Rating:

Not Rated

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories:

Gen, M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Irina Rozanova

Additional Tags:

Stanley Cup Magic, Inspired by Heated Rivalry (TV), Talking To Dead People, Alternate Universe, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-22 Completed: 2026-03-02 Words: 10,810 Chapters: 8/8

Deeper Than The Marrow Of My Bones

Summary

Ilya knows the superstitions about the Stanley Cup.

Knows not to touch it till he's WON it, knows how many teeth its chipped, how the keeper will only wear white gloves, and he knows that everyone who wins it, touches it, hoists it over their heads... swears it's like magic.

But Ilya knows the truth. Its not like magic. 
It is.

Notes

Chapter 1

Ilya knows the superstitions about the Stanley Cup.

Knows not to touch it till he's WON it, knows how many teeth its chipped, how the keeper will only wear white gloves, and he knows that everyone who wins it, touches it, hoists it over their heads... swears it's like magic.

But Ilya knows the truth. Its not like magic. 
It is.

--

The playoffs are brutal, he's hurting everywhere. His ribs are bruised, his jaw hurts, he's lost another tooth. But he feels it in his bones, deep down - the marrow inside is skittering, something like joy but a little too painful. Like giving up everything you want for something you need. 
And he wants. 

God, he wants and aches, can't help but reach over his head into the cubby above and check his phone. There are texts, of course. He's about to win the Cup, and everyone knows it. His brother, a few other Russian friends - Sasha even, although Ilya knows he doesn't care about the game. His father has sent him another reminder that he's too soft, too Americanised: he will win this cup for his team but not Gold for his Country? Shameful. 
Women, too. He doesn't give his number out to anyone, but his Instagram is public and twitter is... twitter. 
He scrolls down his messages, leaving all of them unread. Further down than he wants, he sees it. Jane. 
No new messages. The last one had been three months ago. After Sochi. 

Jane: See you when you get back?

Its the kind of opening he spent two years desperate to cultivate. He'd all but begged for any scrap of attention for years - so many years of skittering electricity in the marrow of his bones at the mere thought of a text so primed for a longer conversation. Before Sochi he would have leaped on that question - so desperate to see me? thinking of me already? Anything to keep the replies coming. 

He would never have admitted to spending hours before sending a text to make sure it holds just enough arrogance, just enough ego. Not too much, because too much gets the wrong reply - whatever - or worse - nothing at all. 
He'd mastered the art of working around a fuck you, shut up, you wish. Those were lies, fired off quick and retaliatory, parried with the right emoji or (if he needed to pull out the 'big guns') a purposely miss typed word. Because he knew how to spell - his phone had a fucking auto text option, for Christ sake - but Shane Hollander could never resist the urge to correct him. And Ilya knew he could keep the laughably one-sided conversation going if he played a little dumb. 

But Sochi was a mess and he'd fucked it up again and his father was right - he was too weak, he'd gotten too soft. He needed to be the type of man he should be. 
The type of man who wins gold medals and lifts silver cups. 
That type of man didn't re-read texts from months ago and think... please? please just wish me luck. Please just see how hard I've worked for this, how I've played hurt and bloody and tired. Please just... please?

But thats not the type of man who lifts silver cups. That is the thinking of a weak man. 

--
Ilya is crying, a little, when he hoists the cup over his head. 
"For you, mama!" He shouts. 
For a moment, just a moment, the cup burns in his hands - but that's just adrenaline. 

--

He's really fucking drunk. The booze was flowing freely and the party was nowhere near ending. But he was drunk, and the feeling in his bones hadn't stopped. He stumbled out of the club, hailed a cab and called it a night. His team would think he'd picked up one of the various hot-as-fuck women who had been vying for his cup winning dick all night. He probably should have, he thought, as he failed to insert the keycard into his hotel room door. Thats the type of man he needed to be. 

Mr Party Animal. Mr Sex Machine. Mr One Night Stand. 

He finally managed to get the little light to change from red to green and opened the door with a little 'woop' of a celly. 
Adrenaline was a drug - a hell of a drug, it seemed. Because as he stumbled into his hotel room, someone was there. 

--

She was beautiful. Her skin was pale under the overhead lighting of the room, picking up on the strands of pure gold in her riotous curls. She was standing at the foot of his bed, blue eyes fixed on his face. 
His knees hit the carpet. 
"Mama?" He slurred, sounding more like a 5 year old than the man he was.
She winced at the sound of his knees hitting the floor, rushing over to him. "Careful, my darling!" She scolded, reaching out to steady him, "You'll feel that in the morning." 
Her hands were... warm. real. Slender fingers traced over his eyebrows, easing away the frown. 
"Mama?"
She smiled. "Of course, Ilyushka. Come on. Up we get, you're going to ruin your knees if you keep this up." Her voice was... was... 
Time and memories are not friends. Time softens some and hardens others. When he thought of his mama, he remembered her like this: 

--

She is standing at the bottom of the stairs, and she looks like a painting. Her hair flows over her shoulder in a perfect wave, slightly covering one eye like a moviestar from an old poster. Her make-up is simple but well applied, her lip colour matches her red dress. He has never seen a woman look so beautiful. Her voice is soft and gentle, coaxing even, with a lilt that hints at some shared secret. People are standing around her, listening to her words because she is - always - the center of attention at these events. How could she not be? Ilya has never seen a woman so perfect, so poised. He and Alexi are sitting at the top of the stairs, watching her. Alexi was supposed to be keeping him and Sveta tucked away in a back room filled with old toys that they were too old to play with, but he'd caved when Sveta told him that she could sneak him some booze if they could just take one look at the party downstairs. Their father was standing beside her, and the gold medals on his chest matched the threads of her hair. He looked proud, smug. This is how Ilya remembers her. 

But that is not his mama. His mama had wild curls that bounced when she laughed, curls that took a long time to brush smooth - she didn't do that when her husband was gone. She wore old overalls and house slippers that looked like monster feet. She laughed like a donkey when she really laughed, loud and braying and not ladylike at all. Her soft voice was only for papa. Because papa didn't like the loud one, and when he didn't like something he made sure you knew. She never wore makeup at home unless papa was there. In the morning she would lose her temper if Alexi and Ilya didn't hurry up and get dressed for school. When she was angry her ears turned red and she would hiss like a teapot. If they misbehaved she would use their full names and grab one of their ears. She bit her nails. There were shadows under her blue eyes that never seemed to fade no matter how often she slept, and she slept a lot - sometimes not leaving her bed for days - and with papa gone, it was up to Alexi to feed them. That was how she really was. 
But time softens the darker parts. Sometimes spreading it further, darkness seeping into every recess, or in some cases - smoothing them out completely. Sanitising. 

--

His mama was helping him to his feet, and she was wearing jeans that were too high on her waist, and a knitted sweater tucked into the band. Her curls were bouncing around like a dolls, and she had a pair of his fathers thick work socks on her feet. She wasn't... how he remembered, he realised. She was how she... was. 
"Mama?"
"Stop it, Ilya. You sound like a parrot. Mama, mama, mama." She pulled him up, and glared at him. "You smell like sweat and cigarettes. Go shower, right now." Her voice was a little raspy, how had he forgotten that? 
He tried to say something that stuck in his throat and she frowned. "Ilyushka, go shower. I will order food. You need something in your stomach. Starch." She walked over to the desk and looked at the forgotten room service menu. "All stupid American food." She grumbled, looking it over, before lifting her eyes back to him. "Why are you standing there? Go, shower. I will be here when you get out." She made a shoo-ing motion with her hand and Ilya... 

Well, he'd obviously lost his mind, so he did what he was told. 

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

Ilya stood in the bathroom of his hotel room and wiped the condensation from the mirror. He could feel the alcohol leaving his system in slow, sluggish increments. 
Jesus Christ - he needed to stop drinking. 

The man in the mirror looked back at him, pale - a bruise over his ribs that had once been several smaller hits and now merged into one purple and green mass. Shadows under his blue eyes. He'd towelled his skin roughly, trying to get the feeling back after his... his... mental breakdown. Because that's what it was. 
He'd snapped. Too much drinking, too much pushing. Pushing his body to its limits. Pushing his heart down so deep that it didn't break. Pushing his luck and his temper. Pushing to be the man that everyone expected him to be. 

He let the droplets of water fall from his hair and run down his ruined body. Odd to think that this is what the pinnacle of his sport looked like under the padding. Under the bravado. Bruised and skin too tight over muscle - he'd lost weight throughout the playoffs, unable to eat enough to compensate for the gruelling pace of games. 
He'd read somewhere that the body can start breaking down vital proteins if it was under enough stress. He wondered if his brain was a protein. If winning the Cup had pushed him to a limit where, in order to cope, he had started to cannibalise his own brain. 

And now he was seeing things. 

Would he walk back into the empty hotel room and see... what? His father, younger and thinner, angrier and more violent? Maybe Alexi, begging for money with a sneer, holding his daughter as a threat over his baby brother. Maybe Shane, looking at him like he had when Ilya told him the only lie he could think of to make him leave - they weren't anything. Looking at him with eyes that filled with tears at the slightest provocation. Never quite spilling over the lash line but threatening, always threatening. 
Maybe he'd walk into the empty room, and see... nothing at all. And that scared him more. 

There was a knock at the hotel room door, loud enough to make him jump. Droplets that had been hanging onto the tips of his hair falling all at once, like a tiny shower of cold rain on his overheated skin. The sound of the door opening, voices - accented English. 

He pulled the tracksuit pants on over his damp skin, and opened the bathroom door. 

His mama was there. Really there, talking to the porter. Telling him to leave the tray of food on the desk in her raspy, but ever so softly accented English. 
"Ilya - give the man a tip, I don't have my purse." She said, waving a hand at the porter. "Sorry, he's not normally this rude." She noted, when he didn't make a movement to do as she'd asked. Her smile was gentle, tone light as air. 
The man blushed, stammered something about it not being necessary, but she waved him off. "Oh darling," she smiled. "You'll have been on your poor feet all night and have been so kind to bring up this food for us. Of course you need a tip!" Her blue eyes slid to Ilya, where he was still rooted in the bathroom doorway, staring at the scene in front of him. "Where is your wallet, Ilyushka?"

He pointed to the floor. He'd dropped it when he'd stumbled in. Dropped it when he'd dropped to his knees at the sight of her there. He couldn't trust his voice. Wasn't sure if he opened his mouth all that would come out would be a sob, a scream, a fucking wail of pain and anguish and hurt and loss. His mama was there, talking to a porter, in his hotel room.

Ghosts didn't order room service. They didn't praise porters or give them a gentle tap on the hand in thank you. They didn't pick up his wallet and take out a crisp bill, pressing it into the palm of hotel workers. Ghosts didn't wave off comments about 'too much' or 'thank you, thank you so much'. Didn't close the door behind uniformed men who looked a little shell-shocked at being given a hundred dollar bill as a tip by a beautiful woman with gold hair and moles that looked like they'd been added by a painter, perfectly placed.

"Put a shirt on, Ilya." His mama told him, shaking her head as she walked back into the main part of the room, toward the desk. "Standing around with wet hair and no shirt. You'll catch your death." 

Ilya burst into movement. One moment he was in the bathroom doorway and the next he was wrapping his arms around her body, engulfing her slender frame. She was warm in his arms. He'd been so much smaller the last time he had held her. So much smaller. 

The sound that ripped from his throat wasn't human. A wheeze, a sob - a mangled gasp for air and a stuttered moan. She stiffened for a moment, brief. He'd forgotten she didn't like to be rushed. Forgotten that sudden movements made her flinch - because his father was a bastard on a good day. He dropped his arms immediately. "Sorry, mama." He said, instinctively. "Sorry."

She patted his arm. "Shirt on, please. I don't like to see you hurt." 

Ah, of course. His bruises. He'd had bruises as a child too - she didn't like to see those either. Hide them away, under long sleeves. Hide them, don't mention them. Ignore the hurts and push through the pain. If you can't see the marks, you forget they are even there. You can stand in the middle of a group of people, all of them wrapped up in your beauty and lipstick that matches your dress and they'll never know that there is the shape of a fist on your stomach. 

His bag was open on the bed. He'd left it there after pulling out his clubbing clothes. There was a black shirt in there. The one he slept in when he didn't have to share a room. On someone else it had been a little oversized. On someone else it had fit like a free shirt thrown in as a fun treat, not quire sure of the right size. Black with gold lettering. His teams colours. He pulled it on. The crown logo was a little faded. He'd washed it too often. Slept in it too often. It smelt like the rest of his clothes, now. It hadn't, before. 

She smiled. "Much better." Clapping her hands together decisively, she pulled the cover from the tray of food left by the porter. "Now you eat. Sit." 
He folded himself into the desk chair, not risking taking his eyes off her. Worried if he blinked she'd vanish - his brain devouring itself.

"I... mama?" He couldn't find words. Not in Russian, not in English. He wasn't sure if the words he needed to explain his confusion existed. 

"Yes, Ilyushka. Eat up. Eat and we'll talk." Her voice rasped. She smoked, he remembered. Smoked too much - sometimes there would be a heavy layer of grey hanging in the air of her bedroom. The first cigarette he'd put to his lips had been hers. A half empty packet that she'd never finish. She'd never finish because - 

"You died." He managed. His voice was strange to his ears. Quiet but too loud. He was worried he'd be too loud and the bubble that she must exist in would pop and she'd vanish from his life once again. 
"Yes." She nodded. "Eat. Eat and we talk." 
His fingers fumbled the fork, thick and slow. He was still drunk - that was it. He was still drunk and his brain was eating itself in a bid to protect his body from the stress he'd put it through in the last month and a half. 

Steak, french fries, chimichurri on the side. A pitcher of cranberry juice. He started to eat. 
His mama sat on the bed, watching him chew. "You push yourself too hard, Ilyushka. When was the last time you sat down?"
He blinked, mouth full of crispy potatoes. "Sat down?" 
"Yes. Took time to sit, to rest?"
His brain swirled. He was having a nervous breakdown in a hotel room, seeing the ghost of his dead mother, and his brain wanted to... tell him to sit down? "Why... ask this?"
"I want to know how you are."
"I won the cup. I am the best I have ever been." The lie burns his tongue. He took a sip of the juice to smooth out the feeling. 
She rolled her eyes. "You think I can't see you hurting? You think your mama is somehow blind?"
"I think my mama is dead." He spits. His anger is like a match, a flare of rage and then nothing but blackness, burnt fingers. Pain. 
He doesn't know what he expected her to do. Her laugh shocks him. "Obviously." She said, once she'd stopped. "Very much so. But here now. For you."
"Why?"
"Because you asked." She shrugged. "You asked at the right time. In the right way. And now I am here." She brushes her hand over the bedspread. "I see you hurting." 
He cant help the glare. "You see me hurting on the best day of my life." 
"Oh this is the best day of your life?" She mocks. "The best day of your life is stumbling here alone, drunk, to an empty room? To sleep in clothes that dont belong to you? Hm?"

He glances down, the black shirt, gold crown. The single word mocking him, with its faded text. 

Rolex. 

He picks up his fork. Picks up the knife. Eats. Maybe if he eats his brain won't chew on the parts he actually needs. 

Chapter End Notes

Thank you for the comments - yeah, 10 years later I dip my toes in a fandom that I'd have given my whole soul for back then.

What's changed? I embraced my Ace-ness, found out I've got that 'tism, and the ADHD, wrapped my arms around gender and let it go (they/them now!) Got a new job, survived the pandemic, lost my mum and inherited a couple new cats (5 now!)

Once again, thanks for the comments. I'm glad some of you remembered me!! I was very shocked that anyone did. The ego boost was epic.

Love ya!
74days aka Robyn

Chapter 3

His mama watched him chew. She had a fingernail in-between her teeth - how had he forgotten she bit her nails? 

He didn't know what to say, how to start a conversation with someone who had died almost a decade before. Wasn't sure if he wanted to talk to her at all. 

Surely talking to ghosts was a bad idea. Indulging in the delusions of a drunken stupor was dumb. This wasn't his mother. His mother had died, he'd been alive without her for almost the same time he'd been alive with her. 12 years old. He'd been 12 when he found her. It was strange, how time flexed around that memory. Some days it felt like yesterday. Some days it felt like a lifetime ago. 

"You look tired." She told him.

It sounded like the kind of thing a brain would throw up in its dying breath: sit, eat, rest. He shrugged, cutting another neat square of steak. It was actually pretty tasty, considering it was 2am and room service. Not the best he'd ever eaten but not bad. "I've been busy." 

Her eyes hardened, the blue turning flinty. "Oh yes, so very busy. Ruining yourself for people who don't care to love you." 

He chewed. Swallowed the meat and took a drink. "And you... what? Loved me?" His tone is mocking. Mocking himself, his mind. 

"Of course I love you." She sounds a little hurt. Looks taken aback, like she hadn't expected him to question that. "I loved you every day, from the moment they placed you in my arms." 

He nodded, taking another bite. "Not enough to stay." He pointed out. It hurt to say, hurt like knives in his throat and hot tar in the pit of his stomach. He didn't think he'd ever... voiced that particular hurt aloud. Not even to Sveta, not even in his darkest moments. Well - maybe this was a new darkest moment. Half drunk, seeing ghosts. 

She blinked. Face blank for a moment like he'd slapped her hard and she wasn't quite sure how to respond. Blinked again. "I loved you more than I loved anyone in the whole of my life, Ilya." She told him. "You and your brother were... everything. Everything to me." Her voice wobbled a little, at the end. Like she was holding back emotions too big for the words she was saying. 

He shrugged again, took another bite. If his brain wanted to lie to him, it would need to do a better job than that. "Okay." He said, blandly. He'd thought once, about talking to someone about the darkness that edged in his mind - the drive to push and push until he collapsed. Therapy. He'd saved himself the money, it seemed. His brain was going to supply it for free. 

"I couldn't..." She paused, ran her hands over her thighs like she was nervous. "Sometimes, the bad feelings are bigger than the love, baby. Sometimes you don't think you are worthy of the love you hold." She blinked. "I think you know this feeling." 

"I do not." 

"Oh, so you don't love with everything you have?" She shot back. "You don't love others so hard that you have none left for yourself?" Her face was tight, pinched. "I know you, Ilya. You are my son. It is my heart that beats in your chest." 

His fork hits the plate with a clatter like a gunshot in the room. "No. It is my heart that beats. Only mine." He feels his mouth moving without thought, words spilling out like sewage onto the floor at her feet. "You think I do not know who I am? What I am worth? I was first draft pick, I was captain of team Russia. I won the fucking cup! I won it today! I did that. Me. Without you." He points at her. "Without my mama, who left me. Who said she loved me. Who said she loved me and still left me." His throat burns. He might be shouting. "You are a ghost. Nothing." His hand waves angrily in the air. "You are nothing but too much alcohol and not enough sleep. You. Are. Nothing."

The slap of her hand on his face hurts like a punch from a man twice her size. 

"You talk to me like this?" She hisses. Her cheeks are red, she's on her feet, toe to toe with him and half his size. "I am your mother!" 

"You are a ghost!" He yells.

"And you are a coward!" She screams back at him. 

His eyes meet hers. Blue meets blue. All of the fight leaves his body in a single outward breath. "Maybe I am your son, then." He replies, before walking towards the door and pulling it open. 

He's had enough of ghosts tonight, he thinks, as the door clicks shut behind him and he storms down the carpeted hallway in his bare feet. The hotel had a bar, he knew. He can set up a tab and see what wants to kill him first - his liver or his brain. 

Chapter 4

The hotel bar was empty. 

Ilya didn't think too hard too much about his bare feet, wet hair or obviously well worn t-shirt as he say down. "Can I open tab?" He asked, when the bartender made his way over. 

"Of course, Mr Rosanov." He nodded politely. "What can I get for you?"

"Vodka. Beluga."

"We don't have that at the moment, sir, but I can recommend the Mamont?"

"Da, whatever. Neat." 

He watched as the chilled glass was set on the bar in front of him, and a generous pour from the oddly bending bottle glugged out. "Ice?"

"No," He said, lifting the cold glass to his lips. "Is good, thank you."

A small nod was all he got as the bartender made his way back to where he had been before, probably preparing for the next day. Slow night for him, it seemed. 

Ilya wasn't... a stupid person. He knew people sometimes treated him like one - when he'd first came over from Russia his English hadn't been as good, and it took him longer to translate everything in his head before speaking. This, paired with his accent, made a lot of people think he wasn't as smart as he was. Being underestimated helped him quite a bit, people would show their true colours by talking down to him, ignoring him completely or even making fun of him. He learned to use it to his advantage in his life. 

He could remember hearing once, that he was a 'dumb blond who couldn't speak English' and he'd felt very good about punching that guy in the face next time they were on the ice. 

So he knew that adding more alcohol to his system wasn't a good idea. What little he'd managed to eat in his room wasn't nearly enough to offset the existing booze in his stomach, and even very good vodka wasn't going to hurt any less when he woke up the next day. But he deserved a little treat, for going mad. 

He knew his father had called his mother crazy a lot. She was crazy for acting how she did, stupid for talking back, insane for crying in the dark of her room. 

So it made sense that her son, the one that looked so much like her, with his curls and eyes, would also be prone to going crazy. He wondered if she saw ghosts - if it was the ghosts she saw that made her cry in the darkness of her bedroom. If they shouted at her and pointed things out she didn't want to see. He wondered if her mama showed up and called her stupid for loving people who couldn't love her back. 

Ilya wasn't stupid. He knew who she meant. Other peoples clothes. 

So he sat and sipped vodka in his bare feet and Shane Hollanders old t-shirt and decided that no - he wasn't going to look too closely at why his brain felt the need to poke that particular bruise on this particular night. Fuck Shane Hollander. He didn't have a Cup. 

Yet, his mind whispered. You know he's never been happy watching other peoples victory laps, it taunted. You know he's rewatching tapes of the game right now, seeing how he would have made that two touch pass better, cleaner. You know he's going to overtake you eventually, and you'll be watching his back for the rest of your career as he pulls out ahead. 

Ilya took another sip. Trying not to think about how something inside his bones fizzled at the thought of Shane watching him play, rewinding, rewatching, over and over until he'd memorised Ilya on the ice better than anyone could. He'd been on the receiving end of Shane's attention and he knew, knew for a fact, that it would not waiver. He didn't seem to get bored of doing the same thing a hundred times, changing one miniscule thing at a time until the end result was absolute perfection. He'd seen it on the ice. 

He'd seen it up close and personal. Shane had, at first, kissed Ilya like a man who had nothing left to lose, like there would never be enough time to get what he needed and so he had to get it all right then. And every time Shane had kissed him after that, it had been a little different. Just a little. A little smoother, a little dirtier, a little hotter, until Ilya couldn't think of kissing another person without being a little disappointed. He'd learned how to take Ilya apart to perfection, and now no one could compare. 

As if on queue, the muted TV playing to one side started playing the aftershave commercial that Shane had done. Armani. When Ilya had seen it at first he'd been gleeful, because holy shit - Shane looked good. And then he realised that he'd be able to chirp him about it for years. And then he realised that Shane had an aftershave, something that would smell like him, something Ilya could buy. It had been expensive, took too long to arrive and smelt nothing like Shane Hollander. 

The bartender floated forward. "Can I get you anything?" He asked, and Ilya turned to see who he was talking to. 

"No thank you, darling." The ghost of his mama said, sitting into the empty chair beside Ilya. "This one will have a glass of water though." 

"Of course." The bartender murmured, setting another glass on the counter and grabbing a bottle of water. Ilya noted that he'd grabbed one of the fancy water bottles, the type that his Russian brain couldn't comprehend the cost of. $20 for water that tasted the same as the stuff he poured from a filter? dumb. 

His mama looked around the empty room. "So this is where you went to hide?" She asked. "Not very original. A bar."

"It has what I want." He bit out. 

Her laugh was loud in the deserted room. "No, what you want isn't here." She said, at last. 

"Why are you here?" He asked, after a few minutes of sitting in silence. Her blue eyes had just been looking at him, staring into the side of his head like she was reading his mind. 

She smiled. "That is the first smart thing you've said all night." She leaned forward and pushed the water towards him. "I'm here, because you needed me at the exact right time." She pointed to the TV. It was a clip of Ilya lifting the cup. "For you, mama!" He'd shouted. 

"And at that exact right time, someone made a... pure hope... for you." 

He tore his eyes away from the screen. "What? A hope?"

"You lifted the cup, you wanted your mama to see, and someone thought, loud enough that it got the right attention, that you got what you wanted." 

"Who?"

She rolled her eyes. "Who do you think? Who else wants you to be happy, would be watching the game? Who else loves hockey that much? Who else does hockey love enough to grant wishes?" 

He blinked. 

"Shane Hollander is a very special and wonderful man." She said, like Ilyas brain wasn't going through a factory reset at the thought of Shane watching him win and wanting him to be happy. "He really does love hockey. Its in his bones, you know. He reads all the books, watches all the games he can. Devours it, perfects it. He's... special."

"I know that."

"No, I don't think you do." she smiled, softly. "He's selfless and kind, and puts other people first. He'd be happy with a loss as long as the hockey was good. He loves the sport, the game. And he loves it so much that hockey pays attention." 

Ilya frowned, not quite understanding what she was saying. 

"Have you heard," she asked him, "of Cup Magic?"

Chapter 5

Chapter Notes

Ilya, had, in fact - heard about Hockey Magic. 

Superstitions. Myths. Science. Magic.

Left sock on before the right. No sex during playoffs. Goalies tapping the posts in a specific order. No shaving. Tape wraps around anticlockwise unless its a Thursday. No touching the cup until you win it. 

Most players had one. Ilya pulled on his gear in any order he liked but made sure to kiss the gold cross before tucking it into his shirt.

Some had a couple. Marlow only wore one brand of socks and taped his stick with the same white tape he'd used as a kid, wrapping it around three times, three times. 

Some had more. Drapeau apparently had to put his pads on in a specific order, laced his skates with two different colour laces, tapped the posts in a one, one two, one two three order. 

One had a system. Shane had game days planned from the moment he went to bed the night before. Specific bodywash, alarm set to three minutes past, breakfast proportioned out exactly, game day suit in a particular garment bag. Ilya knew from gossip and rumour that Pike had a list printed out and gave it to rookies so they didn't do something to throw off their captain in the locker rooms. Players thought it was weird but, fuck it, the boy had the results to back it up. Ilya had a secret suspicion that he didn't have a 'game day' routine. Ilya was pretty sure he had an every day routine and games just slid into that because he built his life around playing hockey. 

So he nodded. "Sure."

"Well," His mama said, as though she could read his thoughts. "When your whole life is one thing, built for one thing and one thing only, and you see nothing but that thing... that thing might notice." She gave a little wry smile. "Lots of people say they have given their lives to the sport, but that's not quite true. They have other things. Like they'll play golf or they'll go clubbing or they'll sleep with too many people and get too drunk and spend too much on cars that go too fast." The look she levelled at him was meaningful and he shrugged. He hadn't ever tried to make hockey his life. His life was his life. Hockey was just job. "But Shane..." She shrugged. "I think his life is a perfect storm. Grew up with two parents who loved hockey, one who played and one who planned." He watched as his mama wrinkled her nose a little. "I'm sure she means well but sometimes a boy needs a mama not a manager." 

Ilya nodded. He'd heard about Yuna Hollander. People laughed - called her a 'Tiger Mom' and Ilya had thought that meant like... a cougar. He'd ended up having to look it up and felt weird about laughing along. There was no denying that it was her hard work that made sure Shane was the face of so many brands. Ilya was technically paid more, but Shane's income had grown exponentially. He owned a building. Rolex gifted him watches. Armani gave him game day suits. He had a fucking shoe deal his rookie year. 'She works him like a dog' someone laughed once. 

"So now he doesn't do anything at all that isn't Hockey. He reads about it, watches it, listens to game breakdowns. Spends his free time doing drills. If he found a way to drink every meal he'd have done it, just so he could spend more time at the gym... just so he can be better at the sport." She waves a hand. "No drinking, no partying, he takes one day every three months to spend with his friend and even then, he thinks of it as 'teambuilding'. Did you know this poor boy got his appendix removed because it might get infected during the season?"

Ilya didn't know that. "He doesn't have a scar." He said. He'd have noticed a scar. He noticed everything about Shanes body. 

"Hmm. They do it with tiny little cuts." She shrugged. "What I'm saying is... he doesn't think like everyone else. He follows all the rules. All the little superstitions, he keeps them. Never deviates. All of it... adds up." 

"Adds up?"

"Yes. How many times have you heard of a 'lucky goal' or that a player was 'lucky it wasn't worse'? You build up your magic and then you use it in games. Only when you are very, very good - and he is very, very good - you build up more than you can use because you don't need luck, you make your own." 

She looks at him like this isn't crazy talk - like she isn't telling him Shane Hollander is the avatar of Hockey and is magic. He's hockey sailor moon. He spends a quick moment to think of Shane spinning around, hockey stick instead of a wand, transforming from his gym wear into his hockey gear. He worries that's more racist than 'Tiger mom' was. Probably. Yes. 

"So Shane Hollander is so good at being boring he... what? Is battery for hockey magic?" Ilya scoffs. Yes, this most definitely his brain munching on its own proteins to stop himself from dying or something. Talking to his dead mother about magical girl Shane Hollander in a hotel bar at 2am. 

His mama shrugs. "I mean, kind of." Her eyes go a little glassy. "So when he wants something, really really badly, at a moment where the magic is just right - say, the first time a new hand touches the Cup - he can get what he wants. And what he really, really wanted... was you to get what you wanted. And you wanted... you wanted your mama to see you and know it was all for her." 

Chapter End Notes

I know the chapters are very short but I'm trying to get as much written as I can as quickly as I can.
I'm a little worried that I have an idea, don't write it, and then forget about it the next time I go to write.

Chapter 6

Ilya walked back to his room, the ghost of his mother walking alongside him. She was still talking about Shane being magic.

"I mean, the only thing in that poor boys life that's not about hockey is you." She said, her socks making no sound on the carpeted flooring. He wasn't sure how he felt about his mama calling Shane a poor boy. He wasn't a poor boy. He had a loving family and good friends, probably more fans than Gretzky at this point. Maybe not everyone loved him, but most people respected him. Ilya had a reputation for being a bit of a dick on the ice, but everyone knew Shane was a perfect golden boy. 

Well, turned out he was also Hockey's golden boy too. "He's not some sad little orphan." Ilya pointed out, frowning. "His parents love him."

"Well, obviously." She nodded. "But that doesn't mean he's... popular."

"He's captain of his team!" 

Ilya didn't particularly rate the Metros - there was no mistake that Shane carried the team on his shoulders. At least in Boston he knew that if he had an off day someone else would be able to pick up the slack. He doubted that someone like Pike would be able to score a single point if Shane didn't show up on the ice. Surely they knew that too - and treated him well. 

"Well they had to maek him Captain," His mama said. "Could you imagine anyone else getting it over him? But his team aren't... the best people. The tease a lot. Have one of those 'group chat' things without him in it."

Ilya didn't like that at all. Not one bit. "What? Even Pike?" Fuck Hayden Pike if that was the case. He knew that Shane considered the man his best friend. 

"Oh, he tells himself that its just so he can keep an eye on what they are saying, but he hides it from Shane because he knows that it'll hurt his feelings." 

Ilya grimaced. That didn't seem fair. Shane was a good guy. A nice guy. If the bears had a group chat without him in it, he'd feel like shit - but he'd understand. Some of his team got on his nerves and he didn't care what they said. But Shane cared about his team, knowing they had a group chat without him in it would feel... really fucking gross. He'd probably try to laugh it off, say he knew he was boring. Ilya told him often enough. 

But the thing was, Ilya didn't think Shane was boring. Or unfunny. Or even kind of a little uncool. Sure, Shane was awkward and sometimes looked like he was trying to work out how to stand normally - unsure where to put his hands or if he was making the correct expression - but when he was comfortable...

Shane lived in his body in a way that Ilya craved. He knew what it could do, what its limits were. He never trained too hard or pushed too far. He skated just as fast as he could, but never over extended himself. Over the years, Ilya had watched him go from an unsure 'never kissed a guy' to 'fully able to liquify your spinal cord' once he'd worked out what he was doing. That was why he wanted Shane, wanted all the time, because when Shane realised what pleasure he could wring from his body... well, he never gave anything but 100%. 

Shane had once asked Ilya if he could try not to come because he'd like to practice his blowjob technique. Ilya, confident that he'd be able to control his body, just smirked and waved a hand in a regal "go ahead" gesture, and spent the next 10 minutes with his eyeballs rolled so far back in his head he could see the wrinkles in his brain before blowing his load with a whine he'd forever deny making. 

He'd asked Shane not to come when he returned the favour and... he didn't. Sure he white knuckled the sheets, tears flowing steady from the corners of his eyes, mouth making sounds that Ilya hadn't known were possible... but he hadn't come until Ilya had given him the go ahead. 

He'd spent many a long night fisting his dick playing that session in his head. 

"What are you thinking about?" His mama asked, when they reached his room door. "You've gone pink." 

"Nothing." He muttered, opening the door for her. Dead or not, there were things he didn't ever want his mother to know about. 

When she stepped over the threshold she paused. "Anyway, what I'm saying is that I'm here because magic happened and... and I needed to talk to you." 

"Okay." He said, moving to sit back on the chair by the desk. "Cup magic is real and my dead mama wants to talk to me." He intoned. "Go ahead." 

"You don't make it easy." She told him, sitting on the bed. "You push people away. And I know... I know some of that is my fault." She ran a hand over her face. When she looked back at him, he could see her blue eyes glittering with unshed tears. Her face a mask of sorrow. "Ilyushka, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't the mama you deserved. I should have protected you more - I should have walked out of that house and taken you boys with me. I thought... I thought I was doing the right thing, giving you stability. I knew if I left your father he'd have done everything in his power to keep you two away from me. His money paid for your hockey lessons," She said, voice breaking. "Alexi's football practices. I told myself that those things were... they were worth staying for. Then one day... the sadness was too much. For so long I had felt worthless, broken down to nothing but pain and guilt, and I all I could think of was... was that I was making it worse for you. By being there, I was holding you back. I thought... if I was gone, your life would be better." Tears were rolling down her face, and Ilya pulled himself out of the chair to kneel at her feet, arms wrapping around her tightly. Her sobs rocked his body as he shook his head.

"How could you think that?" He asked, his own voice rough with sadness. "You were my mama." 

She hugged him tight. "I want you to know, Ilyushka, how much I love you. How you made my life brighter. Being loved by you was its own type of magic. You need to know that your love makes life worth living, but you need to let people love you back." She squeezed him tighter. "He loves you, like I love you." 

Chapter 7

The ghost of Ilyas mama sat on the bed, legs stretched out and toes wiggling inside the thick work socks his father wore - her back pressed against the headboard. Ilyas head rested on her thighs, her hand gently carding through his curls. 

"You were such a fussy baby." She told him, "Nothing like Alexi. You wouldn't sleep unless I was rocking you in my arms. I would walk for hours, back and forth along the house." Her fingers twirled a strand of his hair. "Your papa, he would get so angry if you woke him up, so I would go for these long walks. Every morning at 4am, I would pass this bakery - they made the most amazing Ptichye Moloko. One day, I was walking past, the baker ran after me - handed me a paper bag: full of treats - so full it wouldn't shut. He told me they were left over from the day before, and he'd have to throw them away, but he saw me walk past every day. Wanted to give me a treat." Ilya had never heard this story. He knew he had been a fussy baby - his father would bring it up if he ran out of things to berate him with. 'useless from birth'. 

"I ate the whole bag, Ilya." She snorted. "Walking in the streets as the sun came up, face full of pastries. I had emptied the bag before I even noticed you'd slept through the whole thing." She laughed. "I went back home and told your papa you were finally asleep and he picked me up and swung me around like a little girl. It was a good day." 

"Did you have... a lot of good days?" he asked. He couldn't remember his father acting like that. He wondered if Alexi could.

"Oh, all the time. A lot of days were good days, Ilya. He wasn't always..." She paused, taking a deep breath. "For a long time all we had was good days. Then his work got serious, more pressure, and he didn't know how to... release that? He didn't mean to hurt me. Then Alexi came along and Papa had even more expectations on his shoulders." She sighed. "The good days were still... good. By the time you came along, things were harder for me. I was always a sad little girl, Ilya, and your father just didn't understand - thought I could just try harder, thought I didn't do enough to make myself normal. You and your brother made me so happy, but... it wasn't enough." Her fingers twisted in his hair. "I wanted it to be enough. So much. I loved you so much, my baby. But... the darkness got too strong. It pulled me down so far. All the love in the world couldn't bring me up to the sunshine." 

Ilya nodded. "I feel it, sometimes." 

"I know. I saw it in your eyes, even when you were a baby. Too much like me. Alexi is too much like your papa, his hard edges, his temper. But my baby, you are the best and worst parts of me." 

"I don't feel like its a good thing." 

"Oh, it is." She whispered, leaning down to kiss him gently on the head. "It means you can love so much deeper. You love so deep because you know how it feels to be without it. You fall so hard, and so fast that your heart can't keep up." She kissed his curls again. "The moment you saw him, I knew. I saw you trip and stumble into a love you weren't old enough to contain." 

"You saw that?"

"I see everything. He's so handsome." She sighed. "I thought, oh, my Ilyuska you have met your match here, so handsome, so determined." She giggled. "He's cute with his little freckles. I would have kissed him all over his face the first time you brought him home." 

"No." Ilya pouted. "No kisses."

Playfully she swatted his head. "So many kisses for your cute boy." She laughed. "I would steal him!" 

Ilya twisted around so he was looking up at her face. "No kisses." 

She patted his cheek. "No kisses." Her smile hurt his heart. "You are such a jealous boy." 

"Am not."

"Are too." She countered. "How many people do you kiss, hmm? But you pout over this?"

Ilya frowned. He didn't have the words to explain why it didn't matter who he was with. It didn't matter to him, but he knew - somehow - that Shane Hollander wouldn't kiss someone unless it meant something. "He's not like that."

She nodded. "No, he's not. Before I met your papa, I kissed too many boys. Your grandfather thought sending me to a girls school would stop me from being such a little tearaway. It didn't - I just kissed a lot of girls."

Ilya blinked. "No?"

"Oh yes," She nodded. "I was going to run away to Australia with one of my girls. We would work in bars and drive around the country. But then I met your papa and he was so handsome and funny. The first time he took me on a date, he crashed the car because he kept staring at me!" She laughed so loud that her voice cracked in the middle. "His father was so angry. I had to tell him that it was my fault, and he liked me so much that he had to forgive him." 

"I don't remember him."

"He died when you were smaller. He was older, so much older. He... forgot things, sometimes. It made him... difficult to manage. He never forgot me though, oh no. I was his precious one. I think maybe your papa might not have married me if he hadn't pushed so hard. I would take Alexi to see him every day, and he would play with him on the floor like a much younger man. He took your brother out of the city, taught him to fish. When I was pregnant with you, he would bring this tea - it was so bad, Ilyushka - but he said it would help me, and he would add honey to it and stir it for me. Folk recipes, herbal medicines. He didn't trust doctors."

Ilya frowned. His own father was getting forgetful, getting confused more often - thinking Ilya was still in Russia, demanding he get home before curfew. "His father forgot things?"

She nodded. "Yes, he would forget something and then get very angry if you pointed it out." She patted his cheek. "I hear your brain ticking like a pocket watch. You take after me too much, always thinking the very worst. Your father is forgetting, yes?" He nodded. "You are thinking you will maybe forget things too?" he nodded again. "Let me rest that ticking for you, my baby. You are too much my son for that. You will remember everything - even things you wish you could forget." 

He wasn't sure if he believed her, but... just hearing her say it, did ease an ache in his stomach he hadn't even know was there. He didn't want to turn into his father, didn't want to be anything like him at all. 

"You don't talk to Sveta about these things? She might be able to help you silence the bad thoughts." 

Ilya shrugged. "We are friends. We have fun."

She shook her head at him. "Darling - if she had troubles, would you want to help her? You'd want to help her, wouldn't you?"

"Of course."

"But you don't think she would want to help you too? That girl has loved you from the moment you pushed her into the dirt because she laughed at your kisses." He poked his mole. She'd told him once they were called Mothers kisses. She said he had so many because she couldn't stop kissing him as a baby. "She would leap both feet if you let her in." 

"You want me to be with her?" His mama had always loved Sveta. She'd talk about her like the daughter she wished she had. Ilya had often felt guilty about not... loving her enough. 

His mama laughed. "Oh, maybe. If your little freckled boy hadn't come along, hmm?"  She smirked. "She's just as pretty as you, and your babies would be perfect - but no. She needs... not you. You are her friend, not her person. Not the way Shane is your person, hmm?"

He shrugged. "He's not."

Her fingers tugged his hair, until he was looking into her eyes. "Don't lie to your mama, Ilyushka. You know your heart. You might not like knowing it, but you do." Her smile was soft. "He... will be a home for you, Ilya. Not just somewhere for you to stay, a real home. A solid, sturdy foundation - something you can build on, build a family around." Her hand gently cupped his jaw. "Baby, he brings your mama such comfort. I know how safe your heart will be in his hands." 

Chapter 8

Chapter Notes

Chapter End Notes

I'd like to thank everyone for their comments - they have been so lovely and have really made writing fun for me again.
I feel like I wrote myself into a corner with this one but I'm giving myself grace because.... 10 years is a helluva break from writing!