nice to meet you officially, Ilya. I’m Yuna, and this is David. We’re glad that you agreed to join us for dinner. Congratulations on your A.”
“Thank you,” he says, with a small tight smile and a nod that looks like he's ducking his head. It's strange because Shane thought he was angry about not getting the C and now he looks shy about the A. He makes sure not to frown in his confusion.
“Are you alright in the backseat, Ilya? There should be plenty of leg room.”
“Is fine,” he says before clearing his throat. “Thank you for inviting me.”
“Of course,” his mom continues. “It’s always nice to have one of Shane’s teammates join us. And it’s a matter worth celebrating.”
The thing is…Shane does not remember the last time he and his parents had one of his teammates join them for dinner. Outside of big team dinners, Shane doesn’t think he’s ever had a singular teammate join in on a meal that was supposed to be him and his parents.
“So, Shane tells us that you’re also from Ottawa. How long have you lived there?” his dad asks.
“Since I was teenager,” Ilya answers.
“Did you billet?”
Ilya does an interesting wiggle with his head. “Sort of. I mostly lived with my coaches until I had passport and then I billet. Was complicated. Did not want to...make complicated for host family.”
Shane’s parents seem to take this into consideration, both of them nodding. He can see the way that his mom’s brows furrow in slight concern, but she doesn’t say anything. Yet. Though he does know that eventually she’ll likely try to get to the bottom of what was “complicated.”
“Are you looking forward to the tournament?” Shane’s mom asks instead.
“Yes,” Rozanov responds, firmly. “I am hoping it goes well.”
Shane has to agree. The tournament is their chance to show off to the NHL coaches and influence their potential draft pick. Shane is pretty sure he’ll be picked. And after playing with Rozanov, he’s fairly certain that Rozanov will be chosen too.
“You’ll be playing against Russia this week,” his dad points out. “Is that going to be awkward for you?”
“No,” he says simply, leaving an awkward silence which he seems put upon to correct when he adds, “I will win; will be fine.”
His dad chuckles softly. “That's a healthy amount of confidence, Rozanov.”
Rozanov seems to pause for a moment. It’s brief, but it’s almost like he’s lost about how to respond. His lips pursed just slightly and with a note of hesitance gives a slight nod.
“I’m fairly confident between you and Shane that Canada will win this tournament. You two seem to play well off each other on the ice,” his mom comments.
“Hollander is focused player, aware of his team all the time. He will be good captain,” he says, not sweet in tone but not begrudgingly either. He just says it simply, plainly, like it's true.
It’s enough to fluster Shane, and he can feel his cheeks warm slightly. Especially since he hadn't expected Rozanov to say anything like that with how upset he had seemed. And maybe it's because Shane's parents are there, but he didn't have to say anything, right? His eyes meet Rozanov's for a moment across the backseat, the taller boy seeming to be watching him. And Shane feels his face heat just a little more. He plays it off as embarrassment from the attention.
“And you're a great center,” Shane responds in turn. “And you always seem to be able to be right where someone needs you. I don’t think we would have made as many goals as we have without your skills.”
Rozanov makes a humming sound and leans back lightly in his seat. Thankfully, the restaurant is just a few minutes away. They take their seats and Shane thinks, the way his brain does sometimes, that he likes how this feels—filling the whole table.
A waitress comes by to get their drink orders. His mom and dad order wine. Shane asks for his usual ginger ale. When it comes to Ilya, he asks for a Coke. And Shane does remember that he has frequently seen his teammate frequently drinking from a can of the sugary soda after practices.
“So, Rozanov,” his mom prompts after a moment. “Do you have any plans for Christmas?”
“Ah...no. Just the tournament. Christmas...Christmas is not big deal in Russia,” Rozanov answers. There is a small polite smile on his face. But Shane notes how Rozanov's fingers almost pick at the edges of the menu. Like he's nervous or uncomfortable.
His dad seems interested in that. “Is that so?”
“Mmm, is normal day. Some people go to church,” he says with a shrug, “and is in January so.” He shrugs again and waves his hand lightly, a dismissive gesture.
“That's very interesting,” his dad acknowledges. “Are there bigger winter holidays for you?”
“New Year’s is...big. New Year's is more like Russian Christmas,” Ilya answers.
“Are you going back to Russia at that time to celebrate with your family?” Shane asks, curious.
“...No. No one to celebrate with,” Rozanov says, a little quiet. He takes a sip of his Coke, as if he wants to avoid saying more.
Shane knows his face must be red and shocked so he also looks away from Rozanov but only for a moment. He sees the look in his mom's face, sad first and then determined. He knows this determination on his mom's face very well.
“You'll spend New Year's with us,” she says. “We're all in Ottawa for the break, aren't we?”
Rozanov has completely sat up on his chair. He is blinking at Shane’s mom. Slowly there is a shake of his head. “I couldn’t—”
“I insist. It would be no trouble at all. What do you think, Shane?” his mom prompts. Shane feels those hazel eyes heavy on him. Waiting.
“Yeah, that's—it's a good idea,” Shane agrees with a smile. “We normally just watch the fireworks, but it's fun. Do you do other things? Or did you when you were, um, home?”
Ilya takes another drink of his Coke and then he shrugs. “There are some things similar to your Christmas. A decorated tree and exchange of gifts. There is a toast with champagne and we…we write our wish for New Year’s and burn the paper. And…and we watch traditional holiday movies. There is also lots of food.”
Shane nods. “That sounds really cool actually.”
“Well that makes me more excited about New Year's,” his dad says. “I tend to just get sad about stuff and cry at the fireworks.”
His mom smiles and takes his hands. “You do get sentimental on New Year's. I think this will be a happy change of pace.”
Then she turns her smile to Rozanov. “Whereabouts Ottawa do you stay?”
“I live in Centretown, but closer to Sandy Hill,” Rozanov answers.
“That’s perfect. I actually don’t think that is very far from where we are,” his mom responds.
The waitress returns and takes their orders. Shane takes the opportunity to study Rozanov’s face. He looks...dizzy. Overwhelmed. The restaurant is fairly quiet though, so maybe it's the lighting in here.
As it usually happens, the conversation returns to lighter topics. A lot of it is about hockey, which Rozanov seems to be more open to talking about, once he seems to recover from the onslaught of Hollander questioning. Shane finds himself watching his teammate half the time, almost cataloguing his reactions and expressions. Eventually dinner arrives and things settle into a quiet that is oddly comfortable.
“You know some of the newsletters have been murmuring about the two of you as prospects,” his mother comments as she takes a drink. “Everyone thinks both of you will be high up in the draft if you both make it.”
Rozanov nods. “One and two probably.”
Like most of the things he's said about hockey so far, it is both cocky and matter-of-fact.
His mom grins. “You think so? Which will be which?”
When Rozanov smiles this time, it's different, like a half smile—maybe a smirk?
“I think it will be rude to say and I will not be rude at your table, Mrs. Hollander,” he says, “even if is restaurant.”
Shane narrows his eyes at Rozanov’s insinuation. Is he suggesting that he will be first? It would be in line with his cocky attitude, and…well, Rozanov is his match when it comes to hockey. But still, Shane cannot help but feel a swell of competition sweep through him. Rozanov seems to notice Shane’s stare.
That half smile is there and he inexplicably winks at Shane. “Do not worry, Captain. I am certain many coaches are hoping to draft you.”
“Well, aren’t you the charmer?” Shane’s mom smiles. She looks amused and looks at her husband. “You know a dose of competition could be good.”
Shane feels heat on the back of his neck. He's not embarrassed exactly but he feels a surge of determination. Rozanov is so sure under that cocky smirk that he's better than Shane. He thinks he deserved to be made captain and he thinks he's going to be picked first overall. Shane will just have to prove him wrong. When the check comes, Rozanov makes a move for his wallet, which is polite but also unexpected.
His dad tilts his head with an amused expression and shakes his head. “Once you two are making NHL money you can pick up the check,” he says.
All hints of the cocky side of Rozanov disappear once again. He blinks at Shane’s dad. His hands slowly move away from where his wallet would be, though they stay hovering close. Like he’s expecting Shane’s dad to—what? Change his mind? Make Rozanov pay for his share?
“I… Thank you, sir.” He gives a small tight nod. His eyes then dart over to Shane’s mom. “Thank you, Mrs. Hollander.”
Shane can't help but smile. He's like Shane and his friends when he was in elementary school. They used to race to thank the parents who had invited them out and then preen about being the most polite. Rozanov is an asshole while chirping on ice but maybe he isn't one overall.
When dinner is done, they bundle back up into the cold and make their way back to the hotel.
“I’ll see you at practice and the game tomorrow?” Shane prompts.
He gets a grin and a nod from Rozanov. “We will… How is it said? ‘Kick their ass’?”
Shane grins. Despite how the evening started, he thinks he likes Rozanov. A lot. “Yeah, we're going to kick their ass. See you in the morning, Roz.”
“Good night, Hollander.” Rozanov gives a final nod and disappears into his hotel room.
Shane makes his way back to his own hotel room, a suite he’s sharing with his parents. His mom seems to have swept herself up into researching something. His dad is reading the book that he had brought with him.
“I'm going to get right to bed,” he tells them. “Goodnight.”
They both look up and smile.
“Get your rest sweetheart,” his mom says. “You'll need your energy to win.”
“Goodnight, kiddo.”
The following day brings practice and another game, which Canada wins. They keep winning. Shane thinks some of these wins can be attributed to how he and Rozanov play off each other. Because Rozanov is a good center. If he’s not making a goal, he’s there for the assist. And vice versa. To Shane, it’s like he finally has a player on the team who isn’t just keeping up, but is actually reading his mind.
As December comes to a close, they finally face off against Russia. It is a difficult game, especially since the Russian team seems to play dirty. It is during the second period of the game where Shane starts to realize that they particularly seem to be targeting Rozanov.
“Roz,” he says, skating close. “You alright?”
Rozanov looks incredibly pissed off, and he isn't particularly sensitive to chirping. “Fine,” he dismisses.
Shane watches carefully as they continue and he can tell the other team is closing in on him in particular. They don't exactly have enforcers on the team but he motions for a few more of the guys to keep an eye on the situation.
When they’re both at the bench for a moment, he takes the opportunity to lean in. “They're playing dirty.”
“They know they will lose,” Rozanov mutters back. “They decide to blame me. Traitor.”
Shane frowns. “Because you’re playing for Canada rather than Russia.”
“Mm.” Rozanov nods as he takes a drink from his water bottle. “To them, I should have stayed in Russia and brought them glory. Playing for their biggest national competitor? Is unforgivable.”
“Well, that’s stupid,” Shane says lowly. “Maybe they should just get better at playing hockey.”
This earns him a surprised laugh from Rozanov. The sound to Shane feels a little bit like a win.
“You are right. Either way, we will win.”
He doesn't usually—never has before—but he turns and taps his helmet to Rozanov's. It’s an easy, automatic gesture of camaraderie. “Yeah, we will. And we're going to be really fucking nice about it too. You know why? Cause we're Canadian.”
That makes Rozanov laugh, which makes Shane's heart squeeze. Then they're back on the ice.
They do win. Despite the targeted attacks and the dirty playing, Canada wins the final tournament. Shane, like all the previous games, attributes a lot of this to having good teamwork with Rozanov.
Things are tense as they line up for the handshakes. The Russian team is angry. And it seems that they are not done with their negativity toward Rozanov. At least one of them sneers something in Russian to Rozanov, who Shane can feel tense behind him.
“…Good game,” is all Ilya responds with.
He's a little surprised that he isn't giving it back to them in Russian, almost like he's ignoring the language altogether. Once they're back in the dressing room and celebrating, Rozanov's mood is back to the usual cocky and fun. Not for the first time he notices that Rozanov is very private for someone who is so extraverted. He never chats while he's changing, always facing away from the rest of the guys. Then, when he's changed and comfortable, he's back to ribbing everyone and planning parties.
“Hey Roz, are you still interested in New Year’s?” Shane asks when he finally gets a moment to talk to his alternate captain.
“I do not want to disappoint your mother,” Rozanov says with a grin. But, maybe because Shane has spent some time with him lately, he picks up that the expression is more shy than the others he’s shared.
Shane nods. “She has been doing a lot of research and planning. Even my dad got looped into it. Mostly the cooking parts. He likes trying new recipes.”
“Your father is cooking?”
He nods. “Yeah he's really good. I can't promise the food will be authentic but they're trying.”
“What is this word?”
“Authentic? Oh, like, um... Like the real thing. They're going off recipes on the internet.”
Rozanov looks vaguely uncomfortable, shy all over again. “This is not necessary—”
“Yeah,” Shane cuts him off, “but they want to. I'm looking forward to it too.”
That look is back. And the best word that Shane has found for this particular look that Rozanov gets whenever it comes to interactions like this, especially when it involves Shane’s parents, is lost. It’s almost like he doesn’t know what to do with genuine interest or care or positive regard. Shane supposes a lot of that has to do with being an orphan.
“…Did they find The Irony of Fate?” Rozanov finally asks. And the question is so quiet and soft. Like the laugh, it feels like something has been won.
“Yes, actually. Found it in a video store here,” Shane answers. “The owner rambled about it for about 30 minutes. She seemed really excited that we’d be watching it.”
“Is...classic,” he says, his face still soft. “Maybe you will like it.”
Shane smiles at him before the team starts tugging at them to join them in going to celebrate.
Rozanov is back to his usual bombastic self during team celebrations. When Shane says no to another drink, the Russian blows a raspberry at him, but then plunks a glass of ginger ale in front of him later.
“For Captain Responsible,” Rozanov teases.
“I honestly just don't like it,” he says, accepting the ginger ale.
“I know.” He winks playfully. “One day we will find you favorite drink and you will dance on table.”
“This is my favorite drink,” Shane argues, gesturing to the ginger ale.
Rozanov grins. “Favorite alcoholic drink. Ginger ale will not make you dance on table.”
“I don't know, Roz, maybe the perfect can of Canada Dry might do the trick,” he jokes.
“This is commercial,” Rozanov says, shaking his head. “Yuna write this for you.”
Shane laughs and shakes his head. “Nope, that’s all me.”
“Ugh, you are so boring.” Rozanov rolls his eyes. But there is a hint of a smile along his lips and a glint to his eyes that speaks more to something kinder. “Fine, I will ply you with ginger ale and expect you on the tabletop.”
Shane shoves at him lightly and then Rozanov turns his attention back to the rest of their teammates. Eventually, after plenty of socializing and merry-making, Shane decides to excuse himself. He's almost to the elevators when Rozanov calls after him.
He turns back and finds the Russian looking flushed, drunk obviously, and pointing back to the hotel bar with both arms. “You did not dance!”
“Rain check,” he huffs as he calls for the elevator. “Maybe.”
“What? I have to wait for rain?” Rozanov asks, and if Shane didn’t know better he would think the other boy is pouting.
“No, it just means that I might do it later,” Shane answers. The elevator dings, announcing its arrival. “Have a good night, Rozanov.”
“Good night, Hollander,” Rozanov responds, “I’ll see you on the 31st.”
Rozanov calls something out in Russian but the doors close and he knows that the other guy is drunk and that Shane himself is...tired and over excited from the win. He decides to just go to bed.
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December 2008 - Ottawa
Ilya shows up to the Hollander household on December 31st. He double checks the address that he had gotten from Yuna before they had left Regina. This is it. He does his best to balance the gifts he’s brought for each of the Hollanders—a perfume for Yuna, luxury chocolates for both her and David, and a book and an NHL-branded thermos for Hollander. Illya spent all morning wrapping them. Nervous, he knocks on the door and waits.
He's done things much, much more frightening than visiting a nice family for a holiday, but his heart is pounding in his chest. Not too long after he knocks he hears steps approaching and then the door opens to a warm bright inside. Mrs. Hollander is there smiling as if she is happy to see him.
“You're here! Come in, come in, the boys are in the kitchen. Can I take some of that off your hands?”
“No, no… I am… It is okay,” he says.
“We can put them under the tree,” Mrs. Hollander suggests. She gestures to the tree that is in their living room. It is obviously decorated for Christmas, but seeing it does bring some warmth to Ilya. He dutifully sets them down, noticing other presents. Then he returns his attention to Mrs. Hollander, who leads him into the kitchen.
“He’s here!” she announces.
Mr. Hollander turns with a bright smile. “There he is!”
“Hey, Roz,” Hollander says from beside him and—God. Seeing him makes Ilya’s stomach flip. It makes him nearly dizzy, Hollander’s smile, his freckles. The way his eyes always show his feelings like billboards. Hollander is happy to see him.
“Hello, Hollander,” he responds with a nod of his own, accompanied by a smile Ilya wishes was more charming or confident. Toward the elder man in the room, Ilya says, “Hello, Mr. Hollander.”
“We are currently trying to mix one of the salads. The Olivier one,” Mr. Hollander answers.
“Would you like help?” Ilya offers.
“If you promise not to be offended by our very Canadian attempt at your food,” he says. “I promise our heart is in the right place.”
“Looks amazing,” he says as he steps forward to help. It's been so long that he has no interest or need to compare meals. More importantly, the idea that this whole family has made New Year's about him, that they'd let him in and make him a guest of honor, is more than he has any English words for.
They maneuver around the kitchen, making a variety of salads and desserts. Mr. Hollander seems to be attempting blinis. It is half cooking, half socializing. It is the most that Ilya has felt a sense of something like home in a long time. He has to remind himself that he’s still just a guest at the end of the day.
“When should we pop in the movies?” Hollander asks.
“At any time. Back in Russia, television plays all classic movies during day,” Ilya answers. “And it stays on through supper.”
“It's really like Christmas then.” Shane smiles. “I was reading about it. It's cool right? I mean we all just want to have special food and watch feel-good movies with our families when it's cold. The actual holiday is, like, whatever.”
Ilya gives a nod and a smile. “I suppose that is true.”
He doesn’t know what to do with all of this, with how much it warms him that Shane was reading about Russian cultures and holidays.
“We will watch fireworks tonight?”
“Yeah, we figured we’d, like, combine traditions,” Shane says with a nod. “If you’re okay with that.”
Ilya copies his nod. “Yes. I'm okay with...everything. Thank you.”
He almost jumps when he feels a small hand on his arm. Mrs. Hollander says, “We're happy to have you. Come, help me set the table.”
Ilya follows her and her instructions to set their table for four. It looks like it seats six and he wonders if they do this often, take in players who are alone for the holidays. That makes sense. The Hollanders are kind and they meet lots of boys far from home. He nods to himself—this is normal for them.
Supper draws closer and Mr. Hollander and Shane start bringing in the dishes that have been made. And it is even more than what Ilya expected. Seeing it all laid out, his throat tightens just a little.
“I… Mrs. Hollander, where is the washroom? I would like to wash up before supper,” he says. Mrs. Hollander directs him and he slips into the bathroom, just as he loses his fight against the tears.
He knows if he doesn't let it out it'll be worse and uncontrollable later, so he just tries to stay quiet as he sits against the floor and cries. He has not seen a New Year's table laid out since he was so little. His home was never as warm as the Hollanders’ but Mama always tried so hard to make the day happy, to make sure Papa didn't shout. She deserved so many more New Year’s days and much happier ones too. He gets up and turns on the faucet, splashing water against his cheeks as he tries to make his face look normal again.
A couple cooling splashes to his face, some deep breaths, and finally he feels mostly back to normal. He thinks he looks okay and not like he had a near emotional breakdown over New Year’s celebrations in the bathroom. He makes his way back out and joins the Hollanders at the dining room table.
“It all looks good,” he compliments.
It turns out that it tastes amazing too. He really doesn't remember what it's supposed to taste like, so he tells them how much he enjoys it and they should not worry about him comparing it. After they finish eating, he and Shane are clearing the table while his parents set up the movies.
“I'm really glad the food turned out okay,” Shane says quietly.
“You were worried it would turn out bad?” Ilya asks.
“Well, they’re new recipes for us. And I… I’d feel bad if we messed up one of your traditional dishes,” Shane says. It is sweet.
“Hollander. The effort is worth more than the taste. It could be far off from traditional and I would still appreciate it,” he says.
Shane's cheeks are pink and Ilya won't think about that too much for his own sanity. From the other room, Mrs. Hollander tells them to hurry up and they do. On the couch she is reclined with her husband, a blanket draped over them. There are two more blankets on the couch.
“Get cozy,” she says. “I've been curious about how much the video rental girl wanted us to watch this.”
Ilya takes a seat on the coach, grabbing one of the blankets. Shane takes the seat between Ilya and his parents, curling up with the other. There are snacks on the coffee table. Both of the sweet and salty variety. Ilya grabs one of the cookies and settles in. The Irony of Fate starts playing, and Ilya is hit with the usual nostalgia of it. His lips pull into the smile it always causes and he has to keep himself from speaking along with the movie, lines so deeply ingrained in his memory. The English dub throws him off slightly, but it is still the same in all the ways that count. Though, he does find a new point of enjoyment with this rewatch: the Hollanders’ reactions. Particularly Shane’s.
He realizes he's never seen this with someone who hasn't seen it before because there was no one in Russia who had never seen it before. It was like they played it for the entire population as infants and no one really remembered watching it for the first time. But the Hollanders are watching it with brand new eyes and he finds that at some point he's watching them more than the movie itself.
They seem to be enjoying it. Laughing at the same parts that everyone finds funny. Mrs. Hollander does seem touched at the romance that blooms between Zhenya and Nadya.
“I don’t think it’s very safe that the locks are the same,” Shane mutters at some point.
“…You think they cared about safety?” Ilya raises a brow. “You saw the cartoon.”
Yuna laughs and adjusts herself in her husband's arms. Ilya turns to Shane and finds him looking at his parents with a smile. He swallows back another surge of melancholy. This is nice and happy and the years ahead will be hard. He should not taint a memory like this with his sadness.
He returns his focus back onto the movie. Like all romance and comedies, it has a happy ending.
“Now I see what the fuss was about,” Mrs. Hollander says. She turns her attention to Ilya. “Thank you for bringing this movie to our attention.”
Mr. Hollander checks his watch. “Jeez, it's only 8:30?”
“You're such an old man,” Mrs. Hollander laughs. “We'll watch another movie. Ilya, have you seen When Harry Met Sally?”
He shakes his head. Sure he's seen that one part everyone knows and he's heard it mentioned, but he's never seen it.
“Well then, you'll get some of our classics as well. But why don't we give you your gifts first?”
Ilya blinks. He thinks he will be constantly surprised by the Hollanders for as long as he will know them. Yes, he had heard of their research. But he did not expect that they would buy him gifts.
“I… Yes, we can do gift exchange,” Ilya agrees. They migrate over to where the presents sit under the tree. David pulls out presents, handing two over to Ilya. One from Yuna and David. The other from Shane. The others, the gifts Ilya brought, are given to their respective recipients.
“You really did not—”
“Have to,” the three Hollanders say as if practiced.
Shane laughs and shakes his head. “We know. We wanted to, I promise. This is fun.”
Ilya nods his head and motions for Mrs. Hollander to open hers.
She smiles and opens the small box. Ilya can clearly see the surprise that crosses her expression when she sees what it is. Reaching in carefully, she pulls out the small bottle of perfume. When Ilya had smelled it at the store, he thought it matched Mrs. Hollander. Graceful and respectable and a little bold.
She touches a hand to her chest and then reaches forward to hug Ilya. He freezes but she doesn't notice because it is so quick, so natural to her.
“Oh, this is so lovely,” she coos. “It has an actual little puff like in old films. Thank you so much, Ilya.”
Mr. Hollander is impressed with his gift as well, saying he hasn't had these particular chocolates in years. Shane goes next and actually hugs the gifted thermos to his chest.
“It's like a good luck charm,” he says, rubbing his thumb lightly over the NHL logo.
Ilya smiles and tilts his head in acknowledgment. That is exactly what he was hoping to get across with this gift for Shane. Luck in his upcoming career, because he knows that Shane has a future with the NHL.
“Now, open your gifts,” Shane tells him. “This one is mine. I wrapped it this afternoon.”
Ilya takes the gift in hand. The wrapping is neat and pretty.
“I must say, I appreciate the excuse to wait on wrapping until the day of,” Mr. Hollander mentions. Ilya nearly stops his unwrapping when he realizes that the Hollanders had not only made the evening resemble a Russian New Year's for him. They had gone ahead and done everything they found out about even when he was not there to see it, including wrapping gifts on the day. When he finally opens the gift he finds a black and grey scarf with the NHL logo embroidered on it.
“We had the same idea,” Shane grins, holding up his thermos.
“Thank you,” he says, but it comes out almost whispered as he pulls the scarf out and hangs it over his neck.
Shane’s grin seems to grow even more. Ilya cannot look away. It’s like that first actual conversation outside practice. He plays with the fabric between his fingers, finding it soft. He thinks it will keep him warm no matter where he goes.
“I’m glad you like it,” Shane says, quietly. Ilya then reaches over and takes the present from Mr. and Mrs. Hollander into his lap. It is rather large and he pulls the wrapping from it. He has to take a deep breath to keep himself from crying (once again) when he sees it. It’s a black duffle bag, solidly made. One that he has seen other professional hockey players carry. What fills him with that achy emotion is that it is embroidered with his name.
“Open it up,” Mr. Hollander suggests. Confused but curious, Ilya unzips the top zipper. Instead of finding the paper and cardboard that usually helps a bag keep its shape, there are…snacks. All of the snacks that he had grown up with. Candies that his mama would sometimes pull from her pockets, a sweet treat for him after a good practice.
“Спасибо” he says, because he is too overwhelmed for English at this moment.
Mrs. Hollander reaches out and rubs her hand over his arm as if trying to warm him up or comfort him. Fuck. Fuck, he's crying—he can feel it on his cheek and she's going to see it.
“Thank you so much,” he says, pretending to rifle through the snacks even though his sight is blurry.
“David, Shane, why don’t you go try to find a good bottle of champagne,” he hears Mrs. Hollander suggest to the other men.
“What?” Shane starts to argue. “But—”
“Two pairs of eyes are better than one, kiddo,” Mr. Hollander’s voice intones. Ilya hears their footsteps and even though he doesn’t see it, he knows that it is just him and Mrs. Hollander in the room now.
“It's okay,” she says softly. “Hey, it's okay.” He shakes his head in protest, but she whispers, “Yes, it is. You're far from home and you don't have your parents. I know what that's like. I had them for a long time but not long enough. Now there's a country far from here that has a piece of them and a piece of me but this is my home. It's hard, Ilya, and it is okay for it to be hard.”
He feels childish. He wants nothing more than his mama. His kind and beautiful but sad mama. Part of him wants to turn and hug Mrs. Hollander, who is also as kind and as warm as she had once been. But she is Shane’s mother. She is not Ilya’s to turn to and seek comfort from, even if she seems to be genuinely offering it.
“You never go back?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing there for me.” He can see her nod in his periphery. Her hand is a steady pressure on his arm. He slaps at his face and takes a frustratingly shaky breath. “I am sorry.”
“Come,” she says, standing. “I'll show you to Shane's room where you can put your gifts and take a minute to yourself. The boys and I will make more popcorn and get the next movie ready.”
He looks up at her with his stupid watery eyes, confused. She tilts her head and looks at him with some sass.
“You don't seriously think I'm sending you back to your hotel after midnight. You'll stay with Shane and we'll drive you back to your hotel after you have a long morning and a ridiculously huge breakfast. Come on.”
It is enough to break the dam. He gives into the urge and leans in with what could be considered as a half hug. “Thank you,” he quietly says.
“Anytime,” she whispers back to him. They get up and Mrs. Hollander leads him to Shane’s room.
“I’ll give you a few minutes,” she tells him and closes the door behind her. He sets the bag and the scarf onto the floor and takes a seat on the edge of the bed. He takes in Shane’s room and he is amused to find that it is very Shane. It’s filled with anything a hockey fan and player would want. It’s very neat and organized as well.
There are a lot of books on hockey, as if Shane were trying to get a degree in the sport rather than a spot in a team. There are no clothes laying around or nonsense on the dresser. In fact the only thing on there aside from some cologne and two watches is a picture of him and his family. He looks about 5 years old and adorable, swimming in his overly large hockey gear, his mother and father on either side. Ilya takes a few breaths and thankfully the room has an en suite so he can wash his face and get a hold of himself again. God—he is embarrassing himself thoroughly. If Shane wanted to ruin his reputation as a cocky jerk on the ice he absolutely could.
Though, he thinks after a moment, he does not think the other boy would do that. Shane is…well, he is kind. Yes, he does chirp from time to time, and does rib some of his teammates. He just doesn’t seem to get caught up in the gossip and drama that some of the other players have.
Ilya takes another steadying deep breath and steps out of Shane’s bedroom. Returning to the living room, he finds the Hollanders have resettled on the couch. Mentally, he does note that Shane seems to sit up a little more when Ilya returns, his eyes practically taking stock of him. In return, Ilya saunters over, sits down and steals some popcorn from his bowl.
“Do you want me to make you a bowl?”
He leans into the couch and reaches into Shane's bowl again, eyes on his. “Nope.”
Shane frowns at him and gestures to the bigger bowl of popcorn on the table. “There is plenty enough for you to have your own bowl,” he points out.
Ilya grins. “Yes, but yours is right here.” He reaches for another handful.
Shane swipes it away, holding it out on the opposite side. “Get your own, Roz,” Shane chastises him.
“Will not be the same, this has Annoyed-Hollander Sprinkles,” he says with a grin. Shane huffs and serves a second bowl before shoving it at Ilya, and Ilya sighs dramatically as he accepts it. “Fine.”
He scoops some M&Ms and sprinkles them on the popcorn. Hollader blinks at him in abject horror.
“What.”
“Nothing.” Shane blinks. “Just...nothing.”
“You're so boring, Hollander,” he chuckles, grabbing a handful of his popcorn and chocolate mix.
The next movie, as Mrs. Hollander has suggested, is When Harry Met Sally. He finds that he immediately disagrees with Harry’s stance. He has had experience of just being friends with someone and the sex part not getting in the way. It reminds him that he will need to text Svetlana sometime tonight to wish her a happy New Year. However, he does find himself enjoying the unfolding of Harry and Sally’s friendship, and then romance. A quiet part of him hopes that eventually he does find something like that. Something that grows naturally from just…spending time together and getting to know a person. But for now, he is just open for fun times.
The movie has a running theme of years passing and New Year's and at the end it makes perfect sense why it's a favorite at this time of year. When it ends it is much closer to midnight, much to Mr. Hollander's relief.
“Well let's get our coats, the best view of the fireworks will be at the park,” he says as he gets up.
“Sometimes we see them from the yard but it's just glimpses,” Mrs. Hollander says as she folds up her blanket and lays it back down on the couch. Ilya notices it is just the same as Shane has done and he follows suit.
“Is the park far away?”
Shane shakes his head and grabs the champagne. “We walk.”
Ilya nods, grabbing his coat and follows the Hollanders out into the cold. He notes some people are already out, setting up on their lawns to watch the fireworks. It is not a far walk and the Hollanders claim one of the picnic benches, setting out four glasses. David reaches into his coat pocket, pulling out a notepad and some pens.
“I remember you saying that you tend to write down your wish and burn it.”
“I… Yes, that is true,” Ilya confirms.
“Is drinking the ashes with the champagne necessary?” Shane asks, which makes Ilya laugh and shake his head.
They all write down their wishes. Ilya hesitates. Almost every year he had something he was afraid of, something out of his hands, that he asked God for on this night. But now, when the future is in the hands of his skills he finds that he isn't sure what to ask for. The Hollanders are seated around him, scribbling on their own pages, Mr. Hollander already working with a lighter. Some others around them have music playing, lively and excited, people hug and mill about. More of this, he decides, even if it is greedy and selfish. Please God, he writes, let me have more of this moment.
He folds up the paper and pulls out his own lighter. Midnight approaches closer until Ilya hears people start to count down. The Hollanders around him join in. Finally when it gets to about one, Ilya burns his wish and then drinks his champagne as around him he hears people cheer about the New Year. The first pop of fireworks go off, and as he finishes his drink. He takes in the sight. But it's only for a moment until he feels eyes on him. His eyes meet with Shane's who gives him a wide, warm smile.
“Happy New Year, Rozanov!”
“Happy New Year, Hollander,” he replies with a smile.
Then, just as his mother had done, Shane surprises him with a hug, quick and hard. Then he turns to his mother and father and kisses each of them on the cheek, congratulating them and leaving Ilya stunned.
Both Mr. and Mrs. Hollander also congratulate Ilya, Mrs. Hollander even patting Ilya's hand. They stay and watch the fireworks. Well, Ilya finds himself torn between the fireworks and how the lights dance across Shane's face. Eventually, the colorful explosions come to an end and the Hollanders announce it is time to return to their home.
“We're heading to bed, boys,” Mrs. Hollander says as they take off their coats. “See you two in the morning.”
They wish both of them goodnight and then for the first time all evening he and Shane are completely alone.
“That was nice, yeah?”
Ilya nods. “Yes, it was. This has all been... Thank you, Hollander. I know that you wanted to, but...it means a lot that you wanted to do this for me. So thank you. I won't forget this.”
“Of course,” Shane says with a smile. “It was fun. And...I'm glad that you decided to share it with us. Maybe we can even do it again next year, since we have one more year of World Junior Hockey?” he suggests.
Ilya brings his hand up to clench the cross he wears under his shirt and gives a silent thank you to whoever heard his wish. “...I...yes. That would be nice. If… If your mother and father are still okay with it.”
“Honestly, I think this is the most fun they've had with New Years in a while,” Shane says. There is a long stretch of silence before Shane asks, “What are you going to do, now that championships are over?”
“I have plans to visit Toronto. Friends who live there. And then...train? Practice? Prepare for the draft, definitely.” Ilya shrugs.
“Same,” he answers, though Ilya doubts that their ideas of fun are the same.
He clears his throat. “I... Your mother said I should stay.”
“Yeah, I mean obviously,” Shane says, smiling. “It's late and New Year's day. We usually sleep in late, have a big breakfast, spend the day reading; we go on a lunch walk and say hi to the neighbors.”
“Should we...”
“We could watch something else? I thought, um—some of the movies we rented are subtitled instead of dubbed. Do you want to watch something in Russian?”
The surprises keep hitting Ilya. He should have suspected this, given his growing...whatever it is happening with Shane. Still, it is another touching accommodation that one of the Hollanders have made since this acquaintance began.
“Yes. I would like that. The dubbing, it is...not bad, but it does not capture the emotion so well.”
Shane nods. “Yeah, I've... I've read something written in French translated to English and it’s fine. It's just—hard right? Emotion. Words. I don't know.”
Ilya nods. “Yes.”
“I hope it isn't...too much? All of this. I know it can be, we can be... I just hope we didn't make things awkward for you,” Shane says as he walks back to the TV room and moves over the blankets.
There is no use in denying it. Ilya tilts his head and settles down into the couch. “It was...not awkward. Just...a lot. It has...been a long time since I got to experience anything remotely close to what I would have at home. I enjoyed myself but it brought certain emotions that were also...hard.”
“So...kind of like nostalgia?” Shane asks.
“I am not familiar with this word, 'nostalgia,'“ Ilya tells him.
“It's… It's something that's both happy and sad? It's the way we describe something that we remember that was in the past or doesn't exist anymore, especially something that brought us happiness. It's also a type of homesickness,” Shane describes. Ilya decides it is a good word, even if he is unsure if it accurately describes what he is feeling.
But instead of getting too deep into it, he simply nods and says, “Even if I got...overwhelmed, it was good, Hollander.”
Shane nods and sits, patting the space next to him. If Ilya sits only slightly closer than he had been before he doesn't allow himself to think about it. They decide to watch The Irony of Fate again, this time with subtitles. It feels like a warm drink hearing the movie in Russian and Shane comments quietly and close to his ear that the acting comes across much better this way. Ilya turns to agree with him and finds him so very close that he can see the pattern of his freckles as if they were shining.
“Yes,” he says—or he thinks he says, he isn't sure.
It feels like an eternity as he and Shane hold eyes. Then a musical cue in the movie breaks the tension and Shane clears his throat, returning his attention to the TV. And suddenly for the first time ever in his life, Ilya isn't sure whether to be grateful or to greatly dislike the movie.
He isn't sure when but at some point he is waking up which means at some point he has fallen asleep. The sun is drifting in through the window, still white and cold and not bright enough for anything except waking him. He breathes and stretches and finds his heart stops when he realizes that Shane has fallen asleep right on top of him on this couch.
He does not know what to do with this. Yes, he has had some experience in being physically close with both boys and girls. But never in such a...casually intimate way. He has never fallen asleep next to someone, outside maybe Svetlana and those were sleepovers where they each had their own sleeping bag. And of course, the first thing his brain decides to fixate on is Shane's damn freckles and how the shadows of his eyelashes play against them. He needs to move. Now. Very, very carefully, he does his best to get out from under Shane and perhaps move to the other side of the massive couch.
Shane, however much shorter than he may be, is still a fully built hockey player who is dead asleep and it is not easy at all. Eventually Ilya manages it and slips off to the nearest bathroom to get ahold of himself for the third time in this impossible house.
Covering his face with his hands, he sits down on the toilet and mentally berates himself. He cannot do this for a number of reasons. It's not safe for one and there is no indication that Shane would even be remotely interested in guys, let alone him. They're just...friends. Or even just teammates. After about 10 minutes of collecting his body's reaction and getting his brain under control, he makes his way back out to the living room. Shane is still fast asleep, so Ilya goes to the other side of the couch and turns the TV on quietly, reading the closed captioning to get context for what is happening. At some point, he must fall back asleep, because he is woken by the sound of footsteps. He opens his eyes to find Mr. Hollander making his way into the kitchen. Likely to start making breakfast or maybe just wake himself up with a pot of coffee.
He pulls the blanket closer up around him, deciding to just pretend to be asleep until people start talking. Eventually, Mr. Hollander and Shane are whispering in the kitchen so he gets up and heads over there.
“Morning, Roz,” Shane greets with a big smile, “were you alright on the couch? I guess we just passed out.”
“Was fine,” he says. “Coffee?”
“Just about ready,” Mr. Hollander says. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” Ilya echoes back. He takes a seat at one of the counter stools and waits. As promised, the coffee is ready soon and Mr. Hollander pours him a mug.
“Anything you want in your coffee?” “Sugar. And milk please,” Ilya asks.
When Mrs. Hollander joins them a half hour later, they have the promised enormous breakfast—pancakes and fruits and yogurts and juice and much more coffee. Ilya isn't sure how long is too long, if he should thank them for the thousandth time and leave. But he wants to stay as long as possible so he doesn't say anything when they tell him to put on his coat and come on the first walk of the year with them.
They return to the park where they watched the fireworks just a few hours ago. Ilya thinks that it is a beautiful park and enjoys the walk. While it is cold, it wasn't freezing like Saskatchewan. He notes they are not the only ones already at the park this morning. His attention is particularly stolen for a moment by watching someone play with their dog in the big patch of open field.
The Hollanders wish their neighbors a happy new year and introduce Ilya as Shane's friend. By the end of it they stop at a shop for coffee and Ilya finally suggests that maybe he should go.
“We'll give you a ride back to your hotel,” Mr Hollander says. “Save you the cab.”
“It's—” He stops himself as the three of them give him that identical amused look. Instead of arguing, he takes a deep breath and gives a nod. “Thank you. I would...appreciate that.”
“You're welcome.” Mrs. Hollander gives him a smile.
They make their way back to the Hollander's home and climb into their SUV, which Hollander tells him is good in the snow. It is not a long drive back to where Ilya has been staying. Just as he goes to unbuckle, Shane stops him for a moment. “I was thinking, since we're friends...we should have each other's numbers, right?”
Ilya has to stamp down the slight flutter that happens in his chest. He would blame it on discomfort from his binder usually, but he had instead decided to wear a massively oversized sweater to the Hollanders and so had gone without. “I… Yes. That is...good idea. Give me your phone, I will program number in.”
Shane sends him a “hi :)” as soon as he hands his phone back and Ilya saves his number as well.
“It was so wonderful sharing new year's with you,” Mrs. Hollander says. “You're welcome back any time.”
“I… Thank you, Mrs. Hollander,” Ilya says.
“Please, call me Yuna,” she instructs.
“And you can call me David,” Mr. Hollander adds.
“Okay,” is all he can say to that, because once again he is getting overwhelmed by that warm feeling that the Hollanders seem very capable of eliciting in him.
“Have a good rest of your holiday. Goodbye,” he wishes and then jumps out of the car, jogging up the stairs of the three-story motel and making his way to his current 'apartment' for now.
On the other side of the door, still clutching a duffle bag he can't afford emblazoned with his name and a scarf that's the softest thing he now owns he lets himself collapse. This is dangerous. It's so tempting. It's everything he has ever wanted presented to him, maybe just to remind him that he hasn't earned it yet. Someday, maybe. But not yet. First he has to be the best at something. Then maybe. Maybe.
◈◆◈◆◈◆◈◆◈◆◈◆◈◆◈
June 2009 - Los Angeles
Shane has to blink away the flash of the camera light as another round of bulbs go off around them. One of the photographers asks him to get closer to Ilya. Their arms brush against each other and they are now practically pressed against one another. There’s another player on Ilya's side, a defenseman named Sullivan, who had been drafted third by Phoenix. Ilya had been drafted first. Just as he had insinuated all those months ago.
Shane is happy for his friend. He is. Ilya deserves for his talent to be recognized. It's just… It doesn’t feel good to come in second place. Especially when Shane is used to always coming first in hockey. Of being the best. Being the captain. Still, to be drafted second overall isn’t awful. Ilya had been just as congratulatory over the phone when Shane’s name had been announced so early, even if his smile was just on the side of smug that made Shane want to smack his friend. And Shane will get to play for the Montreal Metros, which had been his wish.
He knows he’s so lucky, but he still can’t shake the anger at himself—the frustrating nagging feeling that he could have done more and been better. Even after the congratulations and the hugs from his parents and that smile Ilya had given him when he'd shaken his hand, he still can't sleep, vibrating with how upset he is with himself. So he heads down to the hotel gym and tries to get rid of it by riding the stationary bike as if he's trying to win the Tour de France.
He gets so lost in his exercise that at first he doesn’t notice when someone else joins him in the gym. It’s only when he basically feels someone takes the bike next to him that he looks up. It’s Ilya, who gives him a raised eyebrow and a smile before turning his attention back to the bike. Shane wonders why Ilya is down here so late. Or…well, so early. Ilya had seemed on top of the world today. He can’t imagine that the other boy had been struggling with sleep. Then again, based on the history of their texting, Ilya’s sleep schedule is usually all over the place.
Maybe he’s working off excitement in the same way that Shane is working off disappointment, but when Shane looks up and sees his reflection he finds that Ilya is staring right at him. He can't read his face at all, has no idea what his expression means, but he feels his stomach tighten and the back of his neck warm up. At some point he finds that they're obviously racing, which is ridiculous on stationary bikes in a hotel gym, but he's not going to quit first.
Ilya’s lips pull up into an amused smile as he starts adding tension to the bike. Something sparks in Shane’s head and he turns up the tension a little higher as well. More and more is added in response to one another. And Shane’s legs are burning. Eventually it’s too much and he needs to stop. He takes his feet off the pedals, panting. Practically drenched in sweat.
Ilya seems to stop almost at the same time and he won't stop looking at Shane; he finds himself slumping on the floor across from him, by the mirror. Their feet are nearly touching and Shane, seemingly possessed, taps the tip of his sneaker against the tip of Rozanov's.
“Congrats again,” he pants out, because now he's just so tired and spent that he can't feel the frustration anymore.
“Thank you,” Ilya hums, leaning his head back against the wall but keeping his eyes pinned on Shane. “Montreal hmm? I know your mama is proud.”
Shane breathes deep and nods. “She is. They both are.”
“Are you proud, Hollander?”
He closes his eyes for a moment and finds that his body's exhaustion has quieted the nagging in his mind. He nods and opens his eyes again. “Yeah.”
“Good,” Ilya says with a smile, half up half down, before leaning forward and offering his water bottle.
“I'm okay,” Shane breathes out. Ilya raises an eyebrow and shakes the bottle again. So Shane takes it.
As he takes the bottle from Ilya, he feels the tips of their fingers touch just briefly. It sends the same odd thrill through him, the same weird impulse that had made him tap his foot against Ilya’s. Shaking himself mentally, Shane quickly squirts some water in his mouth. Ilya continues to watch him. There is an odd tension in the air. It reminds Shane of that night of New Year’s Eve. He and Ilya just looked at each other for a moment as the movie played in the background. It’s this odd buzz and it seems to be pushing Shane into doing…something, even if he doesn’t know what that is. Instead, he passes the water bottle back to Ilya. This time, Ilya’s fingers seem to brush against Shane’s wrist on purpose. It’s just a brief touch, just like the last one. But it also feels like it goes on forever.
Ilya takes his own drink but he won't take his eyes off Shane, as if he's trying to make sure Shane isn't going anywhere. Which he isn't. He doesn't want to be anywhere else at the moment. In fact, if he followed the path his mind laid out for him, he wanted to move across the room and lean close to Ilya the way they had on the couch at New Year's — he wonders how his heartbeat sounds now and if it's the same rhythm it had been when Shane had woken up on his chest in the middle of the night. Maybe the same but sped up, like a song on fast forward.
He’s overwhelmed at this moment. He feels hot in a way that has nothing to do with the exercise they just did. A part of him thinks that he should be freaking out, half-hard as he sits across from his friend. Wanting something that he doesn’t think he should want. And he’s freaked out that he’s not. It becomes so much that Shane makes himself stand up.
“Iiiiii…should probably get some sleep,” he announces. His voice sounds loud even to his ears.
Ilya's face dances between surprise and something else before it settles into a flatness that Shane doesn't like. He wants to take it back but he needs to get away.
“I'll see you? Yeah. Congrats again, Roz,” he says, as he walks out of the gym. He thinks he might be about to faint by the time he gets back to his room and looks at the door with the deadbolt even though he knows his parents are very much asleep.
He practically stumbles his way into the shower. As he steps into the hot spray, and with a great amount of shame, he takes himself in hand. A gasp escapes his lips. Maybe he should be thinking about one of his ex-girlfriends, or any girl. But no, instead he finds himself jerking himself off to the thought of his friend. Images of red, wet lips pulled into a warm smirk or a smile. His dark stubble. And God, these hazel eyes that just seem to be able to see all of Shane.
He comes so hard he forgets where he is, much less to feel any guilt about the clear image of Ilya's splayed legs across the gym floor when he lost it. When he stumbles into the perfectly made hotel bed wearing his towel and his embarrassment, he takes a moment to feel grateful that he at least broke up with Jessica before he came to this mortifying moment in his life. He closes his eyes and tells himself that they'll both leave this place in the morning and have no reason to cross paths again for ages, until it's time to prep for World Junior's again. But, he thinks, he'll know. He'll know how tonight felt like electricity was buzzing between them downstairs, he'll know that Ilya is in Ottawa only a short drive away at any time during the year. And he'll know, for the rest of his life, that he spent the night of his NHL draft into the Montreal Metro's thinking about him.
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December 2009 - Ottawa
Shane thinks whoever said time makes things easier is a liar. Since draft night, things have gotten worse. First: he found himself noticing men. Just…random men at the airport, the cafe, or the grocery store. Actors as well. However, his brain always came back to Ilya. Curls damp, hazel eyes regarding him, the brush of fingertips against his wrist. He doesn’t think it helps that during the hiatus, he had been texting with Ilya on and off. By the time the World Championships had rolled around and they were back on the ice together, Shane felt like a live wire. For example, he’s here at this hotel to celebrate New Year’s with his teammates. And his attention keeps coming back to Ilya. Ilya who is currently perched on the edge of a couch, ribbing their goalie about something or other, a grin so wide that it makes him practically glow.
Shane feels both distracted by the sight of him and annoyed that Ilya is grinning at the goalie which is deranged, if he's honest. He also can't stop thinking about last year and how soft and comfortable and different Ilya had been. Here amongst the team he is loud and hilarious and a total asshole that everyone hates to like. Shane isn't sure if the Ilya he met last year is still in there or if the first pick of the NHL draft had worn away at him. He doesn't really think so, Ilya was kind of a dick before New Year's at his house too. It's like a coat, he figures, or maybe more like padding.
“You alright Captain?” He turns to find Jackson, his right winger looking at him a little concerned, “I don't think Rozy's too drunk or anything if that's what you're worried about.”
“No, no…it’s not that,” Shane shakes his head. In fact, maybe because he’s been too obsessive, he knows that Ilya has maybe only had half a glass of champagne—the one he’s holding now—and the rest has been some form of cola.
“I’m fine. Just…a lot on my mind, you know? Championships and everything.”
“Well, tonight is the chance to unwind from all of that. We’ve been killing it this season,” Jackson says. Which he isn’t wrong about. But the comment makes Shane think of why they’ve been doing so well and then he starts thinking about Ilya again. So, Shane gives Jackson a smile.
“You’re right. I’m…I think I’m going to get another drink. Maybe get some air to clear my head. I’ll be back,” he says.
He's over by the drinks table contemplating if getting drunk would actually help when he hears the voice he can't stop hearing in his head when he tries to go to sleep every night.
“If you pour ginger ale in champagne glass, everyone will think you are cool and not boring, Hollander,” Ilya says, standing right fucking behind him.
“Hilarious,” he mutters, “having a good time?”
“Always,” Ilya says, coming around to lean back against the drinks table and look him up and down like he's looking for something.
“What,” he finally says.
“You are so tense, Hollander, is party,” he says, eyes still on him while he takes a drink of his very real champagne.
“It's... loud,” he shrugs. It's true, anyway, he hates the volume of parties. It's so much different from the roar of the crowds when he's on the ice. Here there is nothing to concentrate on, just noise.
“Is about to get very very loud,” Ilya mock whispers, pointing at the clock. Fuck, he's right, it's just a few minutes to midnight. On the bright side, no one is going to notice if he slips away once the screaming starts.
“Right,” he says instead, “I think I'm going to go out and look at the fireworks then.”
Ilya frowns, “Is no firework show at hotel.”
“I know, but there must be somewhere in town, I'll go up to the roof terrace,” he says.
“Okay,” the other man nods, turning to pour himself more champagne before filling a second glass and turning back to him.
“What,” he says again, probably sounding like a total moron. Ilya raises his eyebrows in that are you stupid expression of his, “Let's go. I go with you, we go look for fireworks.”
“Don’t you want to stay with the party?” Shane asks.
Ilya gives what looks like a casual shrug. But something in Shane tells him that there is nothing casual about it at all.
“Party is getting kind of boring,” he waves his hand. Then he digs something out of his pocket. It’s a small piece of paper.
“Besides, I do not think hotel would be happy if I burn this in here. So, we are going now?”
Shane doesn’t particularly know how to feel about this. It’s like there’s a tornado of butterflies that have taken up residence in his chest. But he finds himself nodding and they manage to slip out of the room. They make their way to the elevators, taking a quiet ride up to the rooftop terrace. Which is blissfully and terrifyingly empty.
He holds on to his glass of champagne like it's the only thing that makes sense.
“I have extra, if you want,” Ilya says casually, pulling out a hotel notepad and pen which he probably grabbed from beside his bed.
“Yeah,” he nods, because he thinks he'd agree to absolutely anything if it meant not having to think a single thought. Then, of course, presented with a white piece of paper meant for a wish and the presence of the man who has been haunting him a few inches away, thinking becomes important again. At first he thinks, maybe if I wish for it to it'll go away, the feelings the dreams the fucking...want. But then he feels cold, colder than the December night and he thinks no, no he doesn't want it to go away. Instead he wishes for a good rookie season. It's a solid wish, a real one, and he can say much more important than asking for whatever his body does around Ilya or thoughts of Ilya to just disappear.
He writes down the wish and folds it up. By this point, Ilya has found a glass, likely from the rooftop bar. He’s not entirely certain, nor does he think he can find it in himself to care. Because out here on the terrace, he can immediately tell that something in Ilya has shifted. That padding, the gregariousness that he’d seen inside has more or less fallen away. He looks more quiet and thoughtful, like he had a year ago in Shane’s childhood home. Ilya pulls out his lighter, setting flame to his wish. He gestures for Shane to hold his out and touches the flames on his paper to Shane’s. They both allow them to fall into the glass, the paper being consumed and turning into ash.
“Do not worry, I will not make you drink these ones either,” Ilya teases, and the tone is soft and quiet.
“Good,” he says quietly, but his eyes are kind of stuck on the way the ashes of both wishes mingled into one little pile at the bottom of the glass.
“You look worried, Hollander,” he says with that ridiculously smooth voice of his.
“Worried? No just... tired,” he says with a half smile, “boring, I know.”
This earns him a small smile and a laugh.
“Yes, well, that is because you are good boy,” Ilya jokes. And Shane knows it’s supposed to be a joke, but something in him reacts to the words ‘good boy’ as they are directed toward him. “Eat all your fruits and veggies, exercise every day, go to bed at responsible time—”
Several things happen in quick succession and the first is that fireworks go off much closer than Shane expected them and in every direction. The next is that Shane throws back his champagne as if there was a fire in his throat that needed putting out. And last but most importantly is that he drops the glass and grabs Ilya's face, kissing him like maybe his lips are on fire too.
Ilya makes a noise that almost sounds like surprise. Shane begins to move back. To apologize, to tell Ilya to forget about it. However, just as he’s about to break the kiss, Ilya’s hands come up to Shane’s face and keep him there. Ilya kisses back with about just as much hunger as Shane had felt. And with that fire being met, Shane continues to reciprocate. He doesn’t know how long it lasts. Seconds, minutes, hours? It doesn’t matter. In this moment, it is only him and Ilya and that deep devouring want. Fireworks go off around them and Shane has the stray thought that this is how they should have started 2009, back on that couch.
Ilya's hand is on his lower back somehow, strong and warm and holding him as he pushes Shane against a wall. His lips start to travel, first to the edge of his lips and then lower to the edge of his jaw and down to his throat where Shane cannot stop the high gutted whine that he makes.
Ilya mutters something against Shane’s skin in Russian and continues to press kisses to Shane’s neck. And it’s good, it’s so warm and— A thought strikes him.
“Wait, wait, wait,” he stutters out. The kisses on his neck stop. Ilya straightens just a little to look at Shane. His lips are red and wet from the kiss, his brow furrowed.
“What?” He asks.
“Don't... they...” he shakes his muffled head and motions at his neck, “everyone is downstairs.”
Ilya's pretty lips frown, “You think I would mark you.” Shane swallows and nods because yes — even though, God ,that sounds so hot — it would also be disastrous. Ilya's eyes jump around his face. His hand comes up slowly and Shane freezes. He feels Ilya's fingers push back some of the hair near his face.
“I would not do this,” he says somberly. Shane feels like he means more than a hickey but he cannot parse what.
“I'm sorry,” he says quietly in the crowded warm space between them.
Ilya pins him down with just his eyes, “You are sorry you kiss me or you are sorry you stop me?”
Shane doesn’t know how to answer that. Both, maybe? Instead he answers, “I just…I don’t want to ruin things you know?”
“Ruin things?” Ilya asks.
“You know! Our…our friendship. Our dynamic! I’m your Captain for God’s sake. I shouldn’t even be,” he gestures between himself and Ilya.
“…Oh,” Ilya says, as if he has come to understand. And suddenly that warmth is being filled with the cold of January air, as Ilya steps back. He is looking down at his feet for a moment, hands that had been on Shane, now firmly in his pockets. Then suddenly he’s looking up and Shane is on the end of a kind of smile that Ilya directs at everyone else on the team.
“Do not worry. Maybe was just champagne talking, yes?”
“Roz —”
“Our secret,” he says, still smiling but not at all with his eyes, “I promise, Hollander, you are safe.”
“I... Roz I'm not —”
He nods, maybe a little too fast, “Yes I know. My boring little Captain, should have brought your ginger ale. Let's go back to party - yes? Team will be missing us.”
Shane wants to say something, but he has no idea what. His heart is in his throat and he feels like he is losing hold of something he doesn't understand the shape of. He reaches out before Rozanov can turn completely and walk away from him.
“Are we okay?”
He nods once, “We will kick Russia's ass and have legendary rookie year. We are okay.”
Shane wants to tell him that isn't what he meant, to ask if they're still friends or if he's ruined things between them forever. But it's too big, too much, and Ilya is being so generous already. So he nods back.
“Okay.” Ilya walks away, not to the elevators but to the staircase. It's seven flights of stairs down to where the team is gathered. Shane doesn't follow him, he heads towards the elevators and tries to blame the champagne.